This short story was published on the #2 issue of Dialogues of the Dog
It is one of the finest blends having the quarry The Dialogue of the dogs. Antonio was born in Murcia in 1975. Among its assets Antonio Oliver Belmar the prize, which he published The Fall embodied Ives Rock (Editora Regional de Murcia).
Anyway he would return home. He knew from the beginning. Music illuminated the late afternoon, which José Ignacio seemed the most beautiful, full of the excitement of who flees or leaves behind a not exactly lightweight hours while with his fingers on the steering wheel will accompany the pace of the last song.
It would take about four hours driving relentlessly. Maybe a coffee taken in haste while watching the clock to see again that was already late, and this although fortunately not know whether you liked or not- appointment this time it was with himself. I was afraid at night when traveling on unfamiliar roads. Some fear mixture of prudence and child panic through her body with the death throes of the afternoon. But nonetheless, possibly helped by the determination of the flight, it is now facing the situation with some courage, taking the challenge, to get stronger, he thought.
A date with that other Jose Ignacio calmer awaited him at the end of the trip. And looking forward or sideways, so that nobody would know about it in an already accustomed gesture, those old pictures of the south that always accompanied him as a makeshift home, those pictures with a blue sky and palm trees that seemed to speak of a boom in the lives of the inhabitants of those latitudes that would correspond to the time of the summer landscape.
He’d smoked more than usual, but in a relaxed way. He liked to smoke at the wheel of his car. I looked for the lighter palpón soon responded with the mechanical spring as a sign that he was ready. The red ring shone on the opacity of the crowded ashtray and fog or smoke snuff, which at this point of the trip simulated a cold morning in the heart of London. And yet, once again, as in a common ritual and seized the strands of snuff, and José Ignacio found solace in the small, everyday recreation of the myth of Prometheus.
I was not sure if that was the right road, but for more than one hour curves slope map corresponded with that rise in third sometimes, sometimes more, in second gear, including a landscape that increasingly it became steeper. And just at the moment when the wave of the station was lost forever in a wave of inaudible sounds, he found a poster with kilometer indication with the closest places, with some irony were more than hundred-odd kilometers .
He liked to imagine how easy it would be to live as if life were those roads where everything is indicated before or after, letting us know where the diversion, or the innumerable dangers is making notes on what the proper speed to avoid stumbles, or any comments on whether we can, and under what conditions, make a U-turn and go back a little, and sometimes we’d go back in life. Possibly it is and would not be now driving in the opposite direction to everything voluntarily, and pressed by circumstances, leaving behind in that area of gentle rest and without complications that had been his life until the unexpected arrival of this tenant aborregado in appearance, but it turned out to be a wolf evil intentions, a selfish wolf, Little Red Riding Hood able to gobble and get involved with the grandmother. That wolf that had shattered the second day earthenware dishes and Murano glass, unbreakable as Seller verbiage, the Venetian glasses.
He took these thoughts a horrible noise in the transmission of engine temperature needle through the roof, and smoke which slowly, but with a pressing insistence, began to break through the edges of the hood. He then pulled over the car taking advantage of the inertia that the small decline gave him. This was just what he needed, he thought of high or low voice that was equally the case, and hit the front wheel expecting a reaction itself stimulus-response behavior not found. I was absolutely lost.
For more than an hour had not come across any car, plus this was an unfrequented route by truckers, why precisely had drawn on the map, not spend all his pending trip overtaking. And to top the only change was comprised of the afternoon gradually gave way to a dark night, where the last stars yielded to the impetuous arrival of a suspiciously gray clouds.
He opened the hood and stared at one diesel engine, water cooled, capable of developing not know how many horses, and with a new mix system on the market, this engine had been able to reach one hundred kilometers per hour in just six point five seconds on the test, which gave a sporty pretensions. But nothing, Jose Ignacio little he used that terminology cheap car salesman. He wanted a solution that seemed to implore their continuous shock about something, it would be, I thought, perhaps, ironically, the so called top delco.
She climbed into the car, checking to his astonishment how he had aged in three years. Especially low, dirty and full of fat that may cost you removed. The doors were scratched and paste the chopped windows. He closed out trying to put the blame for not having paid attention when he could. He fumbled in the little light that remained, the lighter. He zippers up jacket and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with smoke in a deep breath then cast out thus creating a false sense of lúgrube coffee.
