ONIRICA Project

In memoriam Enrique Laso

HALE-BOPP

I

July 20, 2019

Day 0 of the Year of Uncertainty

It was a Saturday. Not even if I had lived another hundred years could I have forgotten it. I don’t remember the exact time, but it must have been around eight o’clock, because I had just arrived home after rehearsals with the orchestra and the hall was already completely dark. I remember leaving the wet raincoat on the chair and shopping bags in the kitchen, I fed Coyote, put on my pajamas, plugged in the iron and turned on the TV while I waited for it to warm up. With the hustle and bustle of the last days I had nothing left to wear that didn’t look like a raisin, so I decided to heed the remedy before it became sickness.

After ten minutes or so, almost every network interrupted their broadcasts with a last minute bulletin. When I began to hear the news, the first thing I thought was that it was a joke, the typical occurrence of a presenter lacking ingenuity with talented screenwriters to fill in his, obviously, excessive gang space. But when, tired of such a pantomime, I found out where I had left the remote control and managed to change the channel, I came across different actors in almost identical scenarios.

The same thing happened in the next three or four channels that I went through. At the same time, all of them emitted the images of a man speaking in public on a piece of the screen while in the other, a nervous presenter threw questions at a correspondent of his network as altered as he.

I remember being paralyzed. Although they say everything in a run-over way, joining the different remnants of disjointed information that came to me, I could get an idea of ​​what those men in suits were trying to explain.

According to the label below, who was giving the press conference was the secretary of the presidency of the United States of America. An important guy of those who from time to time play golf with the president, travel in black and elongated cars, and tend to receive messages by a well-concealed bug under his gray hair. He spoke with a very serious face, looking at an audience that photographed him mercilessly and making trained gestures with his hands to convey a feeling of calculated calmness. But neither that man possessed it at that time, nor did the accredited journalists in front of him perceive it. However, there he was, containing his hysteria so that the world did not suddenly go crazy, pretending like he has been trained to do in those expensive panic management courses he received every two months. At least, he could not be criticized for not having used his time and the money of the contributors.

It was the strong smell of burnt nylon, coming from the right sleeve of a blouse that brought me back to the living room of the small attic where I lived. A blouse that had cost me a kidney, although it wasn’t authentic. It was a Gucci fake of almost sixty dollars that I had bought for special occasions but which, due to lack of use, I had begun to put on a daily basis. It was burning under my nose and I didn’t even realize when I had started ironing it.

I unplugged the device and placed it on the table. Afterwards, I sat on the couch and remained in that position for a few long minutes. I kept watching TV, although I didn’t listen to it anymore. The video of the gray-haired man giving explanations was repeated over and over again, while the news workers struggled to bring the last hour news and gain an advantage over their competition with new and interesting data.

The landline phone was in charge of getting me out of my abstraction. It could have been anyone, (by then, probably eighty percent of the planet’s population was already aware of the discovery and needed to let off steam with someone nearby), but on that occasion it was my mother.

"Dani, daughter, have you heard the news? They have said that the world is going to end! She said between sobs. Calm down, Mom, nothing’s going to end. There are very smart people who surely find a solution to the problem." I don’t know why I said it so convinced. Until then I still hadn’t finished believing it, but somehow, that answer gave me a push from the back towards reality.

"Do you think? Oh, I don’t know, honey... Those things are impossible to stop. We are not in one of those films in which a very handsome man saves us right at the end."

"I know, Mom, but don’t worry, okay? We have never needed very handsome men and never will. We have a lot of time left, and surely there are thousands of smart people working on it. We have just been told, yes, but they will have known several months ago. We don’t have much left, daughter. One year until we begin to see it. And then what? One more year? Those things go very fast."

My mother was right. According to the news, in about a year the Archangel Comet would become visible in the sky. At first, being a tiny point, distinguishable only on the clearest days. Afterwards, the point would acquire a larger progressive shape as it gets closer to us. Thus, until the day of impact, although by then there would be no one able to prepare a welcome party.

