Liliana Story Heker
all started with the wind. When Margaret told her husband what the wind. The child she managed to close the door of his house. He stood frozen in the attitude of pushing the arm extended towards the doorknob, his eyes on his wife's eyes. Seemed about to be perpetuated in this situation but finally yelled. It was amazing. During several seconds the two remained static, studying, as if trying to confirm the presence of others what had happened. Until Margaret broke the spell. With familiarity, almost tenderly, as if in a way nothing had happened, put a hand on her husband's arm for balance while the other hand gave a gentle push on the door and, with the right foot and a skate Felt, eliminating floor dust had entered.
- How was your day, dear? He asked. And I asked
least curious (given the circumstances did not expect an answer, and neither won) that to restore a ritual. Cifradamente needed to communicate with him, to convey a message through your usual question every evening. Everything is in order however. Nothing happened. Nothing new can happen:
finished cleaning the input v dropped the arm of her husband. The fast path away from the bedroom and left the impression left on the fingers a butterfly which has been held by the wings and suddenly released. Had not used the skates to move, and Margaret was able to verify that her husband was furious. Undoubtedly exaggerated: she had not asked to throw naked from the top of the obelisk at the end of the day. But he said nothing. With your own skates was cleaning the brands of shoes he had left. Not yet entered the bedroom, I knew better not to add fuel to the fire. Just at the door turned his career into the kitchen and later find the time to speak of the wind.
I had finished preparing the dinner (at first, just to please him and although he thought it was Wednesday in a steak and chips, but soon withdrew: vaporized grease permeates the cupboards, walls permeates, penetrates to the desire to live, if one leaves from a Wednesday to a Monday, which is the day deep cleaning, the grease has time to penetrate to the bottom of pores of things and always remains, so that finally pulled Margarita pie from the refrigerator and put it in the oven) and was laying the table when she heard her husband entering the bathroom. A minute later, as a good omen, the joyous hum of the shower in the house resounded.
was time to go into the bedroom. Upon entering, Margarita could see that he had left everything in disorder. Brushed coat, brushed his trousers, hung them, made a pile with my shirt and socks, and went to hit the bathroom door.
"I'm going, dear," she said softly.
did not answer, but humming. Margarita took the shirt and shorts and added to the pile. Washed everything with enthusiasm. When he heard the tap shut him in the living room, humming a waltz on the waves. The storm had passed. However
not until the next morning while taking breakfast, half-laughing as to detract from the scene the day before, Margaret mentioned the wind. Silly, she was willing to admit it, but it cost so little, okay? He did not think that it was going to complicate life somehow. Simply, she asked that when the wind blew from the north to enter through the back door which faced south, and when blowing from the south, enter the front door, which faced north. A whim, if he liked to call it, but would help both, he or imagined. She had noticed that, even to sweep and polish the floor of the entrance was always full of earth when it was windy north. Of course, he could go where he pleased when the wind blew from the east or west. And let alone when there was no wind.
He saw my savage, saw my moaner was not to make such a fuss, "he said.
laughed mischievously.
He stood like one who will deliver a speech, hawking with sound, almost with delight. Then bent torso slightly and spat on the ground, recovered its upright position and with measured steps, left the kitchen. Margarita
stared at the ring, glittering in the light of the morning sun, as it should look at a tiny being from another planet sitting very plump on the floor of our kitchen. A door was closed and opened, echoed walls, steps crossed the house, another door slammed shut. Margarita's brain just found these events. Her whole person seemed to converge on the small focus of the soil. Infectious focus. The expression fluttered lightly in his head, spread like a wave, flooded. In the groups, when people coughing scatters invisible droplets of saliva, each droplet carries thousands of germs, how many germs are in ... Thousands of millions of germs were shaken, gush and jumped on the red mosaic. Margarita mechanically took the first thing I had on hand: a napkin. Kneeling on the floor began to vigorously rub the tile. It was useless: even if rubbed the sticky area highlighted as a stigma. Flattened germs crawling like amoebas. Margaret left the napkin on the table and went to soak a sponge in detergent. Rubbed the tile with sponge and threw a bucket of water. Was to dry the floor when it was paralyzed. Had it been crazy? Did not had used a napkin? My God, how easy it is to take a napkin to her lips. He took one end and looked at struck terror. What would you do now? Wash it seemed unwise so that a pan filled with water, put the fire, and threw in the towel.
