" One Saturday in May 1953, two years before the events of Barracks, a tall, stooped, walking down one of Lezama park trails.
He sat on a bench near the statue of Ceres, and remained idle, abandoned his thoughts. "Like a boat adrift in a lake appears calm but troubled by deep currents, thought Bruno, when, after the death of Alexandra, Martin told him, confused and fragments, some of the events related to that relationship. And not only thought they understood it and how!, As one of seventeen Martin reminded him of his own ancestor, the remote Bruno sometimes glimpsed through a foggy area of \u200b\u200bthirty years; territory enriched devastated by love, disappointment and death. Wistfully imagined at the old park, with the lingering twilight of the modest statues on the pensive bronze lions on the trails covered in leaves softly dead. At that time you begin to hear the little whispers, that big noise are withdrawn, as talks go out too strong in the room of a dying man, and then the sound of the fountain, the steps of a man who walks away, the chirping of birds that never quite settle into their nests, the distant cry of a child begin to be felt strange gravity. A mysterious event takes place at the time: dark. And everything is different: the trees, banks, retirees who lit a fire with dry leaves, the siren of a boat in the South Basin, the distant echo of the city. This time it all goes into a deep and mysterious existence. And more frightening, for loners who at that time remain silent and thoughtful on the banks of plazas and parks of Buenos Aires ...
"Martin picked up a piece of newspaper left a piece in the form of country: a nonexistent country, but possible. Mechanically read the words that referred to Suez, to traders went to the Villa Devoto prison, something that Gheorghiu said upon arrival. On the other hand, medium stained by mud, looked a picture PERÓN DISCEPOLO VISIT THE THEATRE. Below, a former soldier killed his wife and four other people with an ax.
threw the newspaper: "Most things never happen" you say Bruno, years later, "but the plague decimates a region of India." Again see the face daubed from his mother saying "you exist because I was careless." Courage, yes sir, it was worth what he had missed. If not, would have ended up in the sewers.
Madrecloaca.
When suddenly, "said Martin had the feeling that someone was behind me, watching me.
remained rigid for a moment, with that stiff and tense waiting, when in the darkness of the bedroom, he thinks he hears a rustling suspect. Because many times had felt that feeling on the neck, but was simply uncomfortable or unpleasant, because (he said) had always considered ugly and laughable, and I resented the assumption that only someone were studying or at least watching their backs; reason which sat in the seats last of the trams and buses, or went to the cinema when the lights were out. While in that moment he felt something different. "He hesitated as if searching for something better word," something disturbing, something similar to that crunch suspect we hear, or think we hear, in the dead of night.
made an effort to mantener los ojos sobre la estatua, pero en realidad no la veía más: sus ojos estaban vueltos hacia dentro, como cuando se piensa en cosas pasadas y se trata de reconstruir oscuros recuerdos que exigen toda la concentración de nuestro espíritu.
"Alguien está tratando de comunicarse conmigo", dijo que pensó agitadamente...
La sensación de sentirse observado agravó, como siempre, sus vergüenzas: se veía feo, desproporcionado, torpe. Hasta sus diecisiete años se le ocurrían grotescos.
"Pero si no es así", I would say two years after the girl who at that time was on his back, a huge time-Bruno-thought, because it was measured by months and even for years, but, as is typical of that class of beings, spiritual disasters and the days of absolute solitude and unspeakable sadness, days lengthen and deform like dark ghosts on the walls of time. "If it is not in any way", and scrutinized as a painter looks at his model, nervously licking his eternal cigarette.
"Wait," he said.
"You're more than just a good boy," he said.
"You are an interesting guy, deep, except that you have a very rare type.
" "Yes, of course," admitted Martin, smiling bitterly, thinking "you see that I have reason" - because all that is said when one is not a good boy and everything else is irrelevant.
"But I tell you to wait," he answered irritably.
"You are long and narrow, like a character from Greco.
" Martin snarled.
"But shut up," continued indignation, as a wise being interrupted or distracted with trivialities when they are about to find the desired final formula. And back to sucking greedily smoking, as usual in her when focused, and tightly pursed his brow, said:
"But, you know, as soon breaking the English ascetic draft bust your pouty lips . And you have those eyes moist. Shut up, I know you do not like anything I say all this but let me finish. I think women must find you attractive, despite what you I suppose. "Yes, your own expression. A blend of pure, melancholy and repressed sensuality. But also ... a moment ... Anxiety in your eyes, under the front that looks like an overhanging balcony. But I do not know if that's all that's what I like about you. I think it's another thing ...
May your spirit dominates over your flesh, like you're always at attention. Well, maybe not like the word, perhaps surprised me, or I admire or irritates me, I know ... Your spirit reigning over your body like a dictator austere.
"As if Pius XII had to watch a brothel. Now do not get mad if I know you're an angelic being. Moreover, as I say, do not know if I like in you or is it I hate most ...
made a great effort to keep their eyes on the statue. He said at that time felt fear and fascination, fear of turning around and a desire to do so fascinating. He recalled that once, in the Quebrada de Humahuaca, the edge of the Garganta del Diablo, as he stared at his feet the black abyss, an irresistible force drove him to suddenly jump to the other side. And then it was something like: as if he felt compelled to jump through a dark abyss to the other side of their existence. " And then, unconscious but irresistible force that compelled him to turn his head.
Just spotted, quickly withdrew his gaze back to put on the statue. Dreaded by humans: it seemed unpredictable, but mostly evil and dirty. The statues, however, provided him with a quiet happiness, belonging to an ordered, beautiful and clean.
But it was impossible to see the statue, stood at the fleeting image of the unknown, the blue stain of her skirt, the black of her hair straight and long, pale face, her face stuck on it. .. "
And this afternoon that reminded me that, following Martin Road and Alexandra. It was a privilege that I share here.
0 comments:
Post a Comment