An expert had stated at the time of the broadcast that after the spread of the news the world entered into what he himself defined as "Year of uncertainty. I liked the term. The year of uncertainty." It was a period of time in which people would still not assimilate that the date of the end of the world was already a concrete reality; without accepting the official information because it is considered unlikely and unforeseen. When that year ended and everyone checked with their own eyes what was happening, the former expert predicted that chaos and destruction would take over society. People would have already assumed their destiny and nobody would mind getting up early to go to work, sowing the land to reap their rewards or take care of their health and that of their surroundings. The situation would become unsustainable and the world would live its last days in a generalized anarchy. Let’s say that man sinned as an optimist.

Mom sighed on the other side of the headset.

"Oh my God! Too bad we die like this!"

"Come on, Mom, don’t hurry. You will see how the thing is fixed. How is Dad?"

"Fine."

"In the next few days try to leave home little, okay? I don’t know how people will react and I’m worried that you’ll be in danger."

"Yes, darling. You do the same."

"Sure, Mom. Take care, okay? We’ll talk."

"Goodbye, honey."

It was a brief conversation, but it was etched in my head forever. It could not have been otherwise.

Soon, the phone rang a couple more times, but I did not pick it up again or see who was calling me. At that time I didn’t even think that it could be Ronnie or my sister who tried to contact me. I guess the phone would also be full of calls and messages in my bag, but I didn’t feel like looking at it. I simply changed the channel and looked for one of those channels that broadcast music videos twenty-four hours a day. I lay on the couch and began to think about things without too much relation. I had bought some fish for dinner, but when I looked at the time shone on the display of my media player it was too late to get ready to prepare it and I wasn’t very hungry either. On TV was playing Have You Ever Seen the Rain? by Creedence Clearwater Revival. I was curious that music was almost the only sacred thing on television, the only thing anyone had dared to cut to make way for an impromptu apocalyptic bulletin.

I looked at the huge mountain of clothes to be iron. The truth is that I had no desire to spend my time on household chores as tedious as ironing. I ceased to be clear, well in advance of what was stated by the expert, that I should continue to go to work. I didn’t know how my clients would behave. Would they go to the scheduled appointments? Would Anette go to help me? Although not being in my office would eliminate the need to have a blouse without wrinkles ready, thinking better I came to the conclusion that I would need to continue working at least until "The year of uncertainty" ended (I was surprised how quickly the term had been internalized). I had no money to survive that long, taking into account, in addition, that after the news it was presumable that food prices soared and supplies were reduced until finally being cancelled. Based on the expert’s words, as long as the people were not sure that they were going to die, they would continue spending their money on material things more or less as before. Then, we would see... It was quite clear that the man also did not know what human psychosis was.

I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. I threw two fingers of the coffee that I had left over from breakfast into a glass, took a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, opened it and poured a jet over it. I didn’t like the taste of overheated coffee, but I never remembered buying a smaller coffee maker, so every day I made more quantity than I consumed. I thought that I was no longer compensated to get another for what little I had left in the world. I put the milk in the fridge and finished putting the rest of the things I had planned to support myself for a week. I looked at the expiration date printed on a bottle of oil acquired for some nonsensical seven dollars. It was five years before it expired, but if I did not consume it in a few months, there would be no one on the entire planet who could throw it away. Unintentionally, I had created a new way of measuring time: "before the end of the world and after the end of the world". In an irrefutable way, everything done would fall to one side or the other of the division line.

Sighing, I warmed the brown mixture in the microwave and returned to the TV, accompanied by the sound of the second hand turning on the kitchen clock. Until then it had always been marking seconds more. From now on, what would mark would be seconds less. And it was strange, because since I was little I had been aware that one day I would die and that every moment consumed shortened my life a little more. But somehow, having a date marked on the horizon served to modify my perspective in a radical way.

I buried my face in my hands. "How long have they been knowing that this rock is moving towards us? How many decisions have already been made throughout the planet conditioned by it? What seemed clear was that from then on all those taken would be. Why would they have established this day to announce it to the four winds?" I assumed that NASA astronomers would have extended it to the fullest, probably until the body was almost visible using telescopes smaller than theirs, but that was just a guess.

