The Handmaid's Taleworksheet

- Thirty-two Twenty-nine and Thirty

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Thirty-one


bounced, came and went, did not care, did not concern them, the tears were more noise, like water under the edge of the bow, or the reverberating rats in the shadows of the tanks. I cry, cry, Giovanni was concerned nothing more than fulfill their role, to say the words I should say, and noise would also be lost in the moment, and then sit quietly in his consciousness chameleon, adapting to time, to circumstances that required his name and his words, They completed it with the forms of that pathetic tears.

tears.

Ocean of tears: repeated words, sounds similar. How many times will have to suffer this expression? Tears. And yet there it was again, in his conscience, mimicking the reaction of similar circumstances, rotating in place, oiled, a more complex system of gears that, had he thought, would have imagined a watch, a clock of endless needles (or at least figure inconceivable) that roamed the area a thousand times, multiplying by a thousand and a thousand, and thousand. And the noise, the ticking rhythm to be invented measuring the immeasurable. It was fine and agreeing to the noise, thinking of them as mere noise, needed, as well as his shoulder and his words, and tears on her shoulders. It was fine as well, recalling (and this was a sound, a thought without consciousness of it, think for a mere reflection, or custom, or because the gear would spin and spin and spin ...) morning that he wanted to have second, every second, one by one, without thinking about the past, if not in those who remained to come, start now and wonder if the numbers I knew the names of the numbers who knew no ways, I reach for all the latter would have to tell. Up he tired, until he knew that not to count their numbers reach infinity, suspected, knew, at that age was impossible to assimilate the bearded God the beginning and the end of all things, including himself, was not possible to think of death, because her four years no one died, but would travel or be moved to heaven, a child could not think of death, although in time and in haste and in fear that time was not enough to contain, or numbers to tell, and the words to explain, to their determination (but that is, adult, male child) always come late, yet postponed, was delayed.

and did not realize.

As one listens to the rain, so he spent his life. ***





The consistency Liberato Carmela admired Giovanni was a counterpoint. And also was admirable, there was some glimmer of acceptance did not come to be under a wise look, an assimilation of the life lived without question, without question, an animal paradise, virgin forbidden fruit. This is what was in the successful Liberato movements Giovanni, appropriate to time, place, both to be without anyone noticing, like a window in a front window full of needed in the whole, but unnoticed by the individuality was a soldier, Giovanni was undoubtedly the hero without a name, the character that any complainant needed to build a story without which the hero was the story. Never mind the names, Giovanni was a trifle, but why, of all names, just would be called Giovanni? What other name is Giovanni? How many lives, how many days had passed before emptying into Giovanni? Dad B., Potter tradition, ever interested in his lineage of potters and came to a great, great grandfather who was not B, but another surname not know or wanted to pursue, named Liberato, and there died of known history, that of Giovanni, how far would you go? To what extent could get there ... Giovanni's story would die on him, because he was an unsung hero and thus consist in its history, Liberato someday write, if not previously seduced by the cow left abandoned and the almond root pipes. Giovanni

would not name, and yet unnamed fight with life (not life, to existence) to find one to know why they call it that and not like that, why Giovanni, though not called so. Marco Antonio, Julio Cesar, they all knew who and why, but Giovanni is so common, as simple as Luis Alberto, Jorge Luis, Jorge Alberto, etc. to repeated ad nauseam in this combination (and in tribute to whom, to whom? What Jorge Luis in the story might deserve a similar tribute? When Liberato had children, none of them call it that ... And he thought was right) .

Entranced by the movements, expressions, reactions, dialogue on issues dealing with familiar words with obvious answers that definitely known but necessary for all to continue, Liberato wondered if all that was life, just in case was witness to his future novel, or if I was actually wasting time, yours and the others, because he does not want to do anything served by women who cried hypocrisy and guilt, or by men acting on their obligation to act, in the meantime, life went on in other site, perhaps on deck, among the curious of the third, or perhaps on the upper floors, where the wealthier classes did not even suspect that the Mary Fioravanti had killed a man her family was crying, or the existence of a young man who wanted to live life and write. Well, they said, will be played there in the third, and try to take everything that could: the expression in gentle Giovanni absent, probably his hero, the smells that lived in the cabins of the exiles and now beginning to associate with death (not knowing, perhaps, that his reaction was successful, so successful, and yet a profound mistake, because death does not stank, were not the dead man or the future miasma, because she died, also in the act of dying, but the flavor was there, as more than a memory, perhaps a sign of passage, a pennant of claim or a mark that is left for everyone remember and learn, remember and live, remember and acknowledge that nothing lasts forever and now is the time.) What he needed most were dialogues Liberato, words, phrases the real exchange that, unlike the few books (so few) that I had read in the underground home, never dealt with important topics or lexicons used grand, if life is about important issues, almost always the case sideways, hiding the truth behind metieran of words not afraid. The dialogues of life were repeated clichés, seeking only to cover the silence, life was boring, mediocre, and it may well happen without words, because the insinuations were always valued more than the verbal statements, though these inevitably led to disputes; however there were the words, necessary, fair, almost a shield, a barrier against the dying death itself, a spell to zoom out to show that now, only now there was life.


