Tag: creative writing

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Mother

 “We’re alone again and it’s dinner time. What do we cook tonight?”

Both walked into the kitchen, Victor trying to shake off the unpleasant sensation his mother had left him with, and the kid trotting by his side.

“I want cheese.”

“You always want cheese.”

“Mum says it’s good.”

“Mum…” he bit his tongue not to make the mistake of saying something bad about their mother in front of his sister. “OK.”

His mother’s sudden and completely indifferent attitude was totally incomprehensible for him. Only until a few months ago he had always found her excessively sweet and curious. When Victor thought about his mother, the first image that came to his mind, the most powerful, was her head appearing, cheerfully, at his door when she came from work and asking him about his day. His everlastingly patient mother, who used to give him advice, usually too indiscrete, about the girl he was going out with. The woman who, more than once, he and his sister had emotionally blackmailed so she went out with her friends to have some fun, even for a few hours, for them to be able to enjoy throwing themselves at the sofa, watching some films and eating popcorn until feeling ill. But now…

Victor felt the intense look of his sister on his back while he took out every kind of cheese he could find in the fridge and started to fear any of her too elaborated questions judging by the silence of the kid. He chose the easy way and looked for some bread too.

“You told mum you’re going out tonight. Are you seeing Ana?”

“Yes, I am. Do you want me to tell her something?” although the kid had not shown any interest for the girl he was going out with, for some reason, he always tried for some kind of friendship to arise between the women in his life.

“No. I don’t like it,” not in the form of a question, but the girl, indeed, let the issue drop.

“You don’t like Ana?”

“No. It’s a too common name.”

“Well, it’s the one she’s got.”

“I’d rather you go out with someone with a prettier name.”

Victor could not help but laugh. Maybe his sister thought he had chosen the girl because of her name. Maybe her looks. Why not? How else, he thought, would kids choose the things they like. Some reflection about that idea emerged on the depths of his mind, but he opted for dismissing it.

“Prettier? Like what?”

“Blue.”

23

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Rodas

Marta Fernández escoitou dende o seu cuarto o son da cafeteira italiana, abotoou o último botón da camisa e correu á cociña para apagar o lume. Estaba descalza, de pé sobre o chan sucio. Colleu da pía a mesma cunca que empregara a noite anterior para beber un vaso de leite, botou o café ben quente no seu interior, a súa única esixencia en canto ao almorzo, e mollou dúas bolachas. Non necesitaba nada máis. Pousou a cunca sobre a mesa e marchou ao dormitorio para poñerse os pantalóns e as zapatillas de deporte.

A sorpresa estaba agardándoa na rúa. Marta saíu do ascensor completamente despreocupada, camiñando moi amodo, tivo tempo de sobra para mirarse nun espello sen deterse, quedáballe ben aquela camisa e o pelo curto. Abriu o portal con ese pensamento, coa idea de cortar o pelo que lle dera o perruqueiro aquel de Madrid e o acerto que fora rexeitar o seu ofrecemento para tomar algo. Non adoitaba dicir que non a unha noite de festa e por primeira vez a responsabilidade de dar un golpe a soas por primeira vez fíxolle recapacitar e marchar á cama cedo. Ao mirar diante dela decatouse: o 124 estaba sen rodas.

O primeiro que saíu da súa boca foi un exabrupto. Non o fixo en voz alta pero o silencio das sete da mañá fixo que as súas palabras fosen escoitadas con claridade pola práctica totalidade dos que pasaban. Achegouse ao coche e rodeouno abraiada e anoxada. Faltábanlle as catro rodas, leváranlle as catro rodas e o peso do coche descansaba sobre catro pequenas columnas de tixolo colocadas con moitísimo xeito. E marchou a facer o que tiña que facer, unha compra especializada, en transporte público, algo que non facía dende que tres anos atrás fora identificada no metro por un policía de paisano.

O asunto foi que Marta volveu tarde á casa, moito máis tarde do que tiña previsto cando tomaba na cociña da súa casa o café quente. Abriu a porta da casa ás tres da tarde, coa inercia de quen está disposta a cociñar calquera cousa para escorrentar a fame e a sensación de baleiro do estómago. Por iso berrou, por iso lle saíu da gorxa un breve chío de escándalo e impresión cando viu sobre a mesa da cociña, unha sobre a outra, as catro rodas do seu coche. Estaba a piques de empezar a primeira asemblea do Aparatus.

