Читать книгу All Love Letters Are Ridiculous - Diego Maenza, Diego Maenza - Страница 9

As it usually happend in the mating process of the human race, our lives were brought together by an arbitrary fate. She is fifteen years old and in the splendor of menstruation; I am fourteen and in the delusions of masturbation. It sufficed as a pretext an occasional encounter, a fair of the village and five of the most scandalous friends to start our relationship.

She was the most beautiful girl of the school and I was an aspiring suitor who began to stop studying because of the new philosophy of love.

For me, the beginning of our relationship was sweet. For her, not so much. The motivation of her approach was encouraged in an effort to maintain a romance not with me but with a relative. The irony (and why not say it, romantic) is that in the process she ended up falling in love with me. I conquered her or we conquered each other.

Perhaps she intends to explain the facts by resorting to complicated abstractions, which a fool would venture to specify in a couple of words. But I point this out, my goal keeps ambition.

Her overflowing joy against my constant battle with melancholy; her charisma and intelligence reflected in the contours of her brooding and vivacious eyes every time an idea addressed her or every occasion fumbling evasions by the depths of the imagination to excuse herself in front of her parents for our furtive dates, in front of my philosophical pretensions; her mania for dancing and my mania for writing. Everything was unjustifiable and yet, dear reader, beloved reader, you will understand that for us has been the most intense relationship that have sustained people in the world and I hope to communicate that impression properly.

Night fell with surprise at the end of the summer. I left the dance class that a young and beautiful European instructor had begun to deliver in the village and took place in evening hours on the premises of the institute where I studied. I remember that that day we had rehearsed a Turkish dance that I would never dance after the event. The mother of one of my mates offered to take me home in her car. I refused. I wanted to walk and clarify certain ideas of youth.

I took the longest alley that borders the teak trees and wraps the road in darkness. The stars protruded without timidity and a large moon made the stones shine like magic static fireflies.

Fate wanted the three birds of prey to emerge from the gloom. The big man approached me with the mask of an archangel. He did not say words and he woud never do so during that anguish night, but stood in the middle of the road and opened his horizontal arms to stop me and I realized he was the head of the group. The other two silhouettes appeared. A young, thin man and not so tall, with an adolescent complexion, wore a skull mask. He said You can't pass, and the sound of his voice confirmed his youth. The tall individual was covered by the mask of a goat. His voice was thick as his stomach and he also chided me by ordering me not to scream.

My body felt the paleness of fear. My thoughts as well as my body were paralyzed. My hair stood on end when feeling the forced contact with those three beasts. As if that fat goat had been a witch and his threat had been a spell, no matter how hard I tried I couldn't scream.