Thirty-six
Liberato hated cynicism of fate, one that maimed writers, closed the hearing of musicians who breathed or blinded by his readings. I hated it without knowing it, because somehow I suspected. Whenever I had a chance, life stress was responsible for his theatrical virtues, killing, for example, the only person who seemed to desire life, here in the Maria Fioravanti. Or deposited in the hands of an illiterate the only book available, and that book is nothing less than the Bible, the Holy Bible that his mother read to him every night as if it were a fairy tale. Not blame or reproached him for anything in particular because of the simplicity of that hardly would have allowed women to think that some of those stories will unquestionably wise steal the peace and sleep, it is true that enthusiastic Samson's strength and courage of David, like Solomon's wisdom and wealth of the town of Ophir, but nothing disturbed him more than the plight of the poor Job, haunted by the God who said just and devout, or the days of Jonah in the belly of the whale, or the trumpets of Judgement Day, or the promise of hell for sinners, or what was even worse, indifference to divine who would be called to the kingdom and would not be admitted. The anguish felt by imagining Liberato at the door of the great Heavenly Palace, waiting in vain that the doors were opened for mercy, for neglect of punishment, or whatever, it caused the horrific nightmares that still harassed him. It was the worst punishment: to be called but not admitted, have been selected but then discarded, having received the majestic promise only to discover that there had been as you had thought worthy, who did not deserve the sky, or even a site on the threshold of the kingdom. Don Guido could imagine knocking on heaven's door, doors opening, the light of God encompasses all, Don Guido entering with a knowing smile, washing their sins in a small friendly gesture of devil, and God accessing, distended by deleting the dour expression, offering his kingdom, that pearly paradise without fronts, and inherent wisdom. But as he knew not to smile as did the nice little devils, and how well I was young, too much to die, not only would not be admitted, but did not feel called, and the strange anxiety also acted in a contradictory manner in the spirit of boy. He was anxious, it was clear, and I knew I had to take a pen and a piece of paper to start writing at once, it was his life demanded it, an impulse sublime, the extreme need to write words, or meaningless for it was to read them, but with all the sense to him, who wrote and needed to learn to read, and read to recognize, the meaning of his words would be, nothing least rescue the living, acknowledge the call and fight for admission.
was afraid, very afraid, afraid that the destination, with it, play to be cynical and will leave no hands before he could write, that led him to madness before they reasoned, that left him without eyes when I had not read or ten-millionth of what I needed to read, he snatched his life when he still remained to live ... to take him to the kingdom without being called.
or having been called to let him out.
Looking toward the horizon, where gusts reached more and more violent, coupling strength to the black screen and choppy for lights of the approaching storm, seeking a sign of the whale, the leviathan that swallowed Jonah and probably would avoid it, Liberato B., youngest son of a potter, a native of Naples, Italy. He was not a prophet, he fled from the words of God, the Lord's orders, he had not been mandated to urge repentance Liberato did nothing but obey, dig into his soul the words you say; studied in itself to meet the other, all that was Liberato without God had nothing to do with their affairs, but there was a storm, there wore the black patch and flashing to the boat where had already installed the idea of \u200b\u200bdeath, where the dead had to hold the idea, and soon the wind blow, and he could not sleep, the storm would soon capsize the boat, and he fled not from anybody would Dona Carmela praying and no one would ask him to do so also, soon the fear of God would force him to wait for the sailors came over him and thrown into the sea to calm his anger soon realized that nothing that happened, except storm , nothing, nor have whales waiting, nothing, and the days would remain unchanged, with him in the third, thinking that I should live without noticing that he was alive, saying I should write without realizing that it did, dreaming that someday he would die without accepting that his death had begun the day he was born, knowing that would be called, lest she be admitted, not knowing that ... without knowing whether ... without knowing ...
Thirty-seven
It was fine and, in the heat of the candles and the people, forgetting that the running time, or just thinking about that time itself was running when in fact he was, Giovanni, who steadily progressed from candles and people.
was strange that faint glow of the candles, now that the sky was covered and the wind, strangely, had regained the calm of the night before. The feeble flame denounced the lack of oxygen in the cabin, closed to the curious and the air. However, it was fine, so sleepy, almost rambling with candles and people rushed Giovanni still and evaporate into the race. It was good, very good, although the lightning without thunder seemed to mock those who watched the dead to say that life and the flashing lights and blaring were far, far or near but not there in the Maria Fioravanti, in Three of Mary Fioravanti, thirty-five in the cabin of the third of Mary Fioravanti.
