Cats and love

The train compartment was almost full, and to complete the seats there arrived a young couple, tatoos and piercings and peanuts and grapes, that filled the room with two cats in cages and imposed us the feline presence… because the poor delicate creatures didn’t like to travel up, on the luggage shelves. Cats on the laps, cats on the knees, cats on the narrow floor space, cats on the seats… I was even drily requested to cut my feet off, so that the cats could fit in.
But despite all, I couldn’t help envying the kids. They were so young, probably around 20; one of those couples who only have the cheap room whre they live, and the love that affords them to live. I couldn’t stop watching them with the corner of my eye. It moved me to see how subtly they touched each other, how tenderly they looked and talked to each other, how softly they leaned on each other, how lovingly they fed each other, how devotedly they took care of each other…
I sighed and longed for that blind and trusty love of my youth.
Why not again?

Twilight in Kraków


It was one of the saddest evenings of my life, I believe.

We were walking in silence along the stale Berdnardskiego park and -as who bleeds to death- with every new step we took a stronger affliction overcame us.

In the orangey eventide, we came to sit on an old stoney stands half in ruins, eaten up by the grass. Down, at the other end of the field, some men played ball and their scattered voices, indistinct, emphasized the silence and isolated us even from ourselves. It was our farewell walk, though we hadn’t confessed it to each other.

The gaiety of the eve rendered, by contrast, more despondent the failure of that day. We had agreed on spending a few ones together and giving us a last chance for working it out. But, as usual, after the mirth and glee of the first hours, we had been quarrelling that morning and a mute and persistent silence, filled with gloom, settled down between us and left us helpless. Let’s go for a walk, proposed she for running away from that agony of dead feelings.

Sheltered by the player’s voices, our stares lost in the nothingness, we watched the minutes fall, and strike, like mourn chimes. I told her you move away from the people that loves you because you believe you don’t deserve being happy. I told her but you don’t have to atone for any sin, you have the same right to happiness as any other. She looked at me with a smile full of tenderness but as sad as life, and I, desolate, could see how her love, like the setting sun in the twilight which embraced us, died away behind her big blue eyes, second after second… and I couldn’t but sit there and watch.

The silence spoke to ourselves yet for a while, waiting for the twilight to die. Then, she slowly turned to me and kissed me on the cheeks, while onto hers, two heavy tears -breaming over her long eyelashes- trickled down, leaving the bright and salty trace of sorrow.



Fue una de las tardes más tristes de mi vida, creo.
Paseábamos en silencio por el caduco parque Bernardskiego y, como quien se desangra, con cada paso que dábamos una mayor lasitud nos vaciaba. Era como un tácito adiós.
En la tarde anaranjada que moría, fuimos a sentarnos sobre las gradas de piedra, medio en ruinas e invadidas por la hierba, de un centenario campo deportivo. Allá, al otro extremo, unos hombres jugaban al balón y sus voces dispersas, indistintas, acentuaban el silencio y nos aislaban incluso de nosotros mismos.
La alegría de la víspera subrayaba aún más el aciago fracaso de aquella jornada: habíamos acordado pasar unos días juntos para volver a intentarlo por última vez; pero, como siempre, pasada la excitación y el entusiasmo de las primeras horas, aquella mañana habíamos discutido y durante todo el día un vacío elocuente y pertinaz, cargado de nostalgia e impotencia, se instaló entre nosotros dejándonos indefensos. Demos un paseo, había propuesto ella para escapar de aquel infierno de sentimientos muertos.
Amparados por las voces de los jugadores, perdidas en la nada nuestras miradas, veíamos caer los minutos como campanadas de duelo. Le dije te alejas de las personas que te quieren porque crees que no mereces ser feliz. Le dije pero no has de expiar ningún pecado, tienes tanto derecho a la felicidad como cualquiera. Ella me miró con una sonrisa llena de ternura pero tan triste como la vida, y entonces vi, con total desolación, cómo su amor se iba ocultando segundo a segundo -el sol poniente de la tarde que nos amparaba- tras aquellos grandes ojos claros; cómo su cariño se me escapaba, cual gorrión huye de la mano, sin sin poder hacer nada para detenerlo.
El silencio habló por nosotros aún algunos momentos, hasta el final del crepúsculo. Entonces, ella se inclinó para besarme en la mejilla: por las suyas, dos gruesas lágrimas, derramándose desde sus largas pestañas, dejaban el rastro brillante y salado del desamor.


