Our friends, what has happened to our friends? W. dreamt we could stand shoulder to shoulder with them all; that, standing together, we would form a kind of phalanx, stronger than we would be on our own. He dreamt we'd mated for life like swans, and that we could no more betray one another than tear off our own limbs. But he was wrong, terribly wrong, for news has come that they are turning on one another, our friends, just as we, one day, will turn upon one another, W. says.
To be betrayed by your friends: what worse fate is there than that?, W. says. To know your friend has betrayed you in the name of cynicism and opportunism?
It had to happen; he sees that now. It had to fall apart. Wasn't his dream, always, that we could save ourselves from the end? But we will not hold it back; the disaster will begin with what is closest to us. And what's my role in all this?, W. wonders. Where do I stand? Et tu, idiot?, W. will say as I slip the knife between his ribs. Et tu?, as he sees my face is only that of the apocalypse …
How many times have I betrayed him?, W. wonders. I'm on every page of his Book of Betrayals. He's always taken detailed notes. And there are pictures, too. W. wants to remember everything. Everything! One day, he's going to read his notes to me and show me all his pictures, he says. One day, standing at the head of the bed like the Archangel Michael, he's going to read me the great list of my betrayals and show me the pictures.
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