Will Don Guido able to read? Why worry about that now? Why, suddenly, he believed he had the world and life ahead of learning to read, write, and to teach another, later, if desired? Why such confidence was recognized broker, one more, from candles and people, knowing watched for a while still? It's funny, but it happened. Perhaps it was because in the thirty-five short of breath. Maybe. Who knows. The truth is that he felt the rush hours, you need not look for excuses to avoid asking Liberato lessons because lessons did not really want, now could be expected, and preferred to stay there, where it was so good, very good. No thought of Mary, or America, or even notice the mourners, only accepted the moment, and I enjoyed it, and takes delight in the colors and aromas rising from the assimilation.
He was happy. It was so great, thinking that he preferred to live on his way to arrive alive and die in (with) the target.
The lights were dim, perfect, but he felt that his feet were loosened and his eyelids fell.
-Giovanni, are you OK?
- Huh? Yes, yes, I'm fine.
"Come, let's get some air before it starts raining, I have the urge to smoke.
"Oh, yes, let's go.
Lucio
invited his snuff to Giovanni and rolled a cigarette for himself with the black snuff Francisco had given him. While offering fire to his companion, looking thin and closed tip of the needle paltry paper, he thought it was leaving little autonomy to the provision. Buenos Aires thought that soon could buy the best snuff and the amount I wanted and allowed him to repeat that idea away from Giovanni and enjoy your own cigarette, that of Giovanni, helped by the wet, salty wind that was reborn under the overcast sky was consumed quickly and after the last puff, the young T. returned in silence to the thick atmosphere of the cabin thirty-five. Lucio remained in the hallway, with more than half a cigarette, fumándolo slowly, holding in his mouth the acrid taste of black snuff, chewing teeth air with smoke that entered the lungs and spread his blood itchy, colors, the ideas insignificant points, like drops of salt, spread before his eyes along with the slight buzz noise was just a dizzy, a way of feeling rather than hearing or seeing, a sense of smoke instead of meat under the skin of cigarette paper that was consumed by the fire of expectation and sudden sadness of the evening, the agonies, the return to old faces, old guilt, to recognize lucidly in their words excuses were needed to confirm his life and now were just that, mere excuses, stupid reasons subject of beards by phrases or felt dull. It was an excuse the word America, was invented as a reason for your lips to the ears of soul and little hands of the girl.
The girl, Lucio remembered well: the girl. In the memory of afternoons excuses, preferred to get it back without a name, almost as a unit, she was with him, no matter who they were two epic or vulgar names ... the girl was just the girl, his daughter, himself. I could not think of it as individual existence, separate from yours, for that fell in these sentences evening, so forget the momentum of the morning, the fire of the sun, the wonderful view I had of the existence, an existence in which life was just life for those who were willing to live. And Lucio knew that every morning recovered the provision, therefore, in the evenings, when the urge to jump into the sea was so intense, clinging to the promise of hours, and allowed to wait a little longer, a little more, a little more, with smoke instead of meat under the skin of cigarette paper.
And so, with a slight hope regained, omitted to give effect to the questions facing the body of a walrus, what sense had their lives? Why, what the cares if the end of the day must die? It was in the evenings, when fainted, which was the same questions. In the mornings, when it was possible answer, Lucio did not think about them, because I was dealing with life.
Thirty-eight
was not for the tears of Regina, nor by the cries of Mary. The notion of what was actually occurring was when he heard the strange voice that Carmela used to recite the rosary, is that there was in the daily ritual monotony of repetition without meaning, there was a rumor of words that numb , any day as any day, Esperanza had the image of his mother praying so imprinted in her mind, so assimilated, that neither changes of place, nor the obvious signs that a life of poverty he had left in the older woman, managed to give a hint that the difference in the time, but now was different, now the words rang as if they were spoken thinking of the value of those words, knowing who was speaking, the meaning of the phrase. Hail Mary ... greeting, the doxology, not a mere formality, was repeated at the beginning of ten and ten more and ten plus a real desire to be heard, Carmela applied not only a religious meaning to the patient of the living and the fate of the dead and we're going to die, all sinners, but exuded a genuine compassion for the soul of man lying with two copper coins on the eyelids and cold. Blessed art thou among women, repeated Carmela, and seemed to give herself to the divine will, it seemed to want the huge capacity of the Holy Mother, but not as an act of vanity, but of mercy, mercy again; Carmela wished to have a thousandth of the grace of Mary, with her, to comfort Hope, especially Hope, to hear the real prayer of his mother, took real awareness of what had happened, and then began to mourn. And her tears were not selfish, but they were afraid. Hope dad had died and left alone in the world, alone in that big box was the world and that anyone ever opened to flee and be scattered all evil, all passions beyond the world, beyond the ocean, America and dreams, to leave her alone. Sola Esperanza. Nothing, no more than the poor in the cabin Hope thirty-five of Maria Fioravanti. No one, and only continued to cry. Sola. Sola Esperanza. Dad had died, their origin, reason, one that cared and protected in their loneliness. Hope was alone, now and forever, listening to the pious prayer, fleeing the pious prayer, finding mercy in prayer ... And mourn, keep crying.
