The Gift - Tracker Philo78

 Professor Emilio Santos, seventy-eight years old, contemplated the portrait of Socrates that presided over his library. Retirement, years ago, had taken him away from his natural agora: the lecture halls. His only interlocutors now were the *Complete Works* of Lacan, the underlined volumes of Althusser, and the remaining inhabitants of the dark mahogany shelves, whose dull shine was only disturbed by the slow turning of the record stack on his old Garrard automatic turntable. The device, with its arm that lifted and settled back down with meticulous patience, maintained a cycle of continuous repetition of his favorite composers—Schoenberg, Berg, Stockhausen, Martinu—which accompanied his solitude. Until one Tuesday, Clara, the cleaning lady who visited every morning—concerned about his isolation—placed a gleaming laptop on the library's oak table.

"To keep you connected to the world. There are more people like you whom you should stay in touch with."

That day, after Clara left, he sat contemplating the laptop. It was a smooth, cold object, with the light from the window sliding over its casing as if over the surface of a foreign lake. A hesitant finger searched for the power button and pressed it. A soft hum, a beep, and then the screen lit up. He saw icons and windows he didn't understand. He felt lost, like in a country whose language he didn't speak. He was a little afraid to press the keys, as if the letters written on them had unknown consequences.

With a sigh, he moved the cursor slowly toward an icon. It was like taking the first step on a new path. Suddenly, everything became fast, silent, and too perfect. Although he didn't quite know where it would lead him, he decided to browse the internet; after all, learning never ends. And that was virgin territory for him.

At first, it was a window to the world: digitized magazines, meetings with old colleagues, online chess games... he could even listen for free to works by his favorite composers that he hadn't known.

Emilio, happy, noted in his notebook: —Can truth be found on the internet?

But one rainy afternoon, while chatting with Alberto, an old friend from school, the latter mentioned having knee pain when walking and that it signaled a change in weather for him. A minute later, an advertisement for joint cream appeared on the screen.

"Well, what a coincidence," he murmured.

But the coincidence didn't stop there. Another day, he commented in front of the screen that he missed the bread his grandmother used to make in his childhood, and the next day his inbox filled with artisanal bread recipes.

The intrusion became subtler, deeper. One night, on a video call with his daughter abroad, she showed him a blue ceramic vase she had just bought at a flea market. The next morning, among the suggested news results, an article highlighted: "The Hidden Value of Vintage Ceramics: The Trend of 1950s Vases." And the main image was a vase almost identical to the one he had seen the night before.

Emilio closed the laptop slowly and felt a chill. Undoubtedly, through the laptop, his private conversations were being spied on, seeking to know everything about him, harvesting names, desires... But the most terrifying truth fell upon him like a slab of stone: through the laptop, they might even be getting to know his thoughts.

Meanwhile, in the silent darkness of the machine, the cookies wove their web. A file named `tracker_philo78.log` recorded every move:
User: ESantos. Search: "ethics in the digital era." Suggested ads: Spiritual retreats, memory supplements.*  
*User: ESantos. Extended reading: "Foucault's Panoptic Surveillance." Segmentation: institutional skepticism, profile over 75 years old.*

In the following days, Emilio began to notice small details. The little green light of the camera blinked, or so it seemed to him, when he wasn't touching it. He covered it with thick adhesive tape, but the feeling persisted.

Speaking on the phone next to the computer, he mentioned an old editor friend, "Ramón Gutiérrez," whom he hadn't heard from in years. He didn't write it down anywhere. That same afternoon, the social network he barely used suggested, with unsettling precision: "Do you want to add Ramón Gutiérrez?"

He stopped using the phone with the laptop turned on.

Clara, upon learning about the distress her gift had caused, arrived one morning accompanied by a friend who installed security and privacy software on the computer: antivirus and *firewall*, ad and tracker blocker, and even a program to encrypt his internet traffic.

Everything was fine for a few days. But one night, his laptop's operating system updated.

The next day, Emilio received an email with funeral home advertisements: "Plan your final journey with serenity." Minutes later, a grotesque notification appeared on his phone: "Do you want to tag Clara... in this photo?" Clara was the town hall assistant who visited him every morning... —But he had never used the laptop when Clara was there keeping him company. How could they know such a thing? How did they connect that data with him?

Emilio felt defeated by the laptop, by its cold screen and infinite world. For days he avoided it, letting the dust settle on the lid like a slab. But peace came one night when, getting up for a glass of water, he found the laptop turned on, installing a new update. The screen said: "Do not turn off your computer." Then, with a radical determination, Emilio unplugged the laptop from the power source.

In the morning, the computer tried to start up, but having been shut down while updating, the operating system was damaged and wouldn't boot.

"This is my chance," he said to himself.

He wrapped it in several layers of aluminum foil—like a sarcophagus against digital specters—and when he opened the door for Clara for her morning visit, he handed it to her to take away when she left.

Seated, surrounded by his books, in the sacred silence of his library, Emilio understood it, with a book of poetry by Marcos Ana that had a note written by his late wife:

"For my Emilio, because written words are never carried away by the wind."

He hadn't defeated technology, nor had he uncovered a conspiracy. He had simply returned to his world of silence and paper, where the only spies were the memories living within him. And from that refuge, he could be generous once again.

That's why, when Clara's birthday arrived, he gave her an unexpected gift with a thank-you note: a one-eyed, stray cat. A living, tangible being, full of silent mysteries. Clara smiled, perplexed. And the animal, as if it knew its destiny was no other, settled on its new owner's sofa and, from there, soon took over the entire house.

 

mvf 

El regalo - Tracker Philo78

El profesor Emilio Santos, de setenta y ocho años, contemplaba el retrato de Sócrates que presidía su biblioteca. La jubilación, hacía años, lo había alejado de su ágora natural: las aulas. Sus únicos interlocutores eran ahora las *Obras Completas* de Lacan, los volúmenes subrayados de Althusser y los restantes moradores de los estantes de caoba oscura, cuyo brillo opaco solo perturbaba el lento girar de la pila de discos en su viejo tocadiscos automático Garrard. El aparato, con su brazo que se levantaba y volvía a posarse con meticulosa paciencia, mantenía un ciclo de repetición continua de sus músicos favoritos —Schoenberg, Berg, Stockhausen, Martinu— que acompañaban su soledad. Hasta que un martes, Clara, la asistenta que lo visitaba todas las mañanas —preocupada por su aislamiento—, colocó sobre la mesa de roble de la biblioteca un reluciente ordenador portátil.

