Reseña de "Daltónico", de Enjambre

 

(Fuente: Spotify)

Rock, nostalgia y psicodelia: Revisitando “Daltónico”, de Enjambre

Lanzado en 2010, Daltónico marcó un punto de inflexión en la trayectoria de Enjambre, catapultándolos al reconocimiento dentro de la escena del rock alternativo en español. Con este álbum, la banda consolidó su característico sonido nostálgico, influenciado por el rock clásico de los años 70, con toques de psicodelia y una estética melancólica que resuena profundamente en el público latinoamericano.

Cuando recordamos la escena indie mexicana, se nos vienen a la cabeza varios nombres, se me ocurren: División Minúscula, Zoé, Little Jesus, Odisseo, Siddhartha, Los Blenders, Natalia Lafourcade, entre varios, varios más. Sin embargo, de entre todos ellos, un grupo que destaca, no sólo por su trayectoria, sino también por su capacidad emotiva es, sin duda, Enjambre.

Formada hace veinte años, la banda zacatecana dio sus primeros pasos en la industria musical con un humilde, pero convincente, primer disco en 2005, “Consuelo en domingo”, para tres años después causar su primer gran impacto con los sencillos “Manía cardíaca” e “Impacto” de su siguiente álbum de estudio, “El segundo es felino”, de 2008. Este disco es un punto crucial para la banda, no solo en términos de éxito comercial, sino también en su evolución sonora, consolidando así el estilo que los definiría por el resto de su carrera. Un rock accesible, pero lejos de ser insípido, con más de un reconocido guiño a la música de los 70 y 80, letras melancólicas que no caen en el sentimentalismo y, en general, una ejecución sólida, cimentaron la reputación de la banda como una de las más queridas dentro del género.

En los años que siguieron, la escena del rock alternativo mexicano atravesó un momento de notable efervescencia. Para entonces, PXNDX ya había lanzado “Poetics”, Hello Seahorse! estrenaba “Lejos. No tan lejos”, División Minúscula seguía de gira con “Sirenas”, Zoé seguía cosechando el éxito de “Reptilectric”, Bengala promocionaba “Oro” mientras que Odisseo debutaría al año siguiente con su EP “Los Salvajes”. En medio de esta oleada de lanzamientos icónicos, Enjambre nos regala con “Daltónico”, en mi opinión, su mejor trabajo hasta la fecha, y por mucho.

Todo en este disco grita nostalgia, partiendo desde la portada, que rememora mucho las bandas de colores del tecnicolor. Producido por Gerry Rosado, el sonido tan particular de este álbum resalta la calidez de las grabaciones analógicas de antaño, dándole al disco un aire atemporal. Desde el primer acorde, Daltónico sumerge al oyente en una atmósfera de guitarras envolventes, bajos melódicos y baterías precisas, todo acompañado por la inconfundible voz de Luis Humberto Navejas. Sus letras, cargadas de dramatismo y poesía, son uno de los pilares del álbum.

Uno de los aspectos más destacados de Daltónico es su lirismo. Las canciones abordan temas de amor, pérdida, desencanto y nostalgia, con una prosa cuidada y metáforas que invitan a la introspección. En este tenor, el álbum empieza con Cobarde: un arreglo de teclados abre la canción, en combinación con un urgente redoble de tambores que le dan una atmósfera etérea y en la que Luis Humberto demuestra su capacidad vocal al interpretar un estilo de canto inspirado en los grandes exponentes del mariachi, como Pedro Infante o Antonio Aguilar. La letra le hace justicia, uniendo tristeza en estado puro con belleza poética: “Envidia del asfalto donde dan paso tus pies / Envidia del destino a donde ves / Envida de la ropa que le da abrigo a tu piel / Envidia del clima que te ampara y te es cruel.”

El segundo tema, Visita, es uno de los himnos de la banda. Con acordes secos pero punzantes, a medida que avanza, la canción evoca un sentimiento de arrepentimiento y resignación. Aunque en una primera escucha podría parecer una ruptura amorosa, la letra sugiere más bien una separación familiar, véase el estribillo: “Pues no es gusto, no es mi voluntad / Cree lo que te digo / Que aunque no me veas yo voy a estar / Siempre contigo” y el coro: “La semana me parte en dos de viernes a domingo / Tu visita me repara cuando nos conecta, entonces vivo / Quiero que te vengas a vivir todos los días conmigo.”