Here I see, I'm alone, searching, trying to find out if you let me approach, if you want to find you. Why insist on stepping on land, if I know that there are no certainties, the only truth is the unexpected, you're like me and reject me for loving you might as well tomorrow, or maybe want me at this moment, and forget about me for the rest of the time we left, you have left, that is me, finally after all that hurts me. I'm afraid because I know, your decision haunts me because I know I will not stand and never are mine; I know you grieve, that you repent, you cry but after having laughed. Or you laugh without ever wept, or live, just live, as I live and live the moon and the deep desire to live life that carries with it the wind and fertilizes the sun in the morning. I know you live your life and repeats the steps of all the lives that go to the same place, to the recommencement of the cycle, new cycle with words, without words, with sweat on the forehead or free of the pitfalls of this suffering . All I know, all I know, and yet I persist in my error, my fears that we are just the same I fear I provoke, the fear of being wrong, not to be firm, not knowing how to give substance to my desires, that having found a way, because I do not care, or no time left for me at last I care. I know I'm here in the cabin of a ship that seems so strong and solid but it's nothing compared to the sea that rages outside, the wind roars, lights that break the sky and threaten to fall on the mast of the boat I know that prefigures the floating anxiety but at the same time the danger of the abyss of darkness and wet salted rid us of the penalties, time, questions, to think about anything, to insist with the fear of whether such such thing or another, whether tomorrow or now, if you or whom. Everything, everything I know, but since when I know. How do I know. Well I want to be aware of this wisdom, words that explain it but he could never pronounce. Well I want to be aware of the roaring sea, the sky dark and the lights they leave, but I have only aware of you, Esperanza, in your face and my doubts in your hands, and your skin, your shape in your tears, your pain, your parties are able to perceive everything, not just your tears me because without them you would not be now, not worry me your pain, or trouble me your thoughts, none of it yours now is more or wrong, nothing I mortified because all it is necessary for you to be you, for me to be me. Everything is here to confirm you and confirm, we are what we are, Hope, and that's okay. I know, all I know, I would be aware of this I know from when, how, why. I know, I know, and yet I am so ignorant.
Their eyes meet, it seems to look, but it is he who looks, she is absent. Their eyes meet and there are no sparks or friction, it is because a party lacks substance, perhaps two, perhaps it is not only absence, but also fear. Their eyes meet, it seems to be watching. Lucio notices and not interested. Liberato notices and although he thinks he is not interested, inadvertently taking notes, and still think in life you should live. Francisco notices and found differences in the repeated act where a man and a woman appear to enlist the costumes for the dance of seduction, even there, in the living dead, but ... Julian notices, and agrees not to think, not to look, not to crumble as you would the fact his uncle, Regina notices, Mary noted, but look the other way and pretend nothing has happened, that what is there does not exist. Carmela notice it, even with your eyes closed and his mind still rumble words that join the Creator's will, so do not mind, so it's all good. Giovanni notice it, perhaps note, but actually seems asleep, stupefied with the soft light of candles and almost half. Their eyes meet, we all noticed, seems to be watching, but only Anthony who looks, and not to Esperanza. Look beyond it, almost no momentum, no desire to watch. Look at the consequences, good and bad, you see America, or we might think of it, look and go back to the moon paths, false paths of the moonless nights. Look and see whatever show you memories and projections, but where is Hope is now painfully absent, is just the waiting room of things to come, the fourth of rest to recover from what happened, or worse, to analyze and wallow in the mud, not to find forces him out of the swamp, all that goes through the mind of Antonio when it seems that the sight. Hope is just not it has been able to silence their ideas, has censored his words, maybe it's life lasted a second, but from the outside looks a lot more, but that no one notices, even she, even Antonio who did not is because it is, much less her, which, thank God, for one second left to think.
Chapter Thirty-nine - Forty - Forty-one
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