—Para que te mantengas en contacto con el mundo. Hay más gente como tú con la que tienes que seguir en contacto.

Aquel día, al marcharse Clara, se quedó contemplando el portátil. Era un objeto liso, frío, con la luz que entraba por la ventana deslizándose sobre su carcasa como sobre la superficie de un lago ajeno. Un dedo indeciso buscó el botón de encendido y lo pulsó. Un zumbido suave, un pitido, y luego la pantalla se iluminó. Vio iconos y ventanas que no entendía. Se sintió perdido, como en un país cuyo idioma no hablaba. Le daba un poco de miedo pulsar las teclas, como si las letras en ellas escritas tuvieran resultados desconocidos.

Con un suspiro, movió el cursor poco a poco hacia un icono. Era como dar el primer paso en un camino nuevo. De pronto, todo se volvió rápido, silencioso y demasiado perfecto. Aunque no sabía bien a dónde lo llevaría, decidió navegar por internet; al fin y al cabo, el aprender nunca termina. Y aquel era un terreno virgen para él.

Al principio, fue una ventana al mundo: revistas digitalizadas, encuentros con viejos colegas, partidas de ajedrez online… hasta podía escuchar gratis obras de música de sus autores favoritos, que desconocía.

Emilio, feliz, anotó en su cuaderno: —¿Puede la verdad ser encontrada en internet?

Pero una tarde de lluvia, mientras conversaba con Alberto, un viejo amigo del instituto, este mencionó que tenía dolores en las rodillas al caminar y que le anunciaban cambio de tiempo. Al minuto, un anuncio de crema para las articulaciones surgió en la pantalla.

—Vaya, qué coincidencia —murmuró.

Pero la coincidencia no se detuvo ahí. Otro día comentó, frente a la pantalla, que añoraba el pan que le hacía su abuela en la infancia, y al día siguiente su correo se llenó de recetas de pan artesanal.

La intrusión se volvió más sutil, más profunda. Una noche, en una videollamada con su hija en el extranjero, ella le mostró un jarrón de cerámica azul que acababa de comprar en un mercadillo. A la mañana siguiente, entre los resultados de noticias sugeridas, un artículo destacaba: “El valor oculto de la cerámica vintage: la moda de los jarrones de los años 50”. Y la imagen principal era un jarrón casi idéntico al que había visto la noche anterior.

Emilio cerró el portátil lentamente y sintió un escalofrío. Sin lugar a dudas, a través del portátil espiaban sus conversaciones privadas, buscando saber todo sobre él, cosechando nombres, deseos… Pero la verdad más aterradora cayó sobre él como una losa: a través del portátil podrían estar conociendo incluso sus pensamientos.

Mientras tanto, en la oscuridad silenciosa de la máquina, las cookies tejían su red. Un archivo llamado `tracker_philo78.log` registraba cada movimiento:
Usuario: ESantos. Búsqueda: “ética en la era digital”. Anuncios sugeridos: Retiros espirituales, suplementos para la memoria.*  
*Usuario: ESantos. Lectura prolongada: “La vigilancia panóptica de Foucault”. Segmentación: escepticismo institucional, perfil mayor de 75 años.*

En los días siguientes, Emilio empezó a fijarse en pequeños detalles. La pequeña luz verde de la cámara parpadeaba, o eso le parecía, cuando él no la tocaba. La cubrió con cinta adhesiva gruesa, pero la sensación persistió.

Hablando por teléfono junto al ordenador, mencionó a un viejo editor amigo, “Ramón Gutiérrez”, del que no tenía noticias desde hacía años. No lo escribió en ningún sitio. Esa misma tarde, la red social que apenas usaba le sugirió, con una inquietante precisión: “¿Quieres agregar a Ramón Gutiérrez?”.

Dejó de usar el teléfono con el portátil encendido.

Clara, al conocer la angustia que había producido su regalo, llegó una mañana acompañada de un amigo que instaló en el ordenador software de seguridad y privacidad: antivirus y *firewall*, bloqueador de anuncios y rastreadores, y hasta un programa para encriptar su tráfico en internet.

Todo fue bien durante unos días. Pero una noche, el sistema operativo de su portátil se actualizó.

Al día siguiente, a Emilio le llegó un correo electrónico con anuncios de funerarias: "Planifique con serenidad su último viaje". Minutos después, una notificación grotesca apareció en su teléfono: "¿Quieres etiquetar a Clara… en esta foto?" Clara era la asistenta del ayuntamiento que lo visitaba cada mañana… —Pero no había usado nunca el portatil, cuando estaba Clara haciendole compañia. ¿Cómo podían saber algo así? ¿Cómo conectaban esos datos con él?

Emilio se sintió derrotado por el portátil, por su pantalla fría y su mundo infinito. Durante días lo evitó, dejando que el polvo se posara sobre la tapa como una losa. Pero la paz llegó una noche en que, levantándose para beber un vaso de agua, encontró el portátil encendido, instalando una nueva actualización. La pantalla decía: “No apague su ordenador”. Entonces, con una determinación radical, Emilio desconectó el portátil de la corriente.

Por la mañana, el ordenador trataba de arrancar, pero al haber sido apagado mientras se actualizaba, el sistema operativo se había dañado y no encendía.

—Esta es la mía —se dijo.

Lo envolvió en varias capas de papel de aluminio —como un sarcófago contra espectros digitales— había leído en un foro dudoso que bloqueaba las señales, y cuando le abrió la puerta a Clara para su visita matutina, se lo entregó para que se lo llevase al marchar.

 

Por la tarde, de nuevo solo, sentado, rodeado de sus libros, en el silencio sagrado de su biblioteca, Emilio lo comprendió, con un libro de poesía de Marcos Ana que tenía una nota escrita por su difunta esposa:
 

“Para mi Emilio, porque las palabras escritas nunca se las lleva el viento.”

No había vencido a la tecnología, ni descubierto una conspiración. Había, simplemente, regresado a su mundo natural, de silencio y papel, donde los únicos espías eran los recuerdos que vivían en él. Y desde ese refugio, podía volver a ser generoso.

Por eso, cuando llegó el cumpleaños de Clara, le entregó un regalo inesperado con una nota de agradecimiento: un gato tuerto y callejero. Un ser vivo, tangible, lleno de misterios silenciosos. Clara sonrió, perpleja. Y el animal, como si supiera que su destino no era otro, se instaló en el sofá de su nueva ama y, desde allí, no tardó en adueñarse de toda la casa.

mvf 

 

 

 

 

The Lifeline

 

 The encounter was casual, as often happens in small towns. The witch's daughter was leaving the bakery when she saw her cousin Garbancito crossing the square.
"Cousin!" she called out, approaching him. "I haven't seen you in days."
"And you, cousin," he replied, stopping with the air of someone guarding a secret. "I wanted to talk to you. Have you heard about Berrocán?"
"The one from the farm down there? No, what's happened to him?"
Garbancito lowered his voice, even though the street was almost empty.
"They found him last night at the bottom of the Ravine of Lamentations. He was in his car. A terrible accident."
"Good Lord!" she exclaimed, bringing a hand to her mouth. "But he was young and very careful..."
"That's what we all thought," nodded the cousin, frowning. "But the strange part doesn't end there. You see, just a few days ago, I saw him leaving your house. Your mother's house."
"Really?" asked the girl, surprised. "He doesn't usually come around there."
"Well, he did. And I asked him, out of curiosity, what brought him to the witch's house. You know he always used to make fun of that a bit."
"Yes, I remember."
"Well," Garbancito continued, "he told me, half-serious, half-joking: 'I came to have my palm read. To see if she'd finally tell me something good about my future.' And he laughed."
The witch's daughter felt a chill. She knew the tone her mother used for important matters.
"And… what did my mother tell him? Do you know?"
"He told me himself afterward, still with that mocking smile," said Garbancito, and making an effort to imitate the witch's deep, solemn voice, he added: "'Berrocán, you have one of the longest, clearest life lines I've ever seen. I foresee a very long life for you; you will die old and in your bed.'"
A heavy silence fell between the two cousins. The morning air seemed to grow colder.
"A long life…" she murmured finally, looking toward the road leading out of town.
"Yes. And a week later, the ravine," concluded Garbancito, shaking his head. "It makes no sense. Either your mother was wrong for the first time, or…"
"Or fate laughed at her prediction," she cut in, finishing the sentence her cousin didn't dare say.
They said goodbye with a gesture, each lost in their own thoughts. But it was at that moment, watching Garbancito's back as he walked away, that the witch's daughter began to think that perhaps something had violently interrupted the future her mother had seen. She decided she had to go to the police to ask them to investigate the accident thoroughly.

The next day, after dropping her son off at school, she went to visit her mother.

The witch's house smelled of dried herbs and earth, as always. The clutter, a familiar chaos that was like another layer in the air, today seemed to the daughter especially dense, almost an extension of the confusion she sought to clarify. As she moved cups to make room on the kitchen table, Cenizo, the black cat, appeared rubbing against her legs.
"Mother, you haven't asked Cenizo to read my mind, have you?" she said with a half-smile.
"No, dear. He's just saying hello. Or maybe he's asking you to fill his bowl," replied the witch, turning from the pantry with the sugar bowl in her hand.
The conversation drifted to her grandson. The witch asked about him longingly, but her daughter dodged the question with a practical offer.
"I'm going to send someone to help you with the cleaning."
"I don't want anyone snooping around and moving my things!" retorted the old woman, and her voice, harsher than usual, scared Cenizo out of the kitchen. "If you send someone, I'll kick them out."
As the witch approached the table with the coffee pot, her daughter watched her. She noticed a hesitation in her steps, a slight extension of her hand to feel for the edge of the table before setting down the coffee pot. A cold intuition began to knot in her stomach.
The crucial moment arrived with devastating simplicity. Her mother reached for the blue ceramic sugar bowl, took it confidently, and with a routine gesture, sprinkled a generous amount of its white contents into the two cups.
"Mother," asked the daughter, fixing her gaze on her, "did Berrocán come here recently?"
"Yes, a couple of weeks ago," answered the witch, distracted, pouring the coffee. "He wanted to buy one of those carros sin carnet. He came to have his palm read, to see if it was a good idea."
"And what did you tell him?"
"That he had a very long life line. Very clear. That it was undoubtedly a good idea."
The daughter took the cup. She brought the rim to her lips and took a small sip. An explosion of salt, intense and unpleasant, flooded her mouth.
Everything clicked with a dry, silent thud in her mind: the long life line, the accident in the ravine, the unsteady steps, the hand feeling for the table, the blue sugar bowl. Then she understood: there had been no dark magic, no failed prophecy. Just an old woman, her eyes clouded by the years, and a blue sugar bowl that, without anyone knowing, was full of salt.
She set the cup down gently on the saucer. The noise made her mother look up.
"Mother," said the daughter, and her voice sounded strangely calm, like the surface of a very deep well. "Did you know that Berrocán killed himself when that car fell down the mill ravine?"
The witch blinked. A shadow of genuine bewilderment crossed her wrinkled face.
"What are you saying? That's… very strange. I thought I saw… I saw that he had a very long life line."
There was no guilt in her voice. Only confusion. The honest confusion of someone who believes they saw something that wasn't there.
The daughter took a deep breath. The suspicion of murder evaporated like smoke. In its place emerged a much simpler, much more fragile, and much sadder reality.
"Mom," she whispered, and this time her voice trembled a little. "You just put salt in the coffee. You confused the salt with the sugar."
The witch went still. For a moment, her fierce pride seemed to want to deny it, but the evidence was salty and incontestable in her own cup. Her fingers, bony and veiny, closed slightly on the edge of the table.
"It's the years, dear. Nonsense. It's nothing."
"It's cataracts, Mother. You have to go to the doctor. To an eye doctor."
"In ninety years, no one has ever had to cure me of anything!" she retorted, straightening her body like an indignant ghost. "And I don't plan to start now."
But the protest no longer had its former strength. It sounded like a ritual, a learned phrase. The daughter saw, for the first time, not the town's feared witch, but an elderly woman, terribly stubborn, who was losing her sight and was too afraid—or too proud—to admit it.
"We have to go to the health center," insisted the daughter with a new firmness. "It's just a check-up."
"In this family," replied the witch, though her voice lowered a tone, "ailments are resolved at home."
They talked about other things, about how expensive everything was, about her grandson at school. The witch poured another coffee, and this time, with deliberately slow and careful movements, she took the bag of sugar. This time the coffee was sweet.

mvf. 

