the nightmare

 **(3:47 a.m.)**

Marisé has been writing for three hours. The beer is warm. The cursor blinks in front of a sentence that won't quite close.

She reads what she's just written:

*I've been coming here for five years, imagining that one day I'd have you in front of me. I don't know your name, or your face. I only know that I would recognize you.*
*Today the café is closing forever. So I'm writing this letter for you. I'll leave it in some book at the library. I know that if you're out there somewhere, you'll find it. And you'll look for me.*
*If someday you come…*

The young woman sighs and looks away from the letter she's writing. Around her, the café is almost empty. The dark wooden chairs, chipped from use, rest upside down on the tables. On the counter, a row of glass jars holds spoons and napkins that no one will ever ask for again. The brass lamps, once warm, now flicker as if they too are saying goodbye. On the walls of broken tiles, you can still make out posters of poetry readings and concerts from years ago. It smells of freshly brewed coffee, mixed with dust and damp wood. Outside, the gray November drizzle fogs the windows, and passersby walk past without knowing that inside here a woman is writing a letter to a stranger.

*If someday you come… find me in the folded pages.*

The cursor blinks. Then she writes, almost without thinking, a line that came to her while she was dozing off:

*"If someday you come, look for me in the folded pages."*

She stares at the screen. It seems silly to her. Too neat. Too fake. She deletes it. Writes it again. Deletes it.

"That's it," she says out loud. "It's no good."

She slams the laptop shut. Takes a gulp of beer — leaves the glass with a sip left at the bottom. Turns off the light. Gets into bed.

(Five minutes later, in bed)

Pillow — Are you really going to leave what you wrote like that?
Marisé — Shut up.
Pillow — That sentence is going to haunt you all night.
Marisé — The laptop is closed.
Pillow — And you're crazy. But it's still there.

Marisé covers her head. She falls asleep. And she dreams. The screen is on. Against the white background, the cursor blinks and types on its own, as if someone else were dictating.

*She arrives by train. Everything has been rebuilt, but not the same. She walks down the street where she used to live. The house is still there, but the garden no longer has the blue gate. She rings the bell. A voice answers through the intercom: "Yes?"*
*Marisé opens her mouth to speak, but doesn't know what to say. The voice repeats: "Who is it?" She wants to answer: "I'm the one who left the letter inside a book," but the words get stuck in her throat.*

The cursor keeps writing:

*She tries to delete it. The keys don't respond. The cursor goes off and on, blinking to the rhythm of her heartbeat.*

"Damn you," she whispers.

The cursor writes more slowly:

*She is in a white room, without windows, with a single door at the end. She knows that on the other side someone is waiting for her. She doesn't know how she knows, but she feels it in her bones. She walks toward the door. Her hand on the handle. She turns it. The door opens slowly and… Marisé feels the warm air coming from inside, from the new room.*
*But she doesn't cross. She can't. Instead of crossing the threshold, she suddenly finds herself on an unfamiliar sidewalk, in front of a house she's never seen before but recognizes as her own. She reaches her arm toward the doorbell, her fingertip millimeters from the button.*
*There she stands, her finger trying to reach the bell, wishing they knew she was there. That they would open the door so she could enter.*
*Then the house begins to move away. It's not that she steps back: the ground stretches, her legs fill with lead, her lungs with sand, while the doorbell and the house recede. She wants to run, but she falls further and further behind. In the end, the doorbell becomes a tiny dot. The facade, a gray smudge. And it disappears, dissolved into the distance like ink in water.*

Marisé wakes up with the sheets tangled around her feet and the echo of a name that was never spoken.

*She's sitting in front of the laptop.*
*…right there she has to say something important — the cursor continues —, but the only phrase that comes out is:*

The cursor blinks three times. Then it stops. It doesn't write anything else.

The screen goes black. But it keeps glowing.

**(6:12 a.m.)**

Marisé wakes with a start. An unbearable noise: someone left the alarm on her phone. It vibrates. It rings. Rings. Rings.

It's 6:12 a.m.

She hears footsteps above her. The phone stops ringing.

But now she can't get back to sleep. She sits up, stretching. Her head feels heavy. She sees the laptop on the table. It was on all night.

"Damn you," she repeats, like in the dream.

She slaps it. Closes the lid with a sharp bang. Picks up the glass she left half-finished the night before — the beer is already flat, almost watery and sickly sweet — but she still drinks the rest.

The screen, as it finally powers down, casts one last faint glow into the darkness of the black lid, as if it hadn't quite turned off. For an instant, Marisé thinks about sitting down again to write, one last line:

*"If someday you come… ring the bell. I'll be here, waiting."*

Marisé stares at the black lid.

She takes a deep breath.

"I just want to know your name," she whispers. That's all.

She goes to make coffee.

THE END

 

 mvf 

La pesadilla

(3:47 a.m.)

Marisé lleva tres horas escribiendo. La cerveza está tibia. El cursor parpadea frente a una frase que no termina de cerrar.

Lee lo que acaba de escribir:

Llevo cinco años viniendo aquí, imaginando que un día te tendría enfrente. No sé tu nombre, ni tu cara. Solo sé que te reconocería.

Hoy cierran el café para siempre. Así que escribo esta carta para ti. La dejaré en algún libro de la biblioteca. Sé que si estás en alguna parte, la encontrarás. Y me buscarás.