Con un giro en la atmósfera, Cambiante, la tercera canción, es una explosión de guitarras distorsionadas, batería enérgica y coros que critican las relaciones superficiales: “Quieres engañarte al disfrazarte como ellos / Has dejado al ser humano atrás / Ya eres animal nuevo.” El solo es la mejor parte, y aunque simple, tocado en armonía con los teclados, crea una pared sonora que no deja a nadie indiferente.

La cuarta canción del álbum no es otra menos que Dulce Soledad, probablemente el sencillo más exitoso de la banda. Se trata de un himno melancólico con una melodía pegajosa y una letra que explora la relación entre la tristeza y la inspiración artística. Léase: “Pero en cambio a ti te tengo / Mi fiel enamorada / Solo contigo me entretengo” y más adelante: “Juntos nos ocultamos en las horas largas / Ya que tu silencio esconde tu identidad / Te llamaré por sobrenombre mi dulce soledad”, que da paso al quinto tema, Sanguijuela, una oda a una relación tóxica, pero que al mismo tiempo no deja de ser una apasionada declaración de amor: “Cuando no la veo / Todo el día tiemblo / Y mi piel se abre para enseñarme / Sangro de su sangre.”

Llegando a la mitad del álbum, suena Eliza Mi Hortaliza, una de las canciones más infravaloradas de la banda. Con guitarras cargadas de energía punk rock y letras que a menudo rozan lo onírico, Luis Humberto captura la sensación, casi surrealista, en la que consiste enamorarse por primera vez. De esta manera, tenemos un coro tan absurdo como conmovedor: “Ella por mí siempre está velando / Aunque putrefacto soy su fruto amado / Cuando acepto que veo todo raro / En el día entre el primero y último del año / Ahí está / Eliza mi hortaliza.” A esta canción sigue Makin’ It Back, un himno a la resiliencia escrito en inglés, con notables reminiscencias a bandas pioneras del indie rock, sobre todo The Strokes.

Siguen la dupla de canciones Madrugada e Intruso, dos sencillos que tampoco reciben la apreciación que merecen. El primero lidiando con temas como el remordimiento: “Para no sentir culpa / Para no sentir orgullo / Para no sentir que lo que yo tengo / En verdad es todo tuyo”, y el segundo expresando bastante elocuentemente un sentimiento de celos, todo acompañado de un riff que nos transporta a los mejores años del rock setentero: “Es de anatomía / Idéntica a la mía / Su rostro es de alegría / El mío es de agonía”.

Un refrescante cambio de tono viene dado por La Duda y Enemigo, comparativamente más relajadas que las nueve canciones anteriores, aunque sin alejarse del todo del rock que permea todo el álbum. Las letras van directo al grano, aunque eso no las hace perder fuerza, las dos hablan de la desilusión que sentimos tras ser engañados por una persona querida, o de la decepción que sobreviene tras darnos cuenta de que nuestras esperanzas no se cumplirán. A éstas, sigue Ciencia De La Lluvia, una pegajosa canción de amor en toda regla, de ésas que no se dedican a la ligera, que sólo una vez en la vida tienen sentido: “Me encontraste en lo más bajo / En el camino disfrazado de atajo” y en cuyo coro podemos apreciar una vez más toda la capacidad vocal de la que es capaz Luis Humberto Navejas: “Todo lo hago por ti y esto no es un lamento / Sino un ruego donde intento que / Te quedes aquí / Todo lo hago por ti y yo no te pido nada / Solo ver esa mirada y ese sonreír.”

El álbum cierra con broche de oro con ¿Cómo Le Llevo Serenata?, la única balada del disco, donde la banda se permite un momento de vulnerabilidad explorando con un ritmo más pausado, arreglos atmosféricos y dónde la voz de Luis Humberto parece ser la voz de nuestras cabezas haciéndonos preguntas retóricas: “¿Cómo le llevo serenata? / A alguien que no descansa (…) ¿Cómo le llevo serenata? / A alguien que vive / En todos lados (…) ¿Cómo le llevo serenata? / A alguien quien no puedo encontrar.” La canción expresa la frustración de no ser capaz de encontrar a una persona que, paradójicamente, está cerca. La metáfora de la serenata refuerza esta idea, ya que culturalmente, constituye acto de amor y dedicación hacia una persona que, se asume, está fuera de nuestro alcance, por lo que, al llevarle música hasta su balcón, estamos demostrando nuestro deseo de conexión. Sin embargo, la ausencia de tal persona echa por tierra todo ese esfuerzo, lo que añade una capa de melancolía y resignación a la canción. En la segunda parte, el narrador expresa su deseo de ser encontrado por el ser amado, para poder finalmente cantar hasta caer dormido, y ser arropado por ella: “Añoro el día en que me encuentres / Para cantarte hasta que dormido caiga / Y ya que tú no duermes / Seas tú / Quien me ponga en cama / Y por ti ser arropado / Y al despertar seguirte cantando.”