Thirty-two


America!, Shouted at the exit. America!, Led them to cry. America, with a forced smile, almost carved in wood, a grin that could not be deceived only if looked at his eyes. The eyes were not smiling. They were seeing now, and mind were drawn images of people, the path of smoke rings Pietro, Alma feeding the child, but there was no place for the future. The future could tell, could scream, and could forward them scream but I could not see. What he believed the future, they were only the shapes of their desires, and even with the help of the will would have anticipated a body, a real existence, which really felt Lucio was a terrible fear, would rather feel like a donkey or, worse, a carrot. The future and America were concepts that were lost in fear itself, synonymous with fear. Best snuff and return at first, the happiness that spending on account in the morning and claimed that life in the evenings, there were more than fear, fear and more fear. America, the diffuse target, the unreality behind the sea, had been also for walrus and the walrus was dead.

was day, clear morning, calm and warm sun, anticipating a storm perfect harmony, but harmony in the end, why, then, was allowed early fall, why is immersed in the desired change without trying, why was the third of Mary Fioravanti and not sitting on the edge of their village, where starting (or concluding?) the gravel road and dry powder, together with Pietro smoking, trying in vain to form rings on the cheek shots, in the village had had a woman who might well have called Alma, although it was not, and have fathered a child, or just have stayed forever sitting on the roadside imagining that beyond the hills there were other peoples and other nations, and a future that haunt him because it would be theirs, because they would be struggling with the risk of losing. Interestingly

have thought of a battle, not war, it is curious that, unconsciously, had accepted that each confrontation with life, with the moment, there was only one of many struggles of the Great War. It's funny because Lucio refused to vegetate would have preferred a war was played in wars all die or win, die or lose, win and die, or lose and live, no gray, the result was final, the end of day, in bloody field, each knew what the picture of the situation, and that would be one that would persist until the end, but the battles never was all that. In battles could escape alive, with a defeat on his shoulders, but with the obligation to return for the next skirmish, which perhaps will come out victorious, although this was not definitive. Interestingly

have thought of a battle when it had happened in the cabin of Mary Fioravanti thirty-five was the outcome of a war, Don Guido. With him and everything was said. Interestingly

so sad and heavy as it was, despite the great morning, has agreed to continue fighting even if you tremble legs.

wanted to smoke, but Francisco was asleep.

Finally she said, and rolled a cigarette with his snuff. He breathed in, hit the cheeks and spread smoke report.

smiled.


Chapters Thirty-three - Thirty-Four - Thirty-five

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Veintinueve

-Name of the deceased.

-Del died, say.

"You said.

-Guido, Guido G.

-date of birth, place of origin. Four

-April 1876, Genoa.

-Reasons leading to death.

- Life?

"Death, of course.

-life, I suggest.

"Well, well, what suffering an illness?

"Not that we know.

"Yesterday a toothache, but it took the boy Lucius, here.

"Hey, I, well ...

"Quiet, please, respond only when asked.

"Yes, but I ...

"Where is the wheel of the deceased. "Not

.

- What's Not?

-La into the sea.

"Well, well, the doctor and will review.

- Is the sea?

"No, sir, the mouth of the deceased. Are all familiar?

"Just us, Captain.

- And the gentlemen?

"They are our neighbors on the road, we met here.

"Yeah, well, well

Write a sailor:

-ve-ci ... Ce or neighbors "with that?

"With that, I think.

-Vee-sss-si-no.

"Well, that's all, thank you my most sincere condolences, ladies.

- When will asearlo?

"Right now, if they wish.

- Can we watch over him? If only I had flowers.

"Yeah, sure, but what of the flowers is difficult ...

- And then? Where do you keep?

- Save it? No, ladies, I regret to inform you that the body will be thrown into the sea.

"Hey, Captain, you say, have some consideration for the ladies, how will you say to throw the body of Mr. Guido, a little touch ...

"Please, gentlemen, if you do not belong to the family, I beg you to stay away from fulfillment.

