Satantango

The grave words rang mournfully through the bar: it was like the continuous tolling of furiously beaten bells, the sound of which served less to direct them to the source of their problems than simply to terrify them. The company — their faces reflecting the terrible dreams of the night before, choked up with memories of foreboding images between dreams and waking — surrounded Irimiás, anxious, silent, spellbound, as if they had only just woken, their clothes rumpled, their hair tangled, some with the pressure marks of pillows still on their faces, waiting benumbed for him to explain why the world had turned upside down while they were sleeping. . it was all a terrible mess. Irimiás was sitting in their midst, his legs crossed, leaning back majestically in his chair, trying to avoid looking into all those bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes, his own eyes staring boldly ahead, his high cheekbones, his broken hawk-like nose and his jutting, freshly shaven chin tilted above everyone’s head, his hair, having grown right down his neck, curled up on both sides, and, every now and then, when he came to a more significant passage, he would raise his thick, close, wild eyebrows as well as his finger to direct his listeners’ eyes to wherever he chose.