Tag: Temps Obert

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A vendor pulled up to one of the park benches with his stall. The night was young and people are always hungry. Especially, he grinned to himself, after they caught a whiff of food as good as his floating in the air. He took a pair of wooden wedges out from one of his bulging trouser pockets, bent down beside the cart and threw them next to the wheels. Still on his haunches, he opened up the back of the cart and drew out some napkins, a collection of neon coloured plastic bottles of sauces, and cans of soda with different logos. He placed each in their own groups on the floor around him. When he was done, he stood up, rolled up his sleeves, and began to arrange them on the left side of the cart lid. He was short and stocky but the muscles in his arms revealed a lifetime of pushing and pulling a full cart around the city. His preparations were smooth and relaxed, like a performer rehearsing an old routine.

 

“She’s a beaut tonight, isn’t she?” He asked the young man on the bench as he flipped two covers open and wafts of aromatic steam billowed out into the night air. A passerby slowed to a stop, turning their head to find the source and looking at the cart with a mix of curiosity and hope. “They say,” he continued, glancing up briefly at Ellie, “that everyone sees her differently. “All Eyes look to Her but not All See Her”.” He chuckled to himself, stirring the contents of the two containers and releasing more steam. A small crowd of hungry-eyed customers had begun to gather.

“So tell me, how does she look to you?”

The young man did not respond immediately. The vendor pressed a button on the side of the cart and a hologram of a red and white pinstripe umbrella appeared above them, complete with blinking yellow OPEN sign.

Before he started the first shift, he looked over to the young man and found that he had lifted himself out of his slump and was staring at the tower. He turned to the vendor and simply said;

“Blue”

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Vens sense avisar a envair-me la casa, i l’omples de llums de colors, i fas vibrar les parets d’enganxines i la meua cortina de mocadors. Eix de roda on el meu pols gira, m’embeus la consciència -que es suposa he de tenir- i em pobles l’habitació d’espurnes, de caus, de miracles, d’il·lusions. Feixuga jo, talòs tu, passem les hores desitjant-nos en silenci molt a prop, com dues llunes imantades. I quan ja no puc més, quan crec que vaig a tornar-me boja d’esperar-te, cauen els teus llavis, o els teus dits, o el teu nas recorrent un cantonet de la meua pell i gargotejant-la amb la daurada línia que em tatua la teua por. Afortunat cos que et rep com a un colom necessitat d’abric, desperte al teu costat i les coses es fan noves, i el món torna a nàixer des de tu.

Sé que no deuria, però llavors em mires des d’eixe llindar entre la por i el desig al qual succeeixen totes les nostres trobades i, molt fluixet a cau d’orella, dius que fume massa. Sé que vols dir que t’agradaria posseir-me, llevar-me’l de la boca, fer-me xicoteta per poder-me observar sense por i sentir-te poderós per poder-me agafar. Comprimir-me amb violència per fer-me a imatge i semblança teua, perquè mai hagués fugit tan lluny sense esperar-te, perquè t’hagués aguardat per sotmetre’ns junts a la por d’albirar la luxúria i endevinar que no hi ha pecat. I amb tanta por que tens tu, ja veus, en eixe moment sóc completament teua; ullpresa submisa del desig, l’única cosa que sé fer és apagar la cigarreta, glopejar-me amb cura la boca i apropar-me a tu esperant que em beses –però no em beses mai, home desitjat conscient de ser-ho.

Quan te’n vas, la casa queda buida. Les parets, avorrides ja sense la teua pell inconstant, es tornen tombes esguardant l’esguell dels somriures que guarde per a l’espera. Poregosa reincident del pecat d’anhelar-te, m’avergonyisc d’allò que s’apodera de ma panxa. Podria esbrinar un món o una sola mica llavors amb una paraula teua i, no obstant, davant la perspectiva de què deixes aquest nínxol somort per sempre, m’aferre a la cigarreta per enverinar-me a poc a poc, tal i com tu odies, a veure si aquest cop se’m fa més curta l’espera, o si oblide que hi ets, o si em difumine per fi.

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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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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.

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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

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On the first day, he had been beaten. His voice had been breaking at the same time. He was short, croaky, with a face full of adolescent pimples and swollen lips. That was when the short-lived nickname ‘Toad’ was born.

Nobody had called him that in years. In the camp, you could volunteer for different surgeries. He had. More than once.

Kepa brought his hand up to his face. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion in the void, but he knew he was fast. Nobody had beaten him again after that first time, and left unscathed. His fists and his footwork were unparalleled by the time the camps had closed. Every week, youngsters left the camp with a bruised eye, lip or ribs thanks to Kepa.

There was only one summer left until he reached adulthood and could claim independence when they had shut down, and his grandfather had worried that Kepa would have to stay with his father for the few months. He did not have to worry for long; just after the camps made their announcements, Kepa was contacted by more than one scout.

“Who came to you?”

There were many. He was smart too; excellent memory and problem solving skills, but some discovered his lone wolf tendencies and never called back.

