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.

El camino de Santiago.

 

 

 El sol cálido de la mañana acariciaba la tranquila plaza. Sobre la terraza del bar, Carmen y Charo, dos amigas de toda la vida, charlaban con la pasión de quien ha visto todas las derrotas y todas las victorias de su equipo local de baloncesto. Carmen, maestra ya jubilada, y Charo, que había dedicado su vida a la enfermería, habían quedado ese día, como cada jueves, para honrar una amistad que llevaba años llenando de sentido sus rutinas.

 —Oye, que si Juanjo el que tenemos de pívot, no se repone de su esguince, los Leones lo van a pasar mal este viernes —sentenció Carmen, dando un sorbo a su café con leche mientras reorganizaba las servilletas que yacían desordenadas sobre la mesa.

—Bah, tonterías. Ese fichaje de última hora, el ala-pívot de Lugo, salta más que un canguro y es un toro debajo del aro —replicó Charo, ajustándose el jersey sobre los hombros—. Puede que no tenga la experiencia de Juanjo, pero leí que en su liga era el máximo taponador. Sin Juanjo, quizá perdamos algo de rebote, pero este tipo le da una energía y una defensa al equipo que nos harán falta en los próximos encuentros. Ya verás.
 
Justo en ese momento, la mirada de Carmen se desvió más allá de la plaza, para ver bajo unos plataneros que bordeaban la carretera a un hombre, con una mochila grande y polvorienta, cargada a la espalda, que avanzaba con paso cansado pero firme. Llevaba un bordón y la concha vieja colgando, inequívocos símbolos del peregrino. Pero algo no cuadraba.

Carmen frunció el ceño.
—Oye, Charo. Ese peregrino está perdido.
—¿Qué pasa con él? —preguntó Charo siguiendo la dirección de su mirada.
—Mira, va caminando en sentido contrario a Santiago.

 Las dos mujeres se miraron, era evidente que el hombre caminaba alejándose de donde supuestamente, debía estar su meta, y en ese intercambio de miradas cargado de complicidad femenina, un mismo pensamiento cruzó sus mentes: había que ayudar.

Se levantaron con decisión —Carmen recogiendo su bolso y Charo asegurándose de tener las llaves— y se acercaron al hombre.
—¡Oiga, amigo! ¡Un momento! —llamó Charo con su voz clara y cálida.

El peregrino se detuvo. Bajo el sombrero, unos ojos azules, cansados pero serenos, las miraron. Era alto, de rostro anguloso y una barba de varios días.

—¿Habla español? —preguntó Carmen con suavidad.
—Un poco —respondió el hombre con un acento extranjero, pero comprensible.
—Es que… va usted en dirección contraria. Santiago está para el otro lado —le explicó Charo, señalando con elegancia el camino opuesto.

Sin embargo, el peregrino, con su escaso español, no logró comprender la explicación. Observó los gestos de Charo con una sonrisa cortés pero confusa, asintiendo levemente sin entender realmente el mensaje.

El noruego —porque eso era, como pronto descubrirían— se llamaba Terje. Aceptó amablemente la invitación de sentarse a tomar un café. Mientras bebía, les contó que venía desde Oslo, caminando durante meses a través de Europa. Carmen, con esa intuición maternal que la caracterizaba, notó que tenía frío y le ofreció su chaqueta de punto. Charo, por su parte, le insistió en que pidiera un desayuno completo con ese gesto acogedor que había heredado de su abuela.

Ante las preguntas curiosas de Carmen y Charo, Terje habló de los fiordos de Noruega, de sus abismos de agua oscura y silencio gélido que helaban el alma y la purificaban. Describió la luz del sol de medianoche del verano ártico, tan irreal y persistente que borraba la línea entre el sueño y la vigilia.

—¡Ay, Oslo! —exclamó Charo, con los ojos brillantes de emoción—. Carmen y yo somos unas viajeras empedernidas. Hemos ido juntas a muchos sitios... ¿verdad, Carmina?
Carmen asintió con una sonrisa de complicidad—. El año pasado estuvimos en Viena, nos encantó. Pero nunca hemos llegado hasta Oslo. Siempre he querido ver esos fiordos que cuenta.
—Es lo que haremos en nuestro próximo viaje —confirmó Charo—. Después de escucharle, más aún.
A continuación, Terje les habló de los bosques infinitos, aquellos pulmones verdes de Noruega donde los árboles susurran secretos en un idioma anterior a los hombres. Les habló de su viaje y de la soledad que lo acompaña, del peso y la levedad de tener todo lo que uno necesita a la espalda.

