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Fiction

And If You See That I Don’t Come Back

By Luis Nuño
Translated from Spanish by Maureen Shaughnessy
Luis Nuño slips out for a smoke.

Look at you, you’re soaked! I’ve been waiting hours for you. Out to buy cigarettes in the middle of all this! We need to talk. What about the cigarettes? Don’t tell me you didn’t get any . . .

Actually, no, I decided it would be better to come back without them than to just take off. I figured the cigarettes would find their own way back. But I knew you’d be upset to see them coming home alone so late, as dangerous as the streets are and all. Don’t look at me like that! I went out to buy cigarettes and I bought them but not one made it back alive. That’s just how things are in this steep, drenched, armed city.

You were in the middle of telling me something when I left, I know. I’m sorry but I needed to smoke. Besides, I couldn’t understand a word of what you were saying then. You were yelling (without raising your voice, as only you know how) and when you yell like that it makes me want to smoke (and kiss you on the lips, but that I won’t say out loud).

At any rate . . . I started down Tenth, carefully so as not to fall and roll all the way down to Plaza Bolivar. I zigzagged down the hill like any prudent climber would. On the fifth zig I ran into Marcelo, who asked me for cigarettes, which of course I didn’t have, so I gave him a few coins. Marcelo always spits when he talks, a sort of tolerated salivary aggression. Two hundred zags further down I ran into the guy who sells me tobacco, on Seventh, next to the military base. He asked after you and as always, he extolled your beauty. (Your wife is such a fine woman. Oh, yes, sir, she is. To you. I honestly haven’t seen her in quite some time. You know: Love is blind. Now, is that why you wear glasses? Yes, that’s just it. Good day, sir.)

As soon as I bought the pack I lit up. I kept walking and sat down in a little park, the kind where I like to just sit and watch. Your words rang in my head. I took out three cigarettes from the pack and sat them on the bench next to me so they could feel like observers, like me. I drew eyes and a mouth on each of them. On the first I drew an open mouth, it was talking; the one in the middle was dozing off, not listening to a word the first one was saying, who was droning on. The last one’s face was lit up, looking off in the distance, searching its pockets for matches to light (and smoke) that bloody cigarette who wouldn’t stop yammering on. I left them like that on that bench where I like to sit and watch people who are not my own age. Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes, around half past twelve I sit alone⎯feeling lonely⎯surrounded by a handful of elderly folks walking slowly by. They settle into nearby benches and peruse newspapers filled with photographs of dead people and supermarket inserts. On other days I watch children eat sand and scream while they punch each other in jest. They make me feel like an outsider, too, like a cinema spectator only allowed to place one foot in the theater (the rest of his body must stay at the door, watching the film through that little glass window). Right there I smoked another cigarette, in the doorway of the cinema, watching from afar that movie starring you and the rest of the real people in this city.

I remember I was smoking as I left the little park of isolation. I remember that it took me over fifteen minutes to decide; don’t ask me why, but my head was full of your words, as if my own had ceased to exist. It took me a while to realize that I no longer have my own words. Next I started to get that feeling you get when you want to go home. So I walked purposefully, fleeing like a brave man who turns around with the face of new guilt. I didn’t rush. I knew that you would wait for me, but I took a shortcut anyway and ended up crossing that busy street, the one that’s perpetually filled with dark suits, fancy ties, fitted trousers, straight, blown-dry hair, and empty briefcases of shiny leather. And by mistake⎯this I swear⎯I bumped into one of those dark suits and burned its hand. I put my cigarette out on a hand that held an empty briefcase of shiny leather. I froze, I couldn’t move. And he, the guy inside the suit, looked at me with outrage and thanked me. He thanked me! Then he disappeared into the throngs of rear ends snugly fitted inside fitted trousers and I felt less isolated than usual because the gratitude of that suit (one of those suits with a person inside) was so reassuring. I thought about how long it had been since anyone had thanked me for anything⎯you never do⎯so I wasted ten more cigarettes on the hands, backs, and rear ends of some pleated trousers and one dark blouse. I also put one out on the ankle of a high heel and an ear partially covered by a police cap. The ear also thanked me, I heard it commending me but I didn’t pay much attention because I had the sudden urge to run, out of happiness I suppose. (If you want to put one out on me I will put one out on you. That way we can thank each other mutually.)