La linea de la vida.

 

El encuentro fue casual, como suele pasar en los pueblos. La hija de la bruja salía de la panadería cuando vio a su primo Garbancito cruzar la plaza.
—¡Primo! —lo llamó, acercándose—. Hace días que no te veo.
—Y tú, prima —respondió él, deteniéndose con el aire de quien guarda un secreto—. Justo quería hablarte. ¿Te has enterado de lo de Berrocán?
—¿El de la granja allá abajo? No, ¿qué le pasa?
Garbancito bajó la voz, aunque la calle estaba casi vacía.
—Lo encontraron anoche en el fondo del barranco de Los Lamentos. Iba en el coche. Un accidente terrible.
—¡Dios santo! —exclamó ella, llevándose una mano a la boca—. Pero si era joven y muy cuidadoso...
—Eso pensábamos todos —asintió el primo, con el ceño fruncido—. Pero ahí no acaba lo raro. Verás, hace apenas unos días, lo vi salir de tu casa. De casa de tu madre.
—¿De veras? —preguntó la muchacha, sorprendida—. No suele venir por allí.
—Pues fue. Y le pregunté, por curiosidad, qué le traía por la casa de la bruja. Tú sabes que él siempre se burlaba un poco de eso.
—Sí, lo recuerdo.
—Bueno —continuó Garbancito—, me dijo, medio en serio medio en broma: 'Vine a que me lea la mano. A ver si de una vez me dice algo bueno de mi futuro'. Y se rió.
La hija de la bruja sintió un escalofrío. Conocía el tono que usaba su madre para las cosas importantes.
—Y… ¿qué le dijo mi madre? ¿Lo sabes?
—Él mismo me lo contó después, todavía con esa sonrisa burlona —dijo Garbancito, y haciendo un esfuerzo por imitar la voz grave y solemne de la bruja, añadió—: 'Berrocán, tienes una de las líneas de vida más largas y claras que he visto. Te auguro una existencia muy prolongada, morirás viejo y en tu cama'.
Un silencio denso se instaló entre los dos primos. El aire de la mañana pareció enfriarse.
—Una vida larga… —murmuró ella al fin, mirando hacia el camino que salía del pueblo.
—Sí. Y a la semana, el barranco —concluyó Garbancito, sacudiendo la cabeza—. No tiene sentido. O tu madre se equivocó por primera vez, o…
—O el destino se rio de su predicción —cortó ella, terminando la frase que su primo no se atrevía a decir.
Se despidieron con un gesto, cada uno sumido en sus pensamientos. Pero fue en ese instante, mirando la espalda de Garbancito alejarse, cuando la hija de la bruja empezó a pensar que tal vez algo había interrumpido violentamente el futuro que su madre había visto. Decidió que tenía que ir a la policía para pedir que investigasen el accidente en profundidad.

Al día siguiente, después de dejar a su hijo en el colegio, fue a visitar a su madre.

La casa de la bruja olía a hierbas secas y tierra, como siempre. El desorden, un caos familiar que era como una capa más en el aire, hoy le pareció a la hija especialmente denso, casi una extensión de la confusión que buscaba aclarar. Mientras movía tazas para hacer sitio en la mesa de la cocina, Cenizo, el gato negro, apareció frotándose contra sus piernas.
—Madre, no le habrás pedido a Cenizo que me lea el pensamiento —dijo, con media sonrisa.
—No, hija. Solo te está saludando. O quizá te pide que le llenes el cuenco —respondió la bruja, volviéndose de la alacena con el azucarero en la mano.
La conversación derivó hacia el nieto. La bruja preguntó por él con anhelo, pero su hija esquivó la pregunta con una oferta práctica.
—Te voy a mandar a alguien que te ayude con la limpieza.
—¡No quiero a nadie husmeando y moviendo mis cosas! —replicó la anciana, y su voz, más áspera de lo usual, espantó a Cenizo de la cocina—. Si mandas a alguien, lo echo a patadas.
Mientras la bruja se acercaba a la mesa con el puchero de café, su hija la observó. Notó una vacilación en sus pasos, una ligera extensión de la mano para tantear el borde de la mesa antes de depositar la cafetera. Una intuición fría comenzó a anudársele en el estómago.
El momento crucial llegó con una simpleza devastadora. Su madre alargó la mano hacia el azucarero de cerámica azul, lo tomó con seguridad y, con un gesto rutinario, espolvoreó una generosa cantidad de su contenido blanco sobre las dos tazas.
—Madre —preguntó la hija, clavando la mirada en ella—, el Berrocán, ¿vino por aquí hace poco?
—Sí, hace un par de semanas —contestó la bruja, distraída, sirviendo el café—. Quería comprar uno de esos coches sin carnet. Vino a que le leyera la mano, para saber si era buena idea.
—¿Y qué le dijiste?
—Que tenía la línea de la vida larguísima. Muy clara. Que sin duda era buena idea.
La hija tomó la taza. Llevó el borde a los labios y bebió un sorbo pequeño. Una explosión salada, intensa y desagradable, inundó su boca.
Todo encajó con un golpe seco y silencioso en su mente: la larga línea de vida, el accidente en el barranco, los pasos titubeantes, la mano que tanteaba la mesa, el azucarero azul. Entonces comprendió: no hubo magia oscura, ni vaticinio fallido. Solo una anciana, sus ojos nublados por los años, y un azucarero azul que, sin que nadie lo supiera, estaba lleno de sal.
Dejó la taza con suavidad sobre el plato. El ruido hizo que su madre alzara la vista.
—Madre —dijo la hija, y su voz sonó extrañamente calmada, como la superficie de un pozo muy profundo—. ¿Sabías que Berrocán se mató al caer con ese coche sin carnet por el barranco del molino?
La bruja parpadeó. Una sombra de genuina perplejidad cruzó su rostro arrugado.
—¿Qué dices? Eso es… muy extraño. A mí me pareció ver… ver que tenía la línea de la vida muy larga.
No hubo culpabilidad en su voz. Solo confusión. La confusión honesta de quien cree haber visto algo que no estaba allí.
La hija respiró hondo. La sospecha de un asesinato se desvaneció como humo. En su lugar, emergió una realidad mucho más simple, más frágil y mucho más triste.
—Mamá —susurró, y esta vez su voz tembló un poco—. Acabas de echar sal en el café. Has confundido la sal con el azúcar.
La bruja se quedó quieta. Por un instante, su orgullo férreo pareció querer negarlo, pero la evidencia era salada e incontestable en su propia taza. Sus dedos, huesudos y llenos de venas, se cerraron ligeramente sobre el borde de la mesa.
—Son los años, hija. Tonterías. No es nada.
—Es cataratas, madre. Tienes que ir al médico. A un oculista.
—¡En noventa años nadie ha tenido que curarme nada! —replicó, enderezando su cuerpo como un espectro indignado—. Y no pienso empezar ahora.
Pero la protesta ya no tenía la fuerza de antes. Sonaba a ritual, a frase aprendida. La hija vio, por primera vez, no a la bruja temida del pueblo, sino a una mujer anciana, terriblemente testaruda, que estaba perdiendo la vista y tenía demasiado miedo —o demasiado orgullo— para admitirlo.
—Tenemos que ir al centro de salud —insistió la hija, con una firmeza nueva—. Es solo una revisión.
—En esta familia —replicó la bruja, aunque su voz bajó un tono— los males se resuelven en casa.
Hablaron de otras cosas, de lo caro que estaba todo, del nieto en el colegio. La bruja sirvió otro café, y esta vez, con movimientos deliberadamente lentos y cuidadosos, tomó la bolsa del azúcar. Esta vez el café estaba azucarado.

