Regression

By Bruno Traversa

After having conducted 400 regressions (past lives and childhood), Bruno Traversa now brings us a

novel of fiction based on actual cases.

"When he had finished marking the man's skin, he falsely embraced him, then pierced his

forehead with a bullet..."

This

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruno Traversa
• Release date: Mar 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9789915406725

Book preview

Prologue drawing: Juan Quinta

Drawing inside: Indaia Traversa

Printed in Uruguay

Published by: [Sello Ojo Blindado]

Translation: Elizabeth Birks

No part of this publication, including the cover and flap design may be reproduced, stored, transmitted in any manner, whether electronically, chemically, optically, by recording or photocopying, without the prior permission of the editor.

1

To the women in my life. My mom, my daughter Martina, Indaia and Francesca, and my wife Laura, my inspiration.

To my brothers whom I adore in my own way.

To the memory of my old man (I search for you wherever I go).

To those who pour out their whole lives on my sofa.

And to you.

And to all those who told me I’m crazy to want to publish a book. Thank you, it was the greatest of compliments.

2

When he had finished marking the man’s skin, he falsely embraced him, then pierced his forehead with a bullet…

BRUNO TRAVERSA

3

Prologue 1

The first time was something of an improvisation.

I scheduled the appointment for the next day and then went out to scour Montevideo in search of one of those special Zero Gravity recliners. I found one at a car accessory sales outlet. It was quite strange to stand there waiting to be attended to while other buyers took away lights, mechanical parts, batteries and even a chromed exhaust pipe.

When my number was called, there were some ten people in the store. Oil-stained overalls and smudged faces adorned the place. A fellow with a protruding belly tried to cut in ahead of me, but I promptly displayed my number showing it was my turn.

Under the intent gaze of all those there I made my request.

I’ve come to pick up a recliner.

The boy behind the counter repeated my words in a questioning tone:

A recliner?

From the depths of the store a deep voice rumbled:

Let me attend to him, get him to wait for me next door.

4

I did as I was told and went out to wait on the sidewalk. For two minutes I felt like someone on the verge of an illegal encounter, about to pick up a packet, a briefcase, to engage in some unlawful exchange.

The metal garage door opened and a man emerged, grumbling to himself.

This is all my wife’s fault, she got me to import recliners and we can’t sell them to anybody, they’re heavy as hell.

I thought it was funny, the thing was so enormous no taxi would agree to take me home.

The man showed me how it worked, the fragility of the catch that kept it horizontal, then I paid and left.

I had to stop and rest every two hundred meters. As I dragged the chair along, it seemed to get heavier with each step.

Somewhere during the thirty-block walk the catch broke.

It was an exhausting afternoon, but I was logically on tenterhooks with the adrenaline of the coming encounter. So, no sooner had I got home, I prepared the living room with the recliner right in the middle. I tried it and the feeling was magical; I understood what they meant by zero gravity, it made you feel as if you were floating.

5

The next day I waited for her until six in the afternoon.

When she crossed the threshold into my home, I knew it was the start of something. But when she rested her head on the recliner, I realized the weight she carried exceeded that of the exhaust pipes, the batteries, the man’s protruding belly and the beautiful chair.

Now the recliner has long been forgotten, but when someone lays their head on my sofa, I understand how much weigh it carries and together we do our best to make it lighter.

What you are about to read is the result of many different encounters and stories.

6

Prologue 2

I hold out my arm for the nurse to extract blood. We’re both wearing a surgical mask, which makes it difficult to make ourselves understood when we talk. We’re about the same age. He taps a vein, once, twice, six times. The alcohol evaporates so he swabs my arm again, feeling the area, undecided. He’s starting to make me nervous: I have no love for needles.

In the next box, a six-year-old girl gets through the ordeal without any problem. She’s even smiling. What was she taught that I wasn’t?

You know, I don’t understand much, but mostly they end up extracting from the other vein beside it.

The nurse smiles, and thrusts the needle into the vein I show him. Blood flows. While the tube fills, he looks at the tattoo on the inside of my upper arm: an open book with a human silhouette flying out of it, carrying a few pages with him. I know I’m that silhouette.

It’s good, he says. What does it mean?

That in these times we’ve all lost something. Freedom, activities, money, comfort, and some of us, even family members 7

and friends. That I’m bored of gym, sourdough bread, ‘lives’ on Instagram, recitals via streaming, WhatsApp chains with encouraging messages, challenges and trendy words.

But there is something that never bores me and I don’t plan to lose: my daydreams.

