Forty-seven
A slight breeze was resisting the absolute quiet, but the breaks in the gray compact, brief the moon to those allowed , and the wind now smell fresh and ocean, at the ocean, here in this place where no reference was needed in the perceived notion of a center to avoid falling into despair, not only were a hoax, a temporary truce but also presented in this way, masquerade fleeting prelude to the onslaught that will undoubtedly new stiffer. In those holes in the shadows, not only could the moon, but also a star and in other places, just a deep black, indicating that these were not actually starts, but deep in the clouds, wells containing shadows, strange shapes sinister reason and for the souls battered and capable, but inevitably perfect, and denied extreme variants of beauty, and no God, no one was there, ready to contemplate. From another site, and under other circumstances, that would have been a nuisance, or the context in which ran the night and sleep, but in the Maria Fioravanti, the third of Mary Fioravanti, was the uncertainty, fear, heaven accompanying death, darkness.
This was all he saw Francisco in his career without direction: dark. The dimmed lights of thirty-five were so weak that they are not allowed to be there, including noise and water hammer wood on the keel. Francisco came and went from one place to another without knowing, or wanting to know, not wanting to hear what he thought he knew. A word shouted his mind and his voice was unable to translate. Julian! Julian! Where was Julian? If it was in the thirty-five, if not covered, if not in the thirties, where was Julian? Where were you during the brunt of the storm? If any Jonah was in the Fioravanti, insurance named Francisco, and could not afford the idea of \u200b\u200bdropping Julian, Julian's being devoured by a leviathan that the waters calm down, that Francisco could continue in the path of Mary Fioravanti. Julian, where Julian was. Julian, Julian.
- Julian "cried at last and his voice was a whip that tore the dark.
- Julian! - He shouted again, this time closer to the side, not daring to look.
Julian, Julian, where was Julian, Francis knew that, look out, which would only he did not wish to see, would only form of your fears, there in the dark where there is neither water nor distinguish the waves, or the foam along the keel, there at the site blinded, Julian and he would not have choice but to go for it. Why? Why follow it? What would prompt him to obey a mandate improper and false? Julian, Julian.
's screams alerted the thirty men who took to the race and held on to Francisco about ready to jump into the water.
- Julian, Julian! "He shouted in English.
Antonio Giovanni and held him by the arms, Lucio and I clung to the feet. Liberato watched the scene trying to understand, analyze, store each unique gesture, fearing the loss of those words not said; Liberato was there, motionless, knowing that his hands were unnecessary, as everything was under control, but sure more Later someone criticize their immobility, accusing him of indifference, disdain, disinterest, and other crap that begin with "d" or with "f" or with any letter of the alphabet, and yet he stood there, afraid to get involved so Direct fails to capture the outward forms of the situation, the sentiment, after all, he knew, and recognize where they were, but the shapes, edges, folds of that terror, that was what interested him.
-Liberato, go get Julian.
"But where? How I can I ...?
- Julian "cried Francisco, and his cry was no pain.
- Uncle, uncle, what happens, by God, man! ...
The voice came from beyond the darkness, beyond the prohibited area, everyone turned to see, and after a moment, there in nothing, is embodied in the form of Julian. Liberato crossed himself.
- Uncle! "Repeated Julian.
- Julian! "Where were you?!
"In our cabin, dude, what happens, God ...
Francisco seemed more relaxed. Lucio released him, but Antonio and Giovanni still held.
- In our cabin?
"Yes, in our cabin, do not you, perhaps, who says that nobody can tell us what we should or should not do?
"Yes, but ...
"Well I figured I was obeying the quarantine, and crossed the field, and as the storm had dispersed the guard, then ...
"Nothing, nothing, do not worry, look, it's beginning to rain, you better go back to the cabins, you better sleep.
Each returned to his seat. In the thirty-five remained closed doors, darkness, silence, Antonio looked there, with one foot already in the thirties, but decided to come ...
