Cover “Caja Negra”. Short stories book, 2008 (spanish).
The worst thing is the humidity. Especially in winter, when you feel the cold as a sharp knife, a kind of efficient scalpel ready to drive into the joints of our bones and open, merciless, their resistances, till leave us in a gelid and absolute unprotection, at the expense of every type of viruses and bacterias. What you barely can feel are the hands: two shapes moving around, numb, as if they weren’t part of us, feverish, speedy and with expertise (I am the most skilful and can make several kilos in a short time). And no matter how much you want to do something for keeping both of them warm, you can’t, because even if one of them is sheltered under a work glove (that keeps it well safe and sheltered by another pair of gloves beneath), you always have to leave a free hand, which you need to work, and you must be fast, moving your fingers really well so you can handle the knife, drive it into, leverage, open, take out, throw away, grab, drive it into, leverage, open, take out, throw away, grab, leverage, quick, fast, with few breaks (those needed to attend the urgent call of nature in the blink of an eye), especially when is a good season and there’s a chance of making a bit more kilos and money.
But the humidity is everywhere, and the cold, and when they drive into your body nobody can take them away anymore, and they stay there, forever, living inside us, especially into us, close to our heart that, sometimes, in dark and lonely nights, trembles a bit, and it is like an oyster too, and the cold is like a knife, sharp, cruel, that drives into, leverages, opens, takes out, throws away, opens… Then it seems that everything inside there becomes frozen under such unprotection to which it is surrendered, and that there will be no way to feel warmth someday again. And in those cold and gray days, you finish opening the last oyster with a tired sigh, as if you were waking from an exhausting dream, you end weighting the precious kilos, taking off the age-worn, dirty and old apron; finish taking a shower (if they have hot water), getting ready and back home, thinking of a warm tea, a warm return, a warm embrace.
But the humidity is everywhere, and the cold, especially the cold. And even if some arms embrace you and some lips kiss you, and there is a gleam of warmth by few minutes, the cold always come back to settle there deep inside, persistent, willful. And it’s useless making an effort for taking care of the children, putting all your soul for tidying what has forgotten their natural order through the day, sinking in an affable chat. It’s useless. The cold and humidity come back, always come back, merciless. Or maybe they don’t, maybe they only assert their right to property in some place, deep inside. They come back especially when he looks at me, when he listens to me, when I wish to tell him things that shouldn’t be said for fear that things never recover their natural order. They come back when I look at him and I want to be a knife, a sharp and strong knife, drive into his heart and open it, leverage, open, take out, throw away, grab, leverage… Then, I don’t know why, I think: “Oysters are males”. Yes, everyone of them, just oysters, oysters and males. Then I say some word, kind a different from other days, but more than say it, I catch a sigh of it in remoteness, I hoist it as a white flag written with secret feelings, I wave it in the distance, before his eyes, in case they ever look, seeing, and his eyes are good, truthful, but even though they look, they can’t see, they don’t understand: they can’t see the written flag there, silent in a gesture, in a casual, throbbing comment (“I don’t know if I ask for my vacation now, what do you think?”, “I saw a dress really nice the other day in a showcase”, “Sometimes I have some odd dreams; must be anxiety, isn’t it?”).
Then I wish to be an oyster too, locked myself in my shell, cozy, there, where the cold and humidity never reach. But I can’t. Even though I compress myself against my secrets, against my soul protective and hidden, he always reach till there, mostly by nights. In nights a wave of warmth comes, brought by his hands, on my skin, between my legs, against my lips. Then he opens me. I am a oyster, a feeble and moaning oyster. And he is a knife, a sharp and unrelenting knife driving into me, leveraging, opening me, takes out, throws away, grabs, drives into, leverages, opening me… I am an oyster, wet and open, open into the cold weather coming back more vehemently when he ends, drops himself beside me, turns around and sinks in his dreams of impossible oyster, dark and impregnable. That’s why I must get up every morning and, no matter if it’s sunny, wrap up myself really warmly, and go back to the job. Arrive into the factory, wear my apron, take a knife (crafted by myself), an oyster and then drive it into, leverage, open, take out, throw away, grab… Imagining that yes, that at last I am an oyster, a true oyster, an oyster that lowers down a reef till reach the bottom of warm waters where she can rest and being itself.
Searing Words 