He knows his wife will never be able to tell lies again.
All night long, the weary sound of water dripping from the air conditioner, slowly eroding into coral dreams. He wakes from the sleep which bore him like an ocean, and sees the buildings outside, packed cheek to cheek. People squeeze breathlessly through the cracks in the city, looking forward to finding a Christmas tree in the shopping mall, though it's only August. One of the bulbs on its plastic branches has a burnt-out filament, a blind eye amid brilliant illuminations.
Outside the mall, the stagnant air has been beached too long – it feels as if all things have come to an end. People look up and the tight-shut, overcast sky opens its toothless mouth and spatters their faces with rain. He opens his umbrella and the raindrops pelt down on it like deafening bullets. He seals himself inside his house – the thrumming of the downpour extends to every pane of glass.
"It doesn't matter how much I wash my eyes, things still get twisted out of shape until I can't tell what they are. I can feel my brain shrinking like a dried-out sponge. Faraway things are too small to make out." His wife's complaints had been fragments of countless lies floating around in his head, fragments he hadn't been able to reassemble into a complete picture. One morning he realised his wife's sleek, pale head was completely without hair. Her mouth was huge, protruding like a ship cleaving the still waters of the sea. Her eyes had slipped to the sides of her face. Her breasts were two melting glaciers, slowly sinking into her body. When she walked naked towards him, all that was left of the woman were her smooth, muscular legs. Apart from that, she had transformed completely into a fish.(...)
translated by Nicky Harman