Si algún día llegas…

La joven suspira y aparta la vista de la carta que está escribiendo. A su alrededor, el café está casi vacío. Las sillas de madera oscura, desconchadas por el uso, descansan boca arriba sobre las mesas. Sobre la barra, una hilera de tarros de cristal guarda cucharillas y servilletas que ya nadie pedirá. Las lámparas de latón, antaño cálidas, ahora parpadean como si también se estuvieran despidiendo. En las paredes de azulejos rotos aún se adivinan carteles de recitales de poesía y conciertos de hace años. Huele a café recién hecho, mezclado con polvo y madera húmeda. Afuera, la llovizna gris de noviembre empaña los ventanales, y los transeúntes pasan sin saber que aquí dentro una mujer está escribiendo una carta a un desconocido.

Si algún día llegas… encuentrame en las páginas dobladas.

El cursor parpadea. Ella escribe entonces, casi sin pensar, una línea que le llegó mientras dormitaba:

«Si algún día llegas, búscame en las páginas dobladas.»

Se queda mirando la pantalla. Le parece una tontería. Demasiado redonda. Demasiado falsa. Borra. Vuelve a escribir. Borra.

—Ya está —dice en voz alta—. No sirve.

Cierra el portátil de un golpe seco. Bebe un trago de cerveza —deja el vaso con un sorbo en el fondo—. Apaga la luz. Se mete en la cama.

(Dentro de la cama, a los cinco minutos)

Almohada —¿De verdad vas a dejar así lo que escribiste?
Marisé —Cállate.
Almohada —Esa frase va a brillar toda la noche.
Marisé —El portátil está cerrado.
Almohada —Y tú estás loca. Pero ahí sigue.

Marisé se tapa la cabeza. Se duerme. Y sueña. La pantalla está encendida. Sobre el fondo blanco, el cursor parpadea y escribe solo, como si alguien más estuviera dictando.

Llega en tren. Todo está reconstruido, pero no igual. Camina por la calle donde vivía antes. La casa sigue ahí, pero el jardín ya no tiene la verja azul. Toca el timbre. Una voz responde por el interfono: «¿Sí?»

Marisé abre la boca para hablar, pero no sabe qué decir. La voz repite: «¿Quién es?» Ella quiere responder: «Soy la que dejó la carta dentro de un libro», pero las palabras se quedan pegadas en la garganta.

El cursor sigue escribiendo:

Ella intenta borrarlo. Las teclas no responden. El cursor se apaga y se enciende, parpadeando al ritmo de los latidos de su corazón.

—Maldito seas —susurra.

El cursor escribe más lento:

Está en una habitación blanca, sin ventanas, con una sola puerta al fondo. Sabe que al otro lado hay alguien que la espera. No sabe cómo lo sabe, pero lo siente en los huesos. Camina hacia la puerta. La mano en el picaporte. Gira. La puerta se abre lentamente y… Marisé percibe el aire tibio que viene del interior, de la nueva estancia.

Pero no cruza. No puede. En lugar de atravesar el umbral, se ve de pronto en una acera desconocida, frente a una casa que nunca había visto antes pero que reconoce como suya. Estira el brazo hacia el timbre, la yema del dedo a milímetros del botón.

Ahí se queda, con el dedo tratando de alcanzar el timbre, deseando que sepan que está ahí. Que le abran para poder entrar.

Entonces la casa comienza a alejarse. No es que ella retroceda: es el suelo el que se estira, las piernas se le llenan de plomo, los pulmones de arena, mientras el timbre y la casa se alejan. Quiere correr, pero se queda cada vez más atrás. Al final, el timbre se vuelve un punto diminuto. La fachada, una mancha gris. Y desaparece, disuelta en la distancia como tinta en agua.

Marisé despierta con las sábanas enredadas en los pies y el eco de un nombre que nunca pronunciaron.

Está sentada frente al portátil.

…justo ahí tiene que decir algo importante —sigue el cursor—, pero la única frase que le sale es:

El cursor parpadea tres veces. Luego se detiene. No escribe nada más.

La pantalla se vuelve negra. Pero sigue brillando.

 

(6:12 a.m.)

Marisé despierta de golpe. Un ruido insoportable: alguien dejó puesto el despertar de su teléfono. Vibra. Suena. Suena. Suena.

Son las 6:12 a.m.

Oye unos pasos por encima de ella. El teléfono deja de sonar.

Pero ahora ya no consigue dormirse de nuevo. Se incorpora, estirándose. La cabeza le pesa. Ve el portátil sobre la mesa. Estuvo encendido toda la noche.

—Maldito seas —repite, como en el sueño.

Le da un manotazo. Cierra la tapa con un golpe seco. Coge el vaso que dejó a medio terminar la noche anterior —la cerveza ya está sin fuerza, casi aguada y dulzona—. Pero aún así, bebe el resto.

La pantalla, mientras termina de apagarse, lanza un último resplandor tenue en la oscuridad de la tapa negra, como si no se hubiera apagado del todo. Por un instante, Marisé piensa en volver a sentarse para escribir, una última línea:

«Si algún día llegas… toca el timbre. Yo estaré aquí, esperando.»

Marisé se queda mirando la tapa negra.

Respira hondo.

—Solo quiero saber tu nombre —susurra. Eso es todo.

Se dirige a preparar café.

FIN

mvf

Altolaguirre - cuento de terror

Prólogo.

En una cafetería cualquiera, en la parada del autobús, mirando las revistas del quiosco, deambulando en una tarde de octubre, caminando por la calle; o tal vez cruzando en sentido contrario un puente psicofísico entre el mundo paralelo de Marise y el mundo de la realidad, dos personas totalmente diferentes intercambian sus miradas y, al final del día, descubren sin querer que sus destinos caminan inseparablemente el uno junto al otro.