My dream of publishing another book.

I like writing, I answer, I sweat ink.

8

1

It was a good thing she was sitting down. Perhaps it was a wooden chair. Hard and unstable. There was a dull pain behind her eyes. The pressure of the blindfold also hurt the edge of her ears, which she thought must be reddened.

Viviana’s hands were tied behind the back of the chair. Her feet also tied, were flat on the floor. Her mouth was free, the lips cracked, but free to move.

She had no way of knowing how much time had gone by, for at some time she had fallen asleep or fainted.

She scraped the floor with the tip of one of her Vans. It felt as if it was made of concrete.

The pit of her stomach rumbled, begging for something to eat.

She remembered the half-eaten sandwich on the black counter in the kitchen back home, on the right of the microwave.

She had prepared it with the same dedication she gave to everything in life. A couple of slices of dry-cured ham, three leaves of arugula she had picked in the garden, a slice of cheese, a dried tomato, four drops of olive oil and a touch of rosemary.

Probably, by this time the delicacy had gone moldy.

9

2

When she first met Tom, it was as if they were both inside the Radiohead Creep videoclip. Only she, instead of listening to a song, was riffling through a pile of vinyl records, while he watched her from a corner, mingling with the few people in the place.

The truth was he had been following her for over ten minutes, though Viviana had at no time been aware of his presence. She shuffled the records around. She only had enough dollars in her pocket to buy one of them. Actually, she didn’t enjoy buying several at the same time. Her method was to get one and listen to it thousands of times before getting another one.

She liked to analyze the sound, the recording and even the most trivial of details.

She was wearing jeans and a black leather jacket. She picked up Time Fades Away by Neil Young and held it in her hands.

Bad choice, Tom ventured.

She turned towards him and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

When this album was recorded the volume of the crackling was sometimes too high, mixing with the drum cymbals, he explained.

10

She just listened to him.

A good record is Long May You Run. A slip of a smile crossed Viviana’s face, and upping the ante, she showed him the record in her hands and said, I’ll take this one.

Tom opened his arms as if in resignation and frowned.

Sometime later it would become her most hated album, and not merely because he might to some extent be right.

The name’s Tom, he said, holding out his right hand.

Viviana, she answered, taking his hand, which was freezing.

The door knocker sounded; people kept coming in.

I’d love it if after listening to the record you could give me your opinion." He took a card out of the left pocket of his pants.

This is my number; it’s not that I want to know whether I’m right, I’m just interested in knowing whether you get the same feeling.

Viviana took the card, and without even glancing at it, put it in her leather jacket.

Keep well, he said, as he walked out of the store, and turned the corner.

11

She stayed on a few minutes browsing in the record store, and completely forgot about him. She had other things on her mind, she’d just lost her job in a liquor store.

After five years of furtively making bottles disappear, she had been discovered. What had happened was that, without any warning, they changed the direction of one of the six surveillance cameras installed in the store. Her boss had called her that morning for a «talk» and, with tears in his eyes, told her he could no longer keep her on, though he really appreciated her.

Viviana realized what was happening but dared not ask. She simply thanked him, gathered her belongings and withdrew. It was the job she had managed to keep for the longest time. Which was something.

On her way back home she bought a newspaper, thinking of looking for a new job. It was to be a long time before she would be able to.

Once there, she went straight to the sofa. That wintry night, in the loneliness of her home, she listened to the record probably six times, cursing each time she had to get up and turn it over. She didn’t do it as soon as the last groove finished playing but let the scratching sound hang for a few minutes in the air.

12

When at last she made up her mind to get up, she would take the opportunity to fill her glass with Glenfiddich, slowly getting drunk. The taste of the drink she had just stolen was so much better, or at least it seemed so. It was the first time she had done it.

Whenever she had stolen bottles before she would sell them before the hankering to try them became overwhelming.

The alcohol did nothing to dissipate the cold. Her living room reminded her of her visit to the city of Verjoyansk, when she had been in Russia two years before.

Viviana stuffed her hands into her pockets in search of a little warmth, and her fingers grazed the card. She took it out and read: «Tomás Brinzs - Hypnotherapist - Regressions» followed by his cell phone number.

Her eyes left the card and wandered towards the bookcase, where there were about a dozen books by Brian Weiss, Carl Jung…

She was greatly attracted to past lives, regressions and that kind of thing, wrapped in a halo of magic.

She looked for her cell phone with its splintered screen. The status bar read 18%. Six times she wrote and erased a message, and eventually sent the last one to Tom.

