“When Martina entered the Dayroom, I thought I would die. Not faint. Not go crazy. Die. It had nothing to do with the past: had it been for the first time that I saw her, I’d still fall for that ferocious flair, whoever’d show it. But then again, who else could? In her crimson cardigan, white dress shirt, dark-blue pants and purple heels she defined the whore of a princess undecided on whether she should castrate all these men and burn all these women immediately, or have an orgy with them first.”

“Taken aback, I watched her back dumbfoundedly, her stately shoulder almost touching mine with the edge of her burgundy cardigan, while she waited for her two orange suitcases to be put in front of her… And when Martina followed, leaving a shadow of her perfume behind, a sudden gust raised a flock of her hair; and, as if to ridicule me, it brushed me under the nose like a match against the box.”

“I am a slave, I thought. And my master is a harsh one. Does it even matter what I do if this woman means so much to me? Doesn’t doing something per se already profane the sanctity of the feeling? And what’s the point of having this feeling in a world where it is rebuffed? To serve as an illustration? But people should know what a possibility is without me needing to suffer. Which means I need it myself. But for what? To redeem the sins of the past, or to temper myself for the future? From every conceivable viewpoint, it had to be both.”