Well, my search for a room is over . . I now have my own place: a lightly furnished and humble flat on the Paseo do Colón. Although it´s nothing to call home about, there´s hot water, lights (not all work, of course), and very little black mold. The furniture is a puzzling mix of Chinese restaurant foyer and medieval Galecian buttery. A small wedge formed by neighboring apartment buildings teases with its vista of a healthier world, the world across the Lerez, where druids sing lullabies to romantic poets, cats nap in flowerpots festooned with grapeleaves, and old women pause by the cistern to stare unconcernedly into the essence of truth. The last tenant - I´m imagining one of the thugs from Tintin and the Blue Lotus - generously left behind a kilo of rice, loose, and a two centimeter thick layer of grease on every surface in the kitchen. Thanks, pal.
Listen . . through the open window the sound of a man retching, a fruit truck climbing the hill, a dog wimpering, a woman scolding her husband, then a muffled voice above, a strange scraping below, chipbags being popped, spoons mixing sugar into coffee, my pulse tapping out a rhythm on the headboard, the patter of umbrella tips in the alleyway, eucalyptus bark igniting in Marín . .
I hear everything. Even you.
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