It was then that I realized I should come home and finish off the demolition. It wasn’t right, me just going out for cigarettes and then not coming back. I’m sure you would have loved that. You’d arm yourself with some hackneyed saying, the perfect excuse to blame me for everything, starting with the first crime ever committed by mankind. Oh no, if I go out for cigarettes I come back. Even if it’s just to ruin your story about me running out on you. I would never stand for it: You telling the story about me in a bar, letting those people think I was a bloody cliché. No such luck. To run out on someone you’ve got to be brave, but me, I’m a coward. Even if it’s only to make your blood boil, I come back. I always come back.

I started walking quickly up the cobblestone streets, which seemed more like an endless staircase of one-centimeter-thick stone steps. And it started to rain. And I had an overwhelming urge to smoke, but I was in a hurry. I didn’t have time to look for a park and a bench and some elderly folks, a place where I could isolate myself. It was raining hard. The raindrops stung. I couldn’t stop to smoke, I needed to get back here right away, so I lit a cigarette while I was walking. I took a few quick drags to make sure it was lit, and just when I was starting to enjoy it, drip. Drip. A raindrop exploded on the cigarette, right on the tip. It burst discreetly; the shrapnel cut through the rolling paper too easily, as if it were wet tissue paper. The cigarette (which didn’t have time to feel a thing) went out, it was soaked. Far from losing my cool⎯you know that I don’t⎯I took another one and lit it. I let the broken, soggy cigarette fall into the gutter that runs down between the stones. It floated off like a soldier in the army reserve, dead before he even got to the front lines of combat.

I lit another one from a thin, momentary flame. I inhaled. It took me exactly the same amount of time it takes to consider the likelihood of a raindrop falling square onto one’s cigarette and, drip. This time it landed not on the tip but right in the middle, a raindrop so immense that it tore the cigarette’s belly open, exposing a crater of tobacco, its guts pouring out, wailing. Hit, flooded, sunk.

Disconcerted (but not overwrought), I asked for a light from some high-schoolers smoking next to Doña Auri’s corner store. They looked at me intently. I tried to smile but my hands were shaking. There were only a few blocks left and I managed to walk alongside the walls of those big old houses, sheltered under the wooden eaves. When I had no choice but to cross the street I ran, always making sure to cup my hand over the cigarette, which was smoking down perfectly. I think that’s why it pained me even more, because I was sure it wouldn’t happen again, that somehow seeing them drown before my eyes was just a coincidence, like us (like the situation of this poor country), something ephemeral, a rough spot.

The goddamned drop was enormous. It fell at top speed from the tip of a roof tile that protruded a few centimeters from the eaves. It jumped, more accurately, calculating the wind speed, my movement and the angle of the slope. It was spot on. This time it was ripped from my mouth. I ended up with the filter hanging from my lips as if I’d been holding on to the head of a guillotined body.

Seriously. And even if you think it’s pure fabrication, that such sheer bad luck and dead-on targets make no sense, the truth is that they all died in the rain, drowned by suicidal, sniper raindrops. It’s worthless to tell you that I tried, that I ran, I dodged, I jumped. It’s helpless to confess that I’m sorry, to take responsibility, to claim that these things happen to me just as other, more normal things, happen to you. You, the “social smoker,” can blame me for all the mistakes, you’ve got all the evidence, the jury is on your side. (Besides, the judge doesn’t like me.)

This is the last one. If you want we can share it. Or would you rather I run down to the corner to get you a pack. What’s that suitcase for? I can ask the neighbors, they always have some rolling tobacco. Are you going on a trip? Perhaps I should just go down to Doña Auri’s (I don’t understand. Why the tears?) and I’ll get you something to eat and those cigarettes you like, the blue ones. I promise this time I’ll bring them all back, even if every raindrop in this city shoots me down. Drip.*

* This is the drip of a tear. Tears don’t get you so wet and they sound like a door being shut.

“Y si ves que no regreso” © Luis Nuño. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Maureen Shaughnessy. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

Look at you, you’re soaked! I’ve been waiting hours for you. Out to buy cigarettes in the middle of all this! We need to talk. What about the cigarettes? Don’t tell me you didn’t get any . . .

Actually, no, I decided it would be better to come back without them than to just take off. I figured the cigarettes would find their own way back. But I knew you’d be upset to see them coming home alone so late, as dangerous as the streets are and all. Don’t look at me like that! I went out to buy cigarettes and I bought them but not one made it back alive. That’s just how things are in this steep, drenched, armed city.