was rubbing the table with disinfectant (the napkin had long been in contact with the table) when the phone rang. Was to attend and just entered the gate of the dormitory caught something unusual, something he expressed in the form of a tightness in the chest and the reality could not confirm until he hung up the phone and opened the closet door. Then yes he knew with certainty, the clothes he was not very well, had gone wonderfully well, "she would mourn for that? I was not going to mourn. Was he going to pull the hair and pulled his head against walls? I was not going to pull their hair, much less going to run headlong into the walls. Does a man is something whose loss is regrettable? As messy as they are so dirty, cut the bread on the table, leaving the marks of his shoes muddy, open the doors against the wind, spit on the floor and can never have a clean house, the body, one can never have your body clean, night slugs are like beasts, oh your breath and sweat, oh his semen, filthy moisture of love, why, My God, that everything you could, why did so dirty love, the body of your children so full of filth, who created the world so full of garbage. But no more. In her house anymore. Margarita tore the sheets off the bed, pulled the curtains off its tracks, lifted the carpets, cushions removed, stacked folders. Margarita
scrubbed and shook and brushed until his knuckles turned red and was cramped arms. Washed walls, waxed floors, burnished metals, Sunburst pulled pans, gave a diamond sparkle to the fringes, bathed as beloved children to bucolic pastoral china polished wood, scented closets, shut opal, polish alabaster. And seven in the evening, like a painter who puts his signature to the table who had dreamed all his life, seized the broom and struck him in the garbage.
After the balmy air breathed deeply of wax. He took a slow look around her satisfaction. Caught glares, whiteness tasted, tasted transparencies, warned that some dust had fallen out of the pan by shaking the brush. I swept, I picked up the shovel, empty the bucket into the trash. Again hit the broom, but this time with extreme delicacy, for that not a speck of dust falling out of the pan. Put it in the closet and would also save the blade when harassed her thinking: people tend to be ungrateful to the blades, the uses to pick up any trash, but never occurs to him that some of that garbage has to be forcibly attached to its surface. Decided to wash the blade. Put detergent and passed the brush, a dark liquid spilled on the sink. Margarita had running water but there was a sort of black lace at the bottom. He cleaned with a damp soaped, rinsed the sink and washed the cloth. Then he remembered the brush. I washed and re-stain the sink. Scrubbed the sink with a rag and realized that if now wash the cloth in the sink this would be a never ending story. The most reasonable was to burn the cloth. First it was dried with hair dryer and then took to the streets and set fire. Just as he entered the house came a gust of wind north and Margarita could not prevent some ash went into the living room.
was better not to use the brush, now that it was clean. Used a washcloth with a bit of wax (with the dirty laundry is always the possibility of setting them on fire). But it was a mistake. The color was uneven. Lustre, spread the wax to a wider area: it was useless.
At about five o'clock the floors throughout the house were scraped but red dust hung in the air, covering the furniture, had adhered to the baseboards. Margarita opened the windows, sweeping (and find the time to clean the broom and at worst could throw him), had just finished washing the baseboards when he noticed a little water was spilled. He looked with dismay the stains on the ground, he lacked strength, the color of the sky should be almost seven o'clock. Decided to leave that for later, good luck not going to have to scrape all the floors again. He jumped on the bed dressed (do not forget then to change the sheets again) and immediately fell asleep But wet spots spread, softened, stretched their pseudopodia. The trapped. It was a swamp where Margarita was sinking, sinking. He awoke with a start. He had not slept or half an hour. He got up and went to see the stains, and were quite dry but had not disappeared. Scrape the area but never was the same color. A fading light made her fall, opened his eyes dreamily, saw the whitish streaks and sighed, estimated that he had not eaten anything in the last twenty four hours.
