Hate

   They all hate him. I know I do. He acts all perfect and many people around here think he is just that: perfect. I bet he hide so many thinks beneath those stupid smiles and acts of kindness. No human person is like that; we all act of cowardice or shame but never just because we are good. We just want to be it so bad we go to great lengths to transform in those idiotic beings that just spit positivity.

 He’s a fake. I just know it. He gave everyone a present on his floor last Christmas and even organized a party for them, dressed as Santa Claus. And people danced around him like dogs under the hypnosis of a really good trainer. It was disgusting how they looked, as if they were in the presence of God himself or at least one of the many saints. And he even acts the part, always helping and doing and being all over the place.

 Was he fat as a kid? Or did his parents maybe hate him? No, of course not. That wouldn’t have happened to him. People said that he would speak of his childhood often, remembering how it was all easier. Ha! Easier than now, when almost every single idiot in this office building treats him like his a deity? I doubt it. He must have been one of those insufferable jocks, full of himself, with everyone cheering around just because he looked like some guy from a magazine.

 I always try to get away from people like that. All they do is treat people like the stupidest of pets, making them do, as he wants. He doesn’t even have to ask, which is even more revolting. They just do it, as if getting the reward of his smile was more than enough to feed their children or pay their bills. I’ve heard them, women and children worshipping him in the elevator, talking about how kind and sensitive he is.

 People will believe anything if they want to, even if it kills them. They’re not smart enough to feel, to sense. I laugh in my head overtime they organized that annoying secret valentines game. They always try to pull me into that and, once, I almost agreed to do it. At the end of the day, I’m not much more smart than they are and I do work here with them. But then they spoke of how that stupid fuck was organizing it all. So I just said no and left for my house.

 Days after that I ran into him. He smiled to me! As I was a friend or one of his dogs. I just got out of the elevator and went to the bathroom, as I had no need to stand more than a minute in the presence of that cheeky smug smile, expecting me and anyone else to do the same. I want him to know that we’re not all enthralled by his physical appearance and his effort to be liked by everyone.

 He wants us all to like him? Then he should behave like any other of us, just work and shut the fuck up. We don’t wanna know about his colorful life full of beauty, and style and drama that’s only dramatic to him. Of course, he has been employee of the month so many times, no one even asks anymore about the picture they take when you win. They even said he asked fro the pictures to be removed, as he didn’t want to be disliked.

 Funny he said that, if he did say that is. Because I don’t dislike him. I don’t. Don’t ever get me wrong there. I hate him. I fully and truly hate his guts. I hate his smile, I hate those pictures of everyone’s holidays they put up once on the company’s Facebook page. Of course he was on a beach somewhere half around the world, tanned and his body ridiculously fit and lean. It was obvious that he was perfect in every fucking sense. And I hate that.

You may calm me resented or that I envy him. Maybe, I would not know if that is so. What I do know is that a fucking hate that guy and everything he stands for. He makes people feel less than they are and then he just greets them and think that will make everybody feel better because, like the Pope, he stretches the hand of all those less fortunate. And those poor devils do think that they are his friends just because he smiles at them or because they hear one of his stupid little stories.

 I’ve gone to the doctor, the shrink that is. Believe me, I’m not happy thinking about that guy every day in the office. So I went to see one of those doctors and he says I’m obsessive and I’m looking to deep into it. He tells me I should just leave it at that and live for myself. But I can, I have explained to him. How can I have time for my own when I have to go to that damn floor everyday and hear him make one of his lectures to people.

 That doctor doesn’t know I feel ill, sick to my stomach every time I hear that man’s voice. Many people say you can’t really hate, that it takes something really strong to feel that for someone. I tell you, I didn’t take a lot for me to feel what I feel. And it is hate, and I hate that feeling too. I have a life, not much but I do have it and I don’t want to spend it thinking of some male model that parades around.

 He hypnotized me once, that doctor. I thought the idea was stupid but I let him do it, as I wanted peace for once on my mind. He said, after I woke up or however you name it, that I have dangerous tendencies towards criminal behavior and that I have deep problems rooted in my brain. Fuck, what an idiot that doctor is. I could have told him that myself, awake and for a cheaper price. Of course, I never went back to see him. I don’t need people charging me for telling me the obvious.

 I want to kill him. That’s what the doc meant. And I have thought of it many times, carefully. I do it before I go to sleep or when I daydream at work. Some days ago he came to my corner and asked me for some papers. I wanted to throw up, right there. Sick isn’t it? Then, as I reached for the papers without saying a single word, I imagined punching him to his death. How beautiful would he look like with blood all over his face?

 This is not good. I know killing is a bad thing, that’s obvious. But what can I do? Every single time I see him, that strange rush invades my whole body and makes me feel like I could really do it. You know? I’ve thought several ways to do it, all of them fun to me. Of course I don’t share this with anyone. People would overreact and say I’m mass murderer or some shit like that. And the truth is I just want HIM dead. I know if I do it, I wouldn’t do it again. No need to.

 The day after he asked me for those papers, I decided I would follow him to his house. Why? Easy: before he dies I want him to tell me what lies beneath that entire perfect surface. Because, as you know, I don’t believe for a second all of those nice little details about his life and how he loves everyone and so on. I know there must be something really rotten below all that beauty. There always is. No one is perfect in this world and, the better the cover, the nastier the secrets.

 So I followed him down to the basement, because he’s one of few that comes work by car. And then it struck me: it doesn’t matter. His life, what he has or hasn’t done. I don’t give a fuck about that. What I really care about is the image he gives to the world. He might fuck children, kill whores or spread STD’s. I don’t care. I care about that fake smile he gives to everyone he meets. I want that finished.

 Yesterday, I almost went for it. I went to the bathroom to pee and he went in to and went for one of the stalls. We were alone. He was whistling. The rush came back and I knew that was the perfect moment. I could strangle him myself with my hands, seeing his soul leaving his body and his smile finally disappearing from his face. But when I decided to do it, another man came in and I just went out, breathing heavily as if I had been running.

 Then comes today. The guy announce to everyone, as if he was the president, that he will be leaving us to pursue other endeavors. I almost went crazy when I heard about it. But then, I relaxed. My life could get back to normal and I could make all these thoughts go away. Him leaving would be my cure. And the only person that would ever know about this all would be me because here, inside my head, there’s only me. And I’m thankful for that.

Matrioskas

   Su obsesión bordaba en lo insano. Era realmente extraño ver como lo único que miraba en internet era fotos de más y más muñecas rusas para comprar, en vez de hacer lo que toda chica de su edad: hablar con chicos, subir fotos, compartir cosas, ... Pero no, a ella no le interesa en nada conocer a un chico. Cuando sus amigas hablando de novios o sexo, ella mágicamente desaparecía, a veces para ir al baño, otras para irse a su casa sin despedirse.

 Cualquiera que la conociera, y la verdad era que no mucha gente la conocía en profundidad, sabía que su obsesión con las muñecas rusas, llamadas mamushkas o matrioskas, había nacido de un solo set de muñecas que había pertenecido a su madre. Y ahí era donde se complicaban las cosas: su madre siempre había cuidado que Rania (como se llamaba la chica) tuviera la mejor educación y todo lo necesario para una juventud igual que la de cualquier otra niña. El problema era que la madre jamás había estado físicamente o, al menos, no lo normal.

