In the serene, sacrosanct, stillness of
Deanforest, the doorbell rang as a loud knock, startling Herbert Protch when he
was at the top of the grand staircase. Because of its strident and out of tune
notes that reminded a bird surprised by a sudden frost and which, terrified,
had forgotten the tone suitable for singing; he understood that it was the main
gate, which was on the west. The mail and the morning newspapers had already
arrived and he didn’t know who might call at those hours. He was not used to
receive many visitors. Maybe – he thought - a beggar or a seller of
encyclopedias. He would prefer the former: he would give him some currency
and that person would leave in a couple of minutes. Whoever that was, he was
leaving the imprint of his personality in the call, because he rang with
persistence, but at the same time -he could not explain it better - an unmistakable tone of calm could be perceived, of someone who didn't want to bother
but had long time ahead and a clear goal. A little angry, but curious, he
started to give some urgency to his rheumatic steps. In the absence of his wife,
and having decided to give up having servants, it was his turn to open the
door. Feet that descended the staircase not only were insecure; they also carried
the weight of a body invaded by a profound melancholy, that of a man who cursed
his sudden change of fortune as well as an old age that, much to his regret,
was starting to devour him. He came down from the second floor, where he had
been arranging flowers in his room: the former room of the lord, which only in
the last year, and after the persuasive words of his wife, he had dared to
occupy. That was - he thought - the word that best described his situation,
because so he felt and couldn’t be avoided, as a squat that occupied a house
that did not belong to them by their social position. Unconnected threads of
thought made him remember he was seriously considering transforming one of the
offices on the ground floor in a new bedroom where he had easier access, where his
knees did not suffer much punishment. But that constant lassitude, that
infinite reluctance to live! By one of the high windows of the house he had
just seen with half of consciousness, how the fog dissipated, moving away from
the north. It was half past nine in the morning of Monday, February 14 - year
33-, the morning after the night that Regulus had watched. A day that was not
called to occupy a prominent place in history, but that within the vast annals
of iniquity, there was place for a small justice. Because in a remote biblical
country a defense minister was forced to resign, accused of the massacre at the
Sabra and Shatila refugee camps.