For some time now, words and memories had begun to abandon M. G. found it hard to accept. "It's what has always happened to her, but exacerbated by age," he says, his confidence weakened by an increasingly harsh reality. Because G. loves her, he loves the furrows that have left her smile intact, loves her white hair, her sagging breast, her sex ravaged by seven births. He loves her worn-out body, lent to life to engender more life. Her body given over to the existence of others without reservations, without any nook to cradle her own complacency. G. loved her from the first moment. What do you do when love pierces your insides, gets into your blood, and sleeps in your bones? What could G. do but drink her up every night in long draughts like a thirsty, insatiable warrior, and at dawn contemplate her swollen belly… she was never more beautiful than when she was carrying another life inside. And she only wanted that, as if her being only longed to give birth, to be, to be a mother.
Now M. asks about the children:
Where are they?
Who?
Them…
Who are they?
Well… the children…
There are no children at home.
You lie to me… and I don't know why you lie to me.
How can I lie to you… why would I do such a thing!
I don't know… the words don't come to me…
We are alone, you and me, dear…
But… a moment ago… I saw them…
You saw them, where?... come, let's look so you can see for yourself…
Thus, they go from room to room in the house, opening closets and lifting blankets, scanning window sills and checking attics… back at the starting point, G. holds her wrinkles in his hands, and his puppeteer's heart prays to all his gods: - see, dear, there is no one. We are alone, you and me, just like when we first met, do you remember when we first saw each other? Yes, we were in Málaga, in the line at the Cervantes theater, I tripped and you, you laughed. - This is what G. says to eyes flooded with an unfathomable emptiness. - I don't know who you are, I have never been to Málaga - responds M., pulling away from hands that only wish to hold her a moment longer in reality, a reality she had already abandoned long ago, perhaps when the last of her children closed the door behind him. And following in his siblings' footsteps, he crossed the ocean…
Today M. woke up well. She even prepared breakfast. - This afternoon I want to go for a walk. - And where do you want us to go? - Go? - she repeats, looking up at the sky, - I want to go alone. - G. doesn't have the strength or soul to refuse, but he watches her from a prudent distance. She gets on the bus, the first one that comes. He follows her steps from the car. Sometimes it's not easy, sometimes he thinks he has lost her. But he doesn't give up, he doesn't let go of the breath of the blue worm that bows at each stop as if making a reverence and exhales. He confuses her with another white head of hair. - No, it's not her who got off, she's still inside - he says out loud without letting go of the wheel and then breathes and accelerates. - I see her, she's sitting with her purse on her knees, looking out the window. - The torrent of cars doesn't stop, the city's arteries gush smoke at this hour, rush hour. The children, with their little backpacks, fill the air with voices. It's sunny, a dazzling sun. The blue worm continues its route, inexorable, unaware of who is inside, unaware that love is closely following. It reaches the end of the line. M. gets off, because everyone gets off. She looks around with the eyes of a lost child. G. has seen her and pulls the car up beside her, like a caress, lowers the window and looks at her: - Taxi, Ma’am?
Susana Muñoz Cuenca
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