En conclusión, Daltónico es un álbum esencial dentro del rock en español contemporáneo. Su capacidad para transmitir emociones genuinas, su sonido vintage bien ejecutado y su lírica emotiva lo convierten en una obra destacada en la discografía de Enjambre. Es un disco que no solo definió a la banda, sino que también dejó una marca en una generación de oyentes que encontraron en sus canciones un refugio para la melancolía y la reflexión. 

Reflections on The Shipyard: final thoughts

 

Final entry:

I firmly believe what is alluring about literature is its capacity to make us live different lives, to help momentarily evade our own by telling us stories of love and victory, of justice and honor, hope through suffering. That is what fiction is all about. Therefore, it doest not come as a surprise to me that many people choose not to read realist (for lack of a better term) literature, as if our own lives were not hard enough, the least thing we'd want is to be reminded of our hardships through fiction. But that, I think, causes us to miss not only on great books, but also to neglect a fundamental part of ourselves—that is, the capacity to understand one another. And that is precisely the value I find in The Shipyard. 

Onetti is not a writer for everyone, that I must confess. His style may come across as pessimistic and often too dense for the casual reader. But after a thorough read, after letting his words sink in, we will discover a masterful use of language (though, perhaps it is easier to perceive in its original language), an insightful interpretation of reality and, why not, a sense of understanding that only comes from having gone through the same experiences. For, who has not, even once in their lifetime, questioned their place in the world? Who has not felt powerless in the face of failure? Or, even most importantly, who has not inquired about the meaning of their life and has been faced with irrational silence? The novel's characters are not superhumans, they do not exhibit a high sense of morals, extraordinary treats or overcome impossible challenges to get what they want. None are deserving of a happy ending, either. But they are human, just like us; they are not perfect, they are just trying to make the most with the cards they have been dealt with. Onetti knew firsthand the boredom of leading a monotonous life and how hard it is to resonate with perfect characters in perfect stories, so he did exactly the opposite: with painful lucidity, he wrote his stories as vividly realistic as possible.

But again, that is what makes The Shipyard so believeable. Unlike a Ulysses, Larsen, the novel's protagonist, is closer to how people behave in real life. We all grapple with, rather than transcend, selfishness, ambition, and pride. And, as opposed to fantasy novels where heroes overcome great dangers, The Shipyard is a story of a life's failure. Yet, these rather disheartening elements resonate more with us because we have all felt this way at some point.We know the sting of believing our efforts amount to nothing, and Onetti, with a quiet understanding, acknowledges this by constructing a world and filling it with characters that depict accurately this stage of our lives. Despite it not providing any comfort word, at least it makes us realize we are not alone in this—sometimes knowing ourselves heard and understood is more comfortable than wishing for a magic solution to our problems. And this novel's purpose is exactly that, to serve as means for catharsis, let out our bottled up frustration to finally allow ourselves to move on. 

Combined with this, Onetti's genius to leave things unexplained make for a story full of subtleties, plots and subplots that enrich the novel despite it expanding for less than 230 pages. Rarely do we see such measured control of events, where the narrative flows seamlessly without revealing everything at once. Unlike a police procedural novel, The Shipyard does not present the reader with all the reasons behind the events. Instead, it provides a situation and invites us to draw our own conclusions. As the saying goes, sometimes less is more.

In conclusion, The Shipyard is a captivating read despite its short length, it thrives on the unexplained, allowing readers to actively participate in piecing together the narrative. Onetti's masterful storytelling unfolds a world haunted by unspoken truths, brimming with hidden depths, leaving you to ponder the characters' motivations and the town's strange inertia. It is a novel that rewards close reading and invites interpretation, making it a perfect choice for readers who enjoy a thought-provoking and atmospheric story. Constructed over the influence of Faulkner and Sartre, the novel delves into themes of futility, alienation, and the struggle for meaning in a seemingly meaningless world. It is a must-read for people who are looking either for a book that helps them to phrase their own existencial doubts, or for those in search of a novel that will stay with them for long. 