Las dos amigas, fascinadas, escuchaban las historias que les contaba Terje intercambiando miradas de asombro y olvidándose por completo del partido de baloncesto.

Carmen, mujer práctica y resolutiva, dio una suave palmada en la mesa.
—¡Esto no puede ser! ¡Usted tiene que ver Santiago con nosotras! Vamos, le llevamos.
—Y luego a comer —añadió Charo mientras buscaba algo en su bolso—. ¡Que vamos a celebrar su viaje! Y tengo justo el sitio perfecto.

Terje sonrió, un poco abrumado por tanta efusividad, pero se prestó a la aventura. Pensó que eran dos mujeres de una amabilidad extraordinaria. En menos de cinco minutos, los tres iban apiñados en el coche de Carmen, donde aún olía a los ramos de lavanda que siempre llevaba en el asiento trasero.

 En Santiago, las dos amigas, hicieron de cicerones improvisados: le mostraron la fachada de la Catedral y subieron a la Torre de las Campanas para disfrutar de las vistas sobre los tejados. Después, bajaron a las plazas, primero a la Quintana y luego a la Plaza de Platerías. Para reponer fuerzas, se tomaron unas cervezas frías en un bar de la Rúa do Franco, donde Charo charló animadamente con el dueño. Finalmente, fueron a comer a una marisquería que Carmen conocía desde hacía años, donde la conversación y la risa fluyeron con naturalidad, tejiendo complicidades entre plato y plato.

Fue justo al terminar el café, cuando Terje miró el reloj y dijo con calma:
—Muchas gracias por todo, de verdad. Ha sido un regalo inesperado. Pero debo irme si quiero llegar a Sobrado dos Monxes esta tarde. Es la etapa que tenía planeada.

Carmen y Charo se quedaron mirándolo, pasmadas.
—¿Sobrado? ¿Por qué Sobrado? ¿Pero no iba usted hacia Santiago? —preguntó Charo, completamente desconcertada, llevándose instintivamente una mano al pecho.
—No —dijo Terje con una sonrisa comprensiva—. Yo llegué a Santiago hace una semana. Ahora estoy de regreso, caminando de vuelta hacia el norte. Pensaba dormir hoy en Sobrado dos Monxes.

Todo quedó en silencio por un momento. ¡Se había hecho el viaje al revés! Le habían traído justo al lugar de donde él venía. Pero en lugar de sentirse ridículas, las dos amigas se miraron y empezaron a reír con esa risa contagiosa que nace del absurdo.

—¡Hombre, pues hoy no va a ir a dormir a Sobrado! —exclamó Carmen—. ¡Si ya te trajimos hasta aquí por equivocación ahora te vamos a llevar a la costa, para compensar! Tiene que ver Finisterre, el cabo del fin del mundo, que es el verdadero camino milenario.

Terje, que había aceptado con gratitud la equivocación, no puso más objeciones. El coche volvió a rugir, esta vez rumbo a la costa, con Charo poniendo música tradicional gallega y explicando las leyendas de cada pueblo por el que pasaban. El peregrino nórdico, que había emprendido en solitario un viaje de miles de kilómetros, descubría que a veces los mejores planes son los que se rompen por culpa —o gracias— a la amabilidad espontánea de dos extrañas.. Poco a poco, el paisaje interior fue cediendo terreno a la inminencia del océano: la carretera serpenteaba ahora entre muros de piedra cubiertos de musgo y hórreos centenarios, hasta que por fin se abrió ante ellos la vasta extensión azul.

Al caer la tarde, llegaron a la punta de Finisterre. El viento soplaba con fuerza, arremolinando las nubes en un cielo teñido de naranjas y púrpuras. Carmen, siempre precavida, sacó del maletero una vieja manta de lana, gruesa y suave, que olía a coche, y a caminos recorridos. Bajo su cobijo, los tres se apretujaron hombro con hombro, compartiendo el calor mientras el océano rugía a sus pies.

