But, after I had crawled from the wreckage, when I stepped off the car rim, I sprained my ankle.
But I’m getting ahead of myself….
* * *
The day before, at the hotel.
Brothel scenes like you can’t imagine.
The walls dripped sweat.
When she came, she’d cry “Kill me, kill me, fuck me, kill me!”.
A Latin girl from
South America, you know. Catholic schoolgirl stuff.
Sex and death.
It was all wrong.
Later, she took the book from my bag. “What is this? I have heard of this.”
“What? Oh, that’s—“
“ ‘Faust’. Goethe… it’s German, no?”
“Yes, it’s German, and it’s ‘Gur-tuh’.”