Although I liked music, I was tempted to return to the programming of some conventional channel. I imagined that they would be reporting the size of Archangel, the effect it would cause when it struck, the expectations about the conservation of life in the future or the possibility of being transferred to another place in the universe. In short, an endless list of assumptions, forecasts and omens. But what I already knew was enough: in a couple of years we would receive the collision of a comet so large that it would completely erase Earth’s life. There was no place for hope. The secretary of the presidency had been very clear, he had not walked around. In a way, seeing him speak had reminded me of an experienced doctor explaining to his patient that he had only a few months to live. The only difference was that he had said it at the same time to billions of patients spread across the damned world.

As soon as I put my cup for the second time in my mouth, the doorbell rang a couple of times in a row. I assumed it would be some neighbor worried about his future extinction, but there was no one on the block with whom I had strengthened ties enough to feel compelled to endure such a ration of tears, so I ignored the call. Then the doorbell rang again for the third time, without it still prompting me to open the door. A fourth sounded. Between annoyance and bad mood, I understood that whoever was calling was a patient and tenacious person who would not leave without first talking to me. Of course, it could also be Mr. Francisco, armed with suitcases with the intention of saying goodbye to me before taking a plane to Chile. I don’t know how I could think of airplanes after what happened in recent days.

Finally I went to the entrance, put the cup on the shoe-rack and opened the door. Behind it there was no neighbor, nor was Mr. Francisco. Those I found were two guys of long raincoat with the face of never having tried cotton candy. They seemed agents of some sort, but it was difficult to intuit of what. I wondered if they had heard about the news or caught them on duty.

"Daniela Palmer? I would say they asked me, although the truth is that they pronounced my name as if they were informing me of it. On their lips it sounded like I had never heard it before. That’s me. How can I help you?" I asked very cautiously. The truth is that I was not able to guess what the hell they were doing in my apartment.

It turned out that what I could help them with was something as surprising as it was unpleasant, the last thing that could be expected after an end of day like the one we had just lived.

"Federal Police. You are under arrest for suspicion of espionage," both said in unison.

II

July 16, 1995

24 years before the Year of Uncertainty

Diana looked at me and laughed like a lunatic. At first I did not give it much importance, because she had the habit of huddling for any nonsense, but after two minutes without truce I began to get tired. I warned her a couple of times to stop looking at me or I would slap her, without it taking effect. She pretended to control herself by looking away to the plate, but soon she lifted it again and laughed once more. In the end I got fed up, took a little cream cheese with the spoon and catapulted it to her face with such good aim that I reached her in the middle of her forehead.

Girls, that’s enough!

My mother didn’t often loses her temper and when she did, ninety percent of the time was our fault. Nothing incomprehensible, Diana and I behaved like two demons, although we loved each other more than anything else in the world. Whoever has, or has had, a twin sibling will know what I mean.

We agree that I would make you the carrot cake if you behaved well, but I begin to believe that you have deceived me.

No, Mom! It’s just that Daniela... She looks a lot like the piglet that was born yesterday!

Diana cracked again with laughter. An older woman, Mrs. Willmore, lived near our house on a farm with a good plot of corn and some cattle. She used to call us to go when an animal was going to be born.

Oh, yeah? I asked indignantly. Well, you look more like its mother, eating like a sow!

What?!

Wounded in her pride, Diana took a piece of cake and threw it at me, but her aim was not as good as mine and the projectile ended up dripping down the wall.

Come on! What’s going on here? Asked our father after approaching, drawn by the fuss, to the kitchen door.

Nothing, Dad.

Your daughters, who are liars and spoils ones.

Well, well... Then this afternoon they will have to stay at home, and it’s a shame, because there is a magnificent wind in the lighthouse.

No, Dad!

Then clean all that and when you’re done, you also do the dirty dishes. Then we’ll talk.

How cruel!

Cruel or not, we had earned it by hand.

