Sunday, August 20, 2023, 00:19
This is how things have always been done here: everyone, without exception, came out to win. The opaque eyes of those who fell in the first round remind us, with their still recent, still temperate inexpressiveness, what is the prize that awaits the three athletes who, after this last test, get a place on the podium. At the unequivocal signal of one of the judges, and after a brief attempt at dawdling, the contestants took our places. Three, two, one, but there is no shot. Not yet. The runner from lane 3 puts a foot forward before the judge has time to hit the traditional shot into the air and, no matter how much the man tries to explain himself, no matter how much he excuses over and over again a partial deafness accentuated by the starting position that he got in the draw, the referees ignore his pleas and quickly take him off the track: what would justice be, tell me, without the strong hand that has no other choice than manage it. Now yes: boom. The sound of the gun catches us all off guard and the judges, aware that nothing makes a competition more democratic than a surprise start, smile at their own ingenuity. The public, however, is upset. What the hell: I also get upset. When I am finally able to fix my thoughts I realize that I am running, of course I run, as fast as I can, but it is not enough. Not anymore. My good leg, the one that still has the bone kneecap and the fleshy muscles, begins to fail me. From what I have been able to count from my perspective, not very privileged for calm observation, so far there are two fallen, but I may miss one. In the distance, from the top of the hill that crowns the village, shouts, commotions, I would even say sighs, can be heard, but I don’t have time to discern them: the blind man passes me on my right. How fast is he, the bastard. What happens every year: no one hunts this one. My good leg, on the other hand, slows down. The eyes of the fallen, less and less watery, continue to turn towards us, but their gaze this time is warning. Look at us. I’m still third, but my own pain pierces my muscles and someone else’s, my ears. They passed me again on the same right where the blind man, whose trail was already unreachable, left me behind a few seconds ago. This time, the opponent to beat is missing a hand. One of the judges looks at me and smiles. You can read it in his eyes: fucking crippled. There have always been classes, I think, even among the last discards of the new plant traditions. I continue to drag myself forward with difficulty, but my good leg hasn’t responded for a while. And, as always happens, the brain activates its emergency system just when the body fails. It is not that in an instant I have an idea: the instant is the idea. Without even loosening the hardware, I remove my prosthetic leg and throw it forward. The stump does not feel, but bleeds. The heart barely pumps, but it beats. I stay still, but I hit the gravel face-first. The prosthesis continues the journey that I have forcibly abandoned and, spinning in the air, overtakes the third and crosses the finish line. Then I understand: that bronze medal will never hang around my neck. The judges enter the track and stop us. To me and, despite the fact that his breath is the third to have crossed the line alive, also to the one-armed. The handcuffs that hold my arms behind my back, around a wooden pole, pinch me not so much because of the cruelty of the person closing them as because of the immediate swelling of the wrists. They force us, yes, to look straight at the podium before it all ends. At the top, a middle-aged man whom I don’t even recognize. In second place, the blessed blind man. Completing the triad, shiny and stiff, my leg. One of the judges approaches us with the torch, burning since the night of San Juan marked the beginning of summer, between his fingers. The cripple, who for a moment felt guaranteed that he would remain in the village at least until next summer, looks at me. It’s not resentment: it’s terror. The referee lights the pyre, the torch is extinguished and the flame it was carrying moves completely to our feet. I’m sorry friend. You played well, I swear I’m not saying this out of commitment, but that’s how things are done here.
#pyre