Entropía
—¿Y? ¿Siguen?
—Sí.
El viejo cerró las cortinas y se alejó de la ventana.
—¿Por qué harán eso? —preguntó la señora.
—No sé.
—Es asqueroso.
—Sí.
—¿Y por qué tienen que hacerlo justo en la ventana?
—No sé.
—Qué asquerosos.
La señora cebó un mate y se lo ofreció.
—Tomate un mate, viejo.
El señor se levantó un poco las perneras de los pantalones y se sentó a la mesa de la cocina. Hizo ruido al tomar el mate.
—No sé qué pensar, viejita.
—¿Vos decís que es algo...?
—No creo. Bah, no sé, no parece.
—¿Y entonces?
—No sé.
—Es raro.
—Sí, es raro, pero no parece...
—¿Y qué es entonces?
—No sé.
—Lamerle así el pelo...
—Es raro.
—Antes eran normales.
Hubo un silencio largo. La señora se cebó un mate. Se acercó a la ventana y espió entre las cortinas.
—¿Siguen ahí?
—Sí.
—¿Siguen...?
—Sí. Viejo, ¿de verdad no te parece que el cielo está diferente?
—Yo lo veo igual.
—Como más violeta.
—Yo lo veo celeste, como siempre.
—No está como siempre. Nunca fuiste bueno con los colores.
El señor se encogió de hombros. La señora volvió a sentarse.
—Estoy cansada.
—Yo también.
—Me duelen las piernas.
—Sí.
—Y la espalda.
—Sí.
—Me duele la piel.
—¿La piel?
—Sí.
—Qué raro.
—Sí, es raro. Nunca me duele la piel.
—Estás muy nerviosa.
—Sí, puede ser.
—Todos estamos nerviosos.
—¿Todos?
—Nosotros, digo.
—Ah, sí, nosotros.
—¿Querés que abra otro paquete de galletitas?
—Mejor no.
—¿No tenés hambre?
—Un poco.
—Abro entonces.
—Mejor esperemos.
—¿Cuánto vamos a esperar?
—No sé.
—Pablito no llamó.
—No.
—¿Lo llamaste?
—Sabés que no anda el teléfono.
—Pero ¿te volviste a fijar?
—Sí.
La señora suspiró.
—Ayer fue el cumpleaños de la Titi.
—Ah, mirá.
—Es la primera vez que no la saludo.
—Bueno, ella va a entender.
—Es muy sensible con esas cosas.
—Pero es un caso especial.
—¿Se enojará?
—No creo.
—¿Y si se enoja? No me gustaría que se enoje.
—Supongo que no va a enojarse.
—Siempre la saludé para el cumpleaños.
—Ya sé.
—Desde que era chiquita.
—Sí.
—Antes nos veíamos más, pero después nos fuimos distanciando.
—La vida.
—Sí, cada cual tiene sus cosas. Pero nunca dejé de llamarla para el cumpleaños.
—Te acordaste igual, eso es lo importante.
—No sé.
—¿Qué no sabés?
—Qué es lo importante.
—Nadie lo sabe.
—Tengo un poco de miedo.
—Ya sé. —El hombre le tomó la mano—. Va a estar todo bien.
—Me gustaría dormir.
—Recostate un rato.
—Digo, en la habitación. Extraño la cama.
—Sabés que no podemos...
—¿Estará bien?
—Sigue comiendo.
—Es raro.
—Sí.
—Ya no golpea.
—Está más tranquila.
—O ya no puede.
—Pero sigue comiendo.
—Sí.
—Cuando era chica, mi abuela tenía gallinas. Un día una gallina dejó de caminar. Mi abuela la puso en un corral aparte. Le dejó agua y comida. Y la gallina se retorcía, gemía. Pero seguía comiendo. Se arrastraba por el suelo. Y seguía comiendo. Me la quedé mirando horas y horas. Hasta que dejó de moverse. Se murió sobre la comida.
—Es nuestra hija, no una gallina.
La señora se largó a llorar. El señor se levantó y la abrazó.
—Va a estar todo bien.
—No, viejo, no.
—Pablito va a venir uno de estos días.
—Tengo miedo. Algo pasa. No nos quieren decir.
—Lo que pasa es que el mundo cambia y nosotros ya no lo entendemos.
—No, no es eso. Yo no entiendo al mundo, es verdad, pero sé que pasa algo raro.
—Es nuestra idea.
—La gente no se lame el pelo. La nena, ahí encerrada. No hay teléfono. La tele no anda. Pablito no viene.
—Ya sabés cómo son los chicos. Tienen sus cosas, su familia, el trabajo...
—¿Y si salimos a ver qué pasa?
—Pablito nos dijo que no saliéramos hasta que él venga.
