“The canvas was a surrealistic nightmare in dripping reds and screaming yellows, depicting dismembered limbs and disembodied cries. The blob of flesh-colored paint had a long way to fall. It elongated and differentiated into a tiny man-figure with flailing arms and legs by the time it hit the floor. It struck hard, head first, and splattered and was scraped up with a palette knife and flattened against the dripping, screaming canvas. Then it slipped off the canvas again. “… the book,” one of the... disembodied cries said. Unprintable. “… have the book?” Unprintable. “Do you truly have the book?” Established, in pain and torment. “… it.” “… for it.” “…. send …” “Send for it.” Or sometimes they left me alone. Then I would drift through the ebbing pain toward the welcome relief of sleep, but someone prodded me with a stick. I did not sleep. A face to remember. Beetle-browed and lantern-jawed. Superimposed over questions and pain like a double exposure. Duarte.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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