"What say the ladies.

"Okay, guys, okay.

- Is it what?

Sir Don Guido very reluctant to sea water, can not do this.

- Madonna Santa, Regina!

- What! What!

"Captain, can not throw it into the sea, Mr. Guido is ours as well, he would have liked to come to America, we would bury him there.

"Sorry, ladies, health and hygiene reasons we can not keep the body in the ship. I understand your situation, but that is what we call the laws and common sense. We can not risk the health of other passengers ...

"From the first, say.

-... The other passengers, who like you and I have the right to maintain your health.

"But, sir, please.

"Sorry, ladies.

"At least let us watch over him as God intended.

"Two days is a long time.

"Please.

-...

-...

-Le grant clock. The doctor will review the body. To be sure there are no signs of any contagious disease, this sector will remain under quarantine.

"But Captain, our cabin is across the deck.

"Sorry, you and the boy should stay here. Send a sailor with mattresses and bedding.

-can stay in our cabin.

"Thank you, thank you.

"As for you, sir ...

-R., Lucio R. R. Lord -...

, do you have permission to practice medicine?

- Me? uh, yeah, sure, sure ...

"Aha ... Well ... Well. Ladies, Miss, I'm sorry what happened.

Thanks.

"Yes, thanks.

"You're welcome.



Thirty


remembered and chipped gray walls, with traces of lime refusing to neglect; resembled a wasteland and gray, so gray and leafless branches, remembering a pale blue winter sky, but with a hot sun, too warm for any January. Resembled a fountain filled with almonds and an empty wine that smelled. He remembered the glasses, circular marks on the table the shapes of the feet on the ground floor: the traces. He remembered the candles and smoke free, and the first silence was when everyone was gone. He remembered that roamed the streets, as always, your friends, but quiet, pushing only when one rose the voice of what is appropriate, throwing small stones that bounced near and raised a warning fugitive dust. He remembered the braying of Serafin, uncomfortable with the thirst and flies. He remembered the taste of water, the thin cracks of dirty dishes, the amount of invisible lines of the webs of spiders that were reborn every week in the corners of the house, the smell of the barn, the sounds that distinguish the turning wheel of the floats the people, the words, the last words of his mother, but could not remember the pain. Francisco asked if she had cried that afternoon, he wondered if he had allowed a tear or had remained unchanged as there was in fact his father, lying in the shade in the afternoon, east of the house, overlooking the town, or Beyond the village, where the gray rocks and trees stretching to the end of the world. Not remember, nor remember when or why he decided that the moor was not the world that his father was not the law, and that life was nothing but an absurdity, a whim of something or someone other than God, because that day, angry with him, decided to there was no God, he denied it, but neither remembered this and offered the advantage of having its own mysteries unveiled the guide told him and taught him and he pointed beyond the gray villages and moorland existential.

Why worry, then, why this strange death hurt him, why he thought that if the pain was after all not remember ever having felt pain, just a heaviness, a sting in the center of the stomach, or a lacerated hands along the edge of a pipe, but that was not pain, but blood flowing. It was red, a foreign substance, an absurdity that nothing was changed by being there or not. Like Don Guido, death, there was a body, and surely was no pain, but the world would walk, and countries would know nothing of Don Guido died, even beyond the limits of the third of the people is Maria Fioravanti worry about the sudden absence of pain perhaps caused. Maybe it was pain, but why it hurt, and how he knew that it was pain. Francisco committed the fundamental error: the words gave more importance than they really were, the words were nothing more than a copy, a reflection of a substance or a feeling, perhaps of an action, but those words were neither the substance nor the sentiment or action, should have been stripped of his words, meanings and subjective wrong, forget that what we felt could be named as arbitrary as pain or sorrow or distress, or even satisfaction, or would be called in the language that was , had to abandon the signs and go with the feeling anonymous, stop worrying about the anonymity, and smoking calmly, without thinking about the concept of smoking, and probably would have felt that something for which no words and proper names.

"Uncle.

"What do you, Julian.

- Why are you crying?

- Me? Nothing, Julian nothing is the smoke of his pipe. Come, let's see how we accommodate this evening.

"Yes, come on.