13

Viviana_

You might be right in a way…

She was referring to the record. She lay there a few minutes watching the screen, and when she got no answer, soon succumbed to sleep.

She awoke with a severe pain in her back, stretched out as she was between one armrest and the other on the sofa. Her phone had a notification. She sat up slowly, feeling the pressure on her spine. A sudden spasm convulsed her stomach, making her run for the bathroom, tripping over a coffee table on the way. Hardly had she reached the lavatory than it was filled with brownish vomit. It would be a morning to forget.

It was after noon when she remembered the notification.

There were two. Tom had answered:

Tom_

What are you talking about? Who are you?

read the first of the messages.

Son of a bitch, she murmured to herself. Her anger was short-lived because the second message said: 14

Tom_

Ha, I know who you are and I hope you managed to enjoy the music.

She smiled with her nose, as she so often did, a sudden scoffing sound from her nostrils that surprised her. She enjoyed senseless humor.

She took a couple of aspirin and a pleasurable shower. She felt her muscles relaxing while the boiling steam enveloped her.

She soaped each crevice of her body, enjoying the scent of gardenia it gave off. She turned off the tap, put on a robe and wrapped her hair into a towel bun.

She picked up her cell phone and recorded Tom’s number to see if he was on WhatsApp. When she found he was, she was surprised: His profile photo pictured him embracing a beautiful woman. She studied the photo for a minute and then opened the chat to see his most recent connection. He was online.

Viviana_

Hi, this is Viviana. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you this way. The thing is, I’ve always been interested in the subject of regressions. When I read your card, I thought it was a casual coincidence.

Tom took his time before answering, and then wrote.

Tom_

15

CAUSAL you should say…

Viviana_

Well, yes... How long have you been a therapist?

Tom_

Ten long years.

Viviana_

Why long?

Tom_

About three hundred regressive therapies a year make ten years seem very long, don’t you think?

Viviana_

Wow.

She was already completely entrapped by the situation. This guy enclosed hundreds of stories. She wanted to fire a thousand questions at him about the subject, but first tried to sidetrack the conversation. She soon regretted it.

Viviana_

Nice photo. She your wife?

16

Tom_

Yes, she was.

His answer made their exchange more uncomfortable and uncertain. Viviana decided to carry on.

Viviana_

You broke up?

Tom_

She died.

Tom’s answer made things even worse. Viviana was gripping her phone tightly in a now sweaty hand.

Viviana_

I’m sorry.

Tom_

Thank you. I’d prefer to just leave it there.

Viviana_

Of course. I’d love to know more about your work as a therapist.

17

Tom_

By WhatsApp? I’ll invite you to have a coffee whenever you like.

She was tempted to let herself be carried away by her curiosity and take him up on the invitation that very afternoon. But she wasn’t feeling well, and the situation wasn’t so good either.

She put it off.

Viviana_

Maybe one day…

Tom_

Whenever you like.

The screen went blank. The battery had drained out. She connected the cell phone to the socket over the bar counter separating the kitchen from the living room, and stayed there washing some dishes, lost in thought. She stood longer than usual at the sink.

18

3

Two days since the last message. During that time, she’d tried to put her ideas in order. She had several printed résumés to hand out, though she was not in much of a hurry to get a job. She could easily live for several years with what her father had left her.

A famous automotive dealer who had gone missing on a business trip to Lithuania.

Viviana had left the house and started to make her way along the sidewalk, when the skies suddenly opened up. She decided to go back and devote the afternoon to reading.

She went back to the origins, to the source, for she was hung up on the talk she had still been unable to have with the therapist.

She chose Many Lives Many Masters by Brian Weiss. Before lying down on the sofa, she decided to give the afternoon a musical setting with some instrumental jazz, and to light the tip of a small sandalwood branch to make the surroundings fragrant.

One after another she turned the pages, but found she was unable to focus on the book. Her mind wandered. She picked up 19

her cell phone, opened WhatsApp and the chat with Tom. He was online… he was always online.

Viviana_

Today, Café Ramírez. Six p.m.?

He didn’t answer until the next day. While she was sleeping, he wrote:

Tom_

I had a bit of a hassle yesterday. Is the proposal still on?

Today?

Viviana woke up a little later than usual; she hadn’t had a good night. She’d had nightmares during the early morning. It wasn’t the first time this had happened to her. She was in a room without any doors or windows. The mud walls were slowly melting and dripping, forming a pool of sludge that eventually drowned her. When