All of a sudden the sky, the atmosphere, the light itself, have turned yellow, and a strong wind, like the blow of an angry and evil god, is severly bending the trees and wiping from the ground, at a great speed into the air, all the dust and sand and leaves and dirt it finds on its way. But not a drop of water has come down from the heavens.
Not yet.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Now the yellow has turned into dark bronze, the wind has died still, and a single blinding lightning, and a single deafening thunder, have made loose the wrath of the sky, pouring down with rage all its liquid arrows.


Last night I dreamt of Agnes.
I dreamt of Agnes and the dream was like this: I had arrived to a building, like a school or an institute, that could be the academy where we knew each other, though it wasn’t; that could also be the headquarters where I did the military, though it wasn’t, either. Maybe it was only a department I had never known, or a university I had never gone to. Its walls were terra-cotta coloured, the same colour of the place where I’m staying these days.
I came in through the glazed doors, which led to a wide corridor wherein there were some people, neither too old nor too young; they could be students or teachers, employees or customers.
By the first door on the corridor stood Agnes, like a pupil who waits for the teacher to come, or like a teacher who waits for the pupils to get in; or just like a clerk who steps out of her office and looks, observes, thinks.
Agnes and me. I don’t know who first noticed whom, or if we noticed each other at once; nor can I say whether she was waiting for me, or I was looking for her, though rather we didn’t know at all that we were going to meet. However, on catching her eye I walked towards her like if she had been the only pourpose of my being there; like if an order, coming from an indefinite somewhere, had pushed me to assist, had pushed her to wait. And none of us showed any surprise.
Despite dream’s usual deceitfulness, she was Agnes, no doubt. Now red haired and a bit slimmer, but Agnes she was. As pretty as always, as young as always, time seemed to have ignored her.
I came to her and, like if our eyes had agreed before our mouths could speak, or rather like if it was a routine, understood, natural and expected, we hugged and kissed like a couple would do. And in this way, her chin on my shoulder, mine on hers, she told me I love you only an instant before I told her I love you. Our voices crossed in the air, and we both sighed, like if relieved of a fear that had just abandoned us.
Then she asked me, or maybe I just could hear her thought: Why?
Staring at her eyes I replied that perhaps I had loved her since we first met. And she: why hadn’t you told me before?
Because I hadn’t realize. Because I didn’t know… But you, since when you love me?
Oh!, you know it too well: I’ve always loved you.
No, I didn’t know that. Her big, bright, beautiful eyes had lost the funny, slight oscillation of the pupil they use to have, but the new red hair and undulating hips made her look great.
We hugged tight again, and long kissed each other, not bothering about the people, who seemed to not bother about us, nor even see us. I said to Agnes: and we’re still in time, aren’t we?
Of course she replied, we’re still in time; we’re still young.
But are you real? I insisted. Won’t you fade away like a dream when I wake up? Are you actually here, and you love me?
You see that I’m here; you see that I’m real. Aren’t we seeing and touching each other?
I know. It’s just that I almost can’t believe this sudden bliss.
Well, then in any case said she, don’t worry: if you fall asleep, even if you’re actually sleeping now, and dreaming, when you wake up you’ll know that I love you.
Yes, Agnes, I will; and, much more important yet, I’ll know that I love you.
I don’t remember how or when my dream ended. Maybe it blurred away when mi hands tried to explore the most delicate parts of her body.

She’s like that

But she’s like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital.
She came to me, unexpectedly, one of those fine warm mornings in the late autumn.
I already knew of her, I had seen her before, long before; I had felt her by my side, I had dreamt about her, but she had always ignored me. However, now all was different, she looked for me any time, she met me everywhere, she haunted me, she hounded me, she loved me. And I let myself be loved.
She was with me a week, maybe ten days, during which we created great things. I told her my ideas, my projects, my interests, and she helped me to write them, she almost dictated the words to me, she put wings to my fingers on the keyboard, she filled with spirit my tales, and with life my characters.
One night, without any reasons, she suddenly left me when I most needed her; go figure why! Only she must know… or maybe not: female after all, not fond of reasons, least of all explanations. Since then, I haven’t seen her again. Since then, I haven’t written anything passable. The ideas I had didn’t prosper, and starved.
Will she ever feel a bit guilty, have some remorse? No, it won’t happen. Inspiration is like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital…