Worms
Last night I dreamt that worms were eating me.
Last night I dreamt that worms were eating me.
I was stretched out on a cot, wrists and ankles bound, in a cold oval room, with a green floor and matching green walls.
I was naked. In front of me there was a glass window and behind the glass there you were, in a green gown scrutinizing me thoughtfully. You wore the expression that mothers usually have when they open the freezer to decide which vegetables to pull out. Only that instead you were observing my nearly thirty year old organs. You were analysing them.
In the meantime, the worms had worked their way nearly up to my knees. They chewed in silence. They had eaten the calves and couldn’t wait to get to the abdomen. I didn’t feel any pain. At least none deriving from the worms, because to see you standing there immobile observing me while I was being devoured by tiny yellowish monsters hurt much more than any amputation without anesthesia. Not only were you not doing anything about it but you seemed to be fascinated by the phenomenon. You would have liked to examine it more in depth but you couldn’t get any closer otherwise your carbon dioxide would have steamed up the glass and you would have seen only fog, the fog of Ferrara. You were gazing at me with those clinical eyes which now and then I had already seen you turn on me, only on less bloody occasions.
Then you pushed a button and somebody broke down the green doors and burst into the room. Dozens of large men dressed in overalls and wearing masks. They sucked up all the worms with huge vacuum cleaners, with the exception of those in contact with my flesh. Those had to be burned off with some sort of blowtorch. In any case, I was distracted by the sorrow I felt at the odd way you were scrutinizing me. I didn’t feel any physical pain, any sensation of pain was overshadowed by that of seeing you looking at me in that impersonal professional manner while I was becoming officially handicapped or maybe even dying after having served as food on this macabre picnic.
After a few seconds the worms had all disappeared. I could see the workers working on my lower limbs, soldering and unsoldering them like crazy. Sweating. They wore masks but I could tell from their eyes. The floor was covered with my blood. Or maybe it was the ceiling, I’m not sure. Everything was spinning around. After a while, the men turned to each other, shook their heads and then looked out beyond the glass.
You made a sign and a second later the workers left to make room for you. I saw you enter holding something small in your hand. You seemed to be walking on the ceiling. You looked at my body for a long time. Meanwhile, the mask you wore over your mouth moved rapidly up and down. You looked me in the eyes once more and then you took off the mask, you came up close to me and you whispered a date, the date on which this precarious existence will cease, when this uncertainty will end and the bad guys will go to jail and Italia 7 will be able to broadcast again and the Italian Parliament will manage to scornfully retract the existence of Mubarak’s niece.
A second later the sound of the Roman ambulance sirens was more real than anything else and the sheets were sweaty, crumpled up in a corner of my bed. It was the 1st of October but the heat was suffocating. It was as if the sweat from my pores had produced this dream that was still hanging in the stale air of the room. This dream that, as you now know, I remember in every detail expect for that long awaited date that you had revealed to me and that will never come back to mind, and perhaps it’s better this way because I have a feeling that it wasn’t going to be any time soon.
Shortly after I got up to take a cold shower — yes, another one — and I saw strange red signs on my wrists and ankles. But above all, I felt this tremendous and continuous tingling sensation in my legs that seemed to be increasing. Even now, it’s getting worse. It’s like having millions of centipedes on a treadmill. I miss you guys, I was thinking, and I was also thinking that I should have called one of them as soon as possible, or maybe my atypical family doctor who does house calls even on Saturday, can you imagine, and looks for earphones to donate to the poor, and his vote carries the same weight as that of Cesare Previti*, that’s the democracy that we have to get used to. There are people like him, therefore, and people like you, who in my dreams watch a candle die out while they file their nails and jump the taxi queue.
Meanwhile time was passing imperceptibly and I needed to go out and look for a job. I put on my bathrobe and returned to the bedroom. The last thing I remember is that I remained standing there for the longest time, in front of the mirror, looking at my bruises and feeling those pins and needles in my legs. Right there, in front of that mirror hanging on the wall. My favourite “hope green” painted walls.
* Cesare Previti is an Italian politician who was sentenced for corruption and barred from holding public office.