—Pero no viene. ¿Y si no viene nunca?
—Va a venir.
—¿Qué será lo de la piel?
—Estás muy nerviosa.
—Quizás algo me dio alergia.
—Puede ser.
—¿Qué me puede haber dado alergia?
—No sé, el polvo.
—Mmm, no tengo alergia al polvo.
—Antes tenías alergia a los gatos.
—Sí, pero no tenemos gato.
—Quizás es el cambio de clima.
—Sí, puede ser. Hoy hace calor.
—Sí, está pesado.
—¿Pensás que va a llover?
—No creo.
—Me duelen las rodillas.
—Sí.
—¿Están?
—No, viejita.
—Hace dos días que no se asoman.
—Sí.
—¿Por qué será?
—No sé.
—¿Vos pensás...?
—No creo.
—¿Y entonces?
—No sé.
—Es raro.
—No es tan raro. La gente tiene cosas que hacer.
—Sí, pero antes se asomaban todos los días.
El señor se encogió de hombros.
—¿Se habrán ido?
—¿Adónde?
—No sé, afuera.
—La gente sale todo el tiempo.
—Nosotros no.
—Nosotros somos viejos.
—Me gustaría tener un balcón. Para ver.
—¿Qué querés ver?
—A la gente. En la calle.
—Pensé que te gustaba más el pulmón.
—Es más tranquilo.
—Sí.
—Pero ahora me gustaría ver.
—No podemos salir.
—Ya sé, por eso.
—Estás nerviosa.
—Sí.
—¿Cómo estás de la piel?
—Me sigue doliendo.
—¿Mucho?
—Más o menos.
—Debe ser el estrés.
—Sí, o alergia.
—El cambio de clima.
—¿Y si tengo cáncer?
El señor sonrió.
—No tenés cáncer.
—¿Cómo sabés?
—Estás bien.
—¿No me tendría que ver un médico?
—Estás nerviosa.
—Quizás no sea alergia.
—Mañana vas a estar bien.
—¿Y si empeoro? ¿Me vas a llevar al médico?
—Sí.
—¿Aunque Pablito nos haya dicho que nos quedemos?
—Sí.
—¿Vos estás bien?
—Sí.
—¿No tenés hambre?
—Un poco.
—¿Abro un paquete de galletitas?
—Bueno.
La señora abrió la alacena y sacó un paquete de galletitas de agua.
—Viejo, ¿qué vamos a hacer cuando se acaben?
—Todavía tenemos.
—Sí, pero cuando se acaben. Cuando se acabe todo.
—Compramos más.
—Pero no podemos salir.
—Para ese momento ya vamos a poder.
—¿Vos decís que Pablito va a venir?
—Sí, ya va a venir.
—¿No se habrá olvidado de nosotros?
—No.
—¿Estará bien?
—Sí.
—¿Y si no viene?
—Va a venir.
—¿No te parece que tendríamos que usar menos comida?
—¿Cómo menos comida?
—Ya sabés.
—¿Vos decís...?
—Digo, quizás le podemos dar un poco menos.
—No sé.
La señora se levantó con dificultad. Le hicieron ruido las rodillas.
—Voy a prender la tele.
—No funciona.
—Pruebo de nuevo. Quizás ya la dieron.
La señora fue hasta el living.
—¿Y? —gritó el señor.
—Hace lluvia.
—Te dije.
—¿Habrá llegado Clarita?
—¿Quién?
—Clarita.
—¿Quién es Clarita?
—Clarita, la de la novela.
—Ah. No sé. ¿Adónde tenía que llegar?
—Al aeropuerto.
—No sé.
—Extraño la novela. Ya le quedaba poco.
—Cuando vuelva la tele, la seguís.
—¿Y si no vuelve?
—Va a volver. La van a arreglar. Siempre hay tele.
—Me da mala espina.
—No te preocupes, viejita, va a estar todo bien.
—Nos queda poca comida.
—Sí.
—Tengo miedo.
—¿De qué?
—Ya sabés.
—No tengas miedo.
—Me siento rara.
—¿Lo de la piel?
—No. Sí, la piel. Pero no es eso.
—¿Qué es?
—No sé. Algo raro.
—Estás muy nerviosa.
—¿Vos no sentís como un impulso?
—¿Un impulso?
—Dejá, no importa.
—Contame.
—No, dejá, estoy nerviosa.
—Claro, tenés que tranquilizarte.
—¿Vos estás tranquilo?
—Sí.
—No me mientas, viejo.
—Estoy tranquilo.
—Movés la pierna.
—No.
—Todo el tiempo.
—Bueno, puede ser que esté un poco inquieto.
—¿Por qué?
—Por las cosas...
—¿Entonces pasa algo?
—No sé.
—¿Y si salimos?
—No podemos salir.
—¿Porque lo dijo Pablito?
—Sí.
—No sé qué hacer.
—Pensá en otra cosa.
—¿En qué?
—No sé.
—No puedo pensar cuando tengo miedo.
—Vamos a estar bien.
—Sos lindo, ¿sabés?
—Soy viejo.
—A mí me parecés lindo.
—Vos también, vieja.
—Gracias.
—¿Querés una galletita?
—Bueno.
—Me gusta tu pelo.
—¿Sí?
—Sí.
—Está blanco.
—Me gusta.
—No están, viejo. Ya no van a aparecer.
—¿Por qué?
—Es mucho tiempo.
—Más o menos.
—El cielo... está cada vez más violeta.
—Son ideas tuyas.
—No.
—Siempre con tus matices.
—No son matices. Son colores.
—Es lo mismo.
—No es lo mismo.
—Solo hay tres o cuatro colores, los demás son matices.
—Sabés que me enoja que digas eso.
—Sí.
—Y lo decís igual.
—No quiero pelear.
—Me estás peleando.
—No.
La señora abrió la alacena.
—Viejo, ¿no quedaba un paquete de galletitas?
—Se las di a la nena.
—Ah. ¿Comió?
—No sé. Supongo.
—¿Y qué hacemos?
—¿Tenés hambre?
—Sí.
—¿No queda nada en la heladera?
—No, no hay nada.
El señor se quedó pensativo unos segundos.
—Voy a tener que salir —suspiró.
—No, viejo, Pablito dijo que no salgamos.
—Pero tenemos que comer.
—Sí.
—¿Salgo?
—No tendrías que haberle dado el último paquete a la nena.
—Tenía que comer.
—¿Y ahora?
—Salgo.
—Esperá un rato.
—Bueno.
—Tengo miedo.
—Sí.
—¿Vos no tenés miedo?
—Va a estar todo bien.
—Pensé que iba a ser diferente.
—¿Qué?
—Esto. El final.
—No es el final.
—La piel, viejo, me duele mucho.
—¿En serio?
—Sí.
—¿Será alergia?
—No creo que sea alergia.
—¿Entonces?
—No sé, creo que tengo cáncer.
—No, vieja.
—¿Por qué no?
—A mí también me duele la piel.
—¿Cómo que te duele la piel?
—Sí.
—¿Mucho?
—Un poco.
—¿Como si algo te abriera cada poro?
—Sí, algo así.
—¿Entonces será contagioso?
—Puede ser.
—¿Un virus?
—Puede ser.
—¿Hace cuánto te duele?
—Unos días.
—Igual que yo.
—Sí.
—¿Y por qué no me dijiste antes?
—Para no preocuparte.
—¿Dónde nos habremos contagiado?
—No sé.
—¿Será algo que comimos?
—Puede ser.
—¿Las empanadas?
—No vamos a saberlo.
—Quizás hay algo en el agua. Yo le sentí un gusto raro.
—Puede ser.
—Hay antibiótico en la heladera.
—Está vencido.
—¿Ya te fijaste?
—Sí.
—¿Qué hacemos?
—Salgo a comprar. Puedo traer antibiótico también.
—O una crema.
—Sí.
—Hidratante.
—Bueno.
—Una buena.
—Sí.
—Las baratas son una porquería.
—Sí.
—Tengo miedo.
—¿Por qué?
—¿Qué hago si no volvés?
—Voy a volver.
—Yo me lo imaginaba diferente.
—Siempre es diferente.
—¿Por qué es así?
—Es la vida.
—Pasó tan rápido...
—Sí.
—Me hubiera gustado terminar la novela.
—Ya va a volver la tele.
—No.
El señor se levantó y se acercó a un perchero.
—¿Hará frío afuera?
—Hace calor.
—¿Está pesado, no?
—Sí.
—Mucha humedad.
—Tengo miedo.
—Sí.
—Mamá decía que la esperanza es lo último que se pierde.
—Claro.
—Pero no es así.
—¿No?
—No, lo último que se pierde es el miedo.
—Puede ser.
El señor se acercó a la puerta y corrió la traba.
—Me voy.
—¿Me das un beso antes de irte?
—Sí —dijo. Se acercó y le dio un beso en la frente.
La señora se levantó con dificultad.
—Yo cierro.
—Bueno.
—¿Tenés plata?
—Sí.
—Volvé pronto.
—Claro.
El hombre salió al pasillo. La señora lo miró alejarse lentamente. Tenía la espalda doblada. Las piernas apenas si podían soportar su peso. De cada poro de su piel, salían plumas negras. Brillaban, incluso bajo la luz tenue del pasillo. Las uñas, larguísimas, le dificultaban desplazarse sobre el piso encerado.