El día a día con Wigfredo.
por Marise

Cuando Wigfredo se sienta delante de un papel en blanco y acaba haciendo historias que no pretendía escribir, la responsable soy yo —iba a decir «esta pantalla en blanco», pero nuestros lectores aún no están preparados para asumir las consecuencias de abandonar el papel—.
Yo soy la que da un poco de extensión a las historias que aquí contamos y el toque femenino.

Wigfredo llega a casa, tira la chaqueta encima de… y ya se olvidó de ella hasta que un día se acuerda de que tiene chaqueta y pregunta:
—¿Viste mi chaqueta gris?
—¿Por qué? ¿Compraste una chaqueta?
—No, no. La de siempre.
—¿No será una que dejaste tirada en la habitación y ya no te acordaste más de ella? Porque un día me cansé de verla y la colgué en el armario. ¿Sabes dónde está el armario, no? Donde las personas dejan la ropa recogida…

Yo no quiero tirarme méritos, pero digamos que soy la que suda la camiseta y la que pone la lavadora en este blog.

Quiero aclarar que a mí lo que realmente me gusta es leer revistas de fotografías de color y ponerle bigotes prusianos a las mujeres. Si invento estas historias es por ayudar a Wigfredo, que es tímido y medio tonto, y para evitar que sea el protagonista de los líos en que se mete.

Ya de pequeñito Wigfredo destacaba por su manera de hablar:

—¡A ver, niños, traedme vuestros cuadernos con los deberes hechos!
—Profesora, yo tengo una prima que un día que pidieron los deberes en clase se había olvidado la libreta en casa.
—Le dices a tu prima que mañana traiga a clase veinte copias de los deberes que tenias que traer hechos hoy.

Martes trece.

—Profesora, el otro día, al atardecer, mi prima pasaba con sus padres por delante del colegio, cuando regresaban a casa de pasear, y creyó ver la sombra de un niño en una de las ventanas.

—No te preocupes. Seguramente lo que te parecía un niño sería Altolaguirre, que andaría apagando las luces de las clases.

—¿Altolaguirre?

—Altolaguirre era un profesor del colegio muy cariñoso con los niños, pero a veces pasan cosas que no debieran ocurrir. A ver, Altolaguirre: que falte un niño aún tiene un pase. Se pasa una raya por encima de los nombres, en la lista de los que vinieron a clase y ya está. 

—Altolaguirre: que falte un niño aún tiene un pase. Se pasa una raya por encima de los nombres, en la lista de los que vinieron a clase y ya está. El padre llama por la tarde preguntando si su hijo vino, y nosotros decimos que no, que en la lista no aparece, y asunto arreglado. 

 Pero que le falte un brazo a un niño… Altolaguirre, todo el mundo se fija en que a un niño le falta un brazo. ¿Y cómo lo vamos a explicar si el brazo no aparece?

—¡A ver, Altolaguirre, coge un lápiz y haz el dibujo de un niño ahí, en una hoja! Lo primero que hace cualquiera al hacer un dibujo de un niño es ponerle cuatro extremidades. ¡Dibuja un niño sin un brazo! A ver, mira el dibujo que acabas de hacer. Lo primero que piensa alguien si ve un niño sin un brazo es que pasa algo.

—Altolaguirre, ¿tú tienes algún trauma infantil?

—¡Mi mamá decía que soy introvertido!

—Mira, Altolaguirre, como eres el hijo del jefe, lo que vamos a hacer es que sigas viniendo a trabajar todos los días, pero te quedas escondido en el cuarto de debajo de la escalera de la entrada, sin que te vea nadie.

 Y así, Altolaguirre se esconde en el cuarto bajo la escalera de la entrada del colegio. Por un resquicio de la pequeña puerta oblicua, cuenta los niños que entran a primera hora de la mañana y los que salen cuando acaban las clases por la tarde. Así se asegura de que no quede nadie olvidado dentro, y de que ningún niño vuelva a desaparecer sin más explicación que una raya en un papel.

  Bueno después de leer está historia os habréis dado cuenta que es mejor que escriba yo en vez de wigfredo y además si el lector no lo ha comprendido aún esta historia es para que se pueda leer sobre quien maneja la pluma y descubrir si no seremos la prima de wigfredo.

A veces hay que ver más allá de los hechos que ocurren para descubrir lo previsible que es el caos.

 

mvf.

 

 Esta historia de publicó originariamente como : la metacognición de wigfredo. 

 

 

 

 

 

Altolaguirre - horror story

Prologue.

In any given café, at the bus stop, looking at the magazines in the newsstand, wandering on an October afternoon, walking down the street; or perhaps crossing in opposite directions a psychophysical bridge between Marise’s parallel world and the world of reality, two completely different people exchange glances and, by the end of the day, unknowingly discover that their destinies walk inseparably side by side.

Day to Day with Wigfredo.

by Marise

When Wigfredo sits down in front of a blank page and ends up writing stories he hadn’t intended to write, I am the one responsible — I was going to say “this blank screen,” but our readers are not yet ready to face the consequences of abandoning paper —.
I am the one who gives a little length to the stories we tell here, and the feminine touch.

Wigfredo comes home, tosses his jacket on top of… and he’s already forgotten about it until one day he remembers he has a jacket and asks:
—Did you see my grey jacket?
—Why? Did you buy a jacket?
—No, no. The usual one.
—Wouldn’t it be the one you left lying around in the bedroom and then forgot about? Because one day I got tired of looking at it and hung it in the wardrobe. You do know where the wardrobe is, don’t you? Where people keep their clothes when they’ve put them away…

I don’t want to take all the credit, but let’s just say I’m the one who sweats it out and does the laundry in this blog.

