Candide opened the door of that old restaurant to spend his companion. He was carrying a bouquet of evergreens, was a man of fifty, thin and gaunt, his face grim, carved by life at sea. She was a mulatto, with abundant and curly hair, a look of perpetual mistrust of red lipstick and clothes (top, miniskirt, fishnet stockings and high heels) more typical of women who are hired to make ends month, so the cold climate of that northern invited to dress in February. The Gatzpara, which was the name the site, was a dark tavern, rather than a must for taxi drivers and police, with more than 100 years old. The business was passed from father to son for three generations without any changes or reform in space rather than a coat of paint, subtle make-up for something so old. Entering the place was like entering a time machine, transporting you directly to other times, for some better, others worse surely, where the only thing that remained unchanged was the recipes of the few dishes that there were still preparing as before.
Candide and his companion sat at an empty table. She was not all him, he seemed nervous, as if his desire to please were not having the desired effect. Eat what you like, seriously, do not you hungry? He told her. No, not much. What can you eat here? From what I have in the letter anything. Do not worry about the price, as I told you invited to dinner. What are you going to ask you? Me? I do not know. Clams. Yes, eat clams. And you cut yourself, ask what you want. If you ask of clams, I think I'll ask some fried eggs and sausages. Are you sure? Do not you want better ones some fish or squid? Bream and we have at the time of the lamprey. No, best fried eggs, I have not really hungry. As you wish ...
Después de radiografiarles con desconfianza, la dueña del restaurante, una mujer de mirada cansada y sonrisa inquieta -como si los últimos años que le quedaran para llegar a la jubilación pasaran cada vez más lentamente, para su desesperación- les tomó nota. A su edad había visto pasar por aquellas mesas de todo y un poco más. Y aunque aquella extraña pareja no fuera la más extraña que había visto a lo largo de su vida, su presencia no dejaba de producirla una amarga sensación, mezcla de melancolía y desesperanza. Era como si al recordar su ya lejana infancia y juventud no distinguiera la posibilidad de servir a unos clientes de este tipo. Para ella, si realmente se había produced impairment in social, not so much because an old sailor sought the shelter of a mermaid, but because the sirens were no longer bounded characters on the reefs of alleys and corners. She did not bother to exist, so the gnawing was to have ceased to be a taboo, which had become visible.
The owner served them a bottle of wine and went to the kitchen. The couple remained silent. He looked at the bottle and she surveyed the room, with its eight tables and 32 chairs, yellow walls plastered with two still life deteriorated as the only ornament. Admittedly, he said, the site is funny. The best of this place is its food, it's a shame that you have not ordered another typical dish. No matter, okay ... What is more typical than some eggs, right? Yes, yes, but the specialty here is fresh fish, finally, if you want to change is still time. No, it's all good, quiet. I say it is quiet, but I notice you uncomfortable. Well, not usually go to eat at restaurants, I can not afford it, life is bitch. For this reason, it would be good to try something new. No, no, it's all good ... Hey ... What would you ask ...? "... And you usually do this with all your girls? No, not really. That makes me very quiet not you know? Can be. I'd better not think this is good idea. No, do not go, please. Today is a day like any other, so I wanted to accompany me, each commemorating a February 12 event, something that shook my life, nothing more. What happened? Long story ... Better, so do not bore me, contámela. Candido filled the two glasses of wine, drank his in one gulp, took a deep breath and began his story.
I had a friend. Of those people who over the years become essential in one's life. We were not the same people, he Noia, yo Eiroa, but studied in the same school. Although good, this study is to say, neither he nor I ever liked the books. The best of those years of childhood and learning were the long walks he undertook almost every day in search of adventure. We went down to the river and we went into the forest as if we were explorers on the hunt for the ineffable, which means that you can not put into words. Because most of the time these adventures the rushing during school hours and as much as we found a cave, a den of foxes, I know, like the time we found a clearing in the forest truffle mushrooms, were things not we have to avoid punishment from our parents. They were happy times, that now I see from maturity as a small paradise, that neither poverty nor hunger that sometimes getting passed by a shortage disparaged. In those difficult times life was a game, a sort of roulette that turned constantly and that not stopping was extracted precisely its charm, wonder and also because they say its mystery.