"Yes, come on. Yes, come on. That's right dude, come on. Sure man, you're right, not to follow your directions if you are my uncle and you're older. If man, go. " Why, he asked Julian why he could not contradict, at least once in life and say no excuses, best was on the cover, who preferred not to know, who would like nothing better that not seeing how they would accommodate that night, he had never wanted to go to America, and America would never accept to be together with him. Why, Julian, why think of the old, back in Spain if the old man had left behind, or beside, or below, or elsewhere depending on where you looked, it was him, Julian Á. who moved, and not his father. It was he who advanced or retreated (obedient, always obedient), and not his father. Why not do what your heart is required, why not refocus itself and begin to interpret the clear messages that sent her heart. Why do not obey himself, if someone owed obedience, and not the other, the old man, his uncle, the ship that had imprisoned and where he wanted, but let him choose the path, or warning that his election would irreversibly lose life. Why do not prefer the north when the boat always southwest, why not jump into the ocean, or why not steal a boat and row to the north, always north, forward, because the north was on, carry where you take, because it was he who moved, not the boat, he provided it, but back now, slipped, dragged him, a force that took the shoulder and inability to move, and the rebel effort was how stripped of soul, leaving her helpless, at the discretion of the boats and all the forces that would dispute it, would pull it until it shreds, then abandon trample and destroyed, because a soul in parts not used for slave. Why could not tell you (first to admit) I did not want to go to the cabin to see how they would accommodate that night, damn the fucking time it was dead walrus, as if the walrus had something to do with their indecision. Damn the fucking time you came to Fioravanti, fucking each whores hours in which the events had happened without him decide. Damn whores unrequited life, damn the fucking smell of sweat, damn the cover of this fucking bitch emigrant ship, damn the fucking America, damn the first because they will always be first, and cursed by boluda last there in the background, hoping for the mere fact of being past, damn, damn all.

Chapters Thirty-one - Thirty-two

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Chapters Twenty and Twenty-eight Chapters Twenty and Twenty

Twenty

Vas barefoot, and feet quiet. Going barefoot and go with me, or go with you, or we just go. You can not assimilate, I can not feel your pain, but I, I swear I want. But your tears are not mine, I just I feel it coming, or I, or we, mixed or isolated, but visible, complete, and aware of one another, at least I am the one and I the other, although I prefer to imagine that, too, like me, conscious of the way , your condition Luna.

Luck finally made me a wink, life, finally gave me the signs, you're here, next to or ahead, sometimes behind, but you're here, more than a Unit lackluster in the vast blue. I rejoice your tears unseen, I can not help it, because I know you've slipped, your shaft is no longer the same, and your face repeated the other is infected, the occult, the inextricable to everyone but me, I am the beholder of the world beyond Earth, in this way the wood is damp and salt fog and pain for premature death. I would also accompany the pain, but I can not, I can not, I can not even want.

Today I know that death is a fact that sooner or later, that this or that, for me or anyone. Today I know that death is and so does not affect me. Gone is the future, death is why the disappearance of the future, and who is your father has died, Esperanza; your home, your cause, your right, and yet you're here me.

And so I'm happy.

selfish and happy.

***

Nobody wants it, but everyone is invited to look around when it comes to the next; Death leaves a trail, signs that the living recognize and pursue, follow them because they know That already won what I wanted, believing themselves to be saved, knowing that maybe they have turn to the next minute will therefore, to avoid thinking about the way that a persons called both . Walrus is dead Lucio -think and the world goes on, yesterday suffered and was happy, cried and celebrated, and sleep thinking about the future, tomorrow, perhaps with fear, or desire to begin a good fuck , start, and now no more than an empty shell, today is the bunch of meat in hours start to stink, and will swell and will withstand the rigor that was sagging when breathed and smiled.

not know them, do not know their names, are a lot of people traveling in the third of Mary Fioravanti and only now repairs on their faces, in their colors, aromas, and recently there were now he sees, and knows senses alive and behind them the same shadow that projects no longer Don Guido. The same shade is charging Lucio, but this morning was not particularly inclined to allow an existence he sees in others and that is all, and that's okay, so he's fine. Someone comes over and asks him, he responds with vague data: name, the province of origin, nothing more, and even if he wanted to be more friendly to the requirements, do not really know anything more about him, except that it is the father of a girl named Esperanza and yesterday he had escaped from a wheel, but rather silence that fact, believing that it is not important, or perhaps because it loads like a stone embedded in the shoe, slightly uncomfortable, a suspect would be better to banish, Lucio, why, why ... What is irrelevant in any case, and therefore also silent, is responding to the others.

Ajenos -think ... for some reason, Lucio feel the pain. Even when some clueless gave believing condolences to the family, accepted it without comment ...

...