I want to make it clear that what I really enjoy is reading magazines with colour photographs and drawing Prussian mustaches on women. If I make up these stories, it’s to help Wigfredo, who is shy and a bit of an idiot, and to stop him from being the one causing all the trouble he gets into.

Even as a little boy, Wigfredo stood out for the way he spoke:

—Right then, children, bring me your notebooks with your homework!
—Teacher, I have a cousin who forgot her notebook at home the day they asked for the homework.
—Tell your cousin to bring twenty copies of the homework you were supposed to do today to class tomorrow.

**Friday the thirteenth.**

—Teacher, the other day, at sunset, my cousin was passing by the school with her parents, on their way home from a walk, and she thought she saw the shadow of a child in one of the windows.

—Don’t worry. What looked like a child to you was probably Altolaguirre, turning off the classroom lights.

—Altolaguirre?

—Altolaguirre was a schoolteacher who was very fond of the children, but sometimes things happen that shouldn’t. Look, Altolaguirre: a child going missing can still be managed. You draw a line through the name on the list of those who came to class and that’s it.

—Altolaguirre: a child going missing can still be managed. You draw a line through the name on the list of those who came to class and that’s it. The father calls in the afternoon asking if his son came, and we say no, that his name isn’t on the list, and that’s that.

But a child missing an arm… Altolaguirre, everyone notices when a child is missing an arm. And how are we going to explain it if the arm doesn’t turn up?

—Come on, Altolaguirre, take a pencil and draw a child there, on a sheet of paper! The first thing anyone does when drawing a child is to give them four limbs. Draw a child missing an arm! There, look at the drawing you’ve just made. The first thing anyone thinks if they see a child missing an arm is that something is wrong.

—Altolaguirre, do you have any childhood trauma?

—My mum says I’m introverted!

—Look, Altolaguirre, since you’re the boss’s son, here’s what we’re going to do: you keep coming to work every day, but you stay hidden in the room under the stairs at the entrance, where no one can see you.

And so, Altolaguirre hides in the room under the entrance staircase. Through a crack in the small, sloping door, he counts the children who arrive first thing in the morning and those who leave when classes end in the afternoon. That way, he makes sure no one is left behind inside, and that no child ever disappears again with no more explanation than a line through a name.

Well, after reading this story, you’ll have realised that it’s better for me to do the writing instead of Wigfredo, and besides, if the reader hasn’t understood it by now, this story is meant to be read so that you can see who’s holding the pen and discover whether we might not be Wigfredo’s cousin.

Sometimes you have to look beyond the events that occur to discover how predictable chaos is.

mvf.

This story was originally published as: Wigfredo’s Metacognition.

the eternal dream

Garbancito, the Witch's Nephew, arrived every morning at the "Eternal Slumber" funeral home with his wooden briefcase, the same one as always, worn by the years but firm in his grip. He walked slowly, with the unhurried pace of someone who is in no rush to get anywhere he doesn't already know by heart. His large figure contrasted with the warm dimness of the building.

He crossed the main door, and the air changed. Outside remained the city's bustle and the hesitant morning; inside awaited him the padded silence and the green twilight filtered through the art deco stained-glass windows of the lobby. The black and white marble floor, polished to a mirror, echoed the faint sound of his steps with almost impious fidelity. He did not stop at the reception desk, where the register book lay open like an endless vigil. He only nodded towards the attendant, a woman with a kind face and eyes that had seen too many goodbyes, and continued on his way down the side hallway. His fingers, accustomed to the route, brushed against the sandstone wall as he turned towards the private staff area.

There, at the back, the metal lockers were lined up in a niche illuminated by a dim light that seemed in no hurry to dispel the shadows. His was the third from the left. He recognized it without looking at the number: a small notch on the frame, made who knows when, and a fine layer of dust on top that no cleaning lady dared to remove, as if that small oversight were already part of the sacred order of things.

He turned the combination with the deliberation of one performing a ritual. The mechanism yielded with a dry click, and the steel door opened with a contained sigh. Inside, hanging from a polished wooden hanger, waited his gown. It was no ordinary gown: the cotton, thick and dense, had been starched until it formed a soft armor, and on the left pocket, close to the heart, someone had embroidered his name in gray thread.

He removed his wool jacket with slow, almost ceremonial movements, and hung it next to the wooden briefcase, where his food for his break waited, which he placed at the bottom of the locker. Then he took the gown. The fabric rustled as he spread it out, a clean sound that reminded him of freshly laundered sheets from childhood. He put it on carefully, adjusting the cuffs one by one, and fastened the mother-of-pearl buttons from the collar to the waist with a precision that allowed no haste.

Before closing the locker, his hand instinctively sought the small bottle of orange blossom essence he kept on the top shelf. He moistened his temples with a drop, barely a whisper of perfume that would accompany him for the hours to come.

He closed the metal door gently, checked twice that it was properly sealed, and headed towards the viewing room. Each button on his gown glowed faintly under the dim light. Garbancito now walked with the confidence of someone who, having left the profane behind, is ready to fulfill the only thing that matters: to care for those who have embarked on the journey with no return for their final farewell.

If there was no service, he was not seen wandering the rooms or bothering his colleagues. He simply sat in his wicker chair, the one no one else occupied out of respect or habit, by the window overlooking the garden. There, with his newspaper unfolded on his lap, he let the dead hours pass while the light filtered through the sheer curtains drew soft shadows across his face.

