night, cold and fog. The Andean wind howling down through the ruins of the Cathedral, long undulating roofs on all Curicó center until it finally crashed with a buzz dry against the fogged windows of the houses in the Villa Dr. Osorio, I do not know who was Dr. Osorio but my brother lives there and that night he was visiting after a long absence. Talked about work, politics, the old, all that one usually talk to a brother when he has not been seen in a while.
were talking about the earthquake and how the cathedral was in ruins when at one point my brother got up, walked to the pantry and opened with a grim smile crossing his lips.
I looked at him and asked for a moment.
- Huh?
My brother laughed a little and he said as he pulled out a green bottle crate down
"Hey, How many cigarettes left?
I took a quick look at the pack and I answered a
-Queda, I'll buy more ... What's that?
I said as I stood and I wore the jacket
"The best wine you've tasted straight from the jar of a working vineyard where a friend brings me on drums, hard you've tried a wine from these ... Expected to serve.
"That good, then crossed over to buy cigarettes in the meantime.
I said as he opened the door and went out to the cold autumn night Curicó.
While walking along the empty sidewalk to the store I remembered a story on the Rastafarian movement who had read at one time. I do not remember full well that he was, was chronicles one of those long yellow stockings that came out in Rolling Stone in the seventies, but then I stay on his head a single image of the story: Stacked on a piece of shade, some smoking marijuana Rastafarian Jamaican escape the summer between They stood an old white-haired old man, after staying silent for a long time, enunciated cryptically: "The revolution is coming, but not yet."
bought the cigarettes and I walked slowly back toward the house. The wind blew over my neck, a yellow leaf fell wet and heavy over my shoulder. In the melancholy of autumn Curicó mixed this year with the death of the earthquake, the hardness of cold soaking my clothes me to doubt where one thing ended and where another began ... But in my mind the image of old kept repeating "The revolution is coming, but not yet" over and over again. In a low voice repeat the phrase while not meant to be clear, I opened the pack and walked across the street to the house of my brother.
In a few glasses of white clay my brother had served the wine, I approached one to the mouth and the aroma of cabernet only gave me around in my head a purple staining overpowering all my senses, preparing to savor what was coming.
took a long drink to soak my whole mouth, the wine down my throat thick and diluted in a series of aromatic dyes. My
brother did the same, but looked at me as knowing something I did not.
"Really ... Is very good
I said after swallowing
"I told you not? - I said, is satisfied that this is aged in oak barrels, is the best in the area. Impregnated oak wine alcohol and give texture to the wine itself, put it thicker, itself, were it not for the time left in place would be like all those other cheap wines that, while not bad, are all equal. With finger
took a drop of wine that slowly crept over the edge of the cup and stared at me, the deep crimson at its core reflecting light bulb in the dining room, I thought if you could make a necklace drops of wine.
My brother lit a cigarette while watching the TV news of an earthquake in Indonesia.
"Hey, do not you lived here you had a girlfriend?
I suddenly asked my brother,
"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah-I said, a bit dazed by the sudden and unexpected question, but certainly not around here ... although close by, a few blocks.
"Yes, I think that once I came to leave in the van, long before I lived in these neighborhoods ... "I
that long, and ...
-Tell it to me, in those years my life was different - was silent a moment, starting at the truck.
"Okay, I like your new house is more than yours.
"Not very big but it is authentic, better than before ... Hey, that ended with the mine? Or is it too dramatic?
"No, not really, if we end up as usual, the time, distance, fighting, all that makes life when you get in big shirts, all that kind of shit that is eating away selfish foundation to things until suddenly ...
- Plaff!
my brother interrupted me with an onomatopoeia.
"Exactly. Refine
laughing as they put out my cigarette.
- And why do not you see? I say, taking you step in Curico.
-Haha, bueh, is that she does not live here, and I doubt that your grandparents want to see me ...
I replied, amused at the idea. My brother took the container of wine and I could not help but notice her ring finger. The last time I had seen a ring.
"Oh well, must be family.
I said while shaking his finger and raised his glass to face burlesque.
- What did the ring?
I asked suddenly, a prisoner of curiosity.
