The Little Tune

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That little tune, it’s giving me a headache. And in the obsessive whistling of my lips, it sings itself. It is here for the duration, that unassuming little tune. Yet its persistence does not yet weary me.

It is there, that little tune, like a jewel in its case.

It settles in my skull, on my lips, deep within me. As yet I do not know what it is capable of, I am unaware of its tenacity, I believe it to be ephemeral, and am scarcely aware of it, that imperceptible murmur. To tell the truth, its endurance escapes me completely.

However, the little tune irresistibly takes root.

Without trembling, sure of itself, it risks a wild leap, and resonates outside of myself, projected into space. It is only then that I sense its presence, when the looks others give me reveals it to me with my own eyes. Now I can hear it, and I immediately quieten it down, astonished at myself. The trap it has laid for me begins to close.

It is there, that little tune, it will not let me go anymore.

Like a wild animal with its prey, it nags at my temples, knocks inside my head, imperceptibly. And I don’t know how to make it go away.
But I want to break free of it, so I think of other things, and make my mind go blank. It’s useless. If it does go away, just for a moment, it is only to return and tighten its grip, more firmly and more effectively.

It gives me no respite at all, that little tune.

It irritates me and calms me down at the same time. So I curse the radio that infiltrated my head this morning, in the bathroom. What is it called? What on earth is that tune called? Its net is softly woven, and traps me. A sweet prison in my brain, not satisfied with being obsessive, it now scratches away at my memory. When it has ensnared my brain, it invades my entire body, to the point of annihilating all the rest. I am so sure I know the name of that tune, good grief! I feel as if I am close to going completely mad.

It is there, it is there, that little tune.

I have it on the tip of my tongue, but it is trying so hard to stay hidden. Tra la la la la la la la, one of my friends, his name won’t mean anything to you, he was a singer in Chile. It would doggedly pursue his long task of erosion, impossible to put a name to it. I do not understand why I am getting into such a state, for nothing at all, just for eight notes, tra la la la la la la la, and a few words that ring out for someone called Jara who I do not know, who I no longer know. What I do know is that I will end up winning our relentless struggle. Thanks to Google, if necessary.

But like the little tune, I feel I am getting old because I can hardly remember.


Translated by Wendy Cross

86

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