—Chau, viejo —dijo la mujer.
El hombre giró la cabeza, remontó vuelo y arremetió contra la señora, que alcanzó, a duras penas, a cerrarle la puerta en el pico.
—No están, viejo. Ya no se asoman. Los extraño. No me preguntes por qué, viejo. Los extraño. —La señora puso la pava en el fuego. Se sentó en un sillón, en el living, y se puso a tejer. Estaba haciendo un sweater para su hija—. ¿Por qué no volvés, viejo? Pablito tampoco viene. Yo pensé que iba a ser diferente. Algo más romántico. Cosas de vieja, no me lleves el apunte. Tengo miedo. Estoy sola, viejito. —Se levantó y preparó el mate. Le quedaba poca yerba. Para uno o dos días a lo sumo—. La nena ya no come. No comió las últimas galletitas. Las veo por abajo de la puerta, pero no me animo a abrir. ¿Vos decís que está bien? ¿Habrá salido por la ventana? —Volvió a sentarse y retomó el tejido—. Me duelen las rodillas, viejo. Cada vez hace más calor. Y más humedad. No sé cuándo piensa llover. Hace mucho que no veía una sequía como está. Desde que Pablito era chico. ¿Te acordás? Ese año no llovió nada. Se morían todas las plantas en el campo, decían. La pasamos mal. Pero después llovió, siempre volvió a llover. Pero me parece que esta vez no, viejo. Creo que ya no voy a volver a ver la lluvia. Yo pensé que iba a ser diferente. No pensé que ibas a dejarme, viejo. Y con este dolor en la piel. ¿Habrá llegado Clarita? ¿Y si no llega? ¿Si él se va otra vez? —La señora empezó a llorar—. Creo que tengo cáncer, viejo. Me siento rara. Me gustaría ver al médico. —Se levantó. Abrió un cajón del aparador. Revolvió y sacó unas tijeras—. Está todo desordenado. Estoy cansada de ordenar. Vos tenías razón, viejo. No existe ningún animal que ordene ni que limpie la casa. Me pasé la vida ordenando y limpiando. Luchando contra todo. ¿Y para qué? Saco el polvo y al rato está todo lleno de polvo de nuevo. Y vos mientras tanto fumando en la ventana, tirando las cenizas en el patio de abajo. —Se sentó y observó las tijeras detenidamente. Trató de distinguir su reflejo en las hojas de metal, pero no pudo—. Disfrutá de la vida, me decías. ¿Y cómo querías que disfrute con todo desordenado? El baño todo sucio. Un asco. Ahora te entiendo, viejo. La vida te lleva. Y el camino está lleno de polvo. Eso es lo que hice toda mi vida: pasarle el plumero a un camino de tierra. Clarita lo mismo. Limpiando la casa mientras él se iba. Y yo tejiendo este pulóver para la nena. ¿Para qué, viejo? ¿Me querés decir? La nena ya no come. —Se largó a llorar de nuevo—. Tengo miedo, viejo. La esperanza es lo último que se pierde, hijita. No, mamá. Yo vi que tenías miedo. Vi cómo te ibas, mamá. Vos también tejías, y tejer es una forma de ordenar. Me hacías bufandas y guantes. Y yo los manchaba con grasa, les hacía agujeros, y vos tejías nuevos. Hasta que la artritis te deformó las manos. Te dolían tanto las manos, mamá. A mí también me duelen. La espalda, las rodillas, las manos. Y ahora la piel. Como si estuviera a punto de explotar. —Se cortó un mechón de pelo con la tijera. Lo observó a trasluz y le pasó la lengua varias veces—. Yo pensé que iba a ser diferente, viejo. Siempre tuve miedo de que te vayas. De que un día salieras a trabajar y no volvieras. Yo sabía que hacías cosas por ahí. Pero volvías. Era tu forma de quererme. Y yo tenía todo limpio para cuando volvías. —Agarró de nuevo el tejido—. Pero después te hiciste viejo. Te arrugaste, se te encorvó la espalda. Y ahí dejé de tener miedo. Ya no se va más, pensaba. Y creí que al final me ibas a agarrar la mano y a decir algo lindo. Que ibas a sonreír. Que te iban a brillar los ojos. Pensé que lo último que iba a sentir era una lágrima tuya tocando mi cuerpo. Qué romántica. Pero te fuiste, al final. Al final te fuiste. —Escuchó un silbido lejano, una melodía que venía del pasado—. Los colores no existen, me decías. Son todos matices. El cielo violeta es un matiz, claro. Solo hay ondulaciones, me dijiste una vez. ¿Eso es lo que soy para vos? ¿Un matiz? ¿Una ola en el mar? No sos la ola, decías, sos lo que ondula. Y le tirabas las cenizas a la vieja de abajo. Y la vieja te puteaba. Y vos te reías. Qué ordinaria resultó la vieja, decías. Qué feo que otro barriera tus cenizas. Pero no te importaba. Nadie le pidió que las barra, te