Understanding failure: to move on is to grow

 

(Image generated by me using AI)

Fifth entry: 

"The Shipyard" is far from a hopeful novel. All its characters, the world around them, their lives and motives conjugate in a final that could well ressemble a Greek tragedy. Without delving into spoilers, all I will say is that it seems fate had always conspired against Larsen. What stands out remarkably is Onetti's bold narrative choice to withhold further explanations for the concluding events. This deliberate omission not only intensifies the sense of randomness but also suggests a deeper existential void, insinuating that the occurrences in our lives might be devoid of any true purpose. By leaving these final moments shrouded in ambiguity, Onetti reinforces a haunting perspective: that life, in its essence, may be inherently meaningless.

I believe this is why many people can deeply resonate with this book, if given the opportunity to explore its pages. It captures a profoundly human emotion: the struggle to reconcile with our own vulnerabilities after encountering failure. Let it be known that my intent is not to advocate for any specific philosophical viewpoint. Rather, I seek to examine this feeling from a different lens. The reason for this is no other than, after some personal experiences, I have come to appreciate this book with a new perspective.

First, the obvious. Larsen embodies failure in its starkest form; he is the living testament to unfulfilled attempts and perpetual setbacks. Yet, against all odds, he continues to strive forward, fully aware that each new effort is unlikely to produce a different outcome. At first glance, this relentless pursuit might seem like madness—repeating the same actions and hoping for a change. Something which is true to some extent. However, a different take on this led me to discover a remarkable trait of human spirit: the resilience to persist, to endure, and to find meaning even in the face of inevitable failure. At thte risk of sounding a bit naive, I can assure Larsen's unwavering will to keep pushing through can teach us a thing or two about frustration. 

In reflecting on failure, I firmly believe that feeling upset after falling short of our goals is completely natural. It is human to experience frustration, disappointment, or even disillusionment when the dreams we cherished seem to vanish before our eyes. Now, a first reaction to this would be to blame it on the world, to accuse life of being unfair or cursing our misfortune. And while it is understandable to feel this way, dwelling in this stage is not conducive to our well-being or growth. This is not about adhering to religious or mystical ideologies. This is just the realization I have come to through personal experience:  anger can fuel a much more productive path of action when channeled correctly. Larsen's ventures all inevitably fail, yes, and he curses this world for conspiring against his success. Yet, it is precisely this defiance that drives him to persist. Despite his almost pathological bad luck, Larsen strives to prove to himself that he can overcome these relentless setbacks. If he cannot change the world's course, at the very least, he resolves to change his own narrative.

Therefore, in re-visiting this novel, I found yet a new life lesson and a whole new interpretation of its story. In essence, while it is natural to be disheartened by failure, it is crucial to transform that energy into a force for perseverance and growth. Understanding what we have grown to be ultimately will lead to construct a stronger sense of self. 

Looking into a mirror: when the writer speaks to you

 

(Me smoking in an attempt to look like a character from the book)

Fourth entry;

A book will always spark a reaction from us. This is as certain as own mortality. It is practically an axiom. Anyone who claims they can read any book objectively, completely devoid of reaction, is either lying or not quite human. We naturally react strongly to themes that resonate with us. In fact, it could be argued that the very purpose of literature is to touch the reader's feelings in one way or another. That would explain what a clerk said to me a long time ago, when I first bought a book with my own money: "There is always a book for everyone, a story that resonates with yours, don't forget that."

Such is the case of Onetti and myself.. My first encounter with him was through a collection of tales of his. My favorite is "The Face of Disgrace". After that, he became the standard I would follow when it came to judging a writer's use of a language or a story's emotional weight; Unsurprisingly, it has become increasingly difficult for me to find any author that impresses me the same way Onetti did. But it is not only because his masterful writing, but also the topics he touches what make me feel so drawn to his books. Having lived in a time where Latin American literature was all about denouncing social injustices, discretedly critizing the military dictatorships or highlighting the local traditions and costumes, Onetti ignored all that and went on writting about deeper, more intimate topics such as the meaninglessness of life, the imposibility to love or the pain of nostalgia. 