... Lucio felt hand and could not understand why. Don Guido meant nothing to him, nothing since the impulse I had felt for Hope, the game, now it was gone, now it was still morning and noticed a subtle change in the routine of his life. From the hall you could hear the cries of women, the circle of onlookers raised their demonstration of compassion every time a voice broke into the cabin, thirty-five. He thought it might be desirable in and cooperate with Giovanni and Liberato, but the sun was too intense and too the vital impulse that, without him noticing, and remained elevated him and took him to the American mind, and the future. So, a background image, almost blurred, shy, but that image, that momentum, were the stars of tomorrow, like every morning, and prevented him from plunging into the pain and the face of death.

Poor Don Guido, felt almost obliged to pity, but just wanted to smoke, and only hoped that Francis promised to return to snuff, then a cigarette, fat, good fat, turn it on, and let the smoke invading the veins, the blood arise charge of tingling and slight dizziness in the first breath, let the smoke stung in the throat, which invade the lungs and then expelled slowly through your mouth first, then nose, and if there was a rest, returning to the lungs, obedient to the rhythm of breath, and expel it with force upward guided by the lips ...

... With the second breath, taking advantage of the weak sea breeze that came -very calm, very calm, rain-soon would form halos perfect legs bl; the drive out with a short breath, or perhaps prove the technique taught to him by Pietro, in the village knew Pietro expel smoke rings with just unlock the cheeks, was his favorite grace, sitting on a rock at the edge of the slope where he opened the way to die in the village, the repeated again and again; Lucio may prove, perhaps, knowing useless, because never before achieved and indeed content with the slightest encouragement, and even was always best to avoid halos, because the rings were an achievement Lucio half and also the duty of memory, Lucio feel the triumph only if he could lock and unlock the cheeks, and accompany the white wheel, almost substantial, with the crash of bones, like Peter, back in the village on the slope, in the limit in the way that Lucio himself dared to walk, because if something wanted Lucio was smoking and smoke halos with better snuff.

First was to leave the town without looking back, but sensing that his friend had spent the last farewell hug and halos like, then it was the port and Alma, and she with them, smoking in the room, trying in vain to the loops that only were possible with the aid of a slight breath, swallowing smoke to fool the mind, ideas, to claim his blood drunk by snuff, sitting on the edge of a window that showed the docks and boats and the clatter of people walking away as he tried to lock the cheeks, over and over again, promising better luck with the next cigarette, and was immediately next to deceive the time, this time to time, and reality, to the claims of Alma and the cries of the child, and on the streets of packages stacked on the edge of the plates, and white handkerchiefs, and the sirens and steam, fog, wet pavement and covered the steps of arriving and departing voices and tears in silence, broken sighs, undecided between the hopeful pain and joy, and he was Pietro, Pietro trying to be on the edge of the road, anchored, tied to the neck by the invisible chain that only preconceived limits allowed, but at least let him the time and courage to demonstrate their skill with the smoke and cheeks, and he was Pietro, aware that his network had been more extensive, but string to the end, leaving in the fourth and Alma, in love and the girl, but very far from each other, Lucio, who was not able to form rings or patient enough to endure, still, the image of a road waiting for him, hence the boat, not looking back, with a good supply of snuff in his pockets to sit and smoke, sit and wait, sit and watch the sea and try to avoid rings with the technique of Pietro; such some time ago, where possible support the distance, the absence of Peter and the people of Alma and girls, because in the afternoon .... Evening ... and at night ...

The night was forget that there was a shadow in which everything is nothing, either, as Don Guido, could die, or even decide his death. The night was losing the arguments of the morning was to look back and see Pietro and the people, but especially to Alma, and most of all to the girl. The night your child, and love, and pain, pain of love. The night was looking desperate cries drown, stir the conscience to that of the morning we serve, by God, it would be useful. Lucio ready to jump the boundaries, to lose, to recognize their guilt, they said, he shouted: "Better still with you, do you care if you're alive, do you care for them if As you all will be dead or alive. What you care about life and guilt, guilty life, as long as you snuff to smoking. "

then palpated his bag at the edge of dawn, and pledged that America would buy the best.

Twenty-eight

had been a premonition, the pain was present in the night had been nothing more than an echo of the now the silent anguish of the incredible reality I said loudly that his father had died. I could not believe, felt the pain, but pain that stemmed from the combination of the words death and father of the ideas represented separately, interspersed substance concepts, but not the pain that I had imagined (if it ever had been allowed to think) for the time after the death of his father, this was unrealistic, insensitive, as if the absence is not more than passing, and that at night he would return and kiss her, and would leave the room after dinner.

had read in novels, scenes ripped tears of pity, desire flowing into the pages and embrace the orphan child, because somehow, as she read, she was the child as the father was, in life and in agony, Esperanza, in the books, it was everything and was all and felt like they, was the words that explained the pain, the pain felt dumb, suggested, but he was also one that was the sum of all the pains, that history and the above, adding their own, never as deep as those who lived in the books, the old pains reborn with death and pity and the desire to be there to embrace the hero, to embrace herself, although she seemed pains as futile.