 Resultaba que la mujer era escritora de viajes. Escribía para varios periódicos, revistas y guías de viajero. Era fascinante oírla hablar de sus viajes, de las diferentes culturas y de todas las personas que había conocido en años de aventuras por el mundo. Se sabía de memoria varios de los callejones de Mumbai, se sabía de memoria en que orden iban los edificios y las tiendas en los Campos Elíseos, conocía el mejor restaurante de sushi en Tokio y el mejor rincón para tomar fotos del Castillo de Chapultepec. Todos quienes la conocían la admiraban y hubieran querido ser ella, con tanto que hacer y tanto que mostrar y decir.

 Solo Rania sabía que tener una madre así, no servía de mucho. Sí, le traía (o más frecuentemente le enviaba por correo) hermosos regalos de varias partes del mundo. Tanto ropa como comida, pasando por aparatos de última tecnología y chucherías sin importancia que ella pensaba que le gustarían a su hija. Pero como iba a saber lo que le gustaba si muy pocas veces estaba en casa? Y cuando lo estaba, iba de arriba a abajo de la casa, visiblemente desesperada de tener que quedarse en un mismo sitio más de unos pocos días. Era como ver un tigre enjaulado, pensaba Rania. Y ella sabía, no muy dentro sino muy en la superficie, que su madre no la quería.

 Esto era fácil de ver. La mayoría de familiares que tenía Rania, tías y tíos y su abuela, se habían dado cuenta de ello y por eso eran ellos que cuidaban de ella. Fue su abuela que, cuando era muy pequeña, la puso a jugar con el set de muñecas rusas, traídas por su madre de la ciudad de Kazan. Los dibujos que había sobre las muñecas eran hermosos, delicados y sorprendentes. Su madre nunca la hubiera dejado jugar con ellas pero, como nunca estaba, Rania hacía que desde la más grande a las más pequeñas de las matrioskas desempeñaran un papel en sus juegos.

 Y así creció Rania, con las muñecas como su única verdadera compañía y sin extrañar a su madre que prefería estar escalando alguna montaña en algún lado o probando alguna comida rara a medio mundo de distancia. Solo a veces pensaba en ella, sobre todo cuando se sentía más sola y vulnerable. Pensaba que su madre bien podría haber tenido muchos maridos o una familia en otra parte y ella nunca se enteraría. Lo peor de todo era que no la conocía lo suficiente para saber si la mujer que la había engendrado era capaz de algo como eso.

 Incluso, alguna vez mientras miraba muñecas para comprar en una pequeña tienda de antigüedades, pensó que bien podría no ser hija de la mujer que le habían dicho era su madre. A ella no le constaba nada, aunque tampoco la hacía feliz el prospecto. Si no era su madre, debía agradecerle por la inversión que había hecho en ella. Después de todo le había comprado muchas cosas a lo largo de su vida, le había dado un hogar y educación. Pero también querría decir que alguien la había dado a esa mujer para que la cuidara. Mejor dicho, no habría una sino dos mujeres a las que no le interesarían verla. Ese pensamiento, le partía el corazón.

 A los doce años compró su segundo set de muñecas, mucho menos bonitas que las primeras pero apreciadas porque eran las primeras que ella había comprado con su propio dinero. Y así pasó el tiempo y compró más y más hasta que tuvo que convertir un closet que nadie usaba en su casa en estantería para poner los grupos de matrioskas que crecían a un ritmo acelerado. Sin embargo, nadie se preocupó ni dijo nunca nada respecto a esta particular obsesión. Su abuela, erróneamente, creía que se trataba de una manera de estar cerca de su madre. Era más bien reemplazar una cosa con otra. No era más que eso.

 Cuando llegó la hora de entrar a la universidad, pagada a distancia por su madre por supuesto, ella decidió estudiar diseño gráfico. Su sueño era diseñar más de las muñecas que tanto le gustaban, con nuevos rostros y colores y diferentes atuendos y accesorios. Quería que todo el mundo las amara igual que ella o más. Pero sus compañeras pensaban que una obsesión así era muy extraña, sobre todo para una joven ya mayor de edad. Muchos se burlaban de ella a sus espaldas y otros simplemente ignoraban ese detalle de su personalidad. La verdad era que Rania podía ser bastante simpática si se sabía como hablar con ella.

 De hecho, su mejor amiga Lina, una de las pocas, le compró un set de muñecas rusas pero pintadas como varios personajes de una popular película de ciencia ficción. A Rania le fascinó el regalo y aún más la idea de hacer de las muñecas algo más popular a través de elementos que todo conociera. Así que ideó algo más original y lo presentó como su trabajo de tesis: era seis grupos, cada uno con cinco muñecas. Cada grupo representaba un continente diferente y cada muñeca vestía como las mujeres que vivían allí. Representaba mujeres de ciudad como las de campo. Fue un trabajo arduo pero le valió varios elogios y las mejores notas que pudiera obtener.

 Rania no volvió a ver a su madre después de cumplir los 25 años. Para que ver a una mujer que no conocía, y que simplemente nunca le había preguntado como estaba o que sentía? Lo único que hizo fue comunicarse con ella por correo electrónico y por esa vía agradecerle todo lo que había hecho por ella y que ella le pagaría de vuelta, al menos parte de lo invertido. Resulta que Rania abrió una tienda en la que solo vendía muñecas pero del tipo que los clientes quisieran: a veces pedían que dibujaran a sus familias, otras veces algunos personajes que les gustaran o simplemente compraban de la selección que ella diseñaba.

 La mujer, su madre, jamás respondió y Rania no insistió. Prosperó con su negocio y, poco a poco, empezó a ser más abierta con quienes conocía y con los pocos amigos que tenía. Lo que más le gustaba era quedarse solo un rato en la tienda después de cerrar y darse cuenta como esas muñecas habían sido su salvación. Podía haber sido resentida con todo, odiar a su madre, detestar la vida como tal. Pero no. Rania no era así.

Wasteland

   They had been walking for at least two hours, without taking a break or dropping the rhythm of their movement. They were only four people, all dirty on the faces, their clothes a bit ragged, their shoes all broken. The group kept on walking until they reached a group of large rocks, enough for them to hide from anyone coming from any direction. Inside the rock group there was sort of a clearing and a soft surface. They finally stopped walking, dropping their bodies hard against the rock.

They were two men, both around thirty years old, a woman of the same age and a child about ten years old. They all rested, laying down like starfish on the hard surface. It was late in the afternoon, so the shadow made by the rocks was perfect to avoid being toasted by the sunlight. One the men opened a backpack he had being holding. He extracted a water bottle and took a sip. He gave it to the others, who drank hastily, as if thy knew they wouldn’t have the chance to drink any liquids again

No one spoke, maybe because they wanted to keep their few energies to use them on something more worth it or maybe because there was nothing to be talking about. The truth was both reasons were accurate. What could you say when you’ve seen so many people killed, when you’ve escaped death by nothing more than a few seconds? Nothing, that’s what. The group lay down and didn’t move until it was almost night. It was the two men who got out of the small clearing, into the terrain outside.

