Dr. Eustaquio.

You’ll only find the doctor between corners, is what the neighbours used to whisper. He lived in the shack at the bottom of the street, the one with those awful gothic frames on the doors, the poor thing could barely stand its own weight. It had been built by the youngest son of the Morales, who claimed it was experimental architecture. The only experiment that would come out of the little joke for a house would be what his father did to him when he found out what the youngest Morales had done with the money he’d lent him for college. In any case, the architect had shut everyone’s mocking mouth when he shook hands with Eustaquio McGrath, the new owner of the mausoleum dressed as a home.

At first, the stranger caused fascination among the neighbors, what with his vermilion suits and Apollonian profile.

A doctor? What type? From which place? Who sends him?

They got used to having none of their questions answered. In part because the doctor was mute, but mainly because it seemed he liked to play the part of the tortured mind. And as the months went by, they also got used to the fact that the only place that they could marvel at his clear eyes would be through his windows.

The tall figure of the doctor began in the main room and ended in the door jambs. When the children walked towards the institute, they took the opportunity to snoop in. Still in his evening gown, he paced the study, his bulging eyes fixed on maps, anatomy diagrams and fat tomes. Each and every morning a cup of coffee was perched on the French desk, expecting a fate of being forgotten at best. At worst, it ended up spilling over poems written in Latin.

When one of the Rojas twins returned from the café, the doctor obsessed over the patterns on his walls, trying to hold back tears. Still in his evening gown, and with an infinite tenderness, he cradled his essays towards his chest with one hand. With the other, he held a half-empty, or half-full, bottle of whiskey. During some afternoons, he soaked the papers on his drink of preference with the same delicacy, and set them on fire. Once, Rojas made the mistake of crossing eyes with the man while he performed this task. She never wanted to talk about it, but inside the clear eyes, she found nothing.

And in the early mornings when the Centipede returned from a trip, Eustaquio rested in the frame on the open windows, the closest thing to human contact he had in those days. Dressed in one of his beloved suits, gummed hair and ash-stained hands, he directed the traveler a distant salute. For his part, the Centipede felt his stomach knot each time he passed by, the clear eyes too similar to those of his sister. He wouldn’t be surprised if he peeked in one morning and found the whole body stained with ash. They could never get rid of the smoke stench in Fatima’s body. They said people couldn’t stop coughing during the funeral.

The centipede did not have the time or the brain to heal people, that was for certain. Even so, it was an early February morning, the anniversary of The Fire, when he took one of Eustaquio’s frail hands, and brusquely cleaned it with his handkerchief.

"Lock yourself in if you want, but don’t play with that," he snapped, not aware of the tears that had been accumulating in his eyes for two years, finally slipping down free. “Don’t play with that,”

They remained silent for a few moments, for a few hours. The centipede did not heal people, Eustaquio had barely reacted. But in the early hours of the morning, one can drown these things on the melody of the cicadas. One can gaze at the shadows hiding inside the street lanterns. One can pretend Nine Abadón is a piece of lost world. One can smell the stories, speak to the demons that inhabit them.

When he’d made his decision, the doctor turned towards the Centipede with lost eyes. He put his clean hand toward his chin, and pushed forwards with its back, an imperceptible smile on his lips.

Thank you.