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Adiantamento

Había dúas normas básicas que non se debían romper baixo ningún concepto. O espírito da primeira era termar do impulso da gula, do exceso. O roubo debe cinguirse a un tempo, un lóstrego en que dea opción a coller o obxectivo acordado. E nada máis. Por moi cerca que estivese aquel colar de perlas na xoiería que atracaran en Madrid, ningún dos dous irmáns desprazou o seu corpo para collelo. Porque non estaba dentro do plan, porque contaban con 2 minutos e dez segundos antes de que os sistemas de alarma do establecemento se activasen e Francesc sabía que se movía o corpo uns metros para coller aquelas perlas xa non poderían escapar con facilidade.

A segunda norma estaba pensada para dominar o pavor, o medo e era repetida tamén durante os intres que precedían a calquera roubo. Malia que o seu enunciado puidese parecer contraditorio, os irmáns Bastida eran conscientes de que o feito de portar armas facíaos perigosos para eles mesmos. Estaban decididos a non empregalas, a non disparar endexamais contra ninguén, baixo ningún concepto, nin sequera ante a ameaza dunha segura detención. O asasinato convertíaos en criminais perigosos, de primeira fila, e esa publicidade non lles viña nada ben. Na medida do posible tiñan que seguir sendo anecdóticos.

E era isto o que estaban a falar con voz baixa e xesto grave aquela mañá fría de xaneiro, mentres se puñan as luvas dentro do seu 124, diante dunha pastelaría, a 15 metros dunha oficina bancaria. Estaban a falar concretamente do arriscado que era levar nas mans os 560 gramos que pesaban aquelas dúas vellísimas Astra 300 cando o furgón blindado aparcaba a uns metros da súa posición. Ese era o intre en que toda a operación debía comezar, o intre concretísimo en que as rodas do furgón se detivesen por completo sobre o asfalto.

E foi entón, cando Jaume xiraba coa man esquerda a chave para poñer o motor en marcha, cando os marabillosos freos de disco doutro SEAT 124 se accionaban ao seu carón. Os dous irmáns quedaron con cara de parvos contemplando como unha soa persoa, por moito que fose tapada cun abrigo grande era evidente que se trataba dunha muller, cometía nuns segundos o golpe que eles tiñan programado. E foi así, sen preguntarse sequera cantas probabilidades había de que se dese aquela casualidade, de que todo iso estivese a acontecer, como coñeceron a Marta Fernández.

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Kepa brushed his thumb across his grandfather’s knuckles. The thin skin stretched taut across bone and worn out cartilage. Arthritis had crippled him years ago but he had stubbornly refused any of his grandsons medical opinions. It was his body, to do or not do as he pleased.

– Rest in peace, Papi. He whispered, his breath turning to fog as the temperature in the room dropped.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack
Something was coming down the hall.
No alarm had sounded. The hospitals were not always the first to know when a patient died, but the stribs always knew. And they were always there to reclaim.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack.
The room temperature dropped again. Kepa looked at the door and shivered. He stepped back into the corner, pulling the shadows around him like a cloak.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety…
The door opened, white light screaming in. Two masked men and a trolley crossed the threshold. If they had noticed the shadow in the corner, they did not show it. They stopped next to the bed. One opened the trolley, swinging it from hinges at its centre, revealing rows of unlabelled, variously shaped compartments. They approached the body, and with measured, assured movements, swiftly dissected the body. Every part was removed, cleaned and repackaged, until the only thing left behind was an impression in the bed linen where the weight of a man’s body had rested. When the stribs left, they left a clean room, and the taste of metal hanging in the air.
Eventually, Kepa emerged from the shadows. He reached out to touch the bed. He had no idea why, there was nothing there. He turned back to the wall, grief swelling in his chest, and threw up.

21

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Body

Verlässt die Seele den Körper , wenn man stirbt?
Wohin geht sie ?