It was clear they were in a desert or at least near one. The rocky surface on which they stood was covered, in some parts, by a thin layer of sand and other bright particles. One of the men, the taller one, went to the edge of the rock formation and stared at the horizon: he couldn’t see any light except the first stars appearing on the sky. He sighed in relief as that meant no one had followed them. The reason was of no interest; as long as they were safe the reasons could wait to be known.

The other man, some centimeters shorter, climbed the rocks steadily but making a sort of a grin as he did it. It was clear he was in pain, as with each step he let some air out. When he reached the top of that smooth hill, he was suddenly victim of a cough attack, in part because of what he had seen. He hit his chest a bit to clear his throat as he raises his head and so a never-ending desert past the hill. It wasn’t far at all and seemed to be larger than any ocean that the man had ever seen. This was good and bad, as it was a safe escape route but only because they exchanged a few dangers for other ones.

He turned around and joined the taller man. As he neared him, he realized the other one was crying. He wasn’t bothering to swipe the tears out of his face. He just crouched in the spot and cried in silence, staring at the horizon, which was now pitch black. The shorter one kneeled besides him and hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. Again, they didn’t say a word. This time too it was highly unnecessary to talk as everything they had gone through was beyond any word invented by men.

Some time afterwards, they penetrated the big boulders and found the woman and child sleeping. They looked at each other once and decided to join the others in the floor for a sleep. It took them almost an hour to feel the drowsy and to finally fall asleep. When they woke up the next morning, it seemed to be early still, as a cold wind blew over them. The shorter man stepped out of the boulders and took another look at their surroundings. Then, the first words spoken in that place for many years were heard:

Hunter! TO THE DESERT!

It took them only a couple of seconds to wake up and run out. They all stared at the horizon, were a cloud of dust could be seen, nearing the rocky hill they were standing in. It was clear their pursuers were still after them, restless. The shorter man turned around and walked uphill. They all followed fast. When they reached the top, they had to run down the other side. This had to be careful as many small rocks covered the hill. The woman actually fell and was helped up fast.

Once they reached the sandy bottom of the hill, they started to run, straight to the heart of the desert. It was difficult to run on sand, as it didn’t allow them to progress a lot. Nevertheless, they did it as if their lives depended on it and, actually, that was precisely true. As they ran more and more into the desert, they were all thinking exactly the same: they knew the hunters had no intention of entering that place as they knew people always died in there, never coming out on any side of the gigantic sea of sand.

But that was precisely the advantage they thought they had over the hunters. They were too busy hunting easier targets and chasing someone through a desert was not really worth it if they thought the desert and its lack of everything could kill them faster than they could. So when an hour had passed and the small group was already exhausted, they looked back for a moment: the hunters were at the edge of the desert, on a jeep, and appeared to be thinking what to do. Then, they did something no one thought they would ever do: they got out a missile launcher and pointed in their direction. Now, it was the tall guy who yelled:

RUN! RUN!

And they did but the missile had already been launched. It hit the soft desert surface and blew sand everywhere, forming a small storm in the spot. They were all thrown forward, over some small dunes and hitting the sand hard. The jeep turned around and the hunters left, as the small group began to regroup. The short guy had been spared of any injury but as he ran to the tall one, he realized he had been lucky. The other man lied in the ground, panting. His right arm had been burned, from elbow to shoulder.

The kid was crying, not far. He looked good, not injured besides some scratches. But it was the woman that did not seem very well. She was panting too but wasn’t sitting or standing up. She coughed and the kid screamed. The short guy neared him and realized the woman was very badly injured: one arm and one leg were broken. Her face had been badly burned and, as they look at her, she stopped breathing. The kid had stopped his crying but resumed it once he realized what had happened. The thing here was she wasn’t his mother but had acted like one for many days.

The tall guy had crawled next to them, just as the other one had closed the woman’s eyes. Again, he spoke very softly, as if he didn’t want to disturb the woman’s peace.

We have to bury her beneath the sand. Vultures won’t be long.

And he was right because, as they excavated the sand and put the body in there, several shadows began to circle them from above. When they finished, the birds landed close by, as if they needed to verify if there was a dead body among them. They had covered her in a lot of sand and hoped no storm would uncover the body. They didn’t mind the birds as they started walking through the desert, now slower than before.

When night fell, they sat close from one another and tried to light a fire with a lighter and some paper they had on the backpack but they weren’t successful at all. The cold was awful and only the kid fell asleep fast, surely because he was so tired. The short man decided to clean the other’s wound with a bit of water and told him, whispering to his ear, that he would need to get the burnt skin scraped of to let new skin grow. He agreed and stood up instantly. The kid didn’t felt as they walked away, behind a dune. The short guy moistened the paper he had tried to set on fire and advised the tall guy to bite something. He took of a shoe and put it in his mouth.

The screams could have woken a whole town, or so it seemed. But no one was near to hear it. The kid woke up but didn’t move, deciding to stare at the stars and remembering his family and all that had happened before then. As he heard the disheartening screams, he realized he didn’t remember his mother nor is father or any other relatives. He felt he had been running for years but realized that couldn’t be true. He fell asleep realizing he heard nothing anymore and feeling alone and hopeless.

Behind the dune, the two men were hugging. The arm had been properly scraped and it bled a bit. The man held it high as he had his nose in the other man’s hair. Then, in a raspy and sad voice, he said:

What are we going to do? – He sighed. Tears filling his eyes – I’m tired…

The other one gave him a gentle kiss on the lips and cleaned his eyes of tears.

We’ll keep living. They won’t finish us. We’re not dead yet.

And then they hugged tighter and the pain on the man’s arm wasn’t as strong as the one in his heart and soul.

En Roma

   No estaba perdido ni nada parecido. Había mirado en el mapa que la solitaria calle por la que estaba caminando desembocaba directamente en una avenida más grande, que era donde estaba el museo que Marcos quería visitar. Estaba de paseo, solo, en Roma. Y hasta ahora todo había ido de maravilla. La gente parecía ser bastante amable y no entendía como existían rumores de que los romanos podían ser muy detestables. No eran exactamente los mejores conductores pero de resto, no estaban nada mal.

Marcos caminaba despacio por la calle empedrada, mirando a un lado y otro los hermosos edificios, que claramente eran más viejos que él e y que sus padres. Algunos habían sido visiblemente restaurados pero otros tenías las paredes cubiertas de moho y parecía que la pintura iba a caerse toda al mismo tiempo, un día muy próximo. De todas maneras tomó fotos de todo, como si quisiera luego reconstruir todo el lugar con esas imágenes.