 

mvf. 

La mujer del projimo

Cuando el último cliente salió del bar, la puerta del "Rincón de Antonio" se cerró con un golpe sordo. Rosario, con la espalda dolorida, recorrió el local vacío recogiendo vasos y ceniceros. El olor a tabaco y alcohol se mezclaba con el aroma de la lejía. Tras fregar la barra y barrer los cacahuetes esparcidos, abrió la caja registradora para contar la recaudación. Entre billetes y monedas, el rectángulo negro del móvil de su marido brilló bajo la luz tenue. Antonio lo había olvidado allí.
Rosario cogió el móvil .Su intención era guardarlo hasta su regreso, pero al hacerlo, su pulso rozó la pantalla y esta se iluminó de repente con un destello azulado mostrando una imagen en primer plano.
Durante un instante, su mente se negó a comprender. Solo registró una mancha de colores estridentes: el naranja chillón de una pared, el marrón de una madera barata... y reconoció al instante el decorado: uno de esos hoteles de carretera anónimos y cutres, un lugar para encuentros furtivos. En una esquina de la pantalla marcaba la fecha y la hora. La foto era de hacía dos días. De la misma tarde en que él, con su sonrisa más cariñosa, le había dado un beso en la frente prometiendo volver pronto

 —Tengo que ir a La Coruña, mi vida —dijo—. Es por los papeles del bar, una firma urgente en la gestoría. Tal vez tenga que regresar mañana.

  Después, como si un velo se rasgara, la imagen adquirió un significado devastador. Los brazos de Antonio, esos mismos que habían cargado mil cajas de botellas y la habían sostenido en noches de desvelo, rodeaban con íntima familiaridad la cintura de otra mujer. Sus dedos, callosos y conocidos, se hundían en el costado de su blusa blanca, abrazándola, poseyéndola.

Era más joven que ella. Tenía una risa fácil y juvenil, la cabeza ladeada y una mirada de triunfo que traspasaba la pantalla mientras hacia la foto de los dos, frente al espejo de la habitación de hotel. Su rostro reflejaba la satisfacción de quien ha conseguido lo que deseaba, y en su cuello lucía una cadena con un pequeño crucifijo de plata que brillaba con la arrogancia de un amor recién conquistado.

La sonrisa de él, era la sonrisa desvergonzada de alguien liberado de su vida, de sus ataduras, de su historia. Esa sonrisa le apuñaló el corazón. Veinte años de vida compartida, de sueños y sacrificios, se hicieron añicos en el frío rectángulo de cristal que temblaba en su mano.
El silencio del bar se volvió absoluto. El mundo de Rosario, tan ordenado como las botellas alineadas de las estanterías que había detrás de ella, se desmoronó. La sagrado no lloró. Una frialdad glacial, más cortante que el cuchillo para limpiar el hielo, se apoderó de ella. Al día siguiente, Antonio volvió de regresó con el cuento de la gestoría, traía un ramo de rosas amarilla para ella. Rosario lo recibió sirviéndole el café como siempre. Pero algo en sus ojos había cambiado, ya no eran el refugio cálido de siempre, sino un cristal frio.

 

Empezó con Don Emiliano, el viudo solitario, que siempre se sentaba en la mesa del la esquina de la barra.

—Parece cansado hoy, Don Emiliano. ¿Un coñac que le reconforte? —le dijo, sirviéndole una medida generosa.

—Usted es muy amable, Rosario. Este lugar sin usted no sería lo mismo.

Cuando su mano arrugada posó sobre la suya, ella no la retiró. Le dedicó una sonrisa que no era de camarera. Una hora después, con el bar ya vacío, se acercó.

—Don Emiliano, ¿sería tan amable de echarme una mano? Hay una caja de botellas en la trastienda que se me resiste.

El anciano asintió, con un brillo inusual en la mirada. La siguió entre las cortinas. En la trastienda, entre el polvo y el silencio de las cajas de cerveza vacías, Rosario se volvió hacia él.

—La caja es esa —mintió, señalando una pila cualquiera.