This pain was different from that which was cured with tears and forget, with a new book, with laughter, or adventures. This pain was not caused unfading and tears. The idea was father to one side, the killing of the other idea, and under his bare feet burning the opening that opened to swallow not to show deep and dangerous, and ultimately comforting, but leaving it there on the edge, open your feet . That pain could not cry, could not be drained. And it was impossible, a pain impossible for an impossible reality. Death and father. Father and death, the concepts near caused him distress. Death and father, father and death, but refused to bind and forming dead father, dead father, his father is dead, dead dad. Impossible, impossible, impossible, so I could not mourn, so was the pain, sadistic imagination, for their unwanted thoughts, fear. It was a lie, it was a truth lies, what would you tell the captain? What had killed his father? Hope

not know how to lie.

Hit Antonio. There was no response. Expected. How much should be expected to return to knock on the door of a captain? What would you say?

If it was Anthony who speak, say he has killed a man, Guido G., thirty-five passenger cabin of Mary Fioravanti, and those words would be true. But if hope should say that he was his father died, and would not be true, were the words, concepts, and language to form sentences, but lacked the substance and facts, because nothing that Esperanza say may sound true. Hope not know how to lie, had wanted to close the book, that everything had been a history of others, their own but others, and embrace and mourn, along with her, mourn.

I cheated, I know I cheated, because I think me and you're not, because I give the forms of my moon. I know I cheated and yet I persist, I return to the path and look up and see you but not you. Yes, yes you, you should be, Esperanza. Now I could mourn and you would see my tears and I should not, I should not, because yours are invisible and the time corresponding to your pain, not mine, not I, not I, not I think, Hope, I should not challenge or question you, not is a lie, you are, you hope, my moon, which never comes, and he always is. Which I viewed from the edges, from a distance that extends as attempt the advance and I wait, wait, wait for me because that way you know, I'm going to you, aware of the deception ... no, no, no, no cheating on me, I do not. You, Hope, my Moon, my new moon, the moon that shines at night in America, and that sometimes comes during the day, as a unit, Luna comes to say goodbye to the sun. Luna Luna arrives and is invented because he knows that in heaven there is no name or conscience, or freedom. Luna always broken and always will rotate, slave of time and forms, anonymous, with your face, knowing that you moon but not your name is Luna, my Hope. I come to you, my road leads to heaven, I know, but many times I've climbed and I climbed, I climbed to the top and I've realized that I was still on the ground that it is always possible to go higher. I thought at the highest peaks is only possible look up and check distance, or look forward and discover a higher cost, or look down to find the path that leads me towards it I cheated, I know I cheating when I search the top and not you, it's you who should seek for the paths are not ends but means to reach, the summit should not be my goal, you must be, and when I finally can say, when he finally accepts it, then I can fly. But I cheated, I still cheating, and I give the forms of my moon of the moon I see from the top without realizing that your forms are not given more than for you, not me who is, I just discover you. Hope, Hope, when they finally accept my mistake, then I will raise and fly and you catch up on the top, and you'll be mine, moon nights of my America, you will be mine also in the days, blue skies days those in which the Moon comes to say goodbye to the sun. No lie, I am not mistaken, you're my moon but you are not mine. You're mine, Esperanza. No, I am not mistaken, I know I do, so I return to the road and slopes; your name drives me, and soon you'll be mine.

