I. Sergio Freud is hassled by a passerby as he walks to Carrefour
Is it true that as a young man you burned your birth certificate? asks the passerby. Yes, Sergio Freud says. ‘In a fit of pique’, as I believe it was described? It was described like that, but inaccurately. And it’s true that you drink coffee with six sugars? Yes. Is it true that your father is a mid-ranking official in a dying political party? Yes. Is it true that you – I don’t want to say ‘following your father’s example’ – have dealings with sordid people? Sometimes. And that you occasionally suffer from bouts of vertigo, usually caused by stress over pointless office projects and a failure to keep your appointments with the osteopath? Yes. Is it true that you’re on the way to Carrefour right now? That’s clear enough. To buy as many beers as possible without being asked any questions? Maybe. Along with some brie, salted butter and a couple of baguettes, as well as a packet of cheese and onion crisps? Yes. And given your deceptively smooth face, you’ll be happy to show the guy at the checkout your ID? Of course. But is it also true that the only ID you carry is a bicycle license? Yes. With your real name? Of course. Is it true you’re waiting for a message from someone? Yes. And that you don’t know who it’s from? Ha, no! Sergio Freud says. I know exactly who it’s from. Very good, says the passerby, very good! He pats Sergio Freud on the back of the head, and hobbles off to the left, possibly into the apartment complex next to the supermarket, but certainly into the mist.
II. A passerby is hassled by Sergio Freud as they both exit Carrefour
Where are you off to then? asks Sergio Freud, affecting as friendly and whimsical a tone as he can manage to the woman leaving the supermarket. Oh, it’s you, the woman replies. She doesn’t seem to look at him. Yes, Sergio Freud says, it’s me. She carries on walking, and Sergio Freud follows. As they arrive at her car (a banged-up turquoise Fiesta, which is parked illegally, even audaciously, right underneath the ¡PROHIBIDO ESTACIONAR! sign) the woman stops, puts her bags down on the pavement and stares right at Sergio Freud. He coughs, and then says: is it true you’re about to get into your car, which has seen better days? Don’t try that crap with me, the woman snaps, I’m not in the mood. Oh, Sergio Freud says. He’s worried he’s started a feud (a word that’s been lodged in his head ever since he was a kid, when the family pastor insisted on calling him little Sergio Feud). He stands there blankly and runs through a few questions he had planned as part of his interrogation in his head. (Is it true that you only wear odd socks? And that your sister has something to do with the mist that has descended this evening?) As the woman opens the boot, which looks to be completely full of pirated DVDs, Sergio Freud says that he’d like to make amends. He offers to help her with her bags, but in a small, reedy voice that he doesn’t realise fails to get out of his throat. My back is killing me, the woman mutters as she struggles to jam the boot shut.
III. A passerby has dealings with a stray dog
Have a nice evening, a passerby says to the woman as she gets into her car. She smiles and waves back at him. Thank you, she says, you too. She closes the door firmly and drives off. The passerby glares and then grins at Sergio Freud. It’s a vile grin that slides into a grimace. Sergio Freud sees that the passerby has beautiful, ice-white teeth, which make this gesture almost intolerably obscene. Sergio Freud composes himself, and carries on down the Passeig de Sant Joan, losing sight of the passerby in the mist, even though he’s walking just a few steps ahead of him. The passerby doesn’t seem to have a care in the world, and the bottles in his plastic bag clink away as he approaches a crossing. A mangy dog trots up beside the passerby. The dog looks up at him and whimpers. The passerby remembers the little dog he had as a child, Batigol, who he used to pretend was the President of Calatonia. He rummages about in his bag and takes out a slab of brie. He kneels down and the dog gobbles it out of his hand. That dog has a sandpapery tongue, the passerby thinks, like a cat’s. As he strokes the dog’s ribs with his other hand, he doesn’t notice another passerby drift out of the mist, bobbing alongside a pigeon and asking: is it true that as a little squab you burned your birth certificate? And he barely notices another passerby taking Sergio Freud by the arm, leading him across the road, and handing him a brown envelope. It’s more accurate to say that the passerby doesn’t notice Sergio Freud at all, even as he stands up and seems to be looking right at him, just before he turns back on himself, realising that he forgot to buy crisps from the Carrefour, which thankfully never closes, even in uncertain weather.
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A version of this story was first published in Bath Flash Fiction (print only).