"I went to shoot a volcano in the south.
- Really? Jajajaja no po-
He laughed as you think ... I have it back there, "he said saved-but it's not anything special, just to have it as a souvenir.
"A monument.
-A good and bad.
-Ah ...
Fill the glasses with more wine white clay.
"By the way, I saw the old man on television ...
- Really? What did they say?
"I was arguing for at the houses, about the earthquake, reconstruction, all that said," I spent thirty years of my life in this house, and now the government wants their indifference forget me "looked very uncomfortable while I was saying you know? although people who accompanied him back was OK.
-Y was leader ... Right?
"Sure, what else?
Both laughed.
It was early morning when, after a hug goodbye and promised to come more often, I left the house of my brother toward the place where I was staying. I had not walked or two blocks when the cold wind had already soaked my jeans, I lit a cigarette that is dyed purple at the mere contact with my lips, purple also after having taken a full drum that came with my brother. I put on my headphones, I scheduled a disk and marched toward the center.
I walked for blocks and blocks in stride, stepping on the yellow leaves and ignoring almost completely the way, just worried about the cigar and music. The night was hard and yet I felt very comfortable walking in the chilly night in a city full of ruins unnoticed.
I was on one side of the Plaza de Armas when suddenly, almost by instinct, I stopped short and I realized I was going through the front of the ruins of the Cathedral. The darkness of the night and the light bulbs lit the black square piles of rubble dotted with pieces of mosaics, stained glass glow endowed the ruins of a majestic air of desolation.
I had never gone to church, but I tried to remember how was the Cathedral when he was still standing. I was surprised to remember it so clearly: It was very high and most of his columns had an imposing dome, all full of these mosaics are now scattered throughout the block shattered. Suddenly I felt an inexplicable sadness and started walking faster and faster way to my house within a block without realizing I was running by Curicó with purple lips and a cigarette in hand ... I stopped short and take a puff of cold air and turned to walk feeling a little embarrassed, even with that discomfort stuck between his chest and throat. Was three blocks from my board when I realized that because the wine had been missing all this way he had been walking unconsciously he had done before to a few years, every time I had gone in search of their home grandparents. Surprised by the memory and motivated by the same feeling of the cathedral tried to remember exactly as it was then, but the only image that came to mind was that of a Thursday sitting next to her in a courtyard of the cathedral, a fall on Thursday, long time ago.
I sat on the edge of the village and stayed in silence for a long time, I closed my eyes and I could see the Cathedral with its doors open right before my eyes, slowly moving away when he tried to touch her, and gradually diluting grains of sand that fall within a clock. Suddenly I had the sound of sand in the head do you feel then? Have you sensed at least? I invaded some ineffable desire to enter the gardens to get me myself inside the Cathedral, to ask me and tell me also best explored with the view of the cathedral, not so easy to forget, to enjoy it more this Thursday maybe it was the last Thursday Was last Thursday? The sound of the sand grains was still there.
But, just open your eyes I see before me was the Cathedral in ruins. Invaded by a devastating feeling to try to understand that as much as the tile, all those moments were too far away, like the figures that made the glasses, too many of the memories had ceased to exist ... As the mosaic, all these moments were only vague outlines of what had actually been, had been transformed forever in ruins, like the walls of the Cathedral.
When he finally got to my room turned on the television passing news of the earthquake in Indonesia ... I left it on, I undressed and covered myself with blankets in the cold and dusty bed residential.
When I covered my lips still had colored wine, I thought it would stain the bed but I did not care much, since the other day I had tickets for the ten o'clock train.
With closed eyes I thought in the mosaics of the cathedral broken with blows of the earthquake and sharp fall on the wooden benches of the church, I figured the moonlight seeping through the roof cracked in the middle of the carnage and passing between pieces of glass for a moment eternal.
While the torpor of sleep began to numb my hands, more and more away from the tv chicharreo, I came to a head this mess of old wine in the memories of the oak barrels.
then I could see my memories, transformed into mosaics.
then I imagine the mosaics
converted into drops of wine
ephemeral.
Falling,
suspended time,
on a necklace which floats in the air
forever.
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