Thirty-nine
Darkness had come to a standstill. Not only the wind had disappeared, but that he also seemed to have succumbed oxygen. This was out on deck, and conceivably the torpor of the interior, but the gate was closed after thirty-five who chose to leave the men, so that Don Guido, or in other words, the body that was occupied gift Guido, now it was accompanied only by women, the latter, after all, his only relatives.
third on the deck, and Lucio Giovanni took refuge in the snuff, like Antonio, somewhat isolated, as isolated even from the rest of the passage of the crowd that only now, in stifling heat, was notable , real, really there. Antonio juniper lit his pipe, his little treasure, and smoked quietly, but not as if seeking a refuge in the smoke or the act of smoking, but just to be granted a respite, a restorative respite and then continue their struggle. But what kind of fighting men as Antonio undertook? What identified and distinguished from other men like Antonio?
A few steps were Francis and Julian, the first, also surrounded by a curtain of smoke, seemed to blend in vain through the crowd and Julian gave the impression of a man on the run as well, standing still as it was, it seemed a point away rapidly toward the horizon for a plain way, but hesitated, stopped and returned before I even scratched the vicinity where the road parallel deceptively joined at one point, fake degree, false target juxtaposed. Is that even in they had a difference that could be attributed, the most obvious, which relucirÃa up to the spirit rather lazy: Francis and Julian, were stateless in that cover foreign, English surrounded by Italians, exiles and foreigners. Liberato
looked at them all and just seemed to vanish Antonio the idea that uneasy. Until the walrus could say that was a dead, dead man: classification. Lucio had earned the title of sacamuelas and even if it were a lie, there was to represent a rumor began to spread to the rest of the passage, for better and for worse. It was Antonio, was Lucio who finally won the title and the angry suspicion that he would die on the brink of starting. Giovanni was his hero, or antihero, depending on how the story would end someday write. It was his muse, it was clear, simply a man who had introduced himself to flesh out the stories but neither he nor the stories were the protagonists, not only their own ideas, as suspected, would not be different from many others, not be misinterpreted as he would tell a universal language ... But Antonio ... Antonio was beyond any classification, Antonio was like the days that it could appear dark, as it now, or with a large sun, like that of yesterday, or even that in its first hours, the days would never clouds and sun day would be cloudy or sunny days, without losing its essential condition, which is to be just days, in contrast to men, in view of other men, each one was what he did or what he had, or what appeared, not just man. Was the doctor, the military, potter, farmer, taxidermist and even the vague and bon vivant, all of whom were named according to their specialties, leaving the essence of man, human being, on a level of understatement in which, of course, was expendable semantic explanation that a potter was a man because was inadmissible to think about shaping the clay ox. Liberato was forming the idea that the words had nullified the true essence, that every interpretation supposed differences, but the essence underlying all denied, the denial of his language was more even than the English, that included the prefix man (taxman, postman ...) in the identification, in English could lead to a hypocrisy that between theirs was not, although this did not seem any better or worse. In Antonio was impossible to discern anything about this, what was Antonio, there, smoking his pipe, looking without seeing, resting? It was not even a convalescent. What was Antonio? How could write to Antonio the day finally put to write? The men of the crew descended the stairs of the hall he could identify, were seafarers, in general, and one of them, in particular, just younger than Antonio, was official. An officer who is now thirty-five hit the door and appeared as a doctor. The situations were clearly identifiable: the repeated explanations, the crying of women, the eviction of the cabin to be only those men in sailor uniforms. All could understand, and if not, I suspect. But Antonio, there just watching and seeing now, looking in the direction of women, of women, did not allow it framed in anything except the essentials. And this is what he set out to write Liberato the day finally put to writing. Forty
was missing the sun, gasping for air, missing the sky under a compact gray clouds were no longer, nor storm, but just one color of absences. Now, everything was missing, Francisco noticed that before there was something or someone, and that behind of that curtain no apparent underlying presence. The moment was as a fall. The sea looked like a gray carpet full of white peaks, dirty and blackened foam, the ship was moving with the water ways, however seemed tight, it seemed the same time. There was no wind, and many far to assume a movement permit, immobility and lack were there, but to know and warn absences and stagnation, it was necessary to know the action before the company, to know that someone was alone in the universe that the universe was only that someone, Francisco alone and like the rest of the lonely, but different in isolated tower was necessary to have had an accompanying awareness of interaction, individuals unifying frame for the whole to be shown to the lonely. Poor Francisco, no longer know which of the ideas he had been better, but what it had been less miserable, poor Francisco, especially now, seeking a sense obliged to skepticism.
