Chapter 5
Episode 5pentagone nera aaaaaaaa suvoki ab visad
The Pentagon is not a building. I understood this at three in the morning with the radio off and the loom humming, not because I had seen it on television but because the threads told me: five walls are still one wall if you never leave. Suvoki. I always understood things too late, after the shape had already closed around me. The old women said so — the senes raganos — they knitted my name into a border nobody asked for, and I sat in the center like a figure in someone else's embroidery, anonymous as wool, patient as the blood that returns to the heart after a long day of being spent.
Aaaaaaaa — the scream came from the neighbor's flat, or from me. It's hard to tell the difference anymore. The walls here are made of the same red brick that crushed Middleton, the same brick Agota fed to the crow, and I realized that the spiral of the fourth episode had been the Pentagon all along — five corridors coiling inward like a fist around a stone. Not a fist, no. Worse. A prayer. A prayer that has forgotten its own mouth. People walked those corridors in beige shirts and they called it duty, they called it service, they called it a paycheck with the word salary tattooed on the inside of their wrists. And the stone at the center: my heart. And the stone at the center: no one's.
I wanted to say this to someone. I wanted to say: the Pentagon is not a place, it is a way of not looking at yourself. But who would listen? The minister with his incense and his careful eyes? The sister who prescribed me operation after operation until I stopped counting the scars like beads? Even the idealist I loved — the one with the broken glasses and the clean suit — he looked at the TV, at the satellite image, and said: you don't understand geopolitics. As if the map were the territory. As if the territory were not my own body. As if I had not been the loom and the glass and the brick and the crow all along.
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