But his job was not just about being present. Garbancito was a craftsman of final appearances, a man who had made posthumous dignity his trade. He knew the tricks like others know the secrets of the earth or the vices of the city. He knew, for example, that not all the deceased deserved the same suit.

—If he was a farmer —he would say with a half-smile while smoothing a lapel with his fingertips—, don't dress him too elegantly. You put him in a suit and he looks like he's going to a wedding, and then he gets upset, you can see it in his expression. For a country man, a corduroy jacket and a shirt without a tie. Let him go as he was, not as others wanted him to be.

He also mastered the subtle art of erasing the passage of time. With the tips of his fingers moistened in a special cream, he would undo those deep wrinkles that worry had carved during life. It wasn't about making them look younger, but about giving back the peace they perhaps never had. As if by smoothing the forehead he was reminding them that it was all over now.

And then there was the secret of the hands. That was the hardest part. The hands, he said, are the last thing to be given up. If they weren't treated well, they ended up like claws, rigid and accusatory. Garbancito would massage them patiently, finger by finger, until he managed to have them rest naturally on the chest, as if they could still caress or hold something.

But Garbancito had an ace up his sleeve that no one knew about. While others were in a hurry, he would sit for a while with the mourners, offer them a peppermint candy he always carried in his pocket, and listen. He listened to their memories, their anecdotes, their silences. But what no one knew was that at night, Garbancito spoke with the deceased. They would appear to him in dreams and tell him what they had never said in life.

—I liked to get up early, but my wife would get angry if I made noise —a gentleman once confessed to him in a dream.

And Garbancito, the next day, gave him a slight tilt towards the window where the morning sun entered. Another night he dreamed of an old woman who always carried her ring of keys, which she kept in her apron pocket like a treasure. And when preparing her, he placed one hand near the pocket, as if she were still caressing her keys. Subtle things, almost imperceptible, but which families noticed.

—But he looks like he smells of freshly brewed coffee —the children of that early riser would say.

Or: —Look, she still seems to be holding the keys of the cupboard, where she kept the chocolate —the lady's grandchildren would whisper.

And they would cry, but with emotion, because in those small gestures they recognized their relative, the real one, the one they loved.

One day, a complicated request came. A young man, very serious, with a neatly trimmed mustache and expensive suit, wanted his father, Don Eleuterio, a former fairground worker, to be presentable, but without exaggeration. No forced smiles or strange poses.

—My father was serious, a man of few words —said the son, running a finger over his mustache while looking impatiently at his watch.

Garbancito nodded. He said nothing, but as the son walked away, he stood for a moment looking at Don Eleuterio's face. *We'll talk later*, he thought.

That night, Garbancito dreamed of fairs. Of shooting galleries and wafer vendors, of laughing children and mothers buying balloons. And in the middle of it all, sitting on a small folding chair, was Don Eleuterio. He said nothing. He just folded paper napkins with infinite patience. He made birds, he made flowers, he made fans. And when he finished, he gave them to the children who passed by. The children smiled. Don Eleuterio did not. But his hands did.

The next morning, Garbancito arrived at the funeral home before anyone else. When the son arrived to see the result, his father was dressed in an impeccable dark suit, with his hands crossed and a neutral, almost stern expression. The son nodded, satisfied. He was about to give his thanks when, suddenly, he noticed a detail. From the breast pocket of the jacket peeked the edge of something white, folded into the shape of a small flower.

The son frowned.

—My father never wore a handkerchief —he said, and stepped closer.

Garbancito, who was watching him from the door, approached slowly.

—Forgive me, young man —he said in a low voice—. That's not a handkerchief.

—What?

—They're paper napkins.

The son leaned in. Indeed, it wasn't fabric, but three white napkins folded masterfully to imitate a carnation.

—Napkins? —he asked, bewildered—. Why?

Garbancito smiled gently.

—You said your father was serious, a man of few words. And that's true. But last night I saw him. And in the dream, your father was at a fair, leaning against a booth, folding napkins. He made flowers, birds, fans… He gave them to the children. He spent fifty years at fairs, and when he took a break at the stall, that's what he did. Fold napkins. His secret joy.

The son fell silent. He looked at his father, then at the napkin flower in his pocket. His eyes grew moist.

—But… how can you know that? —he managed to ask.

—The dead, young man —said Garbancito— come close to tell us things from the beyond, while we sleep.

The son didn't know what to say. He just looked at the paper flower and, for the first time, it seemed to him that his father, that serious man of few words, was smiling.

When the family entered the room, Garbancito stepped aside for a moment and observed his work in silence. He nodded once, satisfied, and tucked his hands into the pockets of his gown.

Then he returned inside the building to go back to his wicker chair by the window. He adjusted his glasses, and there, with the newspaper once again on his lap, he let the daylight slowly fade away. Like everything else.

   mvf

El sueño eterno

Garbancito, el sobrino de la bruja, llegaba cada mañana al tanatorio «El Sueño Eterno» con su maletín de madera, el de siempre, desgastado por los años pero firme en su agarre. Caminaba despacio, con la parsimonia de quien no tiene prisa por llegar a ningún sitio que no conozca ya de memoria. Su enorme figura contrastaba con la penumbra cálida del edificio.