You were in the middle of telling me something when I left, I know. I’m sorry but I needed to smoke. Besides, I couldn’t understand a word of what you were saying then. You were yelling (without raising your voice, as only you know how) and when you yell like that it makes me want to smoke (and kiss you on the lips, but that I won’t say out loud).

At any rate . . . I started down Tenth, carefully so as not to fall and roll all the way down to Plaza Bolivar. I zigzagged down the hill like any prudent climber would. On the fifth zig I ran into Marcelo, who asked me for cigarettes, which of course I didn’t have, so I gave him a few coins. Marcelo always spits when he talks, a sort of tolerated salivary aggression. Two hundred zags further down I ran into the guy who sells me tobacco, on Seventh, next to the military base. He asked after you and as always, he extolled your beauty. (Your wife is such a fine woman. Oh, yes, sir, she is. To you. I honestly haven’t seen her in quite some time. You know: Love is blind. Now, is that why you wear glasses? Yes, that’s just it. Good day, sir.)

As soon as I bought the pack I lit up. I kept walking and sat down in a little park, the kind where I like to just sit and watch. Your words rang in my head. I took out three cigarettes from the pack and sat them on the bench next to me so they could feel like observers, like me. I drew eyes and a mouth on each of them. On the first I drew an open mouth, it was talking; the one in the middle was dozing off, not listening to a word the first one was saying, who was droning on. The last one’s face was lit up, looking off in the distance, searching its pockets for matches to light (and smoke) that bloody cigarette who wouldn’t stop yammering on. I left them like that on that bench where I like to sit and watch people who are not my own age. Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes, around half past twelve I sit alone⎯feeling lonely⎯surrounded by a handful of elderly folks walking slowly by. They settle into nearby benches and peruse newspapers filled with photographs of dead people and supermarket inserts. On other days I watch children eat sand and scream while they punch each other in jest. They make me feel like an outsider, too, like a cinema spectator only allowed to place one foot in the theater (the rest of his body must stay at the door, watching the film through that little glass window). Right there I smoked another cigarette, in the doorway of the cinema, watching from afar that movie starring you and the rest of the real people in this city.

I remember I was smoking as I left the little park of isolation. I remember that it took me over fifteen minutes to decide; don’t ask me why, but my head was full of your words, as if my own had ceased to exist. It took me a while to realize that I no longer have my own words. Next I started to get that feeling you get when you want to go home. So I walked purposefully, fleeing like a brave man who turns around with the face of new guilt. I didn’t rush. I knew that you would wait for me, but I took a shortcut anyway and ended up crossing that busy street, the one that’s perpetually filled with dark suits, fancy ties, fitted trousers, straight, blown-dry hair, and empty briefcases of shiny leather. And by mistake⎯this I swear⎯I bumped into one of those dark suits and burned its hand. I put my cigarette out on a hand that held an empty briefcase of shiny leather. I froze, I couldn’t move. And he, the guy inside the suit, looked at me with outrage and thanked me. He thanked me! Then he disappeared into the throngs of rear ends snugly fitted inside fitted trousers and I felt less isolated than usual because the gratitude of that suit (one of those suits with a person inside) was so reassuring. I thought about how long it had been since anyone had thanked me for anything⎯you never do⎯so I wasted ten more cigarettes on the hands, backs, and rear ends of some pleated trousers and one dark blouse. I also put one out on the ankle of a high heel and an ear partially covered by a police cap. The ear also thanked me, I heard it commending me but I didn’t pay much attention because I had the sudden urge to run, out of happiness I suppose. (If you want to put one out on me I will put one out on you. That way we can thank each other mutually.)

It was then that I realized I should come home and finish off the demolition. It wasn’t right, me just going out for cigarettes and then not coming back. I’m sure you would have loved that. You’d arm yourself with some hackneyed saying, the perfect excuse to blame me for everything, starting with the first crime ever committed by mankind. Oh no, if I go out for cigarettes I come back. Even if it’s just to ruin your story about me running out on you. I would never stand for it: You telling the story about me in a bar, letting those people think I was a bloody cliché. No such luck. To run out on someone you’ve got to be brave, but me, I’m a coward. Even if it’s only to make your blood boil, I come back. I always come back.