... is no longer crying and only the hum of silence covered Carmela. It was a litany intoxicating feeling of drunkenness pushed by the unalterable streak of phrases, formulas, one for each account, one for each roughness between the fingertips, one for each printing of forms and bodies, round bodies, like the stars, and symmetrical, and repeated again and again, until consciousness was lost in this litany no forms, no curves, both for those who spoke to heard. Hyaline bubble was working. Bubble, bubble, bubble, bubble, was working, working, working, in that repetition enlightened state of divine grace, epiphany that recreated the peace of the collective unconscious. Thus, scattered, without identity, sunk into torpor that injected the voice of Carmela, bereavement women, avoided thinking about the absence ... avoided thinking. Were no souls of identity destroyed, were penalties in the evening, people were anything but, and so things had nothing to reproach, a reproach to those who can not achieve peace.
candles had burned, but it would hardly have escaped, nor be able to see that someone's watching, that a person who wanted to come and comfort them looked at from the outside, knowing that they did not need consolation, though willing to if needed, that Hope needed it, he wanted to be your hero, had wanted to be the center where the attention should cede sore Hope ...
... But Hope was fine, looked calm, at peace, and how to blame anything, how say that this bubble was a hoax, that nothing prevented the reality of the dead father, that the circumstances surrounding the forced punishment, despair, anxiety, and not showing the peace, but how, how nothing to reproach those who have achieved peace, the way it is. How ...
... do not lie, after all, which of all the concerns are not lying to the peace of your murmuring. It is so preferable to that litany, repeated and submissive faith, my pain, my broken wings, to my way repeated moving targets, ranging, as they should the goals. Do not ever listen to me when you claim pain, do not ever hear me when I asked to feel guilty, do not listen to any of my words, completely ignore me if I say something that endangers your peace. Ignore my regrets, Esperanza, for I am not one who has absolute knowledge, I'm not the guardian of truth. Ignore me when I say that your ways are not right, ignore all if you're happy, if you are at peace. Ignore me and teach me, Hope. Teach me.
A centellazo, a thunder, it began to rain.
Forty-eight
flash, bang, flash, bang, flash, bang, and behind the wind and water hitting hard against the walls, and the sudden movement, the swaying rhythms, the darkness in which even the rays allowed a truce, and the silence, a silence after the tumult, the absence of human sounds, a word, a breathing, snoring, any signal that might strengthen the idea of \u200b\u200bpresence of a companion, someone with whom to ally, who offer solidarity, in whom rest the help, just the feeling of a seemingly eternal collapse, a roar that forget the quiet was unprecedented and frightening foreshadowing continuity thence to always or never, it was the same; flash, bang, flash, and a breeze that whistled and air too dry to conscience akin to the rain outside, and that another storm was battling inside, in the souls on the trip, the terror of fuzzy goals, a gasp and a look looks to justify self-censorship, there in the darkness, the endless tidal wave, the third of a boat to a place I never would or would always be coming, it is the same one tears can heal (because it's always worth the tears penalty are those that can heal) flash, bang, closing the chest itself, believing that someone can never write, or the other reading, or other snuff smoking the best there is and with it to form rings of smoke out of breath, or other discern and obey, or other decisions and stand firm in the decision, and beyond a prayer, just a whisper and a sigh and a cry that has been forgotten and an inert, safe, the only out of danger, flash, bang, flash, bang, the stupid belief to think of death as a refuge to escape death, or pain that is worse, because escape the pain is to escape to a piece of life, flash, bang, flash, bang, God sending the clear signal that everything will continue just as it is now, because now it's all because the storm is the beginning and the end, because the oblivion comes first about what should not be forgotten, but these are the images that endure precisely because they never finish it; flash, bang, flash, pop ...
dawned on a cloudless sky, as if it had never been a storm; had puddles on the floor, the walls were wet.
