On the verge of awakening

The first time it happens, a man falls from a ladder. It's in a bookstore. One with high walls and wide ceilings. The bookcases are cherry wood, the walls covered with images of famous writers, the floors creak as if a Hitchcock film were being filmed there.

Nothing suggests anything serious is about to happen that afternoon. Habakuk visits the store because he would like to buy a gift for a good friend. On a yellow note, he has written the title of the book in question. ‘The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.’ Habakuk shows the piece of paper to one of the employees. The bookseller smiles. And asks the visitor to follow him.

They walk to the first floor. "'Here are the classics,” the salesperson explains. "Lev Tolstoy, Herman Melville, Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Emile Brontë. And Douglas Adams, too."

"You've read the book yourself?" the clerk demands to know as he grabs the ladder and slides it to the correct bookcase. Habakuk has to admit he's not a reader. He's more into hiking and climbing mountains. Into diving, snorkelling in the Mediterranean sea. But his friend, on the other hand, is a real homebody. He hasn't been on vacation in twenty years. He's exploring life through his books.

The employee climbs up. Apparently, he knows what he's looking for. Skilfully and expertly, he navigates the thin wooden steps.

Then it happens. No one is alarmed. There's no warning. No sign, no alert. Had Habakuk known the consequences, he would have run outside. The damage wouldn't have been as bad. Then everything might have fizzled out. Then he would have remained anonymous. He would have led a quiet but normal life.

A sound like a cannonball being fired. That's how the other visitors will describe the noise later. While Habakuk simply needs to sneeze. Nothing more, nothing less. But the sound he makes causes the clerk to tumble off the ladder, books to fall from the shelves, the ceiling lights to shake, some of the visitors pee in their pants.

Suddenly, Habakuk realizes all eyes are on him. By all accounts, the source of the thunderous noise is easily traced. The employee scrambles to his feet. He checks that nothing is broken. Next to him on the floor lies ‘The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy’.

The shop owner sprints upstairs. After chatting with his colleague and reassuring he’s doing fine, he turns to Habakuk.

Without saying a word, Habakuk makes an apologetic gesture and takes the fastest route to the exit. Just before he leaves, he hesitates. Shouldn't he go back and buy the book? His girlfriends’ birthday is tomorrow. Habakuk looks back and notices that everyone in the shop is staring at him. Maybe it's better not to buy a present.

Once outside, he seeks out a patio. He orders a Cherry Coke. And as while sipping the sweet drink, it dawns on him what's happened. The sneeze, the unbelievable sound he made, the salesperson falling from the ladder, the visitors peeing their pants.

"You look like you're drinking drain cleaner." A good friend sits down next to him. She orders a glass of rosé. Habakuk recounts the accident at the bookstore. Unlike him, she finds it hilarious.

"Don't worry about it," she says. "The moment you sneezed, someone or something else made the deafening noise. It's a coincidence. Laugh about it. It's a good story for a party."

Half an hour later, they say goodbye. Habakuk's anxiety has subsided. The chat with his friend has done him good. He's back down to earth. He has to stick to the facts. He shouldn't let coincidences throw him off course. How else can he live his life?

He's stopped in a side street. Two bakers lift a gigantic wedding cake into a van. Bystanders are assisting the two artisans by holding back cyclists, scooters, busses and passenger cars.

Habakuk peers longingly at the cake. The pastry cream, the lemon curd, the icing, the sugar flowers, the ribbons, the metallic finishes like gold leaves. The whole thing wobbles dangerously. But the two pâtissiers seem to get the thing into the van in one piece. The onlookers cheer. As if some exiting competition is being held.

"There was whipped cream everywhere," says Habakuk. "On the faces of the bakers, the bystanders, the cyclists waiting. On the cars, the walls. When I got home, there was whipped cream in my hair."

Through his father, he was able to arrange a consultation with a psychologist. A good friend of the family. The woman no longer has a practice. But when she heard the story of Habakuk's sneezing fits, about the accidents happening, she agreed to a session.

"Once again, just like in the bookstore, I ostensibly sneezed so hard and loudly that it sounded like a grenade exploding in the alley, “ explains Habakuk. “Me ears are still ringing.”

The psychologist writes furiously in a notebook. Habakuk observes the space. It's clear what the shrink has done since she stopped her practice. Etchings, drawings, and paintings hang on the walls. Sculptures stand on the low cabinets. Jewellery, gemstones, and ceramics can be admired in the various display cases.

“After the second incident, the initial uncertainty returned with a vengeance,” Habakuk says. “I don’t sleep anymore; during the day I hide in my house. Every tickle in my nose makes me suspect I’m sneezing the whole thing to pieces. I have no life anymore.”

The shrink stops writing. She lets her gaze wander over her art collection. The paintings, the sculptures. She turns to Habakuk.

“What point does my life have anymore,” he says. “When I’m only a nuisance to others? When I blow things up at the most inopportune moments? And if only I could sense it coming. If only I knew when I was going to sneeze. Then I’d have a choice.”

The therapist sits up straighter. She rearranges her pleated skirt.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “What you’re experiencing, what you’re telling. You’re imagining it. The problem isn’t the unexpected sneeze. Let alone the so-called sound that accompanies it. In reality, you’re making it all up. It’s a hallucination.”

Habakuk listens to her. She speaks slowly and penetratingly. Then comes the sound of a devastating explosion. Paintings fall from the walls, the glass of display cases shatters, sculptures lie in pieces.

A week later, Habakuk is in the hospital waiting room. There hasn't been a fourth episode since the sneezing fit at the psychologists. But his situation hasn't improved. He hardly sleeps at night, he barely breaths during the day. So he's made an appointment with a clinical neurophysiologist. He’s reading a magazine. National Geographic. An article on the world's longest suspension bridge.

A woman his age sits down across from him. She's dressed in a burgundy sweater, jeans, and black ankle boots. She has a classic bob haircut. As if she's the main character in an Italian film set in Lombardy, directed by Frederico Fellini in the seventies.

"I don't know what to do with my life," says the visitor. "Nothing seems to be working. I'm insecure, exhausted. I have the best years of my life ahead of me. But that's not how I experience it."

Habakuk pretends to continue reading. The government in Rome has given final approval to a billion-dollar project to build the world's longest suspension bridge. It will connect the island of Sicily to the region of Calabria. That's on the tip of Italy's boot.

"Do you recognize it?" the woman asks. "I live as if I'm dancing on an active volcano every day. I hear the rumbling; I feel the tremors. How am I supposed to move on? As if I could be wiped off the face of the earth at any moment? As if I never existed?"

Habakuk puts the magazine aside. The woman's voice, her eyes, her despair. It's like someone is telling the story of his life.

"I feel so incredibly abandoned," she says. "People are turning away from me. Are they ashamed of me? Are they afraid?"

A loud thunder. A lightning strike. Part of the suspended ceiling falls onto the white floor tiles. Walls crack, doors break, windows shatter, TV screens hang loose, patients are peeing in their pants.

"I'm so sorry," the woman says. "This is happening to me without me even realizing it." She wipes a drop from her nose with a tissue.

And as the emergency alarm sounds, firefighters, nurses and doctors, are rushing through the hallways. Habakuk and the woman are walking out through the main entrance. Hand in hand.