Diese ganze Denkweise – dass da etwas zurückbleibt und etwas verschwindet – ist irreführend. Der grobe Körper, den wir kennen, ist nur ein Saatkorn, eine äußere Schale. Es gibt auch feinere Körper, sie hüllen die Seele weiter ein, selbst wenn sie den Körper verlässt. Diese Körper sind ebenfalls Teil von dir. Der Körper, der jetzt mit mir ist, ist Teil des Universums, aber weil wir unser Selbst für das unsrige halten, entsteht das Problem: wo hört mein Körper auf? Wenn du tief in diese Frage hineingehst, erkennst du, dass das ganze Universum Teil von dir ist, Teil von deinem Körper

21

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O ataúde

Son as sete da mañá dun luns que ameaza con ser un dos oitenta e cinco días que chove na cidade de Alxeciras. Vai frío no centro loxístico do porto, aínda falta unha hora cando menos para que saia o sol. Unha cuadrilla de operarios afánase en cargar a tempo o último vagón dun tren de mercadorías que tardará case nove horas en chegar ao seu destino: Barcelona. Un guindastre axuda a dous mozos a colocar unha pequena pero pesada caixa de madeira. Non hai nada do que abraiarse ou do que sospeitar, todos os vultos son pesados e incómodos.

Os mozos agardan na porta do vagón para introducir o último elemento do cargamento dun convoi que mide case 400 metros. Chega a máquina amarela que transporta o último pallet. Os mozos míranse sorprendidos, son novos, é a primeira vez que se atopan con algo así no traballo: un ataúde. A primeira intención é o instinto da superstición, de negarse a tocar ese frete que a máquina xa situou á altura do vello chan do vagón. O berro seco e apresurado do operario da máquina transportadora obrígaos a moverse e empurrar o ataúde até unha esquina do vehículo de carga.

O convoi, que era tirado por unha locomotora da serie 319 de 1159 cabalos de vapor, partiu de Alxeciras con puntualidade. E cando levaba seis horas e media de viaxe o ataúde ábrese. Jaume Bastida sae do interior cunha pequena caixa de ferramentas e unha panca nas mans. Móvese buscando unha caixa moi concreta, unha caixa pequena, unha que leva un enorme adhesivo laranxa co texto “Fráxil”. Jaume emprega a panca con habelencia, procurando non desfacer en exceso a madeira da caixa. En canto saca a tampa lateral faise visible o seu contido: unha caixa forte.

Dez horas e media despois Francesc Bastida aparca un vello coche funerario no interior dun taller de Castelldefels. Está incómodo co traxe e a garabata, pero o que máis o amolan son os zapatos, que lle están a facer unha ferida nos calcañares dende que saíu do porto de Barcelona. Pecha por dentro a porta do taller, afrouxa o nó da garabata e deixa a chaqueta sobre uns pneumáticos vellos. Abre a porta traseira do coche e golpea o ataúde cos cotenos. Abre a tampa e aí está Jaume, enchoupado en suor, facéndose o morto coas mans cruzadas sobre o peito, coa lingua fóra, rodeado de billetes.

 

 

 

21

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The coffin

It is seven in the morning on a Monday, which looks like one of the eighty-five rainy days in the city of Algeciras. It is cold in the harbour’s distribution centre and there is at least one hour before sunrise. A crew of workers toils in time to load the last wagon of a goods train that will take nearly nine hours to reach its destination: Barcelona. A crane helps two guys to place a small but heavy wooden box. There is nothing to wonder, nothing to suspect. All packages are heavy and uncomfortable.

The young men are waiting at the door of the wagon to put the last item of the shipment, in a nearly 400-meter long wagon. The yellow machine that carries the last pallet arrives. The guys look at each other surprised, they are novice, this is the first time they meet with something like that: a coffin. The first reflex is the instinct of superstition, to refuse to touch that thing which the machine placed into the old wagon floor. The curt cry of the machine operator forced them to move and to push the coffin to a vehicle’s corner.

The convoy, pulled by a 319 locomotive of 1150 horsepower, departed from Algeciras on time. After six and a half hours, the coffin was opened. Jaume Bastida came out of the coffin with a small toolbox and a lever in his hands. He moved around looking for a very specific box, a small one with a huge orange sticker: “Fragile”. Jaume used the lever skilfully, taking care not to destroy the wooden box. When he pulled the side cover the content was visible: a safe.