Terje, Carmen y Charo se sentaron en las rocas. Tres almas unidas por un malentendido, un coche con olor a lavanda y un desvío. Vieron cómo el sol comenzaba su descenso sobre un acantilado de roca antigua, domesticada por el tiempo, impregnada por el salitre y el susurro de un millón de historias de navegantes, naufragios y regresos, para fundirse en las aguas del Atlántico. Todo ello acompañado por el ritmo constante, casi respiratorio, del océano. Observaron cómo se deslizaba esa delgada línea de luz, naranja, roja y púrpura, que se estrechaba hasta desaparecer en la negrura del mar.

A su espalda, los bosques de la costa se erguían como jardines salvajes y místicos, donde la piedra y el musgo se funden en una simbiosis perfecta. Y más allá, el mundo conocido: el Camino, los pueblos, la calidez de una taza de caldo. Un contraste íntimo frente a la inmensidad del crepúsculo.

—En mi país —dijo Terje, rompiendo el silencio— tenemos una palabra: "oresund". Significa el destello de luz que se ve en el horizonte cuando el sol ya se ha puesto. Es como una promesa de que volverá.
—Aquí le llamamos "el rayo verde" —sonrió Charo—. Dicen que quien lo ve tiene el don de entender su propio corazón.

Ninguno vio el rayo verde ese atardecer, pero Terje sintió que algo igual de mágico ocurría dentro de él. Mientras la última franja de luz desaparecía en el horizonte infinito, sacó la credencial del peregrino —donde llevaba sellados todos los días de su viaje— y un bloc en el que anotaba todo lo que había vivido. En una página en blanco donde debía poner "Regreso a Sobrado dos Monxes", escribió: "Finisterre. El principio".

El crepúsculo cedió su lugar a una noche estrellada, y la vieja manta del maletero siguió abrigándolos mientras la conversación fluía, cada vez más pausada y soñolienta. El sonido del mar se convirtió en una nana, y uno a uno, con la cabeza apoyada en el hombro del otro, sin haberlo contado, los tres se quedaron dormidos allí, en el fin del mundo, mecidos por la respiración del Atlántico. Era como si el tiempo, en aquel rincón apartado, hubiera dado marcha atrás: las arrugas se suavizaron en sus rostros y el tiempo vivido se desvaneció de sus cuerpos, dejando al descubierto a los jóvenes que una vez fueron. Los primeros rayos del día los encontraron así, entrelazados, con el pelo y las pestañas brillantes por el rocío de la madrugada, despertando lentamente con un nuevo amanecer en el horizonte.

Desayunarían en algún bar del pueblo de Finisterre y regresarían de vuelta a Santiago. Durante el trayecto, Charo le regaló a Terje un pequeño amuleto de lana para la buena suerte, mientras Carmen le daba consejos sobre qué caminos tomar en su regreso. 

Mientras se despedían con un abrazo cálido que parecía detener el tiempo, Carmen apoyó la cabeza en su hombro y susurró cerca de su oído:

—¿Sabes? Mi abuela solía decirme que los caminos rectos son para los que tienen prisa. Las que somos sabias —agregó con una sonrisa en la voz— preferimos los caminos con recovecos.

 Y en el abrazo de despedida, los tres sintieron que se había creado entre ellos un hilo invisible, de esos que el tiempo no logra romper.

 

mvf. 

Elara's Sparrow Micro story

 Grandma Elara's windowsill was the best place in the world. Or at least, that's what a sparrow, with feathers the color of dust and mud and a beak as curious as it was clumsy, thought. He perched there every morning at the same time.

It wasn't for the crumbs, although he accepted them with a polite chirp when the window opened. He had grown accustomed to watching, from the other side of the glass, the ritual of the grandmother waking up: the slow sip of coffee, the whisper of the pages of her book, the steady movement of her knitting needles.

The grandmother spent her days in a silence barely broken by the radio; she had grown used to not expecting visitors. And she talked to herself. She would tell herself how the garden was full of flowers in spring, how her late husband used to whistle songs that mimicked blackbirds, and how she missed the sound of her children's laughter in the house.

The sparrow watched her as she spoke, tilting his head from side to side, as if each word were a worm he could catch and decipher. One day, he brought her a gift: a lost blue button, which he dropped with a click onto the stone of the windowsill. The grandmother laughed for the first time in weeks when she discovered it.

The connection between the two was merely an invisible thread through the glass. Until the day of the accident.

A dry noise. A vase shattered on the kitchen floor. Then, a silence that lasted too long.

