Magic always arises around heat. Heat that replaces the cold. We have all experienced afternoons of soap operas and detective series. Jordi Hurtado organized the pages, the dog Rex barked, someone had their heart broken in difficult times. The best is … that you fail a chapter and nothing happens. It’s hard to get lost in drama like this. Footage all day long, how naughty, little boy. Cabezaita. Teletext, colors, dizziness. Endless afternoons of sobaos, phoskitos and donuts. The smell of coffee, another coffee that smells just like today. Tray with printed fruit, paper towel, the tinkling of saccharin, the hickey of the spoon.
Calm, cave, bright den. We don’t know if there is a world out there, but how beautiful it is here. It’s on time, if you look closely you can hear it humming inside that clock sitting on the counter. The cup, your cup, to which you always leave this cold and dark taste. Open packet of Ducats, and a cigarette on a shell serving as an ashtray. An Agatha Christie novel with the worn cover, face down, so the page doesn’t get lost. She plays dead, like life.
And your face, and that of your cousins, in ID photo format, under the window of the stretcher. Grandma’s murals. The Andalusian Hall of Fame. Virgins, a prayer that I could recite by heart, little greetings, a calendar, ugly saints, funny saints, grumpy and bald saints. They would do something right to succeed with this skull. You look at yourself again, what a boy, and you get confused, you half recognize yourself. What was he thinking, what happened to that pole, the truth is it was really cool.
The bell. Go open it, but keep your shoes on. It’s the aunt or a friend. Oily ankles, strong perfume. Give me a kiss, you’re so big. What are they feeding you? Silly, smile and run. Bring some nun muffins, the kind with that sweet top that crunches when you bite. Child, but no longer you, something serious is going to happen to you. He sits on a wooden chair covered in velvet and pulls his skirt up over his knees. The broadcast begins. Amparo fell into Alfalfa, the street is elevated, we opened a store on the Avenue, Father Aurelio was not able to say mass the other day because he is already very ill. Oh, and Francisco’s grandson went abroad to London. Yes, yours, in a multinational. Of course, two children. The woman is very fine and elegant. They met when they were little, they have been together all their lives.
From there to the past, a duel of memories, of people’s stories. Weird nicknames, funny nicknames. Everyone belongs to someone. You listen, you try to follow the thread and suddenly you find yourself judging people as if you knew them, creating a group in your mind with the fragments of the conversation. Bring the basket, let’s wet our lips. Lower the brazier a little.
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