Atravesó la puerta principal, y el aire cambió. Afuera quedaban el bullicio de la ciudad y la mañana titubeante; adentro lo aguardaban el silencio acolchado y la penumbra verde que filtraban los vitrales art déco del vestíbulo. El suelo de mármol blanco y negro, pulido hasta el espejo, devolvía el eco leve de sus pasos con una fidelidad casi impía. No se detuvo ante la recepción, donde el libro de registro permanecía abierto como una vigilia interminable. Tan solo asintió con la cabeza en dirección a la encargada, una mujer de rostro afable y ojos de quien ha visto demasiados adioses, y continuó su camino por el pasillo lateral. Sus dedos, acostumbrados a la ruta, rozaron la pared de piedra arenisca mientras doblaba hacia la zona privada del personal.

Allí, al fondo, se alineaban las taquillas metálicas en una hornacina iluminada por una luz tenue que parecía no tener prisa por disipar las sombras. La suya era la tercera empezando por la izquierda. La reconoció sin mirar el número: una pequeña muesca en el marco, hecha quién sabe cuándo, y una fina capa de polvo en la parte superior que ninguna empleada de limpieza se atrevía a remover, como si aquel pequeño descuido formara parte ya del orden sagrado de las cosas.

Giró la combinación con la parsimonia de quien ejecuta un ritual. El mecanismo cedió con un clic seco, y la puerta de acero se abrió con un suspiro contenido. En el interior, colgada de una percha de madera pulida, esperaba su bata. No era una bata cualquiera: el algodón, grueso y tupido, había sido planchado con almidón hasta formar una coraza suave, y en el bolsillo izquierdo, junto al corazón, alguien había bordado con hilo gris su nombre.

Se quitó su chaqueta de lana con movimientos lentos, casi ceremoniosos, y la colgó junto al maletín de madera, donde aguardaba su comida para el descanso, que depositó en el fondo del casillero,  Luego tomó la bata. La tela crujió al extenderla, un sonido limpio que le recordó a las sábanas recién puestas de la infancia. Se la puso con cuidado, ajustándose los puños uno a uno, y abrochó los botones de nácar desde el cuello hasta la cintura con una precisión que no admitía prisas.

Antes de cerrar la taquilla, su mano buscó por inercia el pequeño frasco de esencia de azahar que guardaba en el estante superior. Se humedeció las sienes con una gota, apenas un susurro de perfume que lo acompañaría durante las horas siguientes.

Cerró la puerta metálica con suavidad, comprobó dos veces que quedaba bien sellada, y se encaminó hacia la sala de velatorio. Cada botón de su bata brillaba tenuemente bajo la luz mortecina. Garbancito caminaba ahora con la seguridad de quien, habiendo dejado atrás lo profano, está listo para cumplir con lo único que importa: cuidar a los que han emprendido el viaje sin retorno para su última despedida.

Si no había servicio, no se le veía rondar las salas ni molestar a los compañeros. Simplemente se sentaba en su silla de mimbre, la que nadie más ocupaba por respeto o por costumbre, junto a la ventana que daba al jardín. Allí, con el periódico desplegado sobre las rodillas, dejaba pasar las horas muertas mientras la luz tamizada por los visillos le dibujaba sombras suaves en el rostro.

Pero lo suyo no era solo estar. Garbancito era un artesano de las últimas apariencias, un hombre que había hecho de la dignidad póstuma su oficio. Conocía los trucos como otros conocen los secretos de la tierra o los vicios de la ciudad. Sabía, por ejemplo, que no todos los difuntos merecían el mismo traje.

—Si era agricultor —decía con media sonrisa mientras planchaba con las yemas de los dedos una solapa—, nada de ponérselo muy elegante. Lo vistes de traje y parece que va a una boda, y entonces se nos enfada, se le nota en el gesto. A un hombre del campo, chaqueta de pana y camisa sin corbata. Que se vaya como era, no como otros quisieron que fuese.

También dominaba el arte sutil de borrar el paso del tiempo. Con la yema de los dedos humedecida en una crema especial, iba deshaciendo esas arrugas profundas que la preocupación había labrado en vida. No se trataba de rejuvenecer, sino de devolverles la paz que quizá nunca tuvieron. Como si alisando la frente les recordara que ya todo había pasado.

Y luego estaba el secreto de las manos. Eso era lo más difícil. Las manos, decía, son lo último que se entrega. Si no se trataban bien, quedaban como garras, rígidas y acusadoras. Garbancito las masajeaba con paciencia, dedo por dedo, hasta que lograba que reposaran sobre el pecho con naturalidad, como si aún pudieran acariciar o sostener.

Pero Garbancito guardaba un as en la manga que nadie conocía. Mientras los demás iban con prisas, él se sentaba un rato con los deudos, les ofrecía un caramelo de menta que siempre llevaba en el bolsillo y escuchaba. Escuchaba sus recuerdos, sus anécdotas, sus silencios. Pero lo que nadie sabía es que, por las noches, Garbancito hablaba con los difuntos. Ellos se le aparecían en sueños y le contaban lo que nunca dijeron en vida.

—A mí me gustaba madrugar, pero mi mujer se enfadaba si hacía ruido —le confesó una vez un caballero en sueños.

Y Garbancito, al día siguiente, le dejó una ligera inclinación hacia la ventana por donde entraba el sol de la mañana. Otra noche soñó con una anciana que siempre andaba con su manojo de llaves, que guardaba en el bolsillo delantal como quien guarda un tesoro. Y al prepararla, le colocó una mano cerca del bolsillo, como si aún acariciara sus llaves. Cosas sutiles, casi imperceptibles, pero que las familias notaban.

—Pero si parece que huele a café recién hecho —decían los hijos de aquel madrugador.