got up and went to the kitchen. A hot meal may make her feel better but no, then you have to wash the pots. Opened the refrigerator and was reaching for an apple when overcome by a wave of terror had not swept the dust from scraping and windows were open. Abruptly withdrew his hand from the refrigerator and pulled a basket with eggs. He watched the yellow puddle slowly and viscously dragged on. Thought he was going to mourn. No way: one thing at a time. Now, sweep the dust from scraping, and she wanted to fly to the kitchen floor, no such order. Search for broom and shovel, went to the living and when I was about to get a sweep, he noticed the soles of his shoes, no doubt were not clean, had drawn on the park a little path batch of eggs. Margarita almost made him laugh to see broom and shovel. Dust from scraping, murmured, scraping dust. He recalled that he had not eaten anything yet, left the broom and shovel and went to the kitchen.
the apple was in the center of the yellow puddle. Margaret rose, eagerly gave him some bites, and suddenly discovered that it was foolish not to prepare a hot meal, now that everything was a little dirty. He put the iron on the fire, peeled potatoes (it was nice to let the long strands coiled sink sponges in yolks and whites now that things had started to get dirty and in any case would have to clean everything up later.) He put a steak on the grill and oil in the pan. Fat is scorched cheerfully, potatoes sizzled, Margarita realized that she forgot to open the kitchen window but anyway it was too late already vaporized grease into the pores of things, and their pores themselves, had permeated his clothes and hair, thickening the air. Margarita took a deep breath. The smell of fried meat and it came through his nose, flooded, made mad with delight.
Impatience can make people a little awkward. Some oil is turned to Margarita to get the potatoes, she surreptitiously poured it with his foot took the steak, he fell to the ground, looking up close, touch, the wonderful aroma of roasting meat the drunk, could not resist giving a few bites before placing it on the plate.
ate with ferocity. Put dirty things in the pool but not washed, had much sleep, as would be the time to wash everything. Turned on the tap to run water and went to the bedroom. He did not. Before leaving the cooking oil made soles skate and fell. Either way it felt very comfortable in the ground. He rested his head on the tiles and fell asleep. She was awakened by water. Slightly oily, water winding through the kitchen, he branched into subtle threads tile joints and thinner but persistent moved toward the dining room. Margarita hurt my head a little. He thrust his hand into the water and splashed the temples. Twisted neck, stuck out his tongue everything he could, and got to drink: now he was feeling better. A little broken, just, but lacked the strength to get up and go to the bathroom. Everything was pretty dirty anyway. The dress was not dirty. Margaret was six years old and should not dirty the dress. Or knees. Should be very careful not to dirty their knees. Until at nightfall, a voice shouted to bathe!, Then she ran frantically to the back of the house, rolled on the ground, was filled with hair and nails and ears of land, she must feel that he was dirty, that every nook and cranny of her body was so dirty in the bathroom sink after purifying bath that will drag all the dirt from the body of Margaret and leave a radiant white bud. Does daisy blossoms, Mom? He felt an indescribable sense of well being. It ran a bit from where he was lying and wanted to laugh. His finger pointed to a spot, next to her on the floor. Caca said. His finger sank luxuriously and then wrote his name on the floor. Margarita. But on the red tile did not notice it. He got up, now without effort, and wrote about the wall. Shit. Signed: Margarita. After all the legend wrapped in a big heart. A stream in the back made her shiver. The wind. Entered through the open windows, dragged the dust of the street, dragging away the world that adhered to the walls and his name written on the walls and your heart, mixed with the water running in the room, entering through your nose and their ears and their eyes, the dress will get dirty.
Five days later, a bright sunny day with blue skies and birds singing gloriously, Margarita's husband stopped at a flower stall.
-Margaritas "he told the shepherd. The whiter. Many margaritas.
And with the huge bouquet walked home. Before inserting the key was a prank, a mischievous expression, and full of love, worthy of being referred by a loving wife who was peering behind the curtains, licked his index finger and lifting it up as a standard, analyzed the wind direction . From the north. So the man, gently, happily, savoring the unique flavor advance reconciliation, he turned to his home. Whistling a song festival opened the door. A soft splashing, gurgling, came from the kitchen.
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