Chapters Twenty-nine and Thirty

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Twenty words, voices, faces and intentions were those of America, Argentina, but the familiarity was more than exaggerated; had flags and shields that were Argentineans were from Italy and spoke Italian men, like women, even boys. As he was Italian, speak Italian, and did so with enough verve, he thought he would have no problem, that anything he had imagined would be such insurmountable barriers. It was daylight, a beautiful day of low clouds and grayish colors, some cold but not both, the sun appeared intermittently and when he did, remarked the green and yellow of dead leaves and pine somewhat darker. The floor was wet, the trees too, and houses, and men, but there was no reason to suspect that it had rained. Could be seen clearly, moreover, that it did not rain for months. But everything was so wet and gray, sometimes yellow and then gray again. And awed contemplation of the environment had been lost forever without necessarily repent, but he was interrupted by high mountains and turned his attention to them. Interestingly, the peaks also appeared moist; was no snow, no, that was beyond dispute, because it was the white peak that seemed attacked by water. That was the America, it was Argentina and was looked looked to where new images which wonder and love them. So different all together, so new and promising futures varied and variable. Where was the flat course of which he had heard? Where were the gauchos on horseback, a poncho, rounder and mate? Here in America everything was fantastic and real, because fantasy and beauty that surrounds it, that great unknown, was the land of his past, was what he already knew, but better, simply better. And there was even a sea, and a great river, and ships, of which more and more people descended from all countries but speaking a common language, his, who used always and always used to say that and say, to count and recount, to tell the world that spoke and saw the world as we had and saw him. Who could lie and say, hey, I do not understand what you say! Who would be able to issue such expletive language that united them, did not modulate the same words, did not conform to the same life, they were not thinking people, and was not a life? How could that try to annoy someone with such nonsense? Of course I understand! Everyone would! Because the words used would be those that had given life, the life that everyone saw and lived. And in that live their lives, who would be responsible for interpreting the string, or a drum, and who would be responsible for reflecting it in a wood or stone, and even on a cloth and clothing, one potter would shape their art pottery by applying to the language of life, the same thing the fisherman to cast their nets and the stable boy to renew the waste hay and clean, even the lady, kneeling on the river, fregaría their white robes with words of life, and the old, in her rocking chair with your amplifier hear brass music that others executed with the language of life, that was the language he used and used to talk and talk, for count and recount, to explain and ask. No, no, impossible to tell someone not to understand his words, his intentions, that place would not allow such nonsense, everything was perfect, and, who knows why, wet. There was dullness and repetition, and endless space in which mad with boredom. There was all new and all beautiful and all that remains to do, where everyone knew what life was like and what was the language used to express themselves, should not be afraid to speak, of course not, talk about those mountains, the city at the foot of the mountain, moor sudden would no less perfect and beautiful at the same site which had been the mountain of the incredible absence of animals, except those he wanted, those that appeared as soon as the names and went when he did not care, when he had said and told, seen and sentenced. Ah, perfect America, Argentina perfect men and women like him, Argentines of their language, and his soul and his desire, like that girl who was born without name or face (or if it was but did not see or did not remember, but this was a face) that woman was a sense, was more than a body and aroma, was a rapture in the soul, itself a joy, joy of joys, happiness archetypal promised last, all this was that girl who now disappeared behind a bush yellow suddenly the moment he touched the sun. The girl was gone and yet he was not afraid, because I was sure, deeply secure that simply articulating his words and she would never again would leave, and would monitor any other approach him because the words and the reporter matched his words, and Author consent to such appropriation. I was so sure that he preferred to postpone the meeting until they had seen or heard or interpreted or understood all the words recited life, and the variations which he held, and the subtext that is allowed, and the silences that would also say. All I wanted to see, and all wanted to live, because there in America, in this land of metallic name, deserved lived and heard everything. What pleasure, what a tremendous sense of peace was to step aside and watch the lights that were born and died, days passed while he was an instant, anonymous faces and voices as soon approaching as they went towards their lives and thoughts, that would not be different from yours, not in essence or in words that could explain the essence. Blessed land, blessed and unfading joy, how much was there to take root and how much its boundless promise to avoid the roots. There was life, and spoke, and smiled, and allowed the time to live, a time eternal, because that was what was needed, the eternity of paradise, where else but there was the heavenly kingdom. Blessed land, land around the world, men of all the earth, they hear his voice, he would hear his voice and words their ideas and thoughts, allegories, dreams, your world enclosed in stories of cows or pipes or existential wars, all of them would hear the great Liberato B., B. South now finally sat up, opened his mouth y. ..

- Liberato, Liberato!

"Hey, why, what, what happens, who ... Giovanni, what happens.

-dressed, died walrus.

- What, Who?

-dressed, you see, died Don Guido, the father of Hope.