I started walking quickly up the cobblestone streets, which seemed more like an endless staircase of one-centimeter-thick stone steps. And it started to rain. And I had an overwhelming urge to smoke, but I was in a hurry. I didn’t have time to look for a park and a bench and some elderly folks, a place where I could isolate myself. It was raining hard. The raindrops stung. I couldn’t stop to smoke, I needed to get back here right away, so I lit a cigarette while I was walking. I took a few quick drags to make sure it was lit, and just when I was starting to enjoy it, drip. Drip. A raindrop exploded on the cigarette, right on the tip. It burst discreetly; the shrapnel cut through the rolling paper too easily, as if it were wet tissue paper. The cigarette (which didn’t have time to feel a thing) went out, it was soaked. Far from losing my cool⎯you know that I don’t⎯I took another one and lit it. I let the broken, soggy cigarette fall into the gutter that runs down between the stones. It floated off like a soldier in the army reserve, dead before he even got to the front lines of combat.

I lit another one from a thin, momentary flame. I inhaled. It took me exactly the same amount of time it takes to consider the likelihood of a raindrop falling square onto one’s cigarette and, drip. This time it landed not on the tip but right in the middle, a raindrop so immense that it tore the cigarette’s belly open, exposing a crater of tobacco, its guts pouring out, wailing. Hit, flooded, sunk.

Disconcerted (but not overwrought), I asked for a light from some high-schoolers smoking next to Doña Auri’s corner store. They looked at me intently. I tried to smile but my hands were shaking. There were only a few blocks left and I managed to walk alongside the walls of those big old houses, sheltered under the wooden eaves. When I had no choice but to cross the street I ran, always making sure to cup my hand over the cigarette, which was smoking down perfectly. I think that’s why it pained me even more, because I was sure it wouldn’t happen again, that somehow seeing them drown before my eyes was just a coincidence, like us (like the situation of this poor country), something ephemeral, a rough spot.

The goddamned drop was enormous. It fell at top speed from the tip of a roof tile that protruded a few centimeters from the eaves. It jumped, more accurately, calculating the wind speed, my movement and the angle of the slope. It was spot on. This time it was ripped from my mouth. I ended up with the filter hanging from my lips as if I’d been holding on to the head of a guillotined body.

Seriously. And even if you think it’s pure fabrication, that such sheer bad luck and dead-on targets make no sense, the truth is that they all died in the rain, drowned by suicidal, sniper raindrops. It’s worthless to tell you that I tried, that I ran, I dodged, I jumped. It’s helpless to confess that I’m sorry, to take responsibility, to claim that these things happen to me just as other, more normal things, happen to you. You, the “social smoker,” can blame me for all the mistakes, you’ve got all the evidence, the jury is on your side. (Besides, the judge doesn’t like me.)

This is the last one. If you want we can share it. Or would you rather I run down to the corner to get you a pack. What’s that suitcase for? I can ask the neighbors, they always have some rolling tobacco. Are you going on a trip? Perhaps I should just go down to Doña Auri’s (I don’t understand. Why the tears?) and I’ll get you something to eat and those cigarettes you like, the blue ones. I promise this time I’ll bring them all back, even if every raindrop in this city shoots me down. Drip.*

* This is the drip of a tear. Tears don’t get you so wet and they sound like a door being shut.

Y si ves que no regreso

Mira como llegas, estás empapado, llevo horas esperándote. Te vas a por tabaco en medio de esto. Tenemos que hablar. ¿Y los cigarros, no has traído?

Pues no, pensé que era mejor volver sin ellos que irme yo y que volvieran los cigarros solos. Me imaginé que te enfadarías si los vieras llegar a estas horas tal y como están las calles de peligrosas. No pongas esa cara, he ido a comprar tabaco y lo he hecho pero no me ha llegado uno vivo. Cosas de esta ciudad empinada, empapada, armada.

Te dejé con la palabra en la boca, lo sé. Discúlpame, pero necesitaba fumarme uno. Además hacía un rato que no entendía nada de lo que me estabas diciendo. Gritabas (sin levantar la voz, como sólo tú puedes) y cuando gritas así me entran ganas de fumar (y de besarte en la boca, pero eso no te lo voy a decir).