reías. Y ahora te entiendo. Pero no me da ni un poco de risa. —El olor a humo le recordó que tenía hambre—. Y después vinieron los chicos. La parejita. La vida estaba completa. Como una foto. Pero los chicos dejaban los juguetes tirados, y había que lavar más platos, y barrer el barro que traían en las zapatillas y lavar más ropa. Y a la noche, cuando todo estaba limpio, por un segundo, la vida parecía completa. Y yo estaba sola en el living. Todos durmiendo. Y no podía sacar la foto. Prendía un rato la tele y miraba la novela. —Giró hacia la mesa ratona. En el portarretratos, los cuatro, en la playa. Los chicos chillaban. Agitaban sus alas negras. El pico enorme de su esposo se abría amenazante sobre su cabeza. Apartó la mirada—. Yo pensé que iba a ser diferente. Que los chicos iban a estar. O que al menos iba a saber dónde estaban. Pero no. Pablito no viene. La nena no come. La tele no anda. Vos te fuiste, viejito. —Casi no podía respirar, sentía que se ahogaba. El humo le llenaba los pulmones—. Al final, me dejaron sola. —Le pareció que el tejido se desarmaba, que la lana se desenredaba y se arrastraba por su falda como gusanos. Tenía todos los colores, todos los matices: azul ultramar, malva, bermellón, púrpura, lavanda—. Tengo miedo. —Sentía que la piel le explotaba, que de cada poro le salía una gruesa pluma negra. Trató de atrapar un pequeño gusano con su pico, pero no alcanzó. Le dolían las rodillas. No podía respirar. El humo le invadía los pulmones. Tosió. Vio la ventana abierta. Quiso volar, pero la vida le pesaba demasiado.
[English - Translated with Deepl]
Entropy
"So? Are they still there?"
"Yes."
The old man closed the curtains and moved away from the window.
"Why would they do that?" asked the lady.
"I don't know."
"It's disgusting."
"Yes."
"And why do they have to do it right at the window?"
"I don't know."
"How disgusting."
The lady made a mate and offered it to him.
"Have a mate, old man."
The man lifted up his trouser legs a little and sat down at the kitchen table. He made a noise as he drank the mate.
"I don't know what to think, old lady."
"You say it's something...?"
"I don't think so. Well, I don't know, it doesn't seem so."
"So?"
"I don't know."
"It's weird."
"Yes, it's weird, but it doesn't seem..."
"So what is it then?"
"I don't know."
"To lick his hair like that..."
"It's weird."
"They were normal before."
There was a long silence. The lady brewed herself a mate. She went to the window and peeked through the curtains.
"Are they still there?"
"Yes."
"Are they still...?"
"Yes. Old man, don't you really think the sky looks different?"
"I see it the same."
"Like more violet."
"I see it light blue, like always."
"It's not like always. You were never good with colors."
The man shrugged his shoulders. The lady sat down again.
"I'm tired."
"I'm tired too."
"My legs hurt."
"Yes."
"And my back."
"Yes."
"My skin hurts."
"Your skin?"
"Yes."
"That's weird."
"Yes, it's weird. My skin never hurts."
"You're very nervous."
"Yes, maybe."
"We're all nervous."
"All of us?"
"We are, I mean."
"Ah, yes, us."
"Do you want me to open another pack of cookies?"
"I'd rather not."
"Are you not hungry?"
"A little bit."
"I'll open it then."
"We'd better wait."
"How long are we going to wait?"
"I don't know."
"Pablito didn't call."
"No."
"Did you call him?"
"You know the phone's not working."
"But did you check again?"
"Yes."
The lady sighed.
"Yesterday was Titi's birthday."
"Oh, I see."
"It's the first time I don't greet her."
"Well, she'll understand."
"She's very sensitive about these things."
"But it's a special case."
"Will she get angry?"
"I don't think so."
"What if she gets angry? I wouldn't want her to get angry."
"I guess she won't get mad."
"I've always said hello to her for her birthday."
"I know."
"Since she was little."
"Yes."
"We used to see each other more, but then we drifted apart."
"The life."
"Yes, everyone has their own things. But I never stopped calling her for her birthday."
"You remembered anyway, that's the important thing."
"I don't know."
"What don't you know?"
"What's important."
"Nobody knows."
"I'm a little scared."
"I know." The man took her hand. "It'll be all right."
"I'd like to sleep."
"Sleep for a while."
"I mean, in the room. I miss the bed."