As in the previous morning with the news of death, Fioravanti passengers had obeyed their perverse instincts had got up early to witness, once again, the pain of others (but, if that attitude gave them some peace but this peace was fleeting, how reproach anything? Maybe it would have been possible reproach that there is certainty that no was peace, but the narcotic intoxication morbid ...). Regina cried, Mary cried, Esperanza sob, and Carmela who knows, because she preferred to stay in the cabin praying increasing doses of their litanies. Maybe she will cry, but this is nothing more than speculation.
were the last tears.
the ship's chaplain uttered a prayer in Latin, then sprinkled with holy water body covered with white sheets and after looking at women, made a sign to the two sailors who held the table. The sailors raised the iron in one end, and the body, resisting first to leave your comfortable rest, slid heavily into the ocean and disappeared a snap of swirling water and back, away, lost, forgotten. Lucio
lit a cigarette and snuff ran out: the day was just beginning so you do not care. Giovanni, facing the sun, enjoyed the warmth that was reborn. Liberato watched, looked at the body away, looked, looked, looked at Francisco, absent, uncertain, holding the arm of Julian, looked at Julian and his new smile, a gesture that did not know him. He looked at Antonio, indefinable Antonio who came to Hope, Hope looked moist eyes closed, censored and, tentatively, put his face in his chest heaving Antonio (Antonio wept immensely happy, cried like unfolding wings.)
He looked forward and saw the Americas in Argentina waiting for him. He saw life. Missing so little to go. He saw life, yours and that ensue. Missing so little to begin to live, so little that made you want to live ... right now, live. And writing about life and the will to live. Epilogue
Lucio R. Alitalia Boeing addressed the December 19, 2001, Cora, from the hall, I looked forward to Lucio turn and he dedicated a kiss, one more, or perhaps also him, a tear to say goodbye. But Lucio did not turn or stop in to say hello to that was, the last thing that Cora saw her son, was a broad-shouldered and erect lost behind the boarding gate.
did not want to, I could not falter now, in the middle of the stairs behind him up imagining that the world ceased to exist, each foot elevation for a new step made the land that forgot to crumble into an abyss that devoured , and fell to earth people, and noise, and cries, tears, and guilt and history that conditioned stone is present in the stomach and desperate excuses to keep one step and another, further progress centimeters and kilometers, with bronze feet, forcing herself to an impossible image for unknown future perfect, future drawings as a carrot and a donkey, move, move with the eyes in the plant, move vegetating with fear piercing the soul ...
Cora did not wait until the plane took off to leave the airport, crossed the wide hall, inattentive to the tumult that had been generated around the player who just arrived, and he signed autographs and posed for the cameras. Just as well, because otherwise the athlete had tried to take the arms and dragged to a remote place where nobody could see or hear them; and there he would have forced him to tell his life in Italy, he said that Lucio would live like him in the hills, no problems, but did not have proper documentation. He would have to lie.
A Lucio nobody had called, he would not be welcome, Lucio R. was Argentine, spic, and nothing more; Lucio R. left over in the cup so great and that, at that ... Cora knew, and why she was crying.
"Sorry," he told the woman who inadvertently pushed.
"Nothing," replied Selena, and stared at Cora, as if he knew from somewhere.
- What, love? Antonio
"Nothing, nothing, that woman ... Nothing, never mind.
The screen announced the flight to Madrid. Antonio Selena hugged and kissed him. Cried.
Antonio could not look ahead, I had no desire to march towards the gate, something in his soul told him no, no, no, but here things were going and needed to go looking for any asteroid in which it was possible to land.
All this happened in Ezeiza, while the square was on fire. Someone was seen everything, and promised to write about it. Here, or Spain, maybe in Mexico, but I would. Some day I would. The truth is that Argentina would rather he did not want to leave. Liberato B. He opened his notebook and read what he wrote yesterday:
There is no hope what these days overcast, as well as those who do not want the thing, you see I see a ray and zap! you remember that is not always true life, overcast. Of course there is no question of falling prey to anxiety, man, no, because if it is to knot the ray and I do not know why, it clears expected better, or asking to rain for a good fuck, if ya know that stopped if it rained, is the theme this cycle, you know?: first things first and what comes after, thus the steps one by one, if not catch his legs and right there on the floor mug. And here is a dirt floor, or if you need me to explain that when it rains mud and if you go on you tube a piece of geography morphs and you end up shitting clay vases, handicrafts accidental, they say. Ah, you say that Western? Look to the scandal, old, years buried in an error. Never mind, leave it, all who cares, if you understand the intent.
