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I spent the day walking around the city. I saw flowers, landscapes, stretches of sky all done up like the faces of pretty girls. All of it brought tears to my eyes, as if the magnificence of this country was suddenly something flung in my face. Then I ended up on a deserted square where they were training some scrawny, sickly men, all of them following orders, eyes fixed, lips stiff as they goose-stepped with rifles on their shoulders. I saw one of them collapse. Two men rushed over. Lifting him up, they took him out of the ranks. After which the drill continued. I recognized beggars we used to give alms to. They were still gaunt and skeletal, but were now sustained by the hope of becoming powerful in their turn. I know very well that death is nothing to be scared of, that once you tame it, its grimace will turn into a smile. I started to look it in the eye yesterday. Anna! Anna! I will take refuge in her to save myself from myself. Her smile came too late for me, she came too late. She reached out to me two weeks late, isn’t that enough to kill all my trust in her?

Rose has been out every night for the last ten days. She’s gotten thin, so thin, and no one is concerned. “Dirty coward!” I feel like shouting at my father. But then when I see my mother, all I can do is keep my mouth shut. She looks like she’s dying. Grandfather has become taciturn and his beard quivers all the time in a terrifying way. I have the feeling he’s plotting something infernal. We are all plotting something infernal, I’m convinced. What we are going through is so revolting that we can only escape from ourselves by rehearsing thoughts of vengeance. In my case, I know what it’s going to be: I will kill him and then I will die. How? I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is to gather my resolve and overcome my repugnance for the idea of killing and dying. I have a perfect plan. Everything looks so easy when it happens in the sealed cupboard of our skull. Who isn’t a hero in his own head?

My father’s face has returned to lifelessness: he knows he won’t get fired now. In any case, he really managed to set up Rose. Was he naïve when he cast her to the vultures? Perhaps he’s seething with remorse, rage, hatred! It would drive you to despair to admit to yourself that nothing lives behind that impassive mask. Has he noticed Rose’s new face? Frozen, dead, that’s right, dead. What have they done to her? No, I don’t want to know. Not now, at least. It’s too soon.

Fred Morin and the others came by. I’m exasperated by their growing friendliness. In an unforgivable moment of weakness, I yielded to their overtures and I’m back on the team now. We played for two hours this afternoon. Two of the players told me they were planning to become Blackshirts. Fred Morin is right behind them, that’s for sure. Something in his eyes gives him away. I can already picture him in his uniform, his shyness a thing of the past, trying to pass for a big shot, earning his stripes, and throwing himself between the Gorilla’s legs to replace him by my sister’s side. Only the sensation of power makes the uniform seem like something compulsory. The weak feel strong only with their hand around a gun; the same goes for lesser beings. Only free will can truly fortify an individual. Will I keep on seeing him though I despise him? Will I ditch my old teammates for their pandering? They avoid uttering Rose’s name in my presence, but all I have to do is watch them when she’s there: all they do is bow and scrape and cast furtive glances. They don’t even dare turn and speak to her openly. She is taboo. Thanks to the Gorilla. An off-limits whore. I will kill him and then I will die. I’m not thinking of the others. My act will spell disaster for all of us, I know that. No matter how my cowardly father tries to play the poor innocent and say that I was reckless, he’ll get it too. Unless I miss my target. For as long as he’s alive, he’ll be stuck on Rose, and as long as he’s stuck