We finished drinking the milk in silence and picked up the table. Then, following our father’s orders, we emptied the sink of dishes and cutlery. I was rubbing with soap and rinsing the pots, and Diana dried them with a cloth. Finally, we store them in the cupboards and cover the table with a freshly washed tablecloth. The kitchen looked as if it had never been cooked in it, which gave us the approval of our mother.

Come, before we go, I want to show you something, Diana told me, pulling me by the sleeve.

What is it?

You will see.

We went up to our room and closed the door. Diana crouched down beside the bed and pulled out a small shiny object from underneath. She brought it to me so I could see it more easily, but she didn’t want to let it go. It was a very bright whitish stone, some kind of quartz or something similar.

How pretty! It is shaped like a fish. Where did you find it?

On the beach. I think it is a fossil.

Ah, a fish fossil, of course!

Today we can look for more. I will use this one in a gift that I am making.

For whom?

For you, fool!

It wasn’t my birthday until many months later, so receiving a gift at that time was something unexpected.

What will it be?

Always the same! It’s a surprise, you’ll see, Diana said, leaving the piece of ore in her hiding place again.

Do you keep my gift there too?

Don’t even think about looking! As you see it before it’s finished, I’ll give it to Mom. Or I’ll keep it.

Okay, okay, I won’t look.

Our mother knocked on the door.

Girls, are you ready? Your father is waiting for you downstairs.

We’re coming, Mom!

Where is my hat? Asked herself Diana.

In the closet, my mother accurately predicted from the hallway.

The turn dragged the scent of the sea to our house as part of a call that was impossible to resist. As soon as I stepped onto the porch, my feet turned to it and began to move, guided by the influx of saltpeter into my lungs. It was that kind of smell that hypnotizes and attracts without the need to grab by the neck; that the sailors know well and can never be separated once they have breathed it for the first time.

The three of us walked out, Dad with his wool coat and we dressed in our Sunday dresses and macramé hats that I soon took off. We were very elegant, matching a spring that was recreated at the dawn of summer rigor. Mom used to go to the beach in the mornings, when the air was still cool and the sun didn’t get too hot, but in the afternoons she preferred to stay embroidering at the door of the house or reading romantic novels. We went down the narrow path that made its way between the Livingstone daisies and skirted the dunes until it linked to the dirt road that led to the lighthouse, located on a vegetation-free esplanade on top of a small hill. From it a magnificent panorama of the beach and the cliffs that rose beyond the border with the waves was offered.

Stranded in the sand, was skewered the skeleton of an old boat on which the cormorants perched when it managed to peek over the waters. Although we had been among its frames many times without finding anything interesting, Diana was sure that somewhere there was still an old chest full of jewels and gold coins buried. I had repeatedly told her that this was nothing more than a ruinous fishing barge that no one had bothered to remove, but her imagination carried her much further. Impulsively, I let myself be dragged along with it and we had a good time pretending to be rude pirates arriving with our galleon to a desert island. When our father called us, I returned to the real world immediately. Our enemies and their ships disappeared, the mysterious island was again a beach near our house and we were a couple of girls with many dreams in our heads. But for Diana it was different, maybe because she was too. Diana kept talking as if she were in that other place for hours, sometimes even at night, when she rested her wooden leg on a chair and lay in her cabin ready to sleep, swayed by the tide.

Upon reaching the lighthouse elevation, we began to climb the stairs excavated in the ground under the flight of the seagulls, which squawked nervously at our proximity to their nests. Born on the last step, there was a green meadow in which the footsteps of the visitors had drawn in brown tones a path to the luminous tower. We approach the edge of the cliff to contemplate the greatness of the sea, its distant silver glitters and its display of strength at the foot of the rocks. We put the kite on the ground and spread a good piece of rope. Diana took the controls and, with an uncontrolled emotion face, began to run pulling them. The kite crawled across the grass several feet until, after two or three failed attempts, it took off determined towards the sky. My sister was releasing thread to make it gain height while the colored cloth bird defied the fierce gusts of wind. Soon, the kite reached some stability and I asked her to give me control. She was not entirely satisfied with the time she had due, but her generous character led her to accept it. We flew the kite, exchanging it for almost an hour while our father, sitting on a stone, smoked pipe tobacco and drew with charcoal on a pocket pad. After bringing it down to the ground, we spread a blanket in the shadow of the lighthouse to rest for a while and have a snack.

