Sunday, March 13
THAT CHILD
The other day, before arriving in Bordeaux, I stopped in Bayonne. It was the second time he did, and yet what a feeling of familiarity, to return home. With cities as I passed people, then admit to mine. Of course maybe that's wrong with the whole world, to know where or who you are at home does not take many speculations.
And I am comfortable walking on the edge of the graceful and majestic Nive L'Adour, attending their meeting from the terrace cafe of the theater, leaving the timid sun bask in the place Pasteur, behind the cathedral, after have gone through with thoughtful silence the cloister.
beating too, as I always do (the second time, but I immediately convert all pleasant routine) at the public library and there, opening a book either, I let the chance to offer me their generous gift, "Au parvient vent nous souvenir du tonnerre him / fleuve d'und lourd in rumeur sous sous l'arbre et l'oiseau. "
remember The wind pushes me to a slow murmuring river, gleaming under the summer sun, there I am, under the benevolent shade of a tree, listening to the birds singing ... I have three or four years. Women wash in the river. " Wanting to catch a dragonfly I fall into the water and they take me laugh. It's my first memory. Funny how that river bathe the pages of a book by Jean Tardieu I randomly open a cloudy morning in Bayonne, and that its verses are heard singing still absorbed in these birds from shore Ambroz.
In the library, opposite the cathedral, and has flourished small exotic garden in winter met, chaired by a large magnolia tree. Walk among flower beds vague brooding Lembranzas pleasant as if he had done all my life.
While as in the Rue du Port-Neuf, my favorite street in Bayonne, and browsing the newspaper Gara (in certain cases conflicting, I agree more with him than with my usual daily, El Pais : I've always been true friend of Plato) under some posters of bulls, I feel I am a lucky man. I live on a precipice, waiting for the fatal news, and yet I am no longer the child who is shocked to hear the birdsong, which falls into the water when you catch a dragonfly, the wide-eyed child who not a day that does not provide a source of wonder and adventure.
Tuesday, March 15 SCHOOL OF ART
to entertain hopes, on this last day endless, I guide my nephews, Edward and Julia, by Aviles, who know little. Camposagrado front of the palace, with its magnificent Baroque facade, there are colorful groups of students. More than once I got into him when he was in a hardware store, Los Castros, but ever since has become the School of Art. Do not let this moment pass. In the library, with wonderful views over the park and pier, is about a young girl: "There is no direction, if you want me to teach the building." And we teach it, and I enjoy going in and out of classrooms, workshops engraving, looking through windows I've seen from outside countless times. As it turns out Adriana, that's the name my gentle companion, I was mistaken for an Italian designer. Was a bit disappointed to learn that I am of Avilés.
My nephews have followed me boring, but I leave happy, happy to be cherished for the first time unknown corner of the city I know best and, for that matter, never end to reveal all its secrets. While
turn to the morgue, I think I'm a lucky man, even in the worst days I can book a few moments for the carefree happiness. While ritual back to the past, someone-far and near: in the heart of my heart, "she smiles.
Wednesday, March 16
IN THE LABYRINTH
Abro Cervantes in the library, a book by Marina Gasparini, Venetian Maze and immediately got lost in the maze: "One summer night walking the streets who did not know where I lead. An unusual stretch of sotoporteghi left in me a sense of being through unfamiliar surroundings. The low height of the arcade made me bow my head in reverent ritual gesture that accompanies and precedes the entrance to a sanctuary. The dim light of lanterns isolated shadow covered the wet spots. "
raise my eyes to the page and continue walking down another maze. It was a winter night, chilly and dreary. Not a soul in the streets, except I was not going anywhere, that I refused to return to narrow hotel room, dimly lit. Not even the moon with me, as usual. The sky was overcast, may soon start to rain. I walked quickly, to ward off cold and fear, through narrow alleys, bordered dark channels, crossing bridges, I go into patios end, again and again on my feet and could not recognize either one of the campuses, palaces, churches. As if all that was familiar in that city, had been removed, diluted in the fog. Suddenly, I hear the murmur of a party, a music away. Amid such desolation those distant sounds were the very picture of happiness. He listened intently, trying to go in his direction. And after losing them and listen with greater intensity several times, I with a high wall that hides a tiny garden, as often in Venice. Push the door, but despite the music and the conversations seemed to be heard there, the garden is empty: four stunted trees, pots of dried plants, a stone bench. I dare not enter the palazzo , a dilapidated mansion and humid, although at the top are three Gothic lighted windows:
there, no doubt, the party takes place. The lights go out, everything is silent, while I'm still in the garden, frozen to death, without deciding to do nothing. Only hear the sound of water lapping the edges of a nearby canal. close the book, I open my eyes, I leave the maze of paper and another maze memory, that of my sixty years, which suddenly left me alone.
Have I been left alone? Since those dark days when the clouds suddenly opened and the sun appears, so is my mood. Step of despair to the enthusiasm with the same alacrity that the diver ascends to breathe fresh air.
Upon leaving the street, road salts, the sun shines and I have the certainty that I am not alone, that someone holds my hand like as a kid, and I do not ever let go.
Thursday, March 17
THAT HAD GOOD
Trapiello
Andrés, who had not wanted to go to know anything about me since I gave a few tugs on the wrist for the new edition of weapons and letters -worthy and chaotic and capricious fundamental inquiry into the literature of the civil war, has agreed to me in these sad days and sends me a hug and two lines of the last book of Eloy Sánchez Rosillo, "Haber had a good as I had / is having a gift that is never exhausted. "
The good that I still had it forever.
Friday, March 18
YOUR LAW, NOT YOUR ACCIDENT
"The strongest man is he who is more alone," wrote Ibsen. These days I have observed that if I am not exactly the strongest man, nor am I the one who is more alone. also the truth is invented, said Machado. And I've gradually developed a rare family in which the grandchildren (in the portfolio took a portrait of Ernesto astronaut dressed published on the cover of this newspaper the day Carnival) appeared in the times before the children.
Today is the birthday of one of them. We present a treasure: nothing less than a thousand years of English poetry from the anonymous medieval songs to Carlos Marzal. "And why are not you?" He asks. "Do not worry, I'll be and to stay for good, not like most of those final anthology," I say smiling, seemingly in jest.
may start playing the game of poker is any life, not give me the best cards, but I'm sure I have always endeavored to extract the most out possible.
I have committed the worst sin a man can make: not have been happy, as Borges lamented in a sonnet. I have managed to find bits of happiness, even in these days when I felt infinitely unhappy. Sometimes, just a few verses to bring comfort, as I have said many times that of Guillen: "rammed it, just inevitable. The gray wall / will impose their law, not accident. "
Saturday, March 19 NO TEARS tell you nothing. It is not necessary. We transparent visible watermark as well, in everything I do, you're better than I am, how much better are your five children.
I know you would not like me mourn. So I do not. On this day in bright blue for the first time will not go to see Avilés, like every Saturday for nearly thirty years, I hear you repeat the words of Christina Rossetti: "But I want to forget and smile / than not that I remember and be sad. "
I'm not sad. You are with me.
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