En fin. Bajé la Décima con cuidado de no caer rodando hasta la plaza Bolívar, bajé haciendo zig-zag como un escalador prudente. En el quinto zig me encontré a Marcelo, me pidió cigarros, por supuesto no tenía y le di alguna moneda; Marcelo siempre escupe al hablar, una especie de agresión salival tolerada. Doscientos zag más abajo encontré al tipo que me vende el tabaco, en la Séptima, al lado de los militares. Me preguntó por ti y como siempre alabó tu belleza (Qué bonita que es su mujer. Sí señor, para usted, yo hace tiempo que no la veo, no puedo verla, ya sabe que el amor es ciego. ¿Por eso lleva gafas? Sí, por eso mismo. Que tenga un buen día).

Encendí uno nada más comprar la cajetilla, seguí caminando y me senté en un parquecito, uno de esos donde me gusta sentarme a observar. Tus palabras me retumbaban dentro. Dejé otros tres cigarros allí sentados para que pudieran sentirse observadores como yo. Les pinté ojos y boca. A uno lo puse con la boca abierta, hablando; el del medio está dormitando y no escucha al que habla sin parar. Él otro, el tercero, tiene la mirada encendida, mira a la nada y busca cerillas en sus bolsillos para prenderle fuego (y fumarse) a ese coñazo de cigarrillo que no deja de parlotear. Los dejé en el banco donde me gusta sentarme a mirar a gente que no es de mi edad. No pongas esa cara. Algunas veces, sobre las doce y media me siento solo -y me siento sólo- entre una decena de ancianos que caminan despacio, se incrustan en los bancos mientras ojean periódicos llenos de muertos y folletos de supermercados. Otros días encuentro niños tragándose arena y gritando mientras se pegan puñetazos a modo de juego; ellos también me hacen quedarme fuera, como un espectador al que sólo le dejan meter una pierna en la sala del cine (el resto del cuerpo se queda fuera observando la película por la ventanita de la puerta). Ahí me fumé otro, a la puerta de ese cine, mirando desde fuera esta película donde sales tú y todos los demás seres reales de esta ciudad.

Recuerdo que iba fumando mientras salía del parquecito de aislamiento. Recuerdo que tardé más de quince minutos en decidirme, no me digas por qué, pero tenía la mente llena de frases tuyas, como si las mías se hubieran desaparecido. Tardé un rato llegar a la conclusión de que ya no tengo frases.

Acto seguido comencé a sentir eso que se siente cuando quieres volver a casa. Así que caminé firme, huyendo como un valiente que vuelve con la cara de culpable recién puesta. No tenía prisa, sabía que me esperabas pero aún así tomé un atajo y acabé cruzando por esa calle concurrida, saturada siempre de trajes oscuros con corbatas de fantasía, con pantalones ajustados, pelo liso de secador y maletines vacíos de piel brillante. Y sin querer, esto te lo juro, sin querer me tropecé con uno de los cuerpos que iba dentro de uno de esos trajes oscuros y le quemé en la mano, le apagué el cigarro en la mano que aguantaba un maletín vacío de piel brillante. Me quedé paralizado y él, el tipo que iba dentro del traje, me miró horrorizado y me dio las gracias ¡Me dio las gracias! Desapareció entre un tumulto de culos que iban apretados dentro de pantalones ajustados y me sentí menos aislado que de costumbre por lo reconfortante del agradecimiento por parte del traje (uno de esos trajes rellenos de persona). Pensé en que hacía mucho tiempo que no me daban las gracias por nada –tú nunca lo haces­– así que me gasté otros diez cigarrillos en las manos, las espaldas y los culos de algunos pantalones con pinzas y en una blusa oscura. Los apagué también en el tobillo que iba sobre un zapato de tacón de aguja y en una oreja que iba bajo una gorra de policía. La oreja también me lo agradeció, le oí decir cosas bonitas pero allá atrás, no pude ponerle mucha atención porque me habían entrado unas ganas súbitas de correr; de alegría me imagino. (Si quieres puedes apagarme alguno a mí y yo haré lo mismo contigo. Así nos daremos las gracias mutuamente).