“They wanted a team player?”

“I have Bianca…I’ve always had Bianca… She’s all I need.”

“Who is Bianca?”

Kepa began to fall faster. He clasped his hand to his chest, tightfisted.

“Where is Bianca?” He demanded. “What have you done with her!”

“Tell me the story of Bianca”.

The descent upward slowed, for a moment.

“No.”

“Tell me the story of Bianca”.

Kepa spiralled faster. “No! What. Have. You. Done. With. Bianca!”

 

 

 

 

 

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Madre

Despertó de golpe, incómodo, con una sensación helada en el cuerpo, como si unos dedos salidos de lo más profundo del océano hubieran estado hurgando en su pecho, abriéndose camino hasta su corazón. La presencia de una mano desconocida palpándolo y acariciándolo en la oscuridad y anonimia de la noche le resultaba pavorosa pero hasta cierto punto erótica, incluso… Saltó de la cama y se sacudió, alejando cualquier pensamiento de su cabeza.

Consultó el reloj mientras buscaba algo de ropa que ponerse pero se quedó helado al percatarse de que apenas comenzaba a anochecer y estaba vestido. Se había dejado caer en la cama poco después del mediodía, exhausto tras los últimos exámenes que esperaba realizar en mucho tiempo, y al parecer nadie se había molestado en despertarlo durante la tarde.

La sensación del frío contra su piel se había disipado sin dejar huella, no había sido más que el mismo desagradable recuerdo de las últimas noches. Se preguntó si no estaría relacionado con el brusco e incomprensible cambio que había notado en su madre. Oyó ruidos de pasos y le llegó un leve aroma a perfume. Se asomó al salón y vio a su madre calzándose con prisa.

–Salgo. Hay… cosas en la cocina, ya sabes. Cuida de tu hermana –la mujer hizo un gesto vago con la mano hacia la niña, que jugaba con unos grandes dados con números entre dos sofás.

–¿Otra vez?

–Sí, otra vez. ¿Qué más te da?

–Debería cogerla e irme –se avergonzó inmediatamente de su fallida tentativa de utilizar un tono amenazador que, en realidad, había sonado como un lastimero quejido.

–¿Irte? ¿Y a dónde?

–A cualquier otro sitio.

–Si no eres más que un niño.

–Hay centros de acogida para mujeres maltratadas. Seguro que aceptan niños –escupió él, con su pequeño orgullo herido.

–¿Mujeres maltratadas? Cuánto dramatismo.

–De la forma en la que nos tratas…

–Victor –el tono gélido de su madre le heló la sangre.

–Muy bien. ¿Y qué pasa si quiero salir yo? –decidió cambiar de tema sabiéndose perdedor en aquella batalla verbal absurda.

–Aquí tienes –la mujer hurgó en un cajón, junto a la entrada, y le alargó un trozo de papel garabateado– el número de una niñera. Haz lo que quieras –él, estupefacto, no pudo articular sonido mientras su madre abría la puerta y desaparecía por el pasillo– ¡Adiós!

Tras unos segundos de incomprensión, se acercó a cerrarla bajo la atenta mirada de su hermana.

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Ice

He took one last breath, causing him a deathly stabbing pain in his lungs, and to this air he dedicated the last conscious effort he felt he was capable of. He clung to the nearest rock so he would not slide down the slope as he lost consciousness while asking himself what was the point, if his unavoidable destiny would be marked on the moment he closed his eyes anyway. The air was so cold that he felt his skin chapping, painlessly; and it was so snowy that he could barely glimpse the shadow of his own hands, clasping the outcrop with difficulty.

The exhaustion prevented an outburst of rage and desperation that would have burnt out the little energy he had left. He slightly felt some self-pity. Why? was the only thing he was able to focus on, only this word was floating on his mind intermittently; it was the only one to which he thought he could find some sense, although not an answer.

–

“I have been looking for you for so long.”

It was not the first time that he had heard that voice or that same sentence. It repeated itself on an infinite loop all around him, closer and closer, brought by time and space; and it stuck to his skin like it was the only thing that could rescue him.

“I have been looking for you for so long… Come back to me.”

The voice broke and still exuded a compelling sweetness, the anxiety to be heard. It incessantly caressed him with its worn fingers and, where it lost contact, the twinges of pain caused by the cold emerged with cruelty.

He reacted slowly, strangely; he remembered having abandoned himself to death without even a last flutter of false victory and was surprised to wake up again. He did not want to wonder if he was alive. If he was not, too many questions would ensue for his tired body and exhausted mind to bear. He actually wanted to rest; but the voice, endless and ethereal, pushed him out of his quasi feverish reverie.

“I have been looking for you for so long… Come back to me… Do not leave me now.”

He opened his eyes without knowing if the voice did actually belong to a body, hardly scared though, and before him he only saw blue. Two blue eyes like the sky on a spring morning, shiny and bright, captivating.

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MirrorReSized85

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