stifling Gray, absence, was the clearest proof of the withdrawal of God might be like had read in German that also questioned for his own, spouting death of God, but here also, to provide for certain death, before life would have to accept that there was a god who lived and created and left his inheritance matters. There was Don Guido, being reviewed by physicians Fioravanti, the body of Don Guido was not an invention of his loneliness, was not represented by any imagination, Don Guido was alive and spoke to him and he was part of his life, time, and even when I thought about it. Even the most absurd moments in the life of Don Guido had been necessary so that one day boarded the boat, and a day crossed with Francisco in the cabin of the third of thirty-five Fioravanti. And as were the moments of Don Guido, also parents and grandparents, and grandparents Don Guido, and all his predecessors since the first day. What day? Does the creation of a dead god? If God did not exist had to invent it, someone said, and his men took this message as a way to discredit the believers, even as a believer who spoke, said of them preferred to believe in an illusion rather than admit nothing (and others said they preferred to be wrong to believe that beyond the world there was nothing.) Francis is also needed to be any reason for life (although he denied it), something the man gave him all these years, he was offered some insight and science, the apple of the forbidden tree for something, something could be and not be just to enjoy the sun, or to deny that sun. It could not only this, if only this. For something Francis had left his Spain, the people dry, gray house deeper than this sky stagnated for some reason was heading to America, a mandate that transcended his wisdom guided him up the steps to work in a territory where printing, and the ideas that underpin the existence of God. For one thing, to be a God, even if it was invented, allowing Francisco denied it, and talk of denial, the reasons of the blue. For some men would hear some clinging to their beliefs, the glass bead rosary, words he had heard in the soulful, pious and calm, full of Dona Carmela Faith No wonder so many believe him, but among them, as well as he had those in the discernment of nothing, deny their need to invent a god.
And is that life had those things, the ironic turns that always subjected. The city that awaited him, the Villa del Santo Rosario, would be the haven from which to announce the freedom and the absence of God. His friend had written: "Francisco, brother, if you saw these lands, and this river, this is paradise." Life had those things. Had these out of nowhere and no, the wait without foundation, the immobility of compact gray.
Absence, stagnant, nothing that foreshadowed the idea of \u200b\u200bbecoming. But the hours were accumulated, as the days, the passing of Fioravanti was incessant. Francisco, with your feet flat on the deck of the third, a foreigner among their own, different from the same, with an eye itself, just saw a motionless man, fixed between similar gray top and bottom.
But the passage of Fioravanti was incessant.
And he knew it, and denied it.
Forty-one
It was OK so, without thinking about anything. It was right in believing that the evaporation of ideas, that the good feeling of knowing they live, without thinking, without saying so, and even under gray skies that formless and sky, the sun had managed to subdue. He was one who was humiliated, at last, the eternal. It was the one who had retired with his tail between his legs, afraid, bewildered, because Giovanni did not need nor would ever need to feel good. Giovanni was still there and it was fine. The boat was still there and everything was so, so good. One man had died, a man who was not him, so that everything was, and still good. And if things had been with him, if then death would have been a fact for him too, then did the same thing, because Giovanni was not thinking and did not want to think more since he had discovered that this was always so good.
I do not think anymore, he thought. And he felt that it felt so good.
Death is not for me, it was said, because he did not want or accept that the death was real, even with a dead man, still under the compact, gray sky, is that there was so, so good.
There was Mary, because she thought. There was no time looking back because he was not afraid because neither wanted to spy on the future. America and Argentina were empty words, mere noise, onomatopoeia of species confined in the third class of an ark like the story I read Mary, that did not exist. This was so good at the moment unbearable, the protective insulation. This was so good, like a dead man saved from death.
This was so, so good.
I fell so well not be.
thought he did not think he liked so well not be.
thought.
thought.
thought.
- In anything?
"Nothing.
- How is it possible?
"I can not explain it, but it is very good, very good as well. Lucio
looked almost with pity, perhaps with some envy, and rolled a cigarette very fine, not thinking that the days passed, the sea was always there, but snuff is consumed and the clothes smelled increasingly . Cover all stank, whence had come so many people? So much dirty smelling people? It was the same smell of the lobby of the hotel, cold nights warm flesh clinging to the Alma, the pregnancy of rapid heartbeat, was a smell he knew and hated the smell of poverty. Why poverty smelled like that? But not all poverty, only the material, the cities, because the people, despite all, it was possible to enjoy the olive groves, dry powder scratching time and space throwing away the filth that stank. The village smelled of smoke on the edge of the road and had the ring and forms a sound that created the cheeks. Nothing smelled so bad. He was the one who smelled bad, he could lock and unlock the cheeks with a sound creepy, but unable to make, to create, to build the circular forms of smoke, there, on the cover of Maria Fioravanti.
looked forward and tried to unfurl a hole in the line dividing the gray water compact gear. Looked the front with all the senses, as if to hear and touch the future, smell the holes if that could get rid of lingering stench. Where did he come so many people? So much dirty smelling people? In America there would be no people, nor aromas of whom deny. In America land could only snuff, and promises to return in this or another ship, but at first, including perfumes and good snuff, with America in the pockets, with substantial rings formed of carrillo blows with a path of water, edge, no stones or Pietros, only water and Lucio. And Soul. And the girl who saw him smoking a snuff to reach the best choice would not admit that always always, always, even when wrong, even when he foresaw the possibility of error, even though the idea that time is on their side would tasted like a silly excuse, even with all that ahead, always, always, always , had been right. Always. That
morning. And now?
Chapters Forty-two - Forty-three - Forty-four
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