Having said this, The Shipyard stands not only as personall all-time classic, but also as a place of solace when life becomes too overwhelming. As I have mentioned in previous entries, this novel's core topics are failure and how the lack of a sense of purpose drives people to madness, two feelings I, for personal reasons, am sadly all too familiar with. For the longest time, I have wanted not people tell me the usual, sugar coated words to cheer me up. I do not need them, for optimism is only a white lie to cover the irremediable wrongness of things. Instead, I wanted to know there was someone somewhere who went through the same situations than I. And it happened that, as I read this book and knew more about its characters, I felt more and more related to them as the situations described in the novel, save for some literary differences, were a reflection of what I had been through. Eventually, it became so personal I felt tempted to think I was reading my own biography (note the irony here). This personal connection to the book made its reading some type of catharsis. 

But, to end this entry on a more positve note, I find it fascinating how stories written by other people, perhaps from a time way before we were born, can still resonate so deeply with us even today. Onetti is a prime example, but countless authors have spoken to me across the years, each offering a unique perspective that resonated with the person I was at that specific moment. This only proves literature is capable of trascending time and space to reach the least expected person and serve them as a compass to navigate through the ups and downs of human experience. 

Beyond objectivity: Onetti and the subtle art of implication

                                                  (Old piece of machinery, La Costanera, Asunción)

 Third entry:

So far, I have only spoken about the book's events and the character's reactions to them. I must admit, focusing solely on the book's events and character reactions falls short. Not only does it repeat the text, but it also contradicts the very nature of Onetti's literature. To try and make sense of what happens to us is a waste of time, to seek certainty in a life devoid of meaning is, at best, a futile exercise. Sometimes, what is important is not what happened but what it means to us. Therefore, speaking with the truth, for Onetti, is pointless. As expressed in his 1949 novel, The Well, "There are several ways to lie, but the most disgusting of all is to tell the truth, the whole truth, hiding the soul of the facts."

This approach to objectivity is central to understanding Onetti's work, including The Shipyard. He avoided following the realist tradition of his time while also regarding the magic realism's formulas as a lame experiment, and instead choosing to sustain all his narrations through an indirect point of view. And this reflects on the overall sense of incompleteness The Shipyard transmits, and which captivated me the first time I read it. The story does not lay on an onmiscient narrator but on a secondary witness, someone who elludes or ignores basic information. Sometimes, a whole chapter is based merely on a rumor or a thirdhand piece of gossip. But their interpretation is never exact nor reliable. The nameless narrator, another character within the novel, acts as an imprecise eye, wandering through the text, incapable of explaining its own bewilderment.

Besides, let's ask ourselves, when we tell something to someone, do we go through each exact detail, having a full comprehension of every single element, accounting for the big picture? Isn't our version inevitably subjective and shaped by our perspective? Onetti knows this all too well and, as a fervient admirer of Faulkner, he also is aware that the writer owes nothing to the reader. Nobody but the characters has a full comprehension of the story, so the writer's job only consists of sharing it in the best way he can. Literature isn't, and shouldn't be, a mirror or a photograph of the real world. Its domain is the unreal, which is not the same as fantasy. Fantasy combines the possible with the impossible, whereas the unreal is the product of a mind that dreams, reflexes, creates and omits. 

However, I believe this is the actual charm of this book, its essence. Instead of being a guided walk through the park, we are set to take an active role in the story by taking in the little pieces of information we are given and combining them together however we see best. The meaning we construct is our own, and ultimately the most valuable one to share. The real causes don't really matter, as they are subjected to ambiguity and arbitrariness. Just as in real life, the elements are there and we are free to make our own interpretation, for who is in possession of absolute truths? No one. Because facts are always empty, they are just vessels that will take the form of the feeling that fills them. Lying is always more ethical than pressuming certainties.

To pretend and to lie, anything but accepting defeat

(The shipyard, illustration by Juan Pérez Ortiz)

Second entry:

It has been clear from the beginning that Larsen had no real reason to return to Santa María, much less to establish relationships with Jeremías Petrus and his ruined shipyard. Just upon his arrival to Puerto Astillero, Larsen quickly notices the state of decay the company is in, he recognizes there is hardly anything left to salvage, not even the office building, which appears to have been abandoned for several years. Even the two remaining employees, Gálvez and Kunz, are aware of this, yet they continue attending to their duties as if nothing had happened because they know the reality outside is even more miserable. And so does Larsen by accepting the position of general manager.

