Second installment: The Fiore.
Leaving the alley snakes, growing at a swift to reach seventh career as soon as possible. I try to speed things up and perhaps beat the cold. Meeting the Pilgrim, leaving the public library. We propose to go to Fiore.
The first time I went there it was he who took me. That afternoon, when I called, was accompanied by a girl from the Pacific, coarse features, ebony skin and manners rather male, but very beautiful as a whole. Then the place was only a prelude, which it obviously could have a battle of love that came later (it told me yesterday), on a dirty piltra, although extensive, those who wallow in the fucking of cities.
Now he came back to the site he was OK. The men and few women (not a decent place for ladies) who were there were concentrated in their dances, full of sensuality that reminded me that despite the 6 or 7 degrees of temperature, close to the north , was the Caribbean of the Maroons that seems so far away from here.
Of course, there were those who preferred delivered to the charming and cheerful gossip from the tables that crowded around the walls.
Over the hours, the place still coming together people of varied conditions, as brothers by a common aesthetic feeling. Ages, backgrounds and different colors were fully represented, almost in equal proportions, while the most diverse rhythms alternated according to the will of a demiurge chosen manipulating them at will.
In the night he was noisy inside these walls I could see familiar faces silver that looked unhealthy. Which caused me most pain was a friend of times trying to bring back home to what looked like her husband was drunk as beer and spirits. As still wore the uniform, the painted face and sad eyes.
El Peregrino, who served as my bodyguard, he left early. He left me to get lost in the thick concrete sleeping on my right and reached the horizon: this city to 11.
So soon I was alone, without ostiarii that repelled by me to the unworthy and without contertulio to fill with her voice loud and hollow silence of the music. I left the place and found myself back on the street outside a cafe ladies quieter lives than they had been in there.
raining. In light of a solitary lamppost, I could see the rhythm of my breathing, as measured by diffuse and ethereal mist expelling my face from the depths of my nose and from beyond the throat. I felt cold.
soon returned to shelter from the wind chill. So was the friend who came from another time, one not seen in half five years plus two months. He had gone away, as Arturo Cova fleeing the past, to the plains of the East. Was in the capital for several days.
drank a few beers together. I listened without concern about their conquests, how well he was at work, what had become respectable by those parts of its complacent girlfriend and the rough manners of the locals of those other parts where it was gone. Amidst the boredom, penetrated my turbinates of a strong smell of hops and fermented mixture of boxwood, conceived the idea of writing this series, which now reaches its second installment (click here to see the first) and The Pilgrim has allowed me to post on his blog. Assaulted by the thought
(write, write), I felt annoyed and began to wrap up the conversation to go. I took my coat and, without major rituals of courtesy, I pretended to leave. The new chief of Llano me to the park.
On the way I was thinking of sitting to write as soon as I arrived, but when traversing the threshold of the old house where I live, an overwhelming feeling of fatigue urged my break. I replenish the forces required a long night of sleep, idle until the bells of a nearby church early riser, while calling for prayer to his monks arrancáronme while the arms of Morpheus divine.
Thus ended my first desire to write this series.
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