What have you painted? I asked Dad, brushing my hair from my face. Diana was smarter in that sense than me, and she always wore her hair in a ponytail, or controlled under her hat, but I liked to set it free, something that sometimes like that was a problem.

Dad showed us, although we already knew what it was. He always drew us next to the lighthouse, flying the kite. Sometimes from afar, sometimes as a portrait, from behind, from the sea, from the sky... The framing varied but, in essence, the scene was again and again the same. On that occasion he had drawn us backwards, with the huge mass of salt water in the background. I thought it was a beautiful drawing.

Are you going to keep it with the others? I asked.

I’ll see what I do with it, he replied thoughtfully.

After a snack, we wanted to play with the kite again, but in a matter of minutes a sea mist bank rose over the coast causing a sharp drop in temperature. The wind became unpleasant and began to carry solid particles that threatened to get into our eyes. Dad resolved that it was a good time to return home.

Upon entering the door, the smell of barbecue made us forget the snack and look forward to dinner soon. Mom was in the backyard picking up some bed sheets from the line before the more obvious rain forecast. We took advantage of her absence to take a few cookies with nuts from the cupboard and, while we waited for someone to remind us that bath time had come, we went up to the room to eat them listening to the old vinyl records my father kept with so much care. The majority were pieces of classical composers performed by large European orchestras that had been collected through a Sunday. They were not, therefore, editions of great monetary value, but what they contained was for us the passport to a fantastic world full of magic and color that had little to do with the boring landscapes that were painted on their covers. When turning the disk began to play its melodies, our imagination was filled with butterflies waving wings on rivers of clear waters and meadows full of flowers, with us flying between them.

We were happy, maybe too much, and not being prepared for suffering made the pain that spread through our lives so devastating in the coming months. Especially for Diana.

III

July 14, 2019

6 days before the Year of Uncertainty

Someone close to you will bring bad news.

Is it mine?

Virgo.

Well, what a way to start the week. I hoped I had exhausted my bad luck with yesterday’s breakdown.

Problems with that old can?

The catalyst. Apparently it has broken.

The catalyst? Uff... Well, get in the worst.

Yes, I know.

Well, the bill will go up a bit, but I guess it’s important to control the emissions if we want this planet to last a little longer.

Ronnie left the newspaper on the table, satisfied with his plea.

Glad to see you so aware, I appreciated. "Although the ‘I guess’ has spoiled it a bit."

Hey! What are you suggesting?

I remember that when we lived together, it was hard for you to recycle.

No way! What happens is that you wanted to separate everything, and I had things I didn’t know if they went with the containers or with the cardboard. Now in my house I recycle much more.

That’s very good. Soon you will be ready to move on to the next phase.

What phase? Eat the garbage to make it disappear?

Hey, it would be a good option!

How funny you are...

I mean generate less waste by buying larger containers to fill the ones you already have, or products with less plastic in their packaging.

Who said he does that? The last environmental Nobel?

I do it. And many other people I know.

Ronnie looked at me like I was missing a screw.

Well, what does yours say? I wanted to know, as a way to change the subject.

My horoscope? No idea, I have not looked at it.

Ah. It was almost certain that he had looked at it. So, according to the journalist who wrote that, should I expect the worst?

I would say yes.

Great...

The waiter approached with two slushies and left them on a cup holder at our table. It might be cold on the street, but inside the cafeteria the temperature reached seventy-much degrees.

Hello, Daniela, someone greeted behind me. It was Marcelo, our conductor.

Marcelo.

I wanted to congratulate you expressly, your interpretation this afternoon has been magnificent.

Wind sounded powerful. That gave character to the melodies.

It can be... Oh! Excuse me.

Marcelo’s phone had vibrated in his pocket and, when he realized, he moved away from the table to answer the call.

"‘Excuse me’? Ronnie emphasized, Second person singular? Very appropriate, coming from him."