was like when looking through the kaleidoscope, the small tube in which geometric shapes differed very different colors. What attracted me most was that object that these forms and these colors could simply change the movement a small wheel located along the tube and wanting to go back to look again at one of those figures was that it was not the same as just now, as if he had actually seen was like a flash, as a slide together before they self-destructed. The stuff of dreams comes to me as something similar, something changing, something that mutates from our movement, which is none other than the movement of life. Or when we played all boys and girls, boo English. Beyond the excitement that have caused me and turn me faster and faster, eager to catch moving some of my fellow players and to eliminate the next game (the first stop removed), I'll stick with that image, turned to look and find that everything has changed, that life continues and that the game is not over yet.
was like when looking through the kaleidoscope, the small tube in which geometric shapes differed very different colors. What attracted me most was that object that these forms and these colors could simply change the movement a small wheel located along the tube and wanting to go back to look again at one of those figures was that it was not the same as just now, as if he had actually seen was like a flash, as a slide together before they self-destructed. The stuff of dreams comes to me as something similar, something changing, something that mutates from our movement, which is none other than the movement of life. Or when we played all boys and girls, boo English. Beyond the excitement that have caused me and turn me faster and faster, eager to catch moving some of my fellow players and to eliminate the next game (the first stop removed), I'll stick with that image, turned to look and find that everything has changed, that life continues and that the game is not over yet.
So things were growing, and as neither he nor I were good students we enrolled in a fishing boat as apprentices. I do not know that we have the Galician strange attraction to the sea, as if knowing its dangers, we can not avoid all the risk that entails, go out every night to try to tame your belly. I would say the sea that has swallowed many seafarers, represents the hope of our people. For us sea \u200b\u200bis not an enemy, is like a mother who gives and takes away, blasts us with its bellows and redeems us with his silence. Personally I fear most when it is calm, smooth as a mirror of stars, because fishing is generally lower and that means less profit to reach port. And in this my great, my friend was just like me. Grew at the mercy of the waves, challenging every morning to the wind and its fluctuations, in a permanent state of alert, because our life was at stake and we knew it.
is tell strange stories about the sea ... So ... It is said that at the beginning of time the sea water was sweet as rivers. Or that in the Costa da Morte breathes life, perhaps because death in Galicia is part and parcel of the experience. It is there, on top of cliffs, where legends are speaking of bandits disguised as peasants on stormy nights, angry seas whose waves grow and grow swallowing everything on your way. It seems that all we Galician stalking the Holy Company and its retinue of souls. This ghostly procession walking at night wrapped in shrouds and barefoot. Say, who ever saw that every ghost has a lighted candle and leaves behind a smell of wax in the air. And that will always procession led by a live charged with a cross and a bucket followed for the souls and funeral chants ... Do not lie if I say, sometimes I have to think that I, in my way, I also headed the procession. That death follows me around, eroding my strength and energy with each pounding of the waves, with each night spent remembering those who left never to return.
difficult thing to speak of memory raises me precisely in its whimsy, do not always give us what we need. It's like a companion to every time we look at returns us a different look. It is like the sea whose waves seem the same but always different. Yes .. Ocean is my memory: deep, inscrutable, capricious, vital, colorless traveler, angry unknown; sea is my memory, constant in its inconstancy, giving only what they want, oblivious to the questions that torment the rhythm of the waves.
All this comes to a night, February 12 and today, my friend and I went to a party in Pedras Negras. The thing looked good: beach, music, women and alcohol to combat the cold. We were having a great time. But in a moment of the night, my friend went crazy. I'll never know if it was alcohol or otherwise, but we discussed. We had the worst argument we had had up to that time. In between, of course, a woman. I wanted to go with her, but he refused, saying she could not leave him lying there like a butt. I called him a fag, but it was not, I told him to look for someone else to fuck and I left the car with that girl. When we returned after the time we discover a stir. My friend had disappeared. It had been stripped and had gone into the sea. Her body never appeared. This and nothing else is the reason I invited you to lunch, perhaps the pretext or the easiest way to tell this story as a reminder. You might sound silly, but it is an honor, a rite that I am that the sea does not drag the dark abysses of oblivion.
Go ... You should love him very much. She said she had heard the story almost without blinking. Yes, even love him. It was one of those people who did not deserve to die like that. Bueno, mi amol, life is, always keeps some surprises in the room do not you think? Yes, indeed. As far as I can tell you I'm glad I'll set this morning on me and not another. There are a customer like everybody else.
He smiled when he heard these words, while the owner of the food served Gatzpara. She ate her eggs and regretted the test clams not have listened to his host. After eating, leaving out the inquisitive eyes of the owner and went down to the beach. There, facing the sea, he left the water the flowers. She took her hand and kept a respectful silence, while both eyes fixed on the horizon, watched as the boats returned to port and each evening.
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