Siguió caminando, tratando de no resbalar por las lisas piedras, y entonces llegó al frente de una majestuosa iglesia, con inscripciones en latín y relieves y esculturas en la fachada. Tomó algunas fotos y estuvo tentado a entrar pero se dio cuenta que las puertas tenían sendos candados puestos así que no hubo manera. Se dio la vuelta para seguir caminando pero entonces se estrelló contra un chico algo mayor que él que cargaba, con otro, una impresionante luz profesional, de las que usan para el cine.

- Disculpe.

Pero los hombres ni lo miraron, probablemente porque el objeto era muy pesado y las piedras en el piso hacían muy difícil la movilidad. Entraron la enorme luz por las puertas de un hermoso edificio, al que Marcos se acercó al instante. Allí afuera había otras luces de muchos tamaños y otros objetos de los que él no sabía nada. Miró por una ventana y vio que el interior del edificio era igual de impresionante que el exterior.

Había hermosos muebles y un papel tapiz precioso, que parecía ser verdadero satín. Del otro lado de la sala, llena de colores y brillos, se veía un patio interior iluminado con las luces en el cual había una fuente y varias personas iban y venían. Marcos se apoyó en el borde de la ventana y vio como una pareja se sentada en el borde de la fuente y recibía direcciones de un hombre con audífonos y una barba frondosa.

Los actores lo miraban y luego miraban lo que parecía un libreto en sus manos. La mirada iba de arriba abajo, como si verificaran lo que él decía. Frente a la ventana pasaron dos mujeres, que iban con un vestido de época muy bonito, de color azul cielo, y con un collar enorme que seguramente iba a ser usado por la misma actriz que usara el vestido.

Marcos estuvo viendo por la ventana varios minutos hasta que una mano se posó sobre él y casi lo hace resbalar sobre las piedras lisas. Se dio la vuelta para ver al chico de la luz, que le ayudaba a no caer cogiéndole el brazo. Marcos se incorporó rápidamente y se soltó de las manos del hombre.

- Gracias.
- Español? Yo hablo un poco. Italiano?

Marcos movió la cabeza negativamente. La verdad era que solo sabía algunas palabras y dudaba que una de ellas le sirviera de mucho en una conversación hecha y derecha.

- Gusta? – dijo el chico, señalando la ventana.

El chico turista tontamente volteó la mirada hacia allí, como si no supiera que por la ventana se veía como preparaban lo que seguramente era la siguiente escena de una película.

- Sí. De que trata la película?
- No película. Televisión.

Marcos abrió la boca, exagerando sorpresa. La verdad era que se sentía bastante incomodo, ya que el chico de la luz lo mantenía entre él y una pared. Además tenía la cámara colgando y un canguro color verde que lo hacía verse realmente estúpido. Pero eso no importaba en un museo o algún sitio turístico. Pero allí, lucía tremendamente estúpido.

Quieres entrar?

La invitación fue recibida por un asentimiento de cabeza de Marcos, que siguió al chico adentro de la casa. De verdad, el lugar era hermoso. Los muebles delicados, pintados de color dorado y tapizados con tela roja que tenía también bordado en hilo dorado. Algunas personas trabajaban aquí y allá. Todos parecían demasiado inmersos en sus cosas como para notar que alguien que no pertenecía allí los miraba con interés.

Marcos dio un respingo casi peligroso cuando el chico de la luz tomó su mano sin decir nada y lo llevó al patio interior que él había visto desde la ventana. Allí, lo ubicó frente a los actores a quienes saludó y ellos de vuelta. Les presentó a los dos y ellos se comportaron perfectamente amables, sonriendo siempre y sin parecer que tuvieran algo mejor que hacer que saludar a un turista. Se retiraron pasados unos minutos. De la mano de nuevo, el chico llevó a Marcos a un segundo piso, también bellamente adornado.

Estuvo tan ocupado mirando por todos lados, los variados colores y telas y tantos muebles y detalles, que no se dio cuenta que no había soltado a su guía. El chico le dijo que ya habían terminado de poner las luces que necesitaban para la próxima escena y que, si lo deseaba, podía ver el rodaje desde allí. Señaló entonces una terraza que daba al patio, donde había varias luces grandes distribuidas a su alrededor, mirando hacia abajo.

Se acercaron allí, finalmente soltando la mano del chico de la luz que saludó a algunos de sus compañeros de trabajo. Marcos se apoyó en la terraza y vio como otros actores, vestidos espléndidamente, estaban ahora en el patio y se disponían a hacer lo que mejor hacían. El chico trató de no moverse y miró si no estorbaba de alguna manera y entonces suspiró, sintiéndose bastante satisfecho consigo mismo.

La escena se rodó. La repitieron un par de veces pero Marcos pensó que, desde la primera, había quedado formidable. Aunque no entendía todo lo que decían los actores, estaba claro que eran muy buenos y que la película era de época, algún drama relacionado a una pobre mujer. En todo caso era fascinante ver todo eso ocurrir allí frente a sus ojos. Ciertamente era más entretenido que ver un objetos viejos en vitrinas, cosa que podría hacer otro día.

Cuando terminaron de rodar, una mujer de voz potente gritó algo muchas veces, pero Marcos no entendió que había sido. El chico de la luz se le acercó y le explicó que era la hora de comer. Le hizo una señal a Marcos para que lo siguiera y fue así que llegaron a un cuarto grande pero desprovisto de muebles o de la belleza del resto de la casa. Era solo un cuarto con polvo y las paredes y el piso bastante afectados por el tiempo.

El chico de la luz se acercó a una mochila y sacó de ella dos emparedados de pan baguette, cada uno bastante grande. Parecían tener muchas carnes frías y quesos y se sorprendió al ver que el chico le ofrecía uno. Él se negó pero el chico insistió y la verga es que Marcos tenía bastante hambre. Su desayuno no había sido nada que alabar. Así que recibió el sándwich y lo abrió al mismo tiempo que el chico de la luz abría el suyo.

Entre mordisco y mordisco, Marcos le confesó al chico que todo lo que hacían allí le había parecido increíble: los vestidos, los muebles, las enormes luces, los gritos de cada uno, los actores,… Era muy entretenido ver como hacían un programa de televisión. El chico le respondía, con la boca algo llena, que aunque era difícil a veces e incluso molesto, él no cambiaba su trabajo por nada más en el mundo. Su sueño, dijo ya tomando jugo de un termo, era ser director de cine. Quería ser como los grandes, aquellos que marcaban tendencias y todos conocían.

Marcos le sonrió y le contó que él estaba apenas estudiando para ser dentista. No era un mundo tan fascinante como este. Pero el chico lo animó, diciendo que todos necesitaban buenos dientes. Rieron un poco pero fueron interrumpidos por otro grito, anunciando una nueva escena.

Fue entonces que el chico le propuso a Marcos quedarse todo el día, y ver el resto del rodaje. Él aceptó, sin pensar en nada más. El chico entonces le cogió la mano de nuevo y juntos caminaron al balcón, uno a trabajar y el otro a seguir viendo la vida pasar frente a sus ojos.

The Winter

   Helena worked in one of the many factories located along the river, a fast-flowing stream filled with waterfalls and whirlpools. Every single worker of the factories and the people from the town knew that it was very dangerous to play or stand near the river. But Helena always did, just right before work and just after it. She loved to see the big chunks of ice go down the river, fast, as if they had a rush to get the waterfalls lying only some kilometers further ahead.