Numerous questions may arise at this point. Why does Petrus keeps insisting in maintaining a no longer functional company? Why do the remaining employees stay there instead of seeking other job opportunities? Why did Larsen accept to work there despite knowing the conditions of the shipyard, even being aware that he would receive a non-existent salary? The answers to these questions can be found in how Onetti constructs these characters and the world that surrounds them, although it is not always evident.

If we pay close attention to the fragments of Larsen's past that the narrator dares to reveal every now and then, we can infer that Larsen is past his forties or even his fifties. Therefore, there is little he can do now but hold onto the little confidence in himself that remains. No longer able to seduce and deceive as easily as he did in his youth, nor having the energy or ambition to pursue risky endeavors, he finds himself needing to find some stability before resigning himself to accept old age and everything that comes with it. The last place where he found some degree of success was Santa María, so returning there could be seen as a last attempt to make a safe bet; or the way around, having realized how pointless his current struggles are, he pretends to ignore it in hopes of forgetting the lack of meaning of his life as a whole. 

The same thing could be said about the other characters. Petrus deludes himself into believing that a plea can be made to the court to have the company fully operative again some day instead of coming to terms with its inevitable  failure. Meanwhile, Gálvez and Kunz, being native to Puerto Astillero and knowing the town's impoverishment caused by the shipyard's closure, prefer to keep pretending to work there, even if they themselves don't believe the lie, rather than accepting that they are hopelessly unemployed. All of these situations become particularly significant when we realize reality is not that different. More often than not, there are times when, in the wake of the apparent lack of meaning in our lives, anything, as futile as it may be, can become a lifeline to keep us from sinking into madness and depression.

Source of the image:

• Cervantes, C. C. V. (s. f.). CVC. Juan Carlos Onetti. Santa María. Espacios. El astillero. (7 de 31). https://cvc.cervantes.es/literatura/escritores/onetti/santa_maria/astillero_07.htm  

Tale of a life in decay: Larsen's return to Santa María

(La Costanera, Asunción, photo taken by me)

 

First entry:

In traditional literature, the typical formula involves an event occurring, and the reader subsequently learns its significance. However, Onetti subverts this convention: the importance of an event is established, yet the author decides not to reveal the specifics, instilling a sense of uncertainty in the reader —we are not sure of the veracity of the story, because the characters themselves can only speak from their limited perspective and therefore, there is always an aspect of the story that remains unnacounted for.

This is clearly seen in the novel's first lines. We are introduced to a character named Larsen, also known as Junta by some, who previously resided in Santa María five years prior to the novel's events. He was subsequently expelled from the city under shady circumstances, and now, in the present, it is suggested he has returned to the city against his will. However, crucial aspects as his background, the origin of the nickname Junta or the intentions of his return remain unclear.

Following what seems to be an anonymous narrator's voice, we witness Larsen's reintegration to Santa María's social sphere. He wanders around familiar streets, meets old acquaintances who now act as if they don't know him, goes to have a drink at an old bar, and alludes to a topic that seems to be somehow related to his previous expulsion, but no further information is provided. Additionally, this serves as an early insight into the city and its inhabitants; drawing from Faulkner's characterization of puritan, isolated towns, Santa María's population appears as highly judgmental, driven by strict religious beliefs, and hostile to foreigners. This feeling of reject will last throughout the novel, tainting the characters' behavior with a sense of defeat that defines the story's overall mood.

Yet, Larsen decides to ignore the overall lack of meaning behind his return and takes a boat to a nearby town called Puerto Astillero. Through a very terse description, it is revealed that the shipyard that used to operate in the town is now facing bankruptcy, but despite that, it keeps functioning thanks to the owner's resolve—Jeremías Petrus, another character of dubious origins—to pay off its debts and restore its operations. By unexplained means, Larsen learns about this and determines to exploit the situation for his own gain. The mention of Petrus' daughter, Angélica Inés—crazy, unpredictable, still single in her thirties—seems to indicate an opportunity for Larsen to get to Petrus, but in the end, his intentions remain in the dark. It is the sum of all these apparently mundane yet somehow connected situations, never explained, that captivates me, for the lack of context makes me want to pay more attention to the narration to grasp what is going on.