Through the glass, the sparrow spotted the inert body of Grandma Elara on the cold kitchen tiles. His wings stiffened in a frantic flutter as he pecked at the glass with anguished fury. Tap, tap, tap! But each blow resonated like a heartbeat of broken glass, so faint it blended with the whisper of the wind. The street, bare of life, returned only the echo of his despair. Suddenly, a new cold, sharp as a thorn, seized him, freezing his feathers: he understood that his silent cry would not wake her.

Then, he remembered. Upstairs, in the room facing the garden, there was a window always slightly ajar, with a crack that let air into the house. Without a second thought, he launched himself into the void, circled the house, and slipped through that narrow crack into the room. His flight, once free and sure in the vastness of the sky, immediately broke into abrupt, bewildered movements inside that room.

Searching for a way, or perhaps driven by a deeper impulse, he left the room and ventured into the dimness of the hallway. He was moving swiftly when, suddenly, on the impassive surface of a mirror, he glimpsed the silhouette of a stranger: a dark, fleeting apparition coming right at him. The startle was instant, forcing him to make a sharp twist in the air to avoid his own image, a pirouette of terror that sent him veering into the adjoining room. There, he clung to the lampshade, his heart pounding, trying to understand what he had seen and regain his lost direction.

It was then that he noticed a warm, penetrating aroma cutting through the household dust. The smell of bitter coffee pulled him like a magnet. He pushed off with renewed urgency and let himself be guided by that scent deeper into the house.

He flew low, his chest almost brushing the wooden floor. Suddenly, a chair blocked his path and, with a beat of his wings as fast as thought, he rose to evade it in an instant. So, after that last maneuver, he finally reached his destination and landed on the edge of the table, his little legs trembling. His small black eyes scrutinized the place: the remains of some crumbs on the countertop, the shine of the sink, the closed window reflecting a glimmer of the outside day. And, in the middle of the floor, lay Elara, stretched out and motionless. The sound of her faint, labored breathing was the only thing breaking the silence.

The bird flew again, landing on the back of a chair and, finally, on the woman's shoulder. He gently pecked her white hair and let out an urgent chirp, a sharp, clear sound.

What woke her wasn't the peck or the chirp, but the soft flutter of wings that brushed her cheek and made her feel she wasn't alone. The grandmother half-opened her eyes, dazed. She saw the little sparrow perched on the chair near her and understood. With effort, dragging herself, she managed to reach the cord of the old bell she always kept handy to call her neighbor. She rang it with all her might.

Hours later, with the help of her neighbor and after receiving the dose of morphine that barely calmed the internal fire consuming her, Grandma Elara was back home. The window remained wide open, like a promise. The sparrow had returned to the windowsill, where he was sunning himself and preening his feathers with an air of deep satisfaction.

There were no crumbs that day. Instead, there was a small dish with sunflower seeds, bought especially for him. And next to it, the blue button shone under the sun.

The grandmother slowly extended her hand, afraid of scaring him. And, for the first time, the sparrow, hopping a little closer, allowed fingers withered by time and pain to stroke his plumage. There was no need to speak. In that instant, Elara's labored breathing seemed to calm, as if the simple, brave act of trust from the bird had breathed into her the spark of strength she needed to keep living.

 

mvf 

El gorrión de Elara. micro relato

El alfeizar de la ventana de la abuela Elara era el mejor lugar del mundo. O, al menos, eso pensaba un gorrión con plumas del color del polvo y el barro, y un pico tan curioso como torpe, que se posaba allí todas las mañanas a la misma hora.

No era por las migajas, aunque las aceptaba con un gorjeo educado cuando se abría la ventana. Se había acostumbrado a ver, desde el otro lado del cristal, el ritual de la abuela al levantarse: el lento sorbo del café, el susurro de las páginas de su libro, el movimiento pausado de sus agujas de tejer.

La abuela pasaba los días en un silencio apenas roto por la radio, se había acostumbrado a no esperar visitas. Y hablaba sola. Se contaba cómo el jardín estaba lleno de flores en primavera, cómo su difunto marido silbaba canciones que imitaban a los mirlos, y cómo extrañaba el sonido de las risas de sus hijos en la casa.

El gorrión la observaba mientras hablaba, inclinando la cabeza de un lado a otro, como si cada palabra fuera un gusano que podía atrapar para descifrar. Un día, le llevó un regalo: un botón azul perdido, que dejó caer con un clic sobre la piedra del alfeizar. La abuela rió por primera vez en semanas, cuando lo descubrió.