Fue en ese instante cuando me di cuenta de que debía volver a casa y terminar la demolición: no se puede dejar un trabajo a medias, no podría ser que saliera a por tabaco y no regresara. Seguro que te alegraría verte en esas, te sentirías armada con una frase hecha, perfecta para culparme hasta del primer delito de la historia. No. Yo, si salgo a por cigarros vuelvo; aunque sólo sea por no ponerte tan fácil el relato de mi huída. Jamás dejaría que contaras mi historia en el bar y que la gente pensara que soy un puto tópico. No caerá esa breva. Para huir hay que ser muy valiente y yo, cobarde, aunque sólo sea por joder, vuelvo. Siempre vuelvo.

Me puse a caminar rápido por las calles cuesta arriba, adoquinadas de tal manera que más bien parecían una escalera interminable de peldaños con un centímetro de diferencia. Y empezó a llover. Y me entraron unas ganas enormes de fumar pero tenía prisa, no podía buscar un parque, un banco y unos ancianos entre los que aislarme. Llovía fuerte. Llovía romo. No podía pararme a fumar, tenía que llegar cuanto antes y encendí el cigarro en marcha, le pegué un par de caladas hasta sentir que ya estaba incandescente y justo cuando empezaba a disfrutarlo, plaf. Plaf. Una gota estalla encima del cigarro, justo en la punta. Reventó con una explosión discreta y la metralla atravesó el papel de fumar como papel de fumar. El cigarro, que no sintió nada, no tuvo tiempo, se apagó, estaba empapado. Lejos de acojonarme, tú sabes que no lo hago, tomé otro y lo encendí. Al empapado y roto lo dejé caer en la alcantarilla que corre por en medio del empedrado. Se fue flotando como un soldado de la reserva muerto mucho antes de haber pisado primera línea de combate.

Encendí el siguiente gracias a un alfiler de fuego que brotó durante un instante. Aspiré. Tardé justo lo que se tarda en pensar en la casualidad que lleva a una gota de lluvia a caer en mi cigarro y plaf. Y esta vez no en la punta sino en el medio, una gota tan grande que partió por el centro al cigarrillo, abriendo un cráter en el tabaco, lo desgarró dejándolo con las tripas fuera, gritando. Tocado, inundado, hundido.

Alarmado, que no neurótico, pedí fuego a unos bachilleres que fumaban en la esquina de la tiendita de Doña Auri. Me miraron serio, yo intentaba sonreír pero me temblaban las manos. Quedaban pocas cuadras y procuré pegarme a las paredes de esas casonas viejas buscando el refugio de sus aleros de madera. Corría cuando no tenía más remedio que cruzar la calle, siempre cuidando de tapar con la mano el cigarro que ya se consumía perfectamente. Creo que por eso me dolió más, porque ya estaba seguro que no volvería a pasar, que eso de verlos ahogarse delante de mi nariz sólo era una coincidencia, como lo nuestro (como lo de este pobre país), algo puntual, una mala etapa.

La puta gota era enorme. Calló en picado desde la punta de una teja que se salía unos centímetros de aquel alero. Saltó, más bien, calculando la velocidad del viento, mi desplazamiento y el ángulo de la pendiente. Acertó. A este, me lo arrancaron dejándome la boquilla colgando de los labios como si me hubiera quedado con la cabeza de un cuerpo que acaba de ser guillotinado.

Sí. Y aunque te parezca que todo es un cuento, que no tiene sentido tanta mala ostia y tanta buena puntería, lo cierto es que todos han muerto ahogados por gotas francotiradoras y suicidas. De nada me vale decirte que lo intenté, que corrí, esquivé, salté. De nada me sirve confesar que lo siento, asumir la responsabilidad, clamar que a mí me pasan esas cosas como a ti te pasan esas otras más normales. Tú, tan fumadora social, puedes culparme de todos los errores, tienes todas las pruebas, el jurado está contigo (y además no le caigo bien al juez).

Este es el último. Si quieres lo compartimos o mejor me bajo en un momento hasta la esquina y te busco una cajetilla. ¿Y esa maleta? Puedo preguntarle a los vecinos, siempre guardan algo de tabaco de liar – ¿te vas de viaje?– o mejor me voy hasta lo de Doña Auri, (no entiendo, por qué esas lágrimas) y te traigo algo de comer y esos cigarros que te gustan, los azules. Prometo que esta vez te los traeré todos aunque me disparen todas las gotas de esta ciudad. Plaf*.

*Este es un plaf de lágrima. Las lágrimas mojan menos y suenan a puerta que se cierra.

© Luis Nuño. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Maureen Shaughnessy. All rights reserved.

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