Rage by Sergio Bizzio

where another struggle
erupted.
    Maria could hear Rosa's voice saying:
    "Alvaro, enough. Stop!"
    "Come here a minute... Just a little minute..."
    "Leave me alone!"
    "Don't be naughty..."
    Maria didn't dare to approach any closer to spy inside
the kitchen, but it was hardly necessary: Alvaro was bent
on abusing Rosa, that much was obvious. He clenched
his fists. He even tightened his toes against the edge of
the step. What could he do if Rosa didn't manage to get
the guy off her? Had he already abused her previously,
abused her, his girlfriend, on previous occasions?
    Rosa left the kitchen, smoothing down her uniform,
and ran to the end of the passage, where she hid herself
behind a door. Alvaro came out a second later.
    "Rosa!" he called.
    His feet described a large circle, and the rest of him
followed in a surprisingly straight line behind Rosa,
as if he were bent on drawing the outline of a helium
balloon on the floor.
    Maria remained rooted to the spot, paralysed with
rage. Then he returned upstairs again, in order to take up his position above the living room, but although
the music had stopped, he couldn't hear anyone inside
talking; he leaned forwards again to get a better look
and saw Rosa setting off in the direction of the kitchen
carrying a tray. An instant later he saw her again. This
time Rosa was bearing four glasses on the tray (rather
than five, leaving him to think that Alvaro had been
excluded from the toast), along with a bottle of brandy.
Maria could hear her leaving the room.

    He went up to the second floor, ran into the east wing,
and peered between the curtains and through one of
the windows looking out onto the garden. The Blinders
and their friends were seated around a little white table;
Rosa deposited the glasses on the table and went back
indoors. No sign at all of Alvaro.
    He came across him a short while later, purely by
chance. When passing one of the bedroom doors on his
way back to his attic, he heard snoring. He thought that
whoever was inside must have seen him on the way back
to his room: until just a few minutes ago, he had been
almost next to the bedroom. Then he looked inside.
Alvaro was sleeping face down on the bed, fully dressed,
down to his shoes and tie. He gave the impression of
having collapsed there.
    Maria had killed his foreman without any feeling of
rage. If you wanted to put it better, you could say he
had done it in the memory of his rage, some hours after
having experienced it, as if the rage itself had vanished,
only to leave him in the hands of the new form of
reason it had engendered. It was wholly premeditated.
Not in detail, nor in method - those remained free
to be improvised on the spur of the moment - but in
its ultimate objective of killing the foreman. When
the time came, he paced the outskirts of the work site, leaving and returning to it more than once: he took his
time. At half-past six, or possibly a few minutes later,
once he was certain he would find the man alone - the
foreman always being the last to depart - he went in.
He was feeling calm. He hadn't even bothered with an
alibi. He had no thought of possible consequences. The
foreman had: he looked into Maria's eyes and knew that
this was the last man he would ever see.

    The terror which followed this realization froze him to
the spot. He didn't even have time to swallow the saliva
risingin his throat. Maria thought thatAlvaro, even drunk
and asleep - maybe just because of this -would probably
offer more resistance than the foreman. In addition to
which, this time he had no stone in his hand, as he'd had
wielded on the previous occasion. He would be obliged
to strangle him, or... To his right he caught sight of a
poker. He estimated that two or three blows would be
enough to smash his skull. He could visualize the entire
scene: the first blow... the second, to the forehead...
the blood... And suddenly he felt overwhelmed with
tiredness, as if