"He said it very quickly. Normally, one apologizes using made phrases or simple words, the first that come to mind. I don’t think it gave him time to think: ‘Oh, they’re calling me. I must answer the call. I am talking with two people. I will excuse myself before them and I will separate from their table to answer.’"

But he preferred to ignore my irony and insist on his heart.

Well, technically he was just talking to one person.

But what a fool you are!

Ronnie brought his mouth to the two colored straws resting on the side of the glass and sipped half of his slushy like a thirsty mosquito.

When I saw him coming, I assumed your bad news would be falling, he said, trying to hide the sharp pain in his temples that the cold had caused him.

Well, it seems you were wrong. He has only come to congratulate me.

I remind you that he is not done with you yet.

I shook my head. Sometimes, Ronnie reminded me of the main actor in a movie I had seen as a child. I don’t remember its name, but there was a very serious detective who constantly said: "Excuse me, I’m not done with you yet." During the four years we were together I heard that phrase so many times that I ended up hating it. From a distance perspective, I was slowly beginning to find it fun.

Sorry, Daniela, I’ve left you halfway, Marcelo excused himself when he returned to our side. He seemed quite stressed, although in general, he was the typical person who always lived overwhelmed by events. Always nervous, always busy, always with a peak of the shirt over the belt. Based on the positive influence that music had on me, I often wondered what his life would be like if he did not devote himself to exploring it and was, for example, a bus driver.

Do not worry. Calls must always be answered.

Yes, especially some. It was the girl from our travel agency. This year the great idea of ​​summering in Yalong has occurred to my wife and you can’t imagine the amount of decisions to be taken to visit such a small place.

We are in July. Isn’t it a little early to think about summer?

Yes, it should be. But booking so far in advance travel is much cheaper.

I get it.

She chooses destiny, but it’s my turn to deal with logistics. What a headache! He complained, rubbing his face. Hey, could you have a coffee with me this weekend and start preparing what the spring concert is going to be?

Is it that we are not going to follow the same score?

"I’d like to avoid it. Sometimes it sounds a bit trite. I have thought about adding a percussion base to the central part, before the lalalá, pom, pom-pom-pom, pom, pom-pom-pom..."

Okay... I tried to make a face of doubting. Maybe it is better to work with the whole group at once, don’t you think?

Yes, of course. But first I would like to have your opinion. I would not like to present it to the orchestra and that everyone would consider me, you know, too bold. Oh my, the phone again. Well, think about it and confirm it in the next rehearsal, okay?

Okay, yes.

However, you have my phone...

Better not bother you with that, you already suffer too many calls.

Discussing scores is never annoyance for me, he argued smiling. Have a good afternoon, Daniela. See you tomorrow.

Marcelo turned around and hurried out of the cafeteria. Meanwhile, Ronnie followed him with a gaze locked in a rictus of total complacency.

Marcelo, Marcelo... What a character. There you have your bad news, he said, happy to have smelled it.

It is not so much. Also, by saying no, it will be enough.

Yeah, yeah...

Hey, that man is married, if that’s where you’re going.

So what? He is a manual handheld. Of those who fill the nets with photos of their children’s birthdays, as if we cared about those mucus sacks.

Have you visited his profile?

No, he’s not someone that interests me at all.

I am glad to hear.

Let’s say that seeing his dog sleeping would rob me of a time I can spend on much more interesting things.

Well!

You do not believe me?

Of course I believe you. It’s just that it’s funny that you’re jealous at this point.

I don’t know why, but Ronnie felt obliged to justify himself.

Well, you won’t tell me that you don’t feel jealous when you see me with Megan.

I don’t feel them.

Come on now! Not even a few?

Zero.

I see, you’re still as tough as ever, huh?

I know.

Ronnie began crushing the leftover ice scraps left in the bottom of his glass with one of the straws.

The point is that...

Hey, I have to go, I cut him off. I did not want the conversation to drift according to whichever course. I have to do a lot of things yet.

Okay, right. See you another day?

Yes, we are talking about it. You think?

Sure. I travel to Hong Kong early tomorrow and I will be there for a week. When I return I call you or I come to see you at some rehearsal.

