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| La Chûte ou Le fils rêve (The fall or The son dreams) |
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| Pére et fils (Father and son) |
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| Le fils faché (The angry son) |
They say that my mother is about to die.You come back from your exile, pretending to be crooked, limping.As a model son you're repeating the steps of your father:embolism, exaggeration, hypochondria.Mom told us that our grandfather was lying, she had caught the old man walking well,
with normal face muscles, with his hand well,she said that the old man was deceiving them.You arrive as the prodigal son,with your face twisted, your hand cramped, limping.Like a copy, like an inherited model.I catch you while others aren't looking:with a normal walk, quiet, straight.You come back to the room and, before coming in, you pause, you enact a cripple.You visit your dying wife, our loving mother, you present a loving face, a crippled body, a trembling voice.You are such a case,I must either describe you or paint you or kill you.
After the trial your death came, the second death, the one that was not.Years of lies and nonsense reduced my patience.That night I had been accused and you on your throne had accepted everything against me.You, judge and king without power.Slowly you went to your bed and lied on there looking to the sky; we knew, you were dying.You said you were sweating cold and your lips were dry,blah, blah, blah,you dropped your hands, stopped breathing, and closed your eyes.I didn’t want to permit that, I asked you not to do it.That night I hated you and hated your theater.I climbed unto your bed, I sat on your chest and I shouted again,I called you by your title and by your name: Father! Federico!Then I attacked you, I slapped your face.I had a plan:if you were dead you wouldn’t react, if you were acting again then I was there to make it clear to everybody.Your red cheeks hurt you, so, you reacted,your hand stops my hand, and you tell me that you are fine ...Don’t you see it? I was right!
