Não dá para cavar na vinha e no bacelo, fica na calha. Tinha lido o artigo no Guardian, garimpado que foi por «tut’-e-meia» em alfarrabista alemão recentemente, esperará dias de mais vagar. A primeira página (ó que maravilha) promete:
“His eyes shut, a dream dissolving and already impossible to recall, Hector’s hand sluggishly reached across the bed. Good. Aish was up. He let out a victorious fart, burying his face deep into the pillow to escape the clammy methane stink. I don’t want to sleep in a boy’s locker room, Aisha would always complain on the rare, inadvertent moments when he forgot himself in front of her. Through the years he had learned to rein his body in, to allow himself to only let go in solitude; farting and pissing in the shower, burping alone in the car, not washing or brushing his teeth all weekend when she was away in conferences. It was not that his wife was a prude, she just seemed to barely tolerate the smells and expressions of the male body. He himself would have no problem falling asleep in a girl’s locker room, surrounded by the moist, heady fragrance of sweet young cunt. Afloat, still half entrapped in sleep’s tender clutch, he twisted onto his back and shifted the sheet of his body. Sweet young cunt. He’d spoken out loud.“
Já este, nem precisa de primeira página. Só pela capa de pesca-bibliófilos vale o que custa.