I can not know what day it is or what month it is. I think that since I got here has gone forever. I think she must have started the fall. Fall. I know that word ambrosia under this stinking hood (sorry, honey) where they do not loom over their shoes. We shudder when we hear the steps, those steps which we know to distinguish those of Turkish, as they call that leads to questioning. Or Dr. Douglas, as they say in that which comes with the story that if we work together we're gonna be soon released. I have not yet expired. I've always been so talkative, I have maintained a stubborn silence. Yes, Herr Doktor, I know nothing, Herr Doktor. Could come by Dante, with Virgil on his back. What circle of hell would we? But I was talking about and what would fall to see a tree. I remember how you liked to open the window overlooking our balcony and watching the leaves stay coppery, these "gold" as they called Juan Ramón Jiménez, that we now sounds corny but, it looked like pure gold. Nature has its jewels. Mine are now the gray sackcloth and some dull plastic sandals. So mom took my medal. The Virgin girl, the one that took the life around my body. Now I am Duchess of nothing. Queen of nudity. I am assailed at times fear of not seeing each other again, the mystery of your future. Also what think of me, if I've forgiven. Why is that whatever we do, women bow down to us the blame. Maybe if I am coping with fatigue dogged this season, I can connect the pieces floating in my memory like a melting ice floes. I wanted to tell you, my dear, I do not regret. There are regrets that are worse than sin. I was always so, as a child, when wanted to make me feel bad. You're bad, I told myself. Bad, bad, you're not lucky, as mom once told me. It was that time your aunt Agustina discovered Evita's photo pasted on a sheet of notebook duties. He showed it to mom and dad told her. I left without eating that day and told me cautionary tone, at home, that woman did not speak. Not least he could keep his picture. But I kept loving her. When he died, I was sixteen. I remember we were with the seamstress and mother crossed the street with a friend .. Clarito could hear what he said, but lowered his voice: "Eve is dead," with a tone between accomplice and satisfied. As if they, somehow, had collaborated in the killing. As if they had been waiting. I kept dreaming that languid and fragile figure who took upon their shoulders the pain of those poor. I do not read newspapers, I started to follow step by step his funeral on the radio. Peeped the news of cinemas which showed, in that coffin, his face peeking out from the Ivory Coast hieratic silhouette. Women wailed disconsolately, the newsboys who broke into tears when announcing the news. A San Luis all that came very muffled. With no one could talk about it. Only Ramona, who first gave me the photo. If you do not get out of here I would like to ever see it. My Ramona. I took refuge in her lap hatched when challenged mom. "Do not cry, girl leg, I'll tell you a story." And I'm out those endless tales that spoke of disobedient children that were transformed into birds, or that the vanity which became iguana, but the metamorphosis is not reached the hands, which never ceased to be thin and beautiful. Maybe that's why we were banned from the siesta. So we will never infect your vanity queen. It seems she treated with contempt suitors. How dare. Evita did not go through that humiliation. Jewelry and had liked and showed the world. But his greatest jewel were children. The only privileged. Ever I saw far away in the box that was erected in the square on the occasion of his visit to St. Louis. I wish I could get close, if only to touch the hem of his coat visón.Qué will, my love, you, how I wish we were together, get up at night and hide your when you sleep, kiss and suck your skin that keeps yet the freshness of a baby. Seeing the children who probably will someday. For now I just have this long wait. Wait for me to seek, to find me, waiting to see Marina, daughter of my soul, I want even when they think I have behaved badly. I am inhabited by waiting.
* Excerpt from the novel by Pauline Movsichoff, recently released. See http://losmotivosdelaloba.blogspot.com/2010/07/la-desconocida-del-plata-fragmento.html?spref=fb
0 comments:
Post a Comment