Little by little it was reassuring at all, and even to see the first drops of rain, it welcomed to quickly realize what that could assume in their unexpected adventure. She fell asleep at last, resigned. Meanwhile, accompanying his dream, the light intensity of the cabin was gradually falling, ending with the death throes of a battery that was not for the work.
But in mid-dream, when it seemed to have found the balance between your body and the rigid parts of the car, he woke up. Something called attention powerfully. He had found a radio station. He was used to his old clock radio will spend these jokes in the middle of the night. Volume up and down at will, until finally decided to turn it off. Now the car radio sounded. He heard time signals, it was only midnight.
The news was more or less, with some own variente of Christmas days, the same as usual. Political, some social life and any news of culture, after sports. And when it seemed to fall back into a deep sleep from which she had awakened heard the following, hearing could not do it with great surprise and perplexity:
“The writer Jose Ignacio Sanchez Lujan died today at the age of sixty. The chapel has been installed in the Carmelite church of his hometown, where throughout the night have passed numerous family friends and personalities of the Spanish cultural life. The Prime Minister, together with the Minister of Culture, announced his arrival at two o’clock.
The poet, who had said wryly on occasion he would have liked to see the twenty-first century, has not seen his wish, although ‘memory’, in the words of critic Miguel Redondo, ‘the twenty-first century will not, but possibly reach the dawn of the new millennium ‘.
Currently he is working on the final version of his treatise on the prodigious story, which won the National Book Award, with which they have grown several generations of writers famous and that all those of us in some way to the world of letters keep on the memory. With the story of the genesis of this book, narrated to this chain by the writer himself in 1998, we said goodbye: “I was about to faint when I heard on the radio, do not think it was this same station, you are too young, the news of my death forty years after the date on which I lived, that gave me strength and I could survive three grueling days lost in the snow that was pressing on my car, no more light than the dim light of my understanding … ‘ Rest in peace.
This was all in the information of midnight on January 10, 2012. Tomorrow will be more news in subsequent newsletters of our radio station or internet address of our chain … ”
He thought of how repetition makes the most prodigious credible facts. And, numb with sleep, but more restless than ever, he recalled with nostalgia that summer love that never came to be. Perhaps because of its timidity, laziness or face his own ghosts, although it did not matter. In his dream he watched came in September, and how to September every hurried to get long sleeves and close the shutters of their homes to another summer. And the door of the apartment they rented every year also closed the chance to talk to Cristina, at least know your name or address.
Wrapped in the silence of the game, and through the fogged by the sea breeze, he saw her figure walking distance bike around some cars. At night, he recalled, he had a dream, like this one perhaps, someone told him the phone number of her. He turned on the light and pointed excitement of children who find a treasure under the bed. The next day, first thing, he picked up the phone and asked Cristina and there she was, in a freakish way, it was there she answering with a smile that platonic lover whose call probably had been waiting half an hour, right from the time of up half an hour in which he preparing breakfast time … The truth is I was not sure if that had been the end of the story, perhaps, and this reasoning and mingled with fatigue, the weather had distorted in their favor data and facts. It was hard to discern between reality and fiction, if someone claimed to be different and would need parcelarlas.
In the end, and comforted by the news, he fell asleep, making plans for that time in your life dilated. I thought, but in a low voice, how to be worthy of that obituary at the foot of the chapel, and someday continue their studies literature parked or maybe even better, write with dedication in their new home, to write about this experience and theorize, if not reached with the subtlety of his prose to recreate the arduous nature of that night, about the man subjected to the rigors of life and how, ultimately, can be crossed on this plane of reality the other reality , that normally describe as improbable.
It was over this reasoning if the dream could not have more than the new agitation, but was stronger, and he fell asleep in that car that slowly was losing as a dot in the vastness of the mountain.
They should be a long and terrible hours, everyone thought, when the two or three days the snow collided, almost by chance, against Jose Ignacio car, parked by the side of the county took 320. The fact block ice, stuck the forefinger of his right hand lighter. A long and terrible hours, he is repeating the local radio announcer, who was the first to gather the news. However, no one understood the strange smile outlined in the face of Jose Ignacio Sanchez Lujan. Young thirty years. Waiter at weekends. Currently he is residing in the small town of …
There, lying on the asphalt of the road that would take far, seemed to look calm, at peace with himself, that blue sky, they say, have some postcards.