Almost, at least. And I have nothing but the Sarpa to blame for it. But, as of now, these are the facts: I am sitting on the toilet, looking out into the Pacific abyss, in an underwater hotel,

in Japan. There is a leak. A moment ago a man in scuba gear dove down with a drill and drilled into the window of my

bathroom. This happened, and happened all while I was sitting on the toilet, facing the window, staring at him, and him staring at me. Then, on top of it all, he found it fit to wave before swimming back up. So now the floor is wet, and the glass is about to give in. Soon, I will drown, or get crushed under pressure. Hell, fish could eat me—it happens in the ocean. I don’t know what to make of it all, but if I had to, I’d make of it a very extravagant siccing. Oh well, you take what you get. A week ago, what I got was a letter from Lidia. It read:

“Dear Sergi,

“I am going down to Palma, to kill myself.”

As was excusable, I hadn’t the mind to mind what followed. Next thing I knew, I was in Japan, under the sea, resting my head on the counter in the hotel bar, watching fish swim outside the window—not knowing I’d soon become one. Then, while I was occupying myself by cupping and un-cupping my ears to wah-wah the samba music, a young Japanese lady in a similar tipsy gloom sat on the stool next to mine. She rested her head on the counter, mimicking me. Her eyeliner was all smudged. She asked, “Friend?” and I said, “No. She’s in Palma.” She said, “Kanashii.” I asked, “Are you with a friend?” assuming that that was what she meant, and she pointed to a table on the other side of the bar where someone who I took to be her friend had passed out drunk. We watched the fish together for a while and cupped and un-cupped our ears. Then she asked, “What-a do you do?” and I told her, “I’m an intelligence officer.” She asked, “Topu seceret?” and I said, “Very.” She almost smiled, but then I asked, “You?” and she said, “I am on vo-ca-shun” and started crying. I tried to console her by patting her on the head and ordering something to eat. She started crying even harder. I fed her two rolls of sushi but the sticks were hard to hold so I gave up. Suddenly, an emergency presented itself. I didn’t want to leave her like that, but I really had to go—because you have to, when you really have to—so I explained, “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” And while struggling to blow her nose, she said,

“Alu-rightu.”

With that, I think, we get to where I am now: sicced, not to mention sick outright. And I’m not leaving behind much. Except her at the table. But that’s a lament I’ll have to do with for now. A lament I don’t have to do with at all, however, has to do with a certain someone still in Palma, who I hope is really in hell. And is enjoying hell, I hope. Or maybe I don’t. No, I really do. I hope she’s in hell and I hope I find her there on a beach laying on a hammock between two palm trees, napping with a book on her face, so I can shake the hammock and throw the book away and tell her, “I quit! And before I quit I went down and got everything I could get my hands on and I made my way over to the copy machine, then the post office, then the airport! Then I flew all the way out to Japan! What do you make of that?” Or maybe I don’t hope so in the least. And maybe I just went too far with the Sarpa.