La conexión entre los dos era apenas un hilo invisible a través del vidrio. Hasta que llegó el día del accidente.

Un ruido seco. Un jarrón hecho añicos en el suelo de la cocina. Luego, un silencio demasiado largo.

A través del cristal, el gorrión divisó el cuerpo inerte de la abuela Elara sobre las losas frías de la cocina. Sus alas se crisparon en un aleteo frenético mientras picoteaba el cristal con furia angustiada. ¡Tap, tap, tap! Pero cada golpe resonaba como un latido de cristal roto, tan tenue que se fundía con el susurro del viento. La calle, desnuda de vida, le devolvío solo eco de su desesperación. De pronto lo embargó un frío nuevo, afilado como espina, que le heló las plumas: comprendió que su grito mudo no la despertaría.

Entonces, recordó. En el piso de arriba, en la habitación que daba al jardín, había una ventana siempre entreabierta, con un resquicio que permitía entrar el aire en la casa. Sin mediar pensamiento, se lanzó al vacío, rodeó la casa y se deslizó por aquel angosto resquicio hacia el interior de la habitación. Su vuelo, antaño libre y seguro en la inmensidad del cielo, se quebró de inmediato en movimientos abruptos y desconcertados en el interior de aquel cuarto.

Buscando un camino, o tal vez arrastrado por un impulso más profundo, abandonó la habitación y se adentró en la penumbra del pasillo. Avanzaba veloz cuando, de pronto, en la superficie impasible de un espejo, vislumbró la silueta de un extraño: una aparición oscura y fugaz que se le venía encima. El sobresalto fue instantáneo, obligándolo a realizar un quiebro brusco en el aire para evitar su propia imagen, una pirueta de terror que lo desvió hacia la habitación contigua. Allí se aferró a la pantalla de una lámpara, con el corazón palpitándole con fuerza, tratando de comprender qué había visto y recuperar el rumbo perdido.

Fue entonces cuando notó que lo rodeaba un aroma cálido y penetrante que se abría paso entre el polvo doméstico. El olor a café amargo lo atravesó como un imán. Se impulsó entonces con renovada urgencia y se dejó llevar por ese aroma que lo guiaba al interior de la casa.

Volaba bajo, casi rozando el suelo de madera con el pecho. De pronto, una silla se interpuso en su trayectoria y, con un batir de alas tan rápido como el pensamiento, se elevó para esquivarla en un instante. Así, tras aquella última maniobra, al fin llegó a su destino y se posó en el borde de la mesa, con las patitas temblorosas. Sus pequeños ojos negros escudriñaron el lugar: los restos de unas migas sobre la encimera, el brillo del fregadero, la ventana cerrada que devolvía un destello del día exterior. Y, en medio del suelo, yacía Elara, extendida e inmóvil. El sonido de su débil y agitada respiración era lo único que quebraba el silencio.

El ave voló de nuevo para posarse en el respaldo de una silla y, finalmente, en el hombro de la mujer. Picoteó suavemente su pelo cano y emitió un gorjeo urgente, un sonido agudo y claro.

Lo que la despertó no fue el picotazo ni el gorjeo, sino el suave aleteo que le rozó la mejilla y le hizo sentir que no estaba sola. La abuela entreabrió los ojos, aturdida. Vio al pequeño gorrión posado en la silla, cerca de ella, y lo entendió. Con un esfuerzo, arrastrándose, logró alcanzar el cordel de la antigua campanilla que siempre tenía a mano para llamar a su vecina. La hizo sonar con todas sus fuerzas.

Horas después, ya con la ayuda de su vecina y tras haber recibido la dosis de morfina que apenas calmaba el fuego interno que la consumía, la abuela Elara estaba de vuelta en casa. La ventana permanecía abierta de par en par, como una promesa. El gorrión había regresado al alfeizar, donde tomaba el sol arreglándose las plumas con aire de profunda satisfacción.

No hubo migajas ese día. En su lugar, había un pequeño plato con semillas de girasol, compradas expresamente para él. Y a su lado, el botón azul brillaba bajo el sol.

La abuela extendió la mano lentamente, temerosa de asustarlo. Y, por primera vez, el gorrión, al saltar un poco más cerca, permitió que unos dedos marchitos por el tiempo y el dolor acariciaran su plumaje. No hacía falta hablar. En ese instante, la respiración agitada de Elara pareció calmarse, como si el simple y valiente acto de confianza del ave le hubiese insuflado la chispa de fuerza que necesitaba para continuar viviendo.