Don Emiliano se volvió, confundido. Entonces, ella cerró la distancia. No dijo una palabra. Solo apoyó una mano en su mejilla áspera y besó unos labios que sabían a soledad y tabaco negro. No hubo placer en aquel contacto, solo la textura áspera de una piel ajena. Cuando se separaron, la oscuridad ocultaba sus expresiones.

—Rosario, yo… —tartamudeó el viejo, desconcertado.

—Shhh —lo silenció ella, con una sonrisa triste—. No hace falta que diga nada. Me ha sido de gran ayuda.

 

Le siguió Mario, el joven albañil que trabajaba en la obra de enfrente. Musculoso, con la piel tostada por el sol y una sonrisa que era un desafío, siempre le había tirado el rollo con un descaro que rozaba lo grosero.

—Oye, Rosario, ¿cuándo me invitas a algo mejor que un café? —le soltó esa misma tarde, apoyado en la barra con una arrogancia que delataba sus veintipocos años.

Rosario, en lugar de ignorarle como siempre, le sostuvo la mirada. Una sonrisa leve, calculada, jugó en sus labios.
—Quizás algún dia llegue tu suerte, Mario.

Fue esa misma noche, cuando el último cliente se marchó y las luces se apagaron. Desde la puerta, vio la silueta de Mario fumando un último cigarro en la plaza. Actuó. Con un movimiento preciso, cerró la puerta del bar y dejó las llaves, grandes y visibles, colgando del lado interior de la cerradura. Luego, esperó para hacerle una señal y que la viese.

 
—Oye, Rosario, ¿estás bien? He visto que has cerrado, pero… ¿has dejado las llaves puestas?

Ella se acercó a la puerta de cristal, fingiendo consternación.
—Dios mío, tienes razón. Qué despiste. Mañana Antonio me mata.

Mario se irguió, inflando el pecho. El gallito de corral encontrando su momento de gloria.
—Tranquila, mujer. Yo te echo un cable.

Con una agilidad sorprendente, se coló por el callejón lateral y, tras forcejear un momento con la vieja y oxidada ventana del baño, consiguió abrirla desde fuera y se dejó caer dentro. Unos segundos después, la puerta principal se abría con un clic.

—¡Misio cumplido! —anunció, jactancioso, limpiándose el polvo del pantalón.

—Eres mi salvador, Mario —dijo Rosario, y su voz era una seda gruesa. Cerró la puerta con llave esta vez y se dirigió a la barra. Sacó una botella de whisky y sirvió dos generosas medidas sin preguntar.—Tómalo. Te lo has ganado.

Bebieron. Él, de un trago, ansioso. Ella, sorbiendo lentamente, observándolo sobre el borde del cristal. Sus ojos brillaban con una avidez que a ella le resultaba tan transparente como patética.

—Siempre he pensado que eras una mujer increíble, Rosario —masculló él, acercándose. El alcohol le daba un valor ficticio.

Ella no se movió cuando él rodeó su cintura con sus brazos fuertes. La levantó con facilidad y la sentó sobre la barra, fría incluso a través de la tela de su falda. Él se situó entre sus piernas, enterrando su rostro en su cuello, jadeando ya con un deseo urgente y primario. Sus manos, ásperas como lija, recorrían sus muslos.

Rosario dejó que sucediera. Apoyó las palmas en la fría superficie de zinc de la barra y dejó que su cuerpo que su cuerpo se relajara. No sintió nada cuando los labios de Mario empezaron a recorrer ansiosos su piel con hambre. Su mente estaba en otro lugar, mientras saboreaba la venganza en su amante.

 

 mvf

The Neighbor's Wife

When the last customer left the bar, the door of "Antonio's Corner" closed with a dull thud. Rosario, her back aching, moved through the empty establishment collecting glasses and ashtrays. The smell of tobacco and alcohol mingled with the scent of bleach. After scrubbing the bar and sweeping up the scattered peanuts, she opened the cash register to count the day's earnings. Among the bills and coins, the black rectangle of her husband's mobile phone shone under the dim light. Antonio had forgotten it there.

Rosario picked up the phone. Her intention was to put it away until his return, but as she did, her thumb brushed the screen and it suddenly lit up with a bluish glow, displaying a close-up image.

For a moment, her mind refused to comprehend. It only registered a smear of garish colours: the shrill orange of a wall, the brown of cheap woodwork... and she instantly recognized the setting: one of those anonymous, seedy roadside motels, a place for furtive encounters. In one corner of the screen, the date and time were displayed. The photo was from two days ago. From the very afternoon he, with his most affectionate smile, had kissed her forehead promising to return soon.

—"I have to go to La Coruña, my love," he had said. "It's for the bar's paperwork, an urgent signature at the accountant's. I might not be back until tomorrow."

Then, as if a veil had been torn, the image acquired a devastating meaning. Antonio's arms—the same ones that had carried a thousand crates of bottles and had held her on sleepless nights—were wrapped with intimate familiarity around another woman's waist. His calloused, familiar fingers dug into the fabric of her white blouse, embracing her, possessing her.

She was younger than her. She had an easy, youthful laugh, her head was tilted, and her gaze held a look of triumph that pierced through the screen as she took the picture of the two of them, facing the motel room mirror. Her face reflected the satisfaction of someone who has gotten what they wanted, and around her neck, she wore a chain with a small silver crucifix that glittered with the arrogance of a newly conquered love.

His smile was the shameless smile of someone freed from his life, from his attachments, from his history. That smile stabbed her heart. Twenty years of a shared life, of dreams and sacrifices, shattered into pieces in the cold rectangle of glass trembling in her hand.

The silence of the bar became absolute. Rosario's world, as orderly as the bottles lined up on the shelves behind her, crumbled. The woman did not cry. A glacial coldness, sharper than the ice-pick knife, took hold of her. The next day, Antonio returned with his tale about the accountant's office, bringing a bouquet of yellow roses for her. Rosario received him, serving his coffee as always. But something in her eyes had changed; they were no longer the warm refuge of before, but a cold pane of glass.

It started with Don Emiliano, the lonely widower, who always sat at the corner table by the bar.

—You seem tired today, Don Emiliano. A cognac to warm you up? — she said, pouring him a generous measure.

—You are very kind, Rosario. This place wouldn't be the same without you.

When his wrinkled hand rested on hers, she didn't pull away. She gave him a smile that wasn't one from a waitress. An hour later, with the bar now empty, she approached him.

—Don Emiliano, would you be so kind as to give me a hand? There's a box of bottles in the back room that's too much for me.

The old man nodded, with an unusual gleam in his eyes. He followed her through the curtains. In the back room, amidst the dust and the silence of the empty beer crates, Rosario turned to him.

—That's the box, — she lied, pointing to a random stack.

Don Emiliano turned, confused. Then, she closed the distance between them. She didn't say a word. She just placed a hand on his rough cheek and kissed lips that tasted of loneliness and black tobacco. There was no pleasure in that contact, only the rough texture of another's skin. When they separated, the darkness hid their expressions.

—Rosario, I... — the old man stammered, bewildered.

—Shhh, — she silenced him with a sad smile. —You don't need to say anything. You've been a great help to me.

Then came Mario, the young construction worker from the site across the street. Muscular, with skin tanned by the sun and a smile that was a challenge, he had always hit on her with a nerve that bordered on rudeness.

—Hey, Rosario, when are you going to invite me for something better than a coffee? — he tossed out that same afternoon, leaning on the bar with an arrogance that betrayed his twenty-something years.

Rosario, instead of ignoring him as usual, held his gaze. A faint, calculated smile played on her lips.
—Maybe your luck will change one day, Mario.

It was that same night, after the last customer had left and the lights were turned off. From the door, she saw Mario's silhouette smoking a final cigarette in the square. She acted. With a precise movement, she locked the bar door and left the keys, large and visible, hanging on the inside of the lock. Then, she waited to signal him so he would see.

—Hey, Rosario, are you okay? I saw you locked up, but... did you leave the keys in the door?

She approached the glass door, feigning consternation.
—My God, you're right. How careless. Antonio will kill me tomorrow.

Mario straightened up, puffing out his chest. The cock of the walk finding his moment of glory.
—Don't worry. I'll help you out.

With surprising agility, he slipped into the side alley and, after struggling for a moment with the old, rusty bathroom window, managed to open it from the outside and dropped inside. A few seconds later, the main door opened with a click.

—Mission accomplished! — he announced, boastfully, brushing the dust off his pants.

—You're my savior, Mario, — said Rosario, her voice like thick silk. She locked the door properly this time and walked to the bar. She pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured two generous measures without asking. —Here. You've earned it.

They drank. He, in one gulp, eager. She, sipping slowly, watching him over the rim of the glass. His eyes shone with an avarice that she found as transparent as it was pathetic.

—I've always thought you were an incredible woman, Rosario, — he mumbled, moving closer. The alcohol gave him fictitious courage.

She didn't move when he wrapped his strong arms around her waist. He lifted her easily and sat her on the bar, cold even through the fabric of her skirt. He positioned himself between her legs, burying his face in her neck, already panting with a primal, urgent desire. His hands, rough as sandpaper, roamed her thighs.

Rosario let it happen. She rested her palms on the cold zinc surface of the bar and let her body relax. She felt nothing as Mario's lips began to eagerly trace her skin with hunger. Her mind was elsewhere, savoring the taste of revenge in her lover.

***

**mvf**

The Camino de Santiago

 The warm morning sun caressed the quiet square. On the bar's terrace, Carmen and Charo, two lifelong friends, were chatting with the passion of those who have seen every defeat and every victory of their local basketball team. Carmen, a retired teacher, and Charo, who had dedicated her life to nursing, had met that day, as they did every Thursday, to honour a friendship that had given meaning to their routines for years.

"Hey, if Juanjo, our pivot, doesn't recover from his sprain, the Leones are in for a tough time this Friday," stated Carmen, taking a sip of her coffee with milk while rearranging the napkins lying disorderly on the table.

"Bah, nonsense. That last-minute signing, the power forward from Lugo, jumps higher than a kangaroo and is a bull under the hoop," replied Charo, adjusting her jersey over her shoulders. "He might not have Juanjo's experience, but I read he was the top shot-blocker in his league. Without Juanjo, we might lose some rebounding, but this guy brings an energy and defence to the team that we'll need in the upcoming games. You'll see."

Just at that moment, Carmen's gaze drifted beyond the square, where under some plane trees bordering the road, she saw a man with a large, dusty backpack strapped to his back, advancing with a tired but firm step. He carried a staff and an old scallop shell hanging from it, unmistakable symbols of a pilgrim. But something didn't add up.

Carmen frowned.
"Hey, Charo. That pilgrim is lost."
"What's wrong with him?" asked Charo, following her gaze.
"Look, he's walking in the opposite direction from Santiago."

The two women looked at each other; it was evident the man was walking away from where his goal was supposedly meant to be, and in that exchange of glances laden with female complicity, the same thought crossed their minds: they had to help.

They stood up decisively —Carmen picking up her purse and Charo making sure she had her keys— and approached the man.
"Hey, friend! Wait a moment!" called Charo with her clear, warm voice.

The pilgrim stopped. Under the hat, a pair of blue eyes, tired but serene, looked at them. He was tall, with an angular face and a few days' growth of beard.

"Do you speak Spanish?" asked Carmen softly.
"A little," the man replied with a foreign, but understandable, accent.
"It's just… you're going the wrong way. Santiago is the other way," Charo explained to him, elegantly pointing in the opposite direction.

However, the pilgrim, with his limited Spanish, couldn't quite grasp the explanation. He observed Charo's gestures with a polite but confused smile, nodding slightly without truly understanding the message.

The Norwegian —for that is what he was, as they would soon discover— was named Terje. He kindly accepted the invitation to sit and have a coffee. As he drank, he told them he had come from Oslo, walking for months across Europe. Carmen, with the maternal intuition that characterized her, noticed he was cold and offered him her knitted cardigan. Charo, for her part, insisted he order a full breakfast with that welcoming gesture she had inherited from her grandmother.

Faced with the curious questions from Carmen and Charo, Terje spoke of the fjords of Norway, of their abysses of dark water and gelid silence that froze and purified the soul. He described the midnight sun of the Arctic summer, so unreal and persistent that it blurred the line between dream and wakefulness.