Twenty


Lucio preferred to stay in door, smoking snuff Francisco Francisco. Julian Giovanni and comfort dealing with women. Liberato, with bleary eyes and half closed, her hair swirling, volunteered to go get the doctor or the captain, but Anthony stopped him, said he would, that was the best, Hope wanted to accompany him and Antonio, a bit dazed, decided it was fine. Liberato remained in the cabin, in silence, perhaps offended, but more likely is that he still had his head somewhere else, somewhere that was not the cabin thirty-five of Maria Fioravanti, and undoubtedly smell better, it took several minutes move just one foot. Then he sat Giovanni, and tried to hear the words he said to Mrs. Regina. And tried to understand why he preferred to talk to Regina that seemed the most complete, and not Mary, given to crying as a midwife wake people pay. Carmela prayed a rosary in a silent stranger, without even moving his lips, without allowing an opening in his eyes, which disclosed an intrusion destroyed or indifferent. Giovanni murmured in a tone incomprehensible and the few words that came to correspond to a dialect Liberato improper, were not words in the language of life, that was clear, but it should have been the case, or did the death was also part of life? Were they looking for words to comfort a life before death? Were they? Perhaps the problem was that he consoled himself no longer a fear or pious feelings, but a sign of selfishness and vanity, because he was crying he did for himself, for the pain felt by the sudden awareness of his helpless solitude of being truly and hopelessly alone in an existence where the other is always disturbed and impeded and stood and held back and was shunned and unwanted until death do you believe his wishes, until the crying was evidence of the guilt and remorse. Those were the tears in front of the dead and maybe that's why she had no words of encouragement and consolation was simply because they did not, and was this the reason why I did not feel the need to come to Regina and at least offer condolences, support a hand on his shoulder, to convey the warmth of companionship and solidarity, as it did with Carmela, which read without tears and without gestures, without reason to suspect that someone cared a suffering or death of don catzo Guido, Carmela was the only living death of the old without egotism; was she the only coherent and the other, which believers say God and Christ, heaven and immortality, and cried inconsolably for death for no reason, however Carmela prayed in silence, without opening their eyes to demonstrate if he was or if he cared a catzo, prayed for God to receive him in his bosom, and perhaps made him happy that way, even she would be happy, happy for the old, because he was now with God, the only Will and free from all evil, she did believe, really believe it, but who would have allowed a smile, a demonstration by the husband being now dead? Doña Carmela was the only consistent person in the cabin, perhaps of humanity, so Liberato came and put his hand on his shoulder, and waited until she looked, Liberato Carmela's eyes looked, then bent and He kissed her forehead, it was not for sympathy but admiration. Carmela continued its relentless and impassive prayer, without being a victim, because he felt guilty.



Lucio ***

smoked and waited. Francisco smoked and, without noticing it, clung to the pipe as if it were the only boat on the wreck of the Maria Fioravanti.

"We're not nothing," said Lucio.

"And to say it.

"Today we are ...

- Eh!

"It was a good man. "Like all

. Did you know him well?

"No, just here, the ship.

"Oh, I thought ... as you said it was a good man.

-is that God takes only the best, right?

"So they say, is an unjust God.

"Do not think, it seems that the sky is better than here.

- How can you say?

"I know of no one who has fallen sorry.

- Do not you fear death?

"Not now, I am not such a good man still ... God takes the best.

- And what about the worst? Why do you think that God determines the death of the wicked?

- esgunfien Why not?

- How?

"I can not get mad, but you do not seem very Christian.

"I'm not angry, I'm not.

-Ah ... In short, we are nothing.

"And you say it.

"Today we are ...

- Tomorrow?

, also ... That is bad.

"Now that seems a skeptic you are.

"I told you, I'm not good ...

-... And that's not afraid to die, what would kill?

"But ... but ... look at things happen, if I barely pulled out a tooth!

- A tooth? And what does the tooth with my question?

"Look, buddy, do not know what questions have to do with the death of a walrus.

- Who?

-Stop, stop, do not you have a little snuff at hand? mine, you know, I left it in the thirties.


Stupid, stupid thousand times, how intended, Francisco, gathering followers to the cause if handled so badly? The anxiety drove him, mother him out and he allowed such a thing happened, as if he had never gone through the same experience. Francisco was cursed by the same error, trouble, going out with the mallet hand as the missionaries of the conquest, when he should go sideways, insinuate, let smile were them, their peers, I climbed the pedestal that held it up there, so alone. No, Francis, you really was too certain as to pretend that they believe, so with silliness, with distress, with words that had no North or destination port. So no, Francisco, and no. They should open their minds and not he to them, because otherwise, otherwise ...

"Hey, Don Francisco, are you okay?

"Yes, yes, of course, why you ask me.

"But, do not you see? Largue that pipe, it's bleeding hand.


Things did not invite to your snuff, looking for excuses not to open the bag and give it some of his good cigar, they said generous fellow, and that could be seen resorting to flogging by a pipe for not give his snuff. That brought himself where he would fit better. He should, Lucio, a thousand bags of snuff with which invite the need of a good smoke.

"We're not nothing," said Lucio.

"And you say ...

"And some, less than less.


Chapters Twenty and Twenty-eight

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