 

mvf 

The Chicken on the Bus, a Trip to the Past - Microstory

 The day dawned sunny over the Lemos valley, bathing the main square in light where the neighbors had gathered to culminate a community initiative. It had all started with the idea of rescuing one of the old buses that used to run through the town in the 1960s. After locating an identical unit, one of them, they dedicated themselves to repairing and completely restoring it. And now, the fruit of that effort was in the middle of the town hall square: a band played festive marches while people crowded around to see the old bus. A blue and white relic in the middle of the Plaza de España, ready to travel through the most beautiful landscapes of the province.

The President of the Provincial Council, who remained standing as people crowded around the bus, in his best suit and with a broad smile, took the microphone:

"Friends and neighbors! Today is a historic day. We are inaugurating not just a bus, but a bridge to our past. This bus will revive the old routes that connected us with our neighbors for so many years: the one run by that old Austin bus of 'el Raulito,' which connected us with Sarria, or the Pegaso we used to travel to Chantada in. And now, without further ado… let the journey begin!"

Among the people of Monforte, a small, smiling woman, Marisé, watched with a mixture of nostalgia and emotion. Suddenly, one of the girls from the town council's tourism office, who was handing out informational papers to the residents, approached her.

"Marisé, you were a regular on the old line, when you went to Santiago, weren't you?"

Marisé took the informational paper being offered to her with her rough hands, emotional.
"Oh, yes! How could I forget those trips on el Raulito to Sarria. Thank you, thank you!"

Before boarding, Marisé had an idea. She ran to her neighbor Concha's house.
"Concha, can you lend me a chicken just for today? It's for the bus trip the town hall is organizing, to remember the old times."

Concha, who was at the door of her house in San Vicente, smiled.
"With your odd ideas again, Marisé? Of course, I'll lend you a chicken, come in, but take Clotilde. Take care of her, she's the best layer."

"Don't worry! A thousand thanks, Concha." And so, Marisé boarded the splendid bus with a wicker basket from which poked the head of a beautiful red and black hen, Clotilde.

The journey began. The bus's interior had been modernized, with leather seats and air conditioning. The guests, authorities and journalists, were elegantly dressed. Upon seeing Marisé with her chicken, the murmurs began immediately.

A woman in a suit jacket, a right-wing councilwoman, visibly moved away.
"But what is that? A chicken on the bus? This is unhygienic and an absolute nonsense."

A man with a tie added under his breath, with disdain:
"This is so provincial, and in very poor taste. Who let this woman on board? It's like we've gone back fifty years."

From the middle seats, another female voice whispered in annoyance:
"With all the money it cost to restore this vehicle, for them to now turn it into a chicken coop. It makes you want to get off."

Marisé, feeling the disapproving looks, shrank into her seat at the back of the bus, stroking the basket.
"Don't pay them any mind, Clotilde," she whispered. "They don't understand, not one bit."

After an hour of driving along winding roads with spectacular views, they arrived at the Belesar Reservoir lookout. The blue waters reflected the sun like a mirror. A stop there was planned, and someone in the front seats stood up and shouted:

"How beautiful! Let's stop and take a group photo to remember this moment!"

They got off the bus and everyone arranged themselves smiling in front of the photographer's camera. The President of the Provincial Council stood in the center, but suddenly, his expression changed. He looked around, searching for something. His eyes fixed on Marisé, who had stayed on the sidelines, apart from the group with her basket.

"Wait a moment! This photo is missing something!" he exclaimed. "It lacks authenticity! You and your chicken, please, come here to the center with me!"

An uncomfortable silence swept through the group. Marisé, surprised and hesitant, approached.
"Are you sure, Mr. President?"

"Of course!" he said, putting his arm around her. "This wasn't just a bus, it was a journey of life. It was full of baskets, chickens, conversations! This lady and her chicken are the living memory of what we are remembering on this trip! Today, they are the most important thing here."

The photographer fired the camera: flash. In that instant, everything changed.

The photo became a magnet. Suddenly, everyone wanted a selfie with Marisé and Clotilde.

"Marisé, please, take another one with me!" begged the woman in the suit jacket, now with a wide smile.

"Yes, yes! Me too!" shouted the man with the tie, stroking Clotilde's back as she clucked in confusion.