O: —Miren, parece que aún guarda las llaves de la alacena, donde metía el chocolate—susurraban los nietos de la señora.

Y lloraban, pero de emoción, porque en esos pequeños gestos reconocían a su familiar, al de verdad, al que ellos querían.

Un día llegó un encargo complicado. Un hombre joven, muy serio, con bigote bien recortado y traje caro, quería que su padre, don Eleuterio, un antiguo feriante, quedase presentable, pero sin exagerar. Nada de sonrisas forzadas ni posturas raras.

—Mi padre era serio, de pocas palabras —dijo el hijo, pasándose un dedo por el bigote mientras miraba el reloj con impaciencia.

Garbancito asintió. No dijo nada, pero mientras el hijo se alejaba, se quedó un momento mirando el rostro de don Eleuterio. "Ya hablaremos", pensó.

Esa noche, Garbancito soñó con ferias. Con casetas de tiro y barquilleros, con niños que reían y madres que compraban globos. Y en medio de todo, sentado en una sillita plegable, estaba don Eleuterio. No decía nada. Solo doblaba servilletas de papel con una paciencia infinita. Hacía pájaros, hacía flores, hacía abanicos. Y cuando terminaba, se los regalaba a los niños que pasaban. Los niños sonreían. Don Eleuterio, no. Pero sus manos sí.

A la mañana siguiente, Garbancito se presentó en el tanatorio antes que nadie. Cuando el hijo llegó para ver el resultado, su padre vestía un traje oscuro impecable, con las manos cruzadas y una expresión neutra, casi adusta. El hijo asintió satisfecho. Iba a dar las gracias cuando, de repente, se fijó en un detalle. En el bolsillo superior de la chaqueta asomaba el borde de algo blanco, doblado en forma de una pequeña flor.

El hijo frunció el ceño.

—Mi padre nunca llevó pañuelo —dijo, y se acercó más.

Garbancito, que lo observaba desde la puerta, se acercó despacio.

—Disculpe, joven —dijo en voz baja—. Eso no es un pañuelo.

—¿Cómo?

—Son servilletas de papel.

El hijo se inclinó. Efectivamente, no era tela, sino tres servilletas blancas dobladas con maestría, imitando un clavel.

—¿Servilletas? —preguntó desconcertado—. ¿Por qué?

Garbancito sonrió con ternura.

—Usted dijo que su padre era serio, de pocas palabras. Y es cierto. Pero anoche lo vi. Y en el sueño, su padre estaba en una feria, apoyado en la barraca, doblando servilletas. Hacía flores, pájaros, abanicos… Se las regalaba a los niños. Pasó cincuenta años en las ferias, y cuando se tomaba un descanso en la caseta, eso era lo que hacía. Doblar servilletas. Su alegría secreta.

El hijo se quedó en silencio. Miró a su padre, luego la flor de servilletas en su bolsillo. Sus ojos se humedecieron.

—Pero… ¿cómo puede saber eso? —atinó a preguntar.

—Los muertos, joven —dijo Garbancito—  se acercan para contarnos cosas desde el más allá, mientras dormimos

El hijo no supo qué decir. Solo miró la flor de papel y, por primera vez, le pareció que su padre, aquel hombre serio de pocas palabras, sonreía.

Cuando la familia apareció en la sala, Garbancito se apartó un momento y observó su obra en silencio. Asintió una vez, satisfecho, y se guardó las manos en los bolsillos de la bata.

Luego regresó al interior del edificio para volver a su silla de mimbre junto a la ventana. Se ajustó las gafas, y allí, con el periódico otra vez sobre las rodillas, dejó que la luz del día se fuera apagando poco a poco. Como todo lo demás.

                                                                                                                                                                        mvf

 

criminals

 The dungeon smelled of bleach, of urine, and of the stale sweat of bodies barely visible in the darkness. Lidia, twenty-two years old, with faded red hair and nails bitten to the cuticle, sat on the wooden bench, her back pressed against the cold wall. Beside her, Sara, with her perfect ponytail and her expensive brand-name sneakers caked with mud, kept twisting the only earring she had left.

—I can't believe it —Sara whispered for the umpteenth time—. We're in a dungeon, Lidia. Like criminals.

—We are criminals —Lidia replied, without taking her eyes off the metal door—. We peed on the facade of the Culture Center.

—It wasn't the Culture Center, it was the town hall! —Sara shrank back—. Well, same thing. The point is, I did it out of desperation. I couldn't hold it anymore. Everything was closed, the street was empty, and there was nowhere to go...

—You wanted to do it behind some dumpsters, Sara. You said: I'm going behind those dumpsters. But no, the young lady was afraid of rats and decided that a corner of the town hall facade was more hygienic.

—It could have been worse —Sara said, not looking at her.

Lidia did look at her. She saw her friend's profile, the perfect ponytail, the expensive sneakers, the small bloodstain on the hem of her pants. That stain that neither of them had mentioned all night.

—I know —Lidia replied.

—We could be here for the nightclub thing. But we're not.

—No.

Sara turned to face her. Her eyes were bright.

—Do you regret it?

Lidia took a moment to answer. She thought about the blaring music, the guy who kept getting close to Sara, his hands, her push, the broken glass, the blood, the flight, the sirens, everything and nothing.

—No —she finally said—. I regret not slashing his face sooner.

Sara let out a short, bitter laugh.

—Well, I do. I regret not holding you back. Or not running away faster.

—We ran.

—We sprinted. It's not the same. Until we found ourselves alone in the town hall square.

