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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