What she loved about the river was that she felt strangely alive when looking at it. For her, it was almost as looking a group of children play ball or a market filled with buyers and sellers. Anyway, not much happened in town so when winter came and the river started its battle against the low temperatures, it was always entraining to see which one of the two won the match.

Helena’s post inside the factory was just next to one of the big windows. She had to stitch together two pieces of fabric in order to make underwear, which would be sold in many stores around the world. At least that was what they told all the women working there and, as most of them would have never had the money to pay for such nice clothes, they had no idea if they got only to the next town or a fancy store in Japan, or something.

Through the window next to her, Helena saw the river trying not to lose its power, its grace and insistence. People around her never understood her fascination with it but she had no need to tell them. After all, it was her thing and no one else’s so, she kept this particular enjoyment to herself.

One winter in particular, it was clear that the river would lose the battle. Helena lived upstream and many sections there were already frozen. It did look beautiful, she thought, but it was better when it was liquid and it could do everything, even if it got dangerous and often devastating. By the factory, some waterfalls had frozen over too and it was clear the river wasn’t going to hold much longer which was particularly bad for town.

The electric energy provided to the houses, the factories and so on, were generated by a dam upstream but if they reservoir froze over the electricity would stop arriving. And that’s exactly what happened on the third week of January, when the hum of electricity coming from various machines suddenly stop. The heating system in the factory failed too and they were told by their bosses to get to back home. If they received a call, it meant they wouldn’t need to come to work the next day. Helena knew there would be no call.

She walked home but first stopped by the baker.  It was clear he was having problems to as they were trying, with his son, to turn on a generator that worked on gasoline. Not that gasoline wasn’t expensive but the baker couldn’t afford to lose the job of one day. So they turned the machine on and Helena took home a baguette and a couple chocolate croissants. She ate one as she walked towards home to make her heart feel warmer.

When she entered her small cottage, she looked through the window and saw how the river was almost entirely frozen. Only a small stream of water passed through the ice and it wasn’t enough to make the dam work; that was obvious. Helena left her bread in the kitchen and went up to change off her work clothes. She put on a thick sweater and loose pants, the kind you use to exercise. She went down to the kitchen and checked the time on a clock hanging over the oven: it was one o’clock.

Realizing they had really been let go rather early and wondering if this time the call would be real, she decided to make herself a proper lunch. She normally ate something like a sandwich in the factory’s cafeteria but the bread there was normally stale and the meat seemed to have seen better days. Helena decided she would take this chance to make herself something delicious to eat. So she checked the cupboards and the fridge, which wasn’t working anymore, and decided to make a nice fish on herbs and roasted potatoes to go with it.

She checked her oven and it did work. Thankfully, it worked on gas and not with electricity so she could cook her dinner there. In an hour, she was seating down to a small table by a window, the one from which she could see the frozen river. She started eating the fish, enjoying herself despite the cold. Then, for a moment, she stared again at the river but her expression was now pensive, almost sad. She seemed to scare the thoughts out of her head, in order to continue eating. But when she finished she was again looking at the window.

Several minutes passed until she stood up, washed the dishes and went to her room. Somehow, she didn’t really feel cold or tired. She just wanted to lie down and think. From her room, the river could be seen to but she deliberately lay with her back against the window. She didn’t want to look at it, at the water, anymore. She had tried hard to have a nice relationship with it but sometimes it got hard. It was as if winter made it harder on purpose, in order to make her remember.

 It had happened in winter too, so maybe that was why. One day, Helena had been walking upstream with her, holding hands, looking at every animal remaining in the cold and at every plant that looked as if they were also fighting the winter, just like the river. They had stared at the beautiful shapes of a frozen waterfall and the silent and peaceful sound of the remaining water, sometimes underneath the thick layer of ice.

The next day, she woke up suddenly, like scared or as if her body was warning her of an incoming danger. And it did: she looked through the window just in time to see how her only daughter, age five, was taking a first step into the frozen water. She ran as fast as she could, in her pajamas, almost falling to the ground, getting mud and frost all over. But as she drew near she heard that horrible sound, the sound that she would never forget.

It was the ice cracking beneath the feet of her daughter. In that moment, she screamed, calling her. Nowadays, she wished she hadn’t. The little girls, got even more scared because of this and decided to walk back to shore but then the sound coming from the ice became louder and Helena saw how her daughter was engulfed by frozen water. When she got to the spot where her daughter had been, she realized the river was only superficially frozen. Underneath, water still moved fast.

She ran downstream, screaming for help and then falling mute, as she saw her daughter’s body floating face down underneath a thin layer of ice. She broke it with her fists, dragged the girl from the water and held her in her arms as people gathered around and saw what had happened. Her daughter was dead, in the blink of an eye. From that day on she respected the river but she hated it too because it had taken her life from her.

Her daughter, a bright young girl, was going to be such a better person that she had ever been. She was going to be someone amazing and outstanding, fearless and strong. Helena was going to help her do whatever she wanted to be the best of all. She would have the courage to leave town and really live the life she wanted for herself. And Helena would have been proud and happy for her, because her life dream would have come true.

But the river ended that. She ended that. She blamed herself, even if it was worthless to do it. During winter, she remembered her daughter almost every day and tried to be strong enough to keep living but sometimes it got extremely difficult, because Helena realized she was truly alone in the world. She fell asleep crying in silence, in her bed.

But the following morning she went, as usual, to work. The dam was still no working but they had to work anyway. She stopped by the river on her way to work and looked at it for a couple of minutes, paying her respects. She got hold a beautiful surviving twig, with some leaves on it, and threw it in the water. Then she moved on, to work and to the rest of her life.

Hombre libre

   Mientras hacía el desayuno pensó que, por primera vez en mucho tiempo, cocinaba algo para si mismo. La verdad era que ya no tenía ni tiempo de alimentarse bien por culpa de la carga laboral y los fines de semana siempre surgía algún trabajo extra o la familia molestaba con algo para hacer. Siempre tenía que recibir comida de extraños o familiares, pero hecha por ellos y, con el asco que todo le daba al pobre de Damián, era una incongruencia que no tuviera el tiempo para hacerlo todo él mismo.

Su pequeño apartamento se llenó rápidamente del olor de las salchichas de pavo que tostada en una sartén. Al lado tenía una tortilla de huevo en proceso y en la mesa estaba ya servido un buen jugo frío natural de naranja. Todo parecía demasiado perfecto y la verdad era que esperaba que alguien lo interrumpiera, en el peor momento. Así que cuando sirvió todo y se sentó, fue natural que esperara un par de minutos para ver si no sonaba el teléfono o el intercomunicador con la portería del edificio.

Pero ninguno de los dos hizo ruido alguno. Así que Damián empezó a comer con gusto, como si hubieran pasado años desde que había probado el último bocado de comida. Y esto aplicaba si se hablaba de comida casera y decente. Siempre le parecía que lo que comía carecía de algo, sea de sabor, preparación o incluso presentación. La verdad era que a él le gustaba mucho lo bueno que tenía la vida, esos detalles tontos que le arreglan a uno la existencia. Pero tenía tan poca oportunidad de disfrutarlos, que era natural su jovial entusiasmo.

