Early morning, almost one. After having dinner at the house of some acquaintances, I walk a long way along Diagonal. In the hole of a shop window, a homeless man is preparing the nest for the night, while drinking from a carton, mutters an unintelligible litany and searches through his coffins. What ghosts swarm in her mind? What cliff did she slide down? She hauls her belongings in two supermarket carts, one of which has a marker written on its nose announcing her destination, like the Sagalés buses: “Moscow Kremlin,” she says. I imagine him suddenly appearing in Red Square, just like Mathias Rust, that German teenager who landed there aboard a Cessna plane in 1987. A dirty archangel drags his convoy of misery, requesting an audience with the monstrous Putin in the room of the marbles. Between the shadows of him, the beggar knows that a blind train crosses the night of Europe.
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