… now I would rather say something of myself, even just a couple words, as everyone is important in this story, and so we all have the right, at least, to a tiny dose of egoism. All that about “everyone is important in this story” was probably the idea of somebody who had a devastating inferiority complex, but anyway. My name is Zed, which for Linda is a constant source of jokes about my position in the alphabet, identical, according to her, to my position in life. Searching around, I found that Tchaikovsky used the letter zed – I guess some kind of Cyrillic zed – in his letters and diaries as a secret code to refer to homosexuals, e.g. “the party was very lively, there were many Z…” On the other hand, the fact that the letter zed is hardly ever used in English means that in a game of Scrabble – the one in which the letters build a jigsaw puzzle on the grid of a board, where every square has a different score – the one of my letter is the highest: ten points.

It seems that, to English speakers, it is quite difficult to place a zed in the correct place. It is not surprising they do not like it, and that Shakespeare created this exquisite insult: “Thou whoreson zed! Thou unnecessary letter!” That is what he wrote in one of his plays – what a resentful man. But that does not affect me. Even though I lack almost all the beautiful virtues that Don Diego de la Vega has, my signature (because I have one, even though I never use it) is a bit like the mark of Zorro, and that is something anyway.

As for my physical appearance, it is better to say nothing. I know that I must take some exercise, I know. I do not simply because I do not want to, because I am horrified by the training, because the swimming pool, the track and the squash court intimidate me so much that I have not even bothered to look for a better excuse, and my poor conscience bears that terrible guilt, day and night night and day. I have no peace or quiet; even though I try to avoid the obligation of solving the dilemma, to avoid it and to live as though nothing happens, even though I try to forget the thing about the pounds, I cannot do it, as Linda reminds me of them with particular cruelty every time we meet: Are you 35 pounds overweight? What a nerve! Why have I neglected my appearance so dreadfully? Is there anybody in the world as sweet-toothed as me? How many insignificant pizzas and panes con croqueta and peanut nougat do I dare to gobble down in a day? Why don’t I devote myself to vegetables? Do I never look at myself in the mirror? Who the fuck do I want to look like? And so on. I say nothing because I don’t want to annoy her, but the truth is that I don’t understand why the humble and harmless fatties are the victims of the most vicious intolerance, why are we despised, stigmatised, marginalised, booed… all the time we are called whales, tanks, seals, heifers, tubs of lard, balloons and other delicacies, why are we subjected to persecution and have to give in to thin people’s whims. As Oliver Hardy used to say, “the fat one is always the one who loses.”

Ever since I met her, my friend has shown a great ability to corner other people, to grab them by the scruff of the neck and place them against the wall. According to her critical eye, the most suitable thing for me would be some contact sport like judo, kung fu or taekwondo, that is, to kill two birds with one stone, as those disciplines are not only good for burning fat and making people look like people – she explains to me in a condescending, almost maternal, way – but they also raise your self esteem, subvert the most fundamental power relationships and provide the woman with a newer and more interesting vision of the world.

“How sweet to be able to knock down a big muscly guy!” – says Linda – to give him a good few punches in the mouth, crush his nose, dislocate his jaw, break his teeth, crash crash crash… “Look, it gives me goose bumps and everything” – indeed, she gets goose bumps. Because the point is not in doing it, no. What for? That would be very coarse. The point is knowing that, if you wanted to… Ha ha ha!

As she is in favour of women’s boxing, she condemns the mental intelligence of certain obtuse, good-for-nothing civil servants who insist on banning it because the woman is a flower, that is, out of pure machismo. A flower, a flower! What an outrage! I think their eagerness for justice is praiseworthy, I applaud it and cheer it and everything, but as far as I am concerned, I am sure that if one day I find myself in the ring with a pair of gloves … I would immediately die. Maybe it happens that I really am a flower, a shy violet, an opulent rose, a lily of the valley, who knows. The pumpkin flower. I am such a coward, such a sissy. I am scared by the thought of somebody trying to pick my petals.

(2003)

Inma Lara lives in Dublin. This entry was a finalist for the 2009 Some Blind Alleys Writing Competition.