Mordió una de las puntas de una salchicha y le pareció haber pegado un salto: el sabor era delicioso. Se le ocurrió algo y se puso de pie. Buscó en la cocina y sacó de la alacena una botellita plástica que contenía mayonesa. Puso un poco en el plato y untó allí la salchicha. El siguiente mordisco le arrebató senda sonrisa de la cara, como si jamás en la vida hubiera comido. Por un segundo, se sintió tonto. Pero no le importaba. Disfrutar la vida no le hacía daño a nadie y se lo ponía a l muy feliz.ie y se lo ponea. Disfrutar la vida sinti ocurrina del plato, mo.nte. Siempre le parecél muy feliz.

Siguió pues con la tortilla, que había mezclado en un bol con algo de espinaca que le sobraba. Además le había echado bastante pimienta así que el sabor resultó ser exactamente el que él buscaba. En nada difería de lo que su imaginación había querido elaborar. Incluso, se podía decir que sabía mejor de lo pensado. Se mandó otro bocado, pensando que si hubiera querido ser chef, hubiera tenido bastante éxito. Incluso podría haber tenido un restaurante pequeño, de esos que no ponen ramitas de cosas sobre la comida sino que se preocupan por el sabor y no como se ven las cosas.

Pero no era cocinero ni nada parecido y ese era solo un sueño que no cumpliría por culpa de su problema más grande: el tiempo. Trabajar como un esclavo (no, no es exageración) en un banco en el que nadie se responsabilizaba por nada pero a todos se les culpaba de cualquier error cometido, era verdaderamente un fastidio. Damián siempre se burlaba de esas películas que mostraban como la gente hacía amigos y había un sentido extraño de comunidad en las oficinas. Pues bien, eso era una asqueroso mentira, al menos en su caso.

Mientras comía despacio, disfrutando cada pedacito casi sagrado de comida, Damián se ponía serio al pensar en su trabajo y sus amistades. La verdad era que amigos como tal, no creía tener. Había uno que otro, no más que el número de dedos en una mano, que a veces lo llamaban o le hablaban por el computador o el teléfono móvil. Cada mucho tiempo, cuando no estaba muerto del cansancio, salía con ellos a beber algo y hablar de las típicas tonterías que habla uno con la gente cuando no se quiere hablar de trabajo o responsabilidades. Así que casi siempre las conversaciones iban de sexo.

Esto último era algo bastante gracioso ya que Damián no era precisamente un erudito al respecto. Había tenido su primera relación sexual ya estando en la universidad, con veinte años de edad. Y después de eso, si se hacía una lista exhaustiva de las mujeres con las que había estado en diez años, el número no llegaba a ser mayor de ese mismo número: diez. Y eso era confiando en su memoria, que no era muy buena que digamos. Tenía más facilidad para los números en el momento que para recordar eventos que habían ocurrido hacía tiempo. Si había números en juego era otra cosa pero jamás recordaba un día en particular del pasado.

Los números eran su ventaja pero a la vez su maldición. Le habían dado el trabajo que tenía y algunos bonos que había recibido, hacía ya tiempo, por haber resuelto problemas especialmente intrincados. Pero esta habilidad poco o nada servía con las mujeres que siempre querían que Damían recordase todo, desde el primer momento que se habían visto, y eso para él era imposible. De hecho, él siempre argumentaba que todo eso no tenía interés ya que el quería vivir ahora y no hace un mes. Pero la mayoría no pensaba igual. Por eso estaba soltero y la verdad era que no le molestaba.

Su pequeño apartamento era su orgullo. Tomando un buen sorbo de jugo, miró a su alrededor y se dio cuenta de que el sueño de tener un hogar podía darse por cumplido. Desde que estaba en la universidad, había soñado con tener un lugar propio, donde fuera pero que fuese para él solo, que fuera una especie de santuario personal, en el que él gobernara como quisiera. Y así era hoy su hogar: pequeño pero bien decorado, ordenado y limpio pero sin excentricidades. Su cama, eso sí, siempre parecía el nido de un pájaro enorme ya que eran pocas las veces que la arreglaba apropiadamente.

Pero hoy estaba tendida y hacía que el cuarto pareciera el de un hotel modesto. Esto alegraba a Damián, ya que disfrutaba de lujos como ese: el de quedarse en un buen hotel y sentirse atendido y hasta mimado. Hacía un año exactamente, había usado buena parte de sus ahorros en un viaje extraordinario por las islas hawaianas y no había escatimado en gastos. El hotel en el que se había quedado era un palacio, con todo incluido y lo mejor era que había probado y hecho muchas cosas que siempre había pensado hacer pero que no había podido.

Aunque era cierto que el trabajo era el culpable de la mayoría de sus desgracias, también era el que le proporcionaba el dinero para hacer muchas de las cosas que más le gustaban. Técnicamente él se proporcionaba el dinero pero eso era otra cosa. Lo malo era que solo daba dinero pero no tiempo. De aquello, muy poco. Y su familia absorbía mucho de su tiempo libre aunque no los juzgaba por ello. Pero hubiera querido que no fueran tan dependientes o tan unidos. Parecía malo pensarlo así, pero Damián necesitaba tiempo para él mismo.

Alguna vez le había dicho esto a sus padres y ellos habían asegurado comprender pero al siguiente fin de semana le pidieron que los ayudase a colgar algunos cuadros y arreglar una ducha que no estaba funcionando bien. Los amaba, eso no estaba bajo discusión. Pero los podría amar igual si dejara de verlos así fuera por un fin de semana al mes. Eso hubiera sido perfecto.

De hecho, sería algo así como este fin de semana. Al terminar de comer su desayuno, Damián no pudo evitar pensar si sus padres tendrían problemas serios o si el banco no hubiera podido comunicarse con él por alguna razón. Lavó los platos, ya inquieto por la falta de molestias y, cuando se terminó de sacar las manos, revisó su correo de trabajo que era el que usaban para darle tareas dominicales. Pero no había nada. Buscó su celular para llamar a sus padres pero entonces se dio cuenta que le habían dejado un mensaje de voz.

Aquí vamos – pensó.

En el mensaje su madre le decía que iban a pasar el fin de semana con su padre en una pequeña finca que tenían unos vecinos así que no lo necesitarían para nada. Le mandaban besos y abrazos y habían colgado, sin más.

Damián necesitó de algunos momentos para entender que, por primera vez, no solo había cocinado su propio desayuno sino que también era un hombre libre. Así que, sin un plan trazado, se duchó, se puso algo cómodo y salió por la puerta, no sin antes acordarse de dejar su teléfono móvil en casa: nadie le iba a quitar el placer de no tener que hacer nada, al menos este fin de semana.

SPECIAL: Oscar Nominations

I have used this blog exclusively for writing one piece a day, every single day for the past few months. Writing is what I do.

