The road uphill climb on a hill disorderly and battered, the broken branches of trees hanging into the void, tickling the top of a cliff. The white halo of the moon spits out a circle of light abandoned on the steps leading to the small convent of Capuchin. He walks slowly, alternating the steps of the long pauses of terror. The taxes which gave the port were closed, the doors combined escaped some glitter of candles. I did not meet anyone. Maria slept four way higher, in our house on the rock. Breathe slowly into sleep, fall asleep every night looking at the statue of St. Francis, who filled the vacuum window to the south. His hair was long and thin, twisted below the shoulder blades, to feet wore wooden shoes and leather, they slammed to the ground with grace and modesty. He was young, although it was already a mother of two children: my. Michelangelo and Leonardo, we called them so in the hope that their names be hiding some talent that would lead them towards a better future. They played on the beach every afternoon after school. Threw fragments of slate over the rocks, tinkering with the mildewed and worn bamboo.
Julian was a foot higher than me, in his eyes was the pain of regret, coupled with the desperation of a junk. On the left wrist had a large irregular scar, the concealed with a handkerchief tied tight. It tells of a mysterious past, of ghost ships and pirates dressed in black. The fantasies commoners made him look attractive. The ban was concealed pleasure, and he had learned in a hurry. Dozens of women were alternated for years between the walls of his house in the mountains. The collected as shells on the beach. Did not liked, of course. If you love a woman you can not force her to live in sin of lust mixed. Had children, beautiful as him. They were born in litters of four or five at a time. In the country there were those who envied him, people now getting on in years they would pay crates full of gold coins just to make a change with his life. Not me. Mary and I had not wanted more. Julian was a strange man, but good. The friend I had since childhood, we grew together, weaned at the breast of one mother, my. Donna Concetta, her mother had died in childbirth.
Accele pace, slipping into the hole in the hills, scrambling over the first step on the sea. The twigs are tied at the ankles, struggles to maintain balance. Minerva was a shield to the moon, the jagged edges of the hill cast shadows on the path. Stepped silencing the voice of my conscience, unable to turn around and go back. I reached the ridge that night glided to the bottom of the sea, the dawn lit up the shrubs, the dew glistened on the leaves curled round. In Mary's heart was beating his breath.
went down the ridge to the north and headed towards the small floodplain of Between them. The river was placid, like a thin stream, flat as the sea at sunset in September. I rinsed my face, and suddenly a shiver ran down my fingers. In the pool of water that was in my hands and I saw the wrinkled old face of my father. Ingollai the memory of our past, the drops broke free from my grip and ran the wet shirt.
The stones of the house of disagreements illimuninavano gold, rose from the soft voices of women and children.
I saw him cross the yard wearing a large straw hat held out. On the left shoulder hung a bore shotgun. He walked fast towards the vineyard, the wind in his face pressed needles in March. I
lowered to lie down on the grass. Crawling like a worm in the mud was wriggling your pelvis against the rough terrain of the path. The sweat came down fast, in the temples roaring sound of a drum. Suddenly everything went black.
sank his hand into his trousers and squeezed. The trigger was moved without resistance, with every breath he got up to me. Julian swung around, I saw his red eyes injected with poison rest on Mary's bare back. He dropped his trousers over his shoes, rolled up the underwear under your knees. The buttocks tight and high, ready to strike. Maria was at the window, her hair loose. Watch the sunset over the horizon drowning, he loved this time of night. Turning to look brush his bust was offered to me. And to those of Julian. She screamed in fear and shame, he threw himself on the breast with his mouth wide open.
I had sunk a punch in the kidneys, causing wear out and roll on the ground.
He had apologized to him, the next day. He was ranting of a daydream, wine, drunk, his poor sense of direction.
No, I had not forgiven. He wanted to steal my woman, my friend Julian.
I could see him now, dressed for hunting, but I knew it was under that dress, I guess the curves of his muscles under his pants, his penis erect ready to sink his violence in the soft flesh of my Mary.
closed my eyes and pressed deeply, counting backwards numbers out of order. I expected a dull thud, the recoil on the shoulder, the smell of powder on your fingers.
No noise rose into the air that morning, nor the mornings to come.
Barbara Greggio
0 comments:
Post a Comment