"Oh, Oslo!" exclaimed Charo, her eyes shining with excitement. "Carmen and I are avid travellers. We've been to many places together... right, Carmina?"
Carmen nodded with a complicit smile. "Last year we were in Vienna, we loved it. But we've never made it to Oslo. I've always wanted to see those fjords you talk about."
"That's what we'll do on our next trip," confirmed Charo. "Even more so after listening to you."
Next, Terje told them of the infinite forests, those green lungs of Norway where the trees whisper secrets in a language older than men. He spoke of his journey and the solitude that accompanied it, of the weight and the lightness of carrying everything one needs on one's back.

The two friends, fascinated, listened to the stories Terje told them, exchanging looks of amazement and completely forgetting about the basketball game.

Carmen, a practical and resolute woman, gave a soft slap on the table.
"This won't do! You have to see Santiago with us! Come on, we'll take you."
"And then to lunch," added Charo while searching for something in her bag. "We're going to celebrate your journey! And I know just the perfect place."

Terje smiled, a little overwhelmed by such effusiveness, but he went along with the adventure. He thought they were two women of extraordinary kindness. In less than five minutes, the three of them were squeezed into Carmen's car, which still smelled of the lavender bouquets she always kept on the back seat.

In Santiago, the two friends acted as impromptu tour guides: they showed him the Cathedral façade and climbed the Bell Tower to enjoy the views over the rooftops. Afterwards, they went down to the squares, first to Quintana and then to Plaza de Platerías. To regain their strength, they had some cold beers in a bar on Rúa do Franco, where Charo chatted animatedly with the owner. Finally, they went for lunch at a seafood restaurant Carmen had known for years, where conversation and laughter flowed naturally, weaving complicity between dishes.

It was just after finishing coffee that Terje looked at his watch and said calmly:
"Thank you for everything, really. It has been an unexpected gift. But I must leave if I want to reach Sobrado dos Monxes this afternoon. It's the stage I had planned."

Carmen and Charo stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Sobrado? Why Sobrado? But weren't you heading to Santiago?" asked Charo, completely bewildered, instinctively bringing a hand to her chest.
"No," said Terje with an understanding smile. "I arrived in Santiago a week ago. Now I am on my return, walking back north. I planned to sleep in Sobrado dos Monxes today."

Everything fell silent for a moment. They had made the trip backwards! They had brought him right back to where he had come from. But instead of feeling ridiculous, the two friends looked at each other and began to laugh with that contagious laughter born of absurdity.

"Well, you're not going to sleep in Sobrado today!" exclaimed Carmen. "If we already brought you here by mistake, now we're taking you to the coast, to make up for it! You have to see Finisterre, the 'End of the World' cape, which is the true ancient path."

Terje, who had accepted the misunderstanding with gratitude, raised no further objections. The car roared back to life, this time heading for the coast, with Charo playing traditional Galician music and explaining the legends of each town they passed through. The Nordic pilgrim, who had undertaken a solitary journey of thousands of kilometres, discovered that sometimes the best plans are the ones broken by —or thanks to— the spontaneous kindness of two strangers. Little by little, the inland landscape gave way to the imminence of the ocean: the road now wound between moss-covered stone walls and centuries-old hórreos, until the vast blue expanse finally opened up before them.

In the late afternoon, they arrived at the tip of Finisterre. The wind blew strongly, swirling the clouds in a sky tinged with oranges and purples. Carmen, always prepared, pulled an old woollen blanket from the boot, thick and soft, smelling of car and roads travelled. Under its shelter, the three huddled shoulder to shoulder, sharing warmth as the ocean roared at their feet.

Terje, Carmen, and Charo sat on the rocks. Three souls united by a misunderstanding, a car smelling of lavender, and a detour. They watched as the sun began its descent over an ancient cliff, tamed by time, imbued with salt spray and the whisper of a million stories of sailors, shipwrecks, and returns, to merge with the waters of the Atlantic. All of it accompanied by the constant, almost breathing, rhythm of the ocean. They watched as that thin line of light, orange, red, and purple, slid away, narrowing until it disappeared into the blackness of the sea.

Behind them, the coastal woods rose like wild and mystical gardens, where stone and moss merge in perfect symbiosis. And beyond that, the known world: the Way, the villages, the warmth of a cup of broth. An intimate contrast against the immensity of the twilight.

"In my country," said Terje, breaking the silence, "we have a word: 'oresund'. It means the flash of light seen on the horizon after the sun has set. It's like a promise that it will return."
"Here we call it 'the green ray'," smiled Charo. "They say whoever sees it gains the gift of understanding their own heart."

None of them saw the green ray that sunset, but Terje felt something just as magical happening inside him. As the last strip of light vanished into the infinite horizon, he took out his pilgrim's credential —where he had stamped all the days of his journey— and a notepad in which he noted everything he had experienced. On a blank page where he should have written "Return to Sobrado dos Monxes", he wrote: "Finisterre. The Beginning."

Twilight gave way to a starry night, and the old blanket from the boot continued to warm them as the conversation flowed, increasingly slow and sleepy. The sound of the sea became a lullaby, and one by one, with their heads resting on each other's shoulders, without having planned it, the three fell asleep there, at the end of the world, rocked by the breath of the Atlantic. It was as if time, in that secluded corner, had gone into reverse: the wrinkles softened on their faces and the weight of the years faded from their bodies, revealing the young people they once were. The first rays of day found them like this, intertwined, with their hair and eyelashes glittering with the morning dew, slowly awakening with a new dawn on the horizon.

They would have breakfast in some bar in the town of Finisterre and return to Santiago. During the journey, Charo gave Terje a small woollen good-luck charm, while Carmen advised him on which paths to take on his return.

As they said goodbye with a warm embrace that seemed to stop time, Carmen rested her head on his shoulder and whispered near his ear:

"You know? My grandmother used to tell me that straight paths are for those in a hurry. Those of us who are wise," she added with a smile in her voice, "prefer the paths with twists and turns."

And in the farewell embrace, the three felt that an invisible thread had been created between them, one of those that time cannot break.

mvf.