But my formation and my love reside in the world of cinema. I studied to be a screenwriter and that’s what I am, first and foremost.

So today I embrace a yearly tradition I have of predicting the nominees for the Academy Awards, as I’ve done for many years. Hope you like movies too and let’s see how I do tomorrow morning.

Nominations will be announced tomorrow at 5:30 AM (LA time). Let me know what you think of my predictions. Which movies did you like most in 2014?

Oscar Nominations Predictions

(Categories in alphabetical order)

Best Actor in a Leading Role

Benedict Cumberbatch (The Imitation Game)
Jake Gyllenhaal (Nightcrawler)
Michael Keaton (Birdman)
David Oyelowo (Selma)
Eddie Redmayne (The Theory of Everything)

Runner-up: Steve Carrell (Foxcatcher)

Best Actor in a Supporting Role

Josh Brolin (Inherent Vice)
Ethan Hawke (Boyhood)
Edward Norton (Birdman)
Mark Ruffalo (Foxcatcher)
J.K. Simmons (Whiplash)

Runner-up: Christoph Waltz (Big Eyes)

Best Actress in a Leading Role

Jennifer Aniston (Cake)
Felicity Jones (The Theory of Everything)
Julianne Moore (Still Alice)
Rosamund Pike (Gone Girl)
Reese Witherspoon (Wild)

Runner-up: Marion Cotillard: Deux jours, une nuit (Two Days, One Night)

Best Actress in a Supporting Role

Patricia Arquette (Boyhood)
Jessica Chastain (A Most Violent Year)
Keira Knightley (The Imitation Game)
Emma Stone (Birdman)
Meryl Streep (Into the Woods)

Runner-up: René Russo (Nightcrawler)

Best Animated Feature Film

Big Hero 6
The Boxtrolls
How To Train Your Dragon 2
The Lego Movie
The Tale of Princess Kaguya

Runner-up: Cheatin’

Best Animated Short Film

The Bigger Picture
Coda
Feast
Me and My Moulton
The Numberlys

Runner-up: The Damkeeper

Best Cinematography

Birdman
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Interstellar
The Theory of Everything
Unbroken

Runner-up: Mr. Turner

Best Costume Design

The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Into the Woods
Mr. Turner
Selma

Runner-up: The Theory of Everything

Best Director

Alejandro González Iñárritu (Birdman)
Richard Linklater (Boyhood)
David Fincher (Gone Girl)
Morten Tyldum (The Imitation Game)
Ava DuVernay (Selma)

Runner-up: Wes Anderson (The Grand Budapest Hotel)

Best Documentary (Feature)

Citizenfour
Last Days in Vietnam
Life Itself
The Overnighters
Virunga

Runner-up: Jodorowsky’s Dune

Best Documentary (Short)

Crisis Hotline: Veterans Press 1
Joanna
The Lion’s Mouth
The Reaper
White Earth

Runner-up: Klatwa

Best Film Editing

Birdman
Boyhood
Gone Girl
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game

Runner-up: Whiplash

Best Foreign Language Film

Wild Tales (Argentina)
Timbuktu (Mauritania)
Ida (Poland)
Leviathan (Russia)
Force Majeure (Sweden)

Runner-up: Tangerines (Estonia)

Best Make Up & Hairstyling

The Grand Budapest Hotel
Guardians of the Galaxy
The Theory of Everything

Runner-up: Foxcatcher

Best Original Score

Gone Girl
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Interstellar
The Theory of Everything

Runner-up: The Homesman

Best Original Song

“Everything is Awesome” from The Lego Movie
“Glory” from Selma
“Lost Stars” from Begin Again
“Mercy is” from Noah
“Yellow Flicker Beat” from The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1

Runner-up: “Split the difference” from Boyhood

Best Picture

Birdman
Boyhood
Gone Girl
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Nightcrawler
Selma
The Theory of Everything

Runner-up: Whiplash

Best Production Design

Big Eyes
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Into the Woods
Mr. Turner

Runner-up: Maleficent

Best Screenplay (Adapted)

Gone Girl
The Imitation Game
Inherent Vice
The Theory of Everything
Wild

Runner-up: Whiplash

Best Screenplay (Original)

A Most Violent Year
Birdman
Boyhood
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Nightcrawler

Runner-up: Selma

Best Short Film

Aya
Boogaloo and Graham
Butter Lamp
The Phone Call
SLR

Runner-up: Baghdad Messi

Best Sound Editing

American Sniper
Fury
Godzilla
Guardians of the Galaxy
Interstellar

Runner-up: Birdman

Best Sound Mixing

American Sniper
Birdman
Get On Up
Into the Woods
Transformers: Age of Extinction

Runner-up: Interstellar

Best Visual Effects

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes
Godzilla
Guardians of the Galaxy
The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies
Interstellar

Runner-up: X-Men: Days of Future Past

TOTAL

Birdman / The Imitation Game = 9

The Grand Budapest Hotel = 8

The Theory of Everything = 7

Boyhood / Gone Girl = 6

Selma = 5

Interstellar / Into the Woods = 4

Guardians of the Galaxy = 3 / Nightcrawler = 3

American Sniper / A Most Violent Year / Godzilla / Inherent Vice / The Lego Movie /

 Mr. Turner / Wild = 2

All other films mentioned would get one nomination each.

Unapologetic

  It wasn’t that he had an urge to be different or something like that. He just like the way the world felt when no clothes were worn. It made him feel alive, as if the pants and shirts he wore for work were just the symbols of a servitude he had never been happy with. He didn’t understood how some people love to wear such clothes but the important thing was that he hated them and, if he had the choice, he would have chosen never to wear them again.

Let’s go back a bit in this story to better understand Nicholas, or Nick, as only his closest friends called him. He didn’t allow anyone he didn’t know to call him Nick; he thought it was just wrong. Two loving parents, which had belonged to the hippie movement back in the sixties and early seventies, raised him like that. He hadn’t been around them at the time, but their choice of living certainly showed some of those things learned in life.

Nowadays they lived in a small farm, taking care of various animals and planting most of their food. They would avoid doctors if they could, and all electronic devices except a cellphone, which made the connection, once every two days, with their son. They would always give him advice on eating healthy and how to be a better human being and Nick took the advice. His friends appreciated his humanity and inherent openness.

Anyway, from his childhood nick had learned to respect all creatures and not to be ashamed of him, both physically and mentally. He was taught the human body is beautiful and that this beauty should always be appreciated and taken care of. And the reinforce this idea, his parents would often take him to the beach to look at people and make him sick that “ugly” rarely meant “hideous”. Most often, it meant, “I don’t like it”; a personal opinion. Respectable but not universal.

Of course, those beaches were nude ones. People would go around without any kind of underwear and, from an early age, he knew that was normal and just played as any other kid on the beach, building castles and bridges and making pits with the salt water. And he enjoyed it thoroughly. For him, his parents were just ideal because they let him do whatever he wanted but just remained him to be responsible. And Nick was smart so it made it a lot easier for them.

Of course, he received a fair share of bullying in school. Because he was so young, he just told everyone about his holidays, like any other little boy or girl did, but when he said he had being in a nudist camp or beach, the kids would laugh at him and the teacher would call his parents, who would explain their views to her, with no success. They would push him and call him names only because he wasn’t ashamed.

That’s when he learned what hypocrisy means. He was a bit older than ten years old when he learned that older men thought often about younger naked women and they were magazines and TV channels showing them, not necessarily being pornographic. And that was ok in general, although not unspoken. But when someone mentioned liking being naked after showering for some minutes, people thought of them was instantly a depraved person and someone to watch out as he or she might become dangerous.

But Nick, now aged thirty-one, knew there was nothing depraved in going to the beach and just not get any tan lines. He was amused that, when a sexual partner asked him how he did to be so evenly tanned and he answered with the truth, such person would get even more aroused. Still, after so many years, it was almost seen as a fetish. For Nick, that wasn’t the case. It was just him being who he was.

If he stayed at home a whole weekend, for example trying to finish up some work or because of the weather, he would always be naked. He showered and took care of himself, so there was nothing really bad about it. If someone visited they would ring before hand to be let into the building so that gave him a couple of minutes to grab some pajama pants and a t-shirt, or something of the sort. And he would be “presentable”.

He did that because he was aware most people were not comfortable with nudity. That’s why, and he said it loudly when drunk, he just loved sex. And it was because he felt free, not only because it felt good or was fun. He just felt more like himself during sex and also when he stayed naked at home alone. He wished it could be like that all the time but, of course, it wasn’t possible.

Nick had learned from his parents, though. When he had time to spare, and only after visiting his parent’s farm, he would go to a nude beach or to a nude camp to fish. He loved fishing too and his father had taught him everything he had learned from his father who was a fisherman, the kind that captures rare crabs or lobsters. The lake was not like the ocean but the teachings were just as effective.

The best about it all was that he had no secrets with his parents. He was absolutely honest with them and they would tell him every problem they would have. He would drive his father to his prostate exams and would laugh with his comments about it afterwards. Same with her mom and her gynecologist appointments, which he loved because of the faces of the other ladies there. Nick, in turn, would tell them about work, love interests and his love for the naked body.

It was obvious they deeply loved each other. Nick’s friends envied this relationship he had with his parents because, as they told him, it wasn’t strange that parents and children became apart with time, as their priorities change and even distances settled in. But most, he knew, had not really being that close with their families when young so, there wasn’t anything to wonder about.

One fun thing about being naked was that some people thought it was fascinating. Some of his best friends knew about it and didn’t mind (as long as he did only in his house) but people he had met randomly or through them would take an interest in it. Nick found that to be kind of awkward but always tried to answer every question as accurately as he could and sometimes even told them to ask a doctor because most questions related to some physical problem, as if you required a special set of physical and mental skills to be naked.

It was Jenna, an older woman who was a teacher of fine arts in a university, who asked him if he could model for her class. At first he said yes but then he recalled the days he had been bullied and pushed around. What if they laughed or stared in an annoying way? He loved being naked but he didn’t like to be the center of attention; one didn’t lead to the other. But he had already said yes so he went and, for once, he did love to be center of attention, even if it was to twenty students trying to draw his body.

Afterwards, he was able to see the pictures the students had painted and he was surprised to see many of them were very talented. He somehow thought students would just try to do something decent but quickly reminded him that artists become artists even before they are aware of it. When he was about the leave, he met another model and talk to him for a while. He was studying architecture and paid his lunches and other expenses with the money he made standing naked in front of the students. He quickly became one new friend.

Nick had known other people that liked nudity before but they would always like it in relation to sex, which he found to be a bit obvious, to easy if you will. Besides, they would vanish fast, after promising to call, to write or to meet again. But with Greg, he had stronger connection: Greg’s mother had been a hippie too and his dad was just the most loving guy one could meet. In his words, his dad loved everyone just because they existed.

So from then on, they would often meet and talk, not necessarily naked. Nick liked to be around someone that understood him and got what he thought of many things. In the holidays they shared a trip to the beach and had a great time. They would even go dancing at night and stay in one of their apartments each time, that was the degree of friendship and trust. Sex? No, it never happened. They were friends. And kept on being friends for a long time after they met, almost all of their lives.

Nick did love being naked but what he liked the most was people. And not any people but the people that made him who he was, who loved him for who he was and who didn’t judged just because for what he liked. Yes, he was a man that loved being naked; he was not ashamed of himself and was unapologetic. But he was also a great friend, a dedicated son, an open mind and one great fisherman.

El puente de Mitor

   En el pueblo de Mitor, todo el mundo comía pescado. Era la carne más preciada, más vendida y, por lo tanto, más cara. Los pescadores eran casi adorados, porque pocos se atrevían a navegar mares tan poco predecibles como los que existían cerca de la ciudad. Tanto era el aprecio por ellos y por su producto, que la gente del pueblo había decidido construir un puente que comunicaría la costa con el pueblo, salvando el paso sobre una cañada ganando así veinte minutos de viaje entre el mar y la gente.

El puente tenía un solo arco, bastante amplio sobre el riachuelo que había abajo. Lo habían hecho así porque, en temporada de lluvias, el agua que bajaba de la montaña podría aumentar con violencia y no querían que la llegada de pescado se viera afectada. Se aseguraron de hacer la mejor obra de ingeniería y así fue. Foráneos envidiaban esta gran obra, y admiraban la organización que había requerido de parte de todos los ciudadanos de Mitor.

Desde entonces, el pescado llegó más rápido y, cuando se amplió el puerto y los astilleros, empezaron a llegar nuevos tipos de peces y otras criaturas marinas, que incluso se adquirían a través del comercio, algo impensable años atrás. Era una época de prosperidad para el pequeño poblado y esto se vio reflejado en todas partes. La gente empezó a ser más sana y la ciudad se renovó. Todo iba bien.

Esto hasta que una noche, ocurrió un evento que cambiaría todo. Resulta que una carreta grande, de esas que podían cargar varios kilos de pescado, se desplomó en la mitad del puente de la cañada. Esto ocurría aunque no con frecuencia. El procedimiento era sencillo: el pescador mandaba un mensajero para que vinieran rápidamente con otra carreta que pudiera llevar la carga a la ciudad con celeridad, antes de que se afectara la calidad del producto.

En aquella ocasión, se hizo exactamente igual. Mientras el pescador esperaba por la carreta, se acercó al borde del puente y miró las cascadas que formaba la cañada, descendiendo hacia el mar. Era sorprendente como el pescador conocía tan bien el mar pero de otros cuerpos de agua no sabía nada. De pronto se dio vuelta y se dio cuenta de algo: el montón de pescado era menos grande. Estaba seguro de ello. Miró para un lado y otro de la carretera pero allí no había gatos ni perros. Ningún tipo de animal que se hubiera llevado la carga. Y no había ni un alma cerca.

El pescador se apoyó en la baranda del puente y respiró hondo. Seguro era un error suyo causado por las largas horas de trabajo. La última expedición había tomado más de lo previsto pero había valido la pena. Se relajó un