Work issues?

Yes, as usual, meetings with a client to close the fringes of the next contract.

Well, whatever you want, you can come here whenever you feel like it. But I don’t know if next week I can have something with you at the end. I need to push several articles that I am preparing for some magazines.

No problem. How is your consultation going?

Great, I replied as I rose from the chair. I had never had so many patients.

The world is getting crazier, right?

It is us the ones who increasingly live with more fears and worries, we cannot blame the world.

Right.

Well, have a good trip. See you around.

Thank you. And take care.

I will do it. Say hi to Megan.

On your behalf. Goodbye, Daniela.

When I left the conservatory I saw that the weather had improved and I decided to walk home. I stopped to buy dinner at the De la Cruz bistro and crossed the Fitzroy gardens hoping not to find too many people skating. We were in that period of the year when it had already begun to get dark soon but the lanterns still took time to turn on and it was difficult to see the ground under the feet. Myopic skaters were a danger behind every corner and I didn’t want my physical integrity damaged or my violin just flying through the air before it broke apart. 

I was surprised at how cold the breeze was, something that seemed to have driven away the majority of walkers that other afternoons used to frequent the park. Only those who used it as a passing route and some mimes with simple outfits, were seen winding down the paved streams that zigzagged through the chestnut trees. However, although the walk was not as rewarding as I would have liked, I was grateful to take some fresh air and listen to some music coming from nature.

Unfortunately, my happiness did not last long. As soon as I left the tree-lined area of ​​Lansdowne and Wellington, I was surprised by a short but enough downpour to get soaked in my hurried path to the arcades. I waited for the cloud to overtake me and continued north on Spring St., dodging puddles left and right, and watching for the splashing of cars.

Already near my portal, I got into a store and stocked with milk, eggs and those delicious cream cakes that made me go crazy since childhood. Surely, taking account, I would have eaten about three thousand throughout my life, and those were many cakes. It would not be crazy to visit the factory and demand in writing to have a portrait in the director’s office. I took a look at the music magazines in case there was any interesting news to pay attention to. Although mine was the violin and I dedicated myself to classical music part-time, the most modern sounds also featured prominently in my vinyl collection. Compilations of old issues, farewell tours and interviews without much interest occupied the covers, without mentioning any important developments. I opted not to buy any of the publications, fearing that the interior was as bland as their prominent headlines.

Upon entering the portal, Mr. Francisco said good afternoon in a secular way and handed me the package that a messenger had left for me. From the sender and the padded touch of the envelope, I assumed it was the shirts I had ordered two months ago from China. As always, patience was the best ally when purchases were made on the assorted websites of the Asian giant.

Is everything all right, Mr. Francisco?

Mr. Francisco had been the doorman of my building for the past forty years. Before him there was only one other maintenance officer who had also been a long period of time, although I think not that long. Obviously, I didn’t get to know him.

Yes, without news, thank you. Are you still having problems with humidity in the living room?

Not for now, but I suspect that stain will soon reappear.

It’s a good painting, but if you see it come out again, let me know quickly.

I will, I promised as I opened the mailbox. It was empty. How is your son?

Antonio?

Yes. I didn’t know he had another. Is he still in Chile?

Yes. I have already told him several times to come here, that he will find work shortly after he looks. But he always tells me the same thing; that that is his house and he doesn’t want to move. In short, each one seeks the best for himself, it is natural.

Of course.

I remembered my mother. She also suggested every now and then that I go to live to Sydney. It must be a common evil among parents, but it was understandable. No one likes to live far from their children.

Well, I’m going up, I’m starving. Thanks for the package, and good night.

God save you.

I said goodbye again to Mr. Francisco and waited for the elevator to arrive. I didn’t have to use the button because someone was already going down on it, so I just contemplated how the indicator light jumped from one number to another in a descending way.

When the doors opened, they gave way to one of the characters I liked least in the whole building: Desmond Warren, a fifty year old of extravagant appearance with several complaints of sexual harassment behind him. Some of them came from neighbors that he observed from the window of their bathroom or accused him of