Several hours later, Francesc Bastida parked an old hearse inside a garage in Castelldefels. He is uncomfortable with the suit and the tie, but the shoes are killing him since he left the harbour of Barcelona. He closed the door of the garage from the inside, loosened his tie and threw the jacket on some old pneumatics. He opened the back door of the hearse and knocks on the coffin. Francesc opened the lid and there he was, Jaume, drenched in sweat, playing dead with his hands crossed, with his tongue out, surrounded by banknotes.

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Límite

Jaume e Francesc aínda rían un pouco cando se miraban, case non falaban de puro nerviosismo e ledicia, cando lles quedaban só 15 minutos para chegar ao seu destino, ao seu primeiro agocho, Tudela de Navarra. Non era que non confiasen nas súas posibilidades, pero é que todo saíra á perfección. Jaume conducía o volante dun SEAT 124 D Especial de cor beixe Sáhara pola pequena estrada NA-125. O ceo azul e a paisaxe magnífica e desconcertante do deserto das Bardenas Reales rodeábaos. Os dous irmáns levaban, agochado nun maleteiro cheo de froitos secos, un bo botín de billetes e, sobre todo, xoias.

O éxito do roubo era o resultado de dous meses de preparación ininterrompida. Souberan por casualidade, ao falar nun bar sobre un tema tan distante coma os apartados postais cun vello traballador da hostalaría de Barcelona, que o hotel Petrus ofrecía aos seus clientes un servizo que non tiñan outros hoteis da cidade: caixas de seguridade. Sen descanso, durante horas e horas de paciente espera diante da porta de servizo do Hotel Petrus, apuntaron os horarios e quendas de cada persoa que entraba e saía por aquela porta, homes e mulleres a quen bautizaban con nomes facilmente referenciables á súa anatomía.

Todo estaba preparado, madrugaron e botaron a andar o plan, tiñan que chegar á hora do cambio de quenda. Non chamaron a atención ao presentarse na porta do hotel de cinco estrelas a bordo dun SEAT 124 Sport, de cor vermello rally, vestidos con traxes elegantes, á moda, e zapatos ben lustrados. Despois de rexistrarse nos cuartos máis caros dispoñibles solicitaron a posibilidade de gardar en caixas de seguridade certo material que dicían levar no maletín negro que portaban. En canto chegaron ao lugar onde se atopaban as caixas de seguridade sacaron as pistolas, o encargado e mais o conserxe que os acompañaba non dubidaron en colaborar.

Jaume e Francesc saíron do hotel sen présas, seguros de que o sinal de alarma tardaría en producirse. Subiron ao coche deportivo e en menos de vinte e cinco minutos estaban nun descampado preto de San Vicenç dels Horts. Alí cambiaron de roupa e de coche, meteron o botín no SEAT 124 D Especial que os agardaba, o coche con motor de dúas árbores, de 1919 cc e ópticas dianteiras rectangulares que agora mesmo aparca na calle Verjas da pequena vila de Tudela, onde os dous irmáns pasarán unha noite tranquila, sen excesos.

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Ellie’s Shadow.

Everybody in the city knows how to tell the time without a watch – see where Ellie casts her shadow. Towering over the contours of the skyline, Ellie’s gaze faces east and west, north and south. She is the first to see the dawn and the last to catch the final strands of light setting over the horizon. She rises from a ground of white rock and her marble surface gleams in the sunshine. Her presence is constant, like time itself.

Some say the Elysium is the heart and brain of the city; all roads begin and end at her base, all intelligence passes through her corridors. She is the to and fro of the city, she is its constant vigilance. Her four faces see out past the wealth of the inner city limits, whose residents prefer and can afford the marble of the Elysium, out past the market sector, that broad band of jumbled buildings and bazaars encircling the inner city, acting as a physical buffer between the wealthy areas and the red-stained slabs of the tower block residences, which stand at the edge of the dome.

Within Ellie’s walls, agents worry the corridors. On the first floor, there are school tours being guided around a small room filled with historical details about past glories and heroes. This is the only floor open to the public. Most of the first ten floors are open to those with limited access and is comprised mainly of administrative staff. There are few people who know exactly sure how high Ellie is, because the lifts to the first ten floors only give the option of ten floors. There is more to her though, the city knows but it stands back, out of deference rather than ignorance. They know that if she falls, they all fall.

From her upper floors, an outside Agent screams before being sedated. The information will have to be enough for now. The exchange is tomorrow and the wipe needs time.