The President of the Provincial Council laughed.
"Look! This is how it was! This is the true essence of our land!"

The return trip was completely different. Marisé and Clotilde were the undisputed heroines. Everyone crowded around her seat to talk to her and listen to her stories of the journeys of yesteryear; to offer corn cake to the hen.

"Well, I used to travel with the Castromil company to Santiago... And going up the curves of the road to Chantada, the clucking of the hens was louder than the bus engine... It was so full of baskets and people, it was like we were all going on a picnic. And what a fright I got once! I was asleep and woke up just as the bus was taking a sharp curve, and I saw the Miño River so far down below from up high!"

Laughter and camaraderie had taken over the bus.

Back in Monforte, as evening fell, Marisé got off with her basket, overflowing with happiness. And she headed to Concha's house.

"Marisé, dear, you're back!" she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Concha, thank you so much!" she said, trying to return the hen to her. "It's been the most beautiful day in years. Here, Clotilde is perfectly fine."

But Concha gently closed Marisé's hand over the basket, looking at her with a slight expression of concern.

"No, Marisé. You keep her."

Marisé held back a sigh. She was exhausted.

"What? No, Concha, it was a loan… it's just that... my apartment is very small and I don't know where.."

"I saw how you came back," said Concha affectionately. "The look of happiness on your face. That chicken brought you luck and made you happy today. Besides, I have so many hens, one less won't be noticed in the coop. It's a gift. So you don't travel alone."

Marisé looked at Clotilde, who looked back at her with her small, round, inquisitive eyes. Then she looked at her neighbor, who was refusing to take her hen back.

"I don't know how to thank you, Concha. But what am I going to do with a chicken in my apartment?"

"What?" asked the neighbor, closing her door.

Marisé was left standing on the landing, with the box in her hands and the chicken moving inside. Defeated, she turned the key and entered her apartment.
"This is a prison!" thought the hen, pecking a hole in the basket to widen her field of vision. "Where is my little coop? Where is the company of my sisters? This young woman has kidnapped me and locked me in this dark, moving cubicle. Cluck! (Which means: I protest!)"

Marisé left the basket on the kitchen floor and got in the shower, letting the hot water wash the tiredness and frustration from her body. The sound of the water drowned out the soft clucks of indignation coming from the kitchen.

"Finally, silence," thought the hen as the torrent of water ceased. "Now is my chance. I must escape from this damp cell."

With determination, she pecked at the tape securing the basket until the lid gave way. She jumped onto the cold tiled floor and scrutinized the territory. Her instinct told her she needed a safe, high, soft place to lay the eggs she had been holding in for days. Her gaze fell on the adjoining room. There, illuminated by the faint light of a lamp, was a soft, promising mountain: Marisé's bed.

"The perfect nest!" she thought, triumphant. "High, silky, and cozy. This girl, despite everything, has some taste. Cluck-k-k! (Success!)"

She nimbly fluttered up and settled into the soft bed, finally feeling the peace and security necessary to fulfill her cosmic duty.

Marisé, wrapped in her bathrobe with her hair still damp, headed to the bed dreaming only of melting into the mattress. But as she sat on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp, she felt she had sat on something wet. A scream escaped her lips.

"NOOO!! IT CAN'T BE!"

There, perched on the footboard of the bed, the hen looked at her with an air of deep satisfaction. While two small, still-warm broken eggs stained the silk bedspread.

"My masterpiece!" thought the hen, proudly. "A tribute to my lineage. Now this human will understand my value and return me to my dream coop. Cluck-cluck!"

It was a silent but powerful argument.

But the reaction was not what she expected. Marisé's eyes showed not admiration, but absolute horror. With a cry of rage, she grabbed the hen with both hands.

"Out! Get out of here, you filthy thing!" she shouted, running towards the living room window.

Marisé yanked the window open and, with a furious gesture, threw the hen out into the freedom of the night.

The animal, flapping hard and uttering a series of outraged clucks, glided with the style of a feathered bird over the deserted Roberto Baamonde street before landing with dignity on top of a car.

"Fine!" she thought, smoothing her feathers. "If they don't appreciate art, I'll return to my coop. To give away my eggs!"

Marisé, after watching the hen land and get off the car to head in the direction of her coop, slammed the window shut and leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. Then, she looked at her sullied bed and her shoulders sank.

The journey was over, and with it, the day.

 

mvf.