WILD BOAR EYE
A novel in twelve episodes
By Luís Carmelo
(transl. Bernardo Palmeirim)

FIRST EPISODE
(A delight, tasting of Bosch prodigies…)

Perhaps because he pronounced words with some difficulty, the old man seemed to be saying, even if in a mumble, the other name for that plant I had long forgotten. And he repeated it out loud, with creased eyebrows, shirt puffed out in the wind, three needlelike teeth and one open eye: “It’s costmary, a marvelous tonic… for making tea against hiccups”, “Buy the grand tonic against hiccups and evil omens!” And there I was, thinking about spasms, monsters, silicone breasts, with my right hand in my pocket clutching at the car keys with unusual strength. Step by step, I waddled on the sidewalk, a salsa or merengue beat overseeing my rhythm, pace and fate, until the crosswalk made me halt.
I lazily glanced back, only to catch sight of the freckled policewoman and, further down, of the haughty man still holding onto the costmary, a small stem of rickety leaves culminating in three or four tiny buds. Only later did I come to find out, by a strange will of chance, that it was in fact French or Roman mint. The green light finally summoned the pedestrians, my fingers glistened through the pomade in my hair, I put on my glasses and advanced into the crowd. In slower, paused steps, I unfolded the newspaper to read the headlines. Deaths in Macedonia, six twins born in Valparaiso, UFOs in Basel, the Asian stock crash, and, cover story: the wonder drug. The discovery of the magic vaccine. Made from wild boar’s blood. Strange stuff; was this even possible?
Behind, like Napoleonic drums in the distance, lost among ambulance sirens and a strange rush of wind from the construction site, I still managed to hear threads of the costmary balsam street cries. A delight, tasting of Bosch prodigies. I turned the corner to head for the park when I recalled the six o’clock rendezvous with Helen at the theater door.
Memory fell in like an apparition – I looked up and saw anew: there was the sun navigating in the zenith between low clouds, the fun fair turning giant pulleys and winding out puffs of fried dough into the stratosphere, while the newspaper, nicely folded up by now, promenaded under my arm. Under my feet went the harmonious tale of the planet, as, same as any other day, I entered the park. I paid the parking fare through the prefab booth glass and finally headed for the car. It was noon, precisely.

(Next episode of Wild Boar Eye: From within she pulls out her car key and proceeds with determination to the street corner, her tiny costmary bouquet caught between her red, blood-colored nails. This is the dictate, the everyday law.)