The rest of the cast of that mandatory gathering watched them with a mix of curiosity and condescension. In the left corner, three drunks reeked of red wine and hummed traditional songs in a failed attempt at harmony. To their right, two young girls, their eyes still swollen from crying off their mascara, were telling each other, in vivid detail, how the brawl at the club had started (a butt in the wrong place, a poorly thrown drink, a confused boyfriend... who knows, they didn't even know why they were there). Across from them, a woman in her forties, with a split lip and a bruise on her cheekbone, stared fixedly at a spot on the wall. No one dared ask her anything, although it was obvious she was the one from the fight. At the other end of the bench, a nun in an immaculate habit and serene face clutched a rosary so hard her knuckles were white; she had tried to kill her lover, with a knife, while he slept.

Next to her sat a lanky kid with pimples on his face and a blue folder of Law notes. He kept repeating: —But the car was identical! Same model, same color! That's a mistake of fact, no criminal intent... this is an illegal detention, I can assure you, I'm studying Law! —No one paid him any attention.

Until the nun spoke.

—And what did you do? —she suddenly asked him, her voice so sweet it sounded like velvet.

The student swallowed hard. Until that moment, no one had asked him anything. They had only ignored him or, at best, looked at him with that mix of pity and sarcasm reserved for those who act smart in a dungeon.

—Steal a car, sister —he finally replied, shrugging—. But it was a mistake. I confused it with my cousin's. They're the same. A four-seater Renault, sand-colored.

The nun nodded understandingly, as if every day she heard confessions from parishioners who had taken the wrong clunker.

—I made a mistake too —she said—. I mistook the glory of God for the love of a man. And when he wanted to leave, I mistook a kitchen knife for a solution.

The ensuing silence was so thick that even the drunks fell quiet.

The Law student opened his blue folder. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again, surely looking for some article in the Penal Code that covered that.

The woman with the split lip broke out of her trance and for the first time showed a grimace that could have been a smile.

—Damn, sister —one of the nightclub girls blurted out—. Well, we only caused a bit of trouble.

Lidia turned to Sara. —See? It could be worse. We only... peed...

—On the Culture Center.

—Fine, on the damn Culture Center.

Hours passed. The drunks fell asleep hugging each other. The nun prayed silently. The woman from the fight had joined the conversation with the nightclub girls and it turned out she wasn't so bad; her business partner had simply cheated her, and she had broken a chair over his head. The Law student offered free legal advice to everyone, in exchange for letting him do mock interrogation practices.

And then, when the police station clock struck seven in the morning, footsteps were heard in the hallway. Firm footsteps, of authority. Footsteps that Sara recognized instantly. She had heard those footsteps in the hallways of her house, on the stairs of the courthouses, at the opening ceremonies of the judicial year.

The door opened. The officer, a large, mustached man, poked his head in.

—Miss Sara —he said, addressing her—. Someone has come to pick you up.

Sara and Lidia sprang to their feet. The first to speak was Lidia, who let out all the air she had been holding in for hours.

—Are we leaving? Now?

But the officer shook his head.

—Not you. You wait.

Lidia stopped mid-motion, her bottom just about to leave the bench, her mouth open.

—What do you mean, no? —she protested—. But we both...

The officer didn't reply. He simply held the door and waited for Sara to come out.

Sara avoided looking at Lidia. She left the dungeon without saying a word. Behind the officer, in the dimly lit hallway, she saw the silhouette of a man. Dark suit, robe still hanging over his arm, gray hair, well-polished shoes. He wasn't very tall, but his presence filled the space. The man looked at his daughter, Sara, with a mix of disappointment and infinite disdain. Then he surveyed the overall scene: the drunks, the club girls, the bruised woman, the nun, and the student.

—Dad —Sara began—, I just...

He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. Then he addressed the officer. —Is there any problem with the charges?

The officer shook his head. —No, Your Honor. It's all been sorted out.

The word "Honor" hung in the air. The drunks sat up as if electrocuted. The nun raised an eyebrow. The Law student opened his mouth and then closed it, probably thinking about the résumé he was wasting and the possibility that this man had presided over some court where he dreamed of pleading one day. Lidia stared at Sara, wide-eyed.

—Honor? —Lidia whispered—. Your dad is a judge?

—From a court in Madrid —Sara murmured, blushing—. A small one...

The officer closed the dungeon door again, and with a half-smile, placed a hand on Sara's shoulder and guided her toward the exit, while the judge walked on his daughter's other side, impassive.

—Don't worry, miss —the officer said under his breath—. The other one gets out in a couple of hours. It'll pass.

Upon reaching the station door, with the grayish light of dawn already filtering through the entrance, Sara turned one last time. From the hallway, only echoes came: the drunks laughing, the nun praying, and Lidia's voice, still indignant, mingling with it all. The image of the dungeon blurred behind the hallway they had just crossed.

Inside, Lidia remained. The woman with the split lip. The nun with her rosary. The Law student, who was probably already offering Lidia his legal services, likely asking her if she knew a good lawyer specializing in minor offenses. And the dungeon smell, which Sara was taking with her out into the street.

She stepped outside, feeling, in the morning air, utterly free.

The judge let out a laugh, the first of the day.

—There's a café that opens soon. They make excellent omelettes. And you're going to tell me exactly why you decided that the town hall facade was the most suitable place to pee. Afterwards we'll assess whether that constitutes a crime of damage to heritage, a minor offense of disrespecting authority, or simply monumental stupidity.

Sara swallowed hard. Freedom was a dream that had just lasted exactly three seconds.

 

mvf.