The Eternal Rictus Del Aguila. Story. Ana Maria Manceda.escritora Patagonia

THE ETERNAL EAGLE grin. STORY. COPYRIGHT. ANA MAR? A MANCEDA

Honorable mention and autologous EDITION? A 2004. BUENOS AIRES. ARGENTINA

Long ago Joaquin Ibanez was not so happy. The Sun sought to hide behind the hills, but played the last rays of light, like piano keys magically touched the frozen forest hill, valley or a corner of Joaquin's face in the mirror that had hung trunk, making the door pillar of the house. His weathered face seemed serene if it were not for the faint sneer that nostalgia had put a seal between the mouth and left cheek. Is it just nostalgia? It had been three years, there were their dead comrades, others tortured, bore the image of chaos, managed to escape but the ghosts were chasing him, on top of this side of the Cordillera the thing was heavy dangerous murmurs of terror came from the capital .

The day had been spectacular, invigorating cold air, but it was the sun and paid the fortnight. That night was going to leave, do not save and do not even read or listen to Neruda, Violeta Parra and Victor Jara, just laugh, take pisco and sex, sex all night. Continued shaving, for a moment what he wanted to dominate the anguish of nostalgia when the mirror reflected briefly the outline of the hills with their forests and frozen and always seemed to spread its wings of an eagle and crossed the mountains, flying his beloved homeland, set among the land and sea.

Bathed and perfumed, eleven o'clock at night I found slowly up the slope that would lead him to the house on the hill. Crossing the narrow bridge stopped to look down the raging stream from above, the melting and the rains had produced its highest level, but still not overflowing, as if unseen hands guided his course towards the lake and then into the ocean . For a moment he thought that man would never have that freedom of water, the same waters that he was watching would soon be observed by people of his village. He said enough! He went his way, he crossed an old Renault, shuddered, Gomez was out, that shit was inevitable in the home of Dona Catarina de Ouro Preto, ma Yeah, I ignore, this was his night, wanted to be with Jacqueline, to be with it was to own the ocean, dark, cold, stormy, was drunk and ride algae starfish, was connected with the immensity of the desert of ice, with volcanoes always lurking. Her skin was like his, made of earth hurt, smell and taste copihue loneliness.

Dona Catarina always distinguished with Jacqueline, the woman seemed to understand everything, his eyes sparkled with depth and playful, almost animal instinct was to capture the desires of your customers what they would have brought winds of Patagonia? Do not miss the warm earth and cheerful? That mystery was the fate of some people. The last part of the slope was brave, but agile and waiting her whole body was not rising, nor will it pisco got a cold and would recover from the effort. He smiled, this was nothing next to his flight through the mountains, yes it was terrible, no food, animal alert as pursued by the hunters, cold, dark woods and mind occupied with a single command, run away. .. flee. He remembered when he came to this land much gratitude felt by friends who fled to your home! The heady days passed, when things were calming and organizing what could be lurking nostalgia, got into his guts and that was that. It was like a parasite that was gnawing the soul, morning and night, morning and night, often succumb to their power and fed him with poems, songs, memories, others wanted to drown with pisco, but nothing, there was only blamed her young body by drunkenness and longing was still there, clutching his chest.

I was going to be a month that did not come where Catarina de Ouro Preto. Those nights were like a rest for the memories, it seems that could be overcome by a few hours a monster that ate away, perhaps exorcise nostalgia melodious romantic tangos and songs of Leonardo Fabio, that yes he liked.

When entering the cigarette smoke hit him, a rare thing in him that was all, did not like smoking. Between the fog highlighted the red decor and chandeliers adorned with colored mirrors conveyed a pale light but enough to see the girls in dresses now and then flashed a glitter of dubious quality. The plaintive voice shelled turntable Fabio than a plea to the destination told his beloved that had been theirs in the summer. Sitting in a tattered purple velvet chair was Catarina de Ouro Preto with a range ostentatious dissipate the smoke and heat of his face passed through the nearby home filled with burning wood. The bulk makeup hid his dark complexion, as if to hide his mixed, but his proud bearing, the impeller bloody and expensive jewelry, producing what she proposed, impact for what it was, the madam of the house on the hill. As soon as he saw Joaquin with a sign called accomplice. Loved that exile, recognized in him, except that the Lady hid the grin with red lips and blush on the cheeks fleshy.

Joaquin came and sat beside him, ordered a pisco and relaxed. Catarina talked incessantly, and his eyes twinkled retinto a certain tenderness alcoholic. Jacqueline and coming, was with a client. Some couples came out to dance a tango, all space was involved with the smell of sex and desperation. Soon he saw down the narrow staircase leading to the rooms. He was disheveled and weeping, Joaquin stood up like a spring and ran to her .- What is it? Hugged the frail young man .- I can not tell you what Joaquin, and .- will not come, we dance and Contam. They went among the other dancers, she felt overwhelmed, he wanted to have her right there, had waited so long this time, his legs intertwined with the rhythm of the tango, patted his head as he watched Jacqueline .- .- Tell me that animal. .. . is a gelding, you need violence ... sobbed. Suddenly he was stunned looking at the ladder, Joaquin returned. Corporal Gomez was watching, his face bruised cheeks showed angry and his eyes ... he knew that look. Everything happened in a second, the brightness of the knife blade sought her breast tender and he intervened.

He felt a warm and gentle flow out of his life and was falling, as in slow motion. The human silence was total, only ignored the voice of hard drama "You will never see me as you saw me, leaning in the window ... waiting ..." The terrified faces of Jacqueline and Catarina de Ouro Preto seemed to look at it from a dark abyss, far, no return. Joaquin Ibañez lying on the floor of the brothel believed to be smiling, bright that night in August in which ethereal feathers finely snow were covering the streets and roofs of the village, spied on by some stars seemed to expel rebel tears of light. He was raised and fly like an eagle beyond the mountains, slide like planning for the long, narrow strip of land the wounded, comforted by the waters of the sea. He thought he was smiling, but his mouth was a grin as if he pointed out a path to eternal freedom.





DISCLAIMER: The characters are the result of the author's imagination, any match with real people is the product of chance