"You know we can't..."
"Will she be okay?"
"She's still eating."
"It's weird."
"Yes."
"She doesn't knock anymore."
"She's calmer."
"Or she can't anymore."
"But she's still eating."
"Yes."
"When I was little, my grandmother had chickens. One day a hen stopped walking. My grandmother put her in a separate pen. She left it water and food. And the hen squirmed, she moaned. But it kept eating. It crawled on the ground. And she kept eating. I stared at it for hours and hours. Until it stopped moving. It died on the food."
"She's our daughter, not a chicken."
The lady started crying. The man got up and hugged her.
"It's going to be all right."
"No, old man, no."
"Pablito will come one of these days."
"I'm afraid. Something is going on. They don't want to tell us."
"What's happening is that the world is changing and we don't understand it anymore."
"No, that's not it. I don't understand the world, it's true, but I know something strange is going on."
"It's our idea."
"People don't lick their hair. The girl, locked in there. There's no phone. The TV doesn't work. Pablito doesn't come."
"You know how kids are. They have their things, their family, their work..."
"What if we go out to see what's going on?"
"Pablito told us not to go out until he comes."
"But he's not coming. What if he never comes?"
"He'll come."
"What's with the skin?"
"You're very nervous."
"Maybe something gave me allergies."
"Maybe."
"What could have given me allergies?"
"I don't know, the dust."
"Mmm, I'm not allergic to dust."
"You used to be allergic to cats."
"Yes, but we don't have a cat."
"Maybe it's the change of weather."
"Yes, maybe. It's hot today."
"Yes, it's heavy."
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
"I don't think so."
"My knees hurt."
"Yes."
"Are they there?"
"No, old lady."
"They haven't been there for two days."
"Yes."
"Why is that?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think...?"
"I don't think so."
"So?"
"I don't know."
"It's weird."
"It's not that weird. People have things to do."
"Yes, but they used to show up every day."
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"Did they go away?"
"Where to?"
"I don't know, outside."
"People go out all the time."
"We don't."
"We're old."
"I'd like to have a balcony. To see."
"What do you want to see?"
"People. In the street."
"I thought you liked the lightwell better."
"It's quieter."
"Yes."
"But now I'd like to see."
"We can't go out."
"I know, that's why."
"You're nervous."
"Yes, I am."
"How's your skin?"
"It still hurts."
"A lot?"
"More or less."
"It must be stress."
"Yes, or allergies."
"The change of weather."
"What if I have cancer?"
The gentleman smiled.
"You don't have cancer."
"How do you know?"
"You're fine."
"Shouldn't a doctor see me?"
"You're nervous."
"Maybe it's not allergies."
"Tomorrow you'll be fine."
"What if I get worse? You're taking me to the doctor?"
"Yes."
"Even if Pablito told us to stay?"
"Yes."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"Are you not hungry?"
"A little bit."
"Shall I open a pack of cookies?"
"Well."
The lady opened the cupboard and took out a package of crackers.
"Old man, what are we going to do when the cookies run out?"
"We still have some."
"Yes, but when they run out. When they're all gone."
"We buy more."
"But we can't go out."
"By that time we'll be able to."
"You say Pablito is coming?"
"Yes, he's coming."
"He hasn't forgotten about us?"
"No."
"Will he be all right?"
"Yes."
"What if he doesn't come?"
"He'll come."
"Don't you think we should use less food?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know."
"Do you say...?"
"I mean, maybe we can give her a little less."
"I don't know."
The lady got up with difficulty. Her knees made noise.
"I'm going to turn on the TV."
"It's not working."
"I'll try again. Maybe it's already on."
The lady went to the living room.
"¿So?" shouted the gentleman.
"It makes noise."
"I told you."
"Has Clarita arrived?"
"Who?"
"Clarita."
"Who's Clarita?"
"Clarita, the one from the soap opera."
"Ah. I don't know. Where was she supposed to go?"
"To the airport."
"I don't know."
"I miss the soap opera. It was almost over."
"When the TV comes back, you'll follow it."
"And if it doesn't come back?"
"It will come back. They'll fix it. There's always TV."
"It gives me a bad feeling."
"Don't worry, old lady, it'll be all right."
"We're low on food."
"Yes."
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"You know."
"Don't be afraid."
"I feel strange."
"The skin thing?"
"No. Yes, the skin. But it's not that."
"What is it?"
"I don't know. Something weird."
"You're very nervous."
"Don't you feel like an impulse?"
"An impulse?"
"Never mind."
"Tell me."
"No, leave it, I'm nervous."
"Of course, you have to calm down."
"Are you calm?"
"Yes, I am."
"Don't lie to me, man."
"I'm calm."
"You move your leg."
"No."
"All the time."
"Well, maybe I'm a little restless."
"Why?"
"Because of things..."
"So is something wrong?"
"I don't know."
"What if we go out?"
"We can't go out."
"Because Pablito said so?"
"Yes."
"I don't know what to do."
"Think of something else."
"What?"
"I don't know."
"I can't think when I'm scared."
"We'll be fine."
"You're cute, you know?"
"I'm old."
"I think you're cute."
"You too, old woman."
"Thank you."
"Do you want a cookie?"
"Okay."
"I like your hair."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"It's white."
"I like it."
"They're not here, old man. They're not going to show up anymore."
"Why?"
"It's a long time."
"More or less."
"The sky... it's getting more and more violet."
"These are your ideas."
"No."
"Always with your shades."
"They're not shades. They're colors."
"It's the same thing."
"It's not the same."
"There are only three or four colors, the rest are shades."
"You know it makes me angry when you say that."
"Yes."
"And you say it anyway."
"I don't want to fight."
"You're fighting me."
"No."
The lady opened the cupboard.
"Old man, wasn't there a pack of cookies left?"
"I gave them to the daughter."
"Ah. Did she eat?"
"I don't know. I guess so."
"And what do we do?"
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes, I am."
"Is there nothing left in the fridge?"
"No, there's nothing."
The man remained thoughtful for a few seconds.
"I'm going to have to go out," he sighed.
"No, old man, Pablito said not to go out."
"But we have to eat."
"Yes."
"Shall I go out?"
"You shouldn't have given the last package to the girl."
"She had to eat."
"And now?"
"I'm going out."
"Wait a while."
"Well."
"I'm scared."
"Yes."
"You're not afraid?"
"It's going to be all right."
"I thought it was going to be different."
"What?"
"This. The end."
"It's not the end."
"The skin, man, it really hurts."
"Really?"
"Yes, it does."
"Is it allergies?"
"I don't think it's allergies."
"So?"
"I don't know, I think I have cancer."
"No, old woman."
"Why not?"
"My skin hurts too."
"What do you mean, your skin hurts?"
"Yes."
"A lot?"
"A little."
"Like something is opening every pore?"
"Yes, something like that."
"So it could be contagious?"
"It could be."
"A virus?"
"Maybe."
"How long has it been hurting?"
"A few days."
"Same as me."
"Yes."
"And why didn't you tell me before?"
"So you wouldn't worry."
"Where did we catch it?"
"I don't know."
"Could it be something we ate?"
"Maybe."
"The empanadas?"
"We're not going to know."
"Maybe there's something in the water. I felt a strange taste."
"Maybe."
"There's antibiotic in the fridge."
"It's expired."
"You checked?"
"Yes."
"What do we do?"
"I'm going out to buy. I can bring antibiotic too."
"Or a cream."
"Yes."
"Moisturizer."
"Okay."
"A good one."
"Yes."
"The cheap ones suck."
"Yeah."
"I'm scared."
"Why?"
"What do I do if you don't come back?"
"I'll come back."
"I imagined it differently."
"It's always different."
"Why is it like that?"
"It's life."
"It happened so fast..."
"Yes."
"I would have liked to finish the novel."
"The TV is coming back."
"No."
The man got up and went to a coat rack.
"Will it be cold outside?"
"It's warm."
"It's heavy, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"It's very humid."
"I'm afraid."
"Yes."
"Mom used to say that hope is the last thing you lose."
"Of course."
"But it's not like that."
"Isn't it?"
"No, the last thing you lose is fear."
"That may be."
The gentleman approached the door and pulled the lock.
"I'm leaving."
"Will you give me a kiss before you go?"
"Yes," he said. He came closer and kissed her on the forehead.
The lady got up with difficulty.
"I'm closing."
"Well."
"Do you have money?"
"Yes."
"Come back soon."
"Sure."
The man went out into the corridor. The lady watched him walk away slowly. His back was bent. His legs could barely support his weight. From every pore of his skin, black feathers were coming out. They glistened, even in the dim light of the corridor. His long fingernails made it difficult for him to move on the waxed floor.
"Bye-bye, old man," said the woman.
The man turned his head, flew up and lunged at the woman, who barely managed to slam the door in his beak.
"They're not there, old man. They don't show up anymore. I miss them. Don't ask me why, old man. I miss them." The lady put the kettle on the stove. She sat down on an armchair in the living room and started knitting. She was making a sweater for her daughter. "Why don't you come back, old man? Pablito is not coming either. I thought it was going to be different. Something more romantic. Old lady stuff, it doesn't matter. I'm scared. I'm alone, old man." He got up and prepared the mate. She had little yerba left. For one or two days at most. "The girl doesn't eat anymore. She didn't eat the last cookies. I see them under the door, but I don't dare to open it. Do you say she's all right? Has she gone out of the window?" She sat down again and resumed knitting. "My knees hurt, old man. It's getting hotter and hotter. And more humid. I don't know when it's going to rain. It's been a long time since I've seen a drought like this. Since Pablito was a kid. Remember? That year it didn't rain at all. All the plants in the field were dying, they said. We had a hard time. But then it rained, it always rained again. But I think not this time, old man. I don't think I'm going to see rain again. I thought it was going to be different. I didn't think you were going to leave me, man. And with this pain in my skin. Has Clarita arrived? What if she doesn't arrive? What if he leaves again?" The lady started to cry. "I think I have cancer, old man. I feel strange. I'd like to see the doctor." She got up. She opened a dresser drawer. He rummaged around and took out a pair of scissors. "It's all messy. I'm tired of tidying up. You were right, old man. There's no such thing as an animal that tidies or cleans the house. I've spent my life tidying and cleaning. Fighting against everything. And for what? I dust and after a while it's all dusty again. And you, meanwhile, smoking at the window, throwing the ashes in the courtyard below." She sat down and looked at the scissors carefully. She tried to make out her reflection in the metal blades, but she couldn't. "Enjoy life. Enjoy life, you were saying, and how could I enjoy it with everything in such a mess? The bathroom all dirty. It's disgusting. Now I understand you, old man. Life takes you. And the road is full of dust. That's what I did all my life: duster a dirt road. Clarita the same. Cleaning the house while he was gone. And me knitting this sweater for the girl. What for, old man? You mean? The girl doesn't eat anymore." She started crying again. "I'm scared, old man. Hope is the last thing you lose, daughter. No, mom. I saw you were afraid. I saw how you were leaving, mom. You also knitted, and knitting is a way of tidying up. You made me scarves and gloves. And I would stain them with grease, make holes in them, and you would knit new ones. Until arthritis deformed your hands. Your hands hurt so much, mom. They hurt me too. My back, my knees, my hands. And now my skin. Like it's about to explode." She cut a lock of hair with the scissors. She looked at it against the light and ran her tongue through it several times. "I thought it was going to be different, man. I was always afraid you'd leave. That one day you'd go out to work and not come back. I knew you were doing things out there. But you'd come back. It was your way of loving me. And I had everything clean by the time you came back." She grabbed the fabric again. "But then you got old. You shriveled up, your back curved. And that's when I stopped being afraid. It doesn't go away anymore, I thought. And I thought you were finally going to grab my hand and say something nice. That you were going to smile. That your eyes were going to shine. I thought the last thing I was going to feel was a tear from you touching my body. How romantic. But you left, in the end. In the end you left." She heard a distant whistle, a melody coming from the past. "Colors don't exist, you told me. They are all shades. The violet sky is a shade, of course. There are only ripples, you once told me. Is that what I am to you? A hue? A wave in the sea? You are not the wave, you said, you are what ripples. And you threw the ashes to the old woman downstairs. And the old woman would fuss at you. And you laughed. How ordinary the old woman turned out to be, you said. How ugly that someone else would sweep your ashes. But you didn't care. Nobody asked her to sweep them, you laughed. And now I understand you. But it doesn't make me laugh a bit." The smell of smoke reminded her that she was hungry. "And then came the kids. The little couple. Life was complete. Like a picture. But the boys left the toys lying around, and more dishes had to be washed, and the mud on their slippers had to be swept away, and more laundry had to be done. And at night, when everything was clean, for a second, life seemed complete. And I was alone in the living room. Everyone sleeping. And I couldn't take the picture. I'd turn on the TV for a while and watch the soap opera." She turned to the coffee table. In the picture frame, the four of them, on the beach. The kids were shrieking. They flapped their black wings. Her husband's huge beak opened menacingly over his head. She looked away. "I thought it was going to be different. That the boys would be there. Or that I would at least know where they were. But no. Pablito isn't coming. The baby doesn't eat. The TV doesn't work. You left, old man." She almost couldn't breathe, she felt she was choking. The smoke filled her lungs. "In the end, you left me alone." It seemed to her that the fabric was coming apart, that the wool was unraveling and crawling up her skirt like worms. It had all the colors, all the shades: ultramarine blue, mauve, vermilion, purple, lavender. "I'm afraid." She felt like her skin was exploding, like a thick black feather was coming out of every pore. She tried to catch a small worm with her beak, but she couldn't reach it. Her knees ached. She could not breathe. Smoke invaded her lungs. She coughed. She saw the window open. She wanted to fly, but life was too heavy.
La imagen fue creada con el modelo de inteligencia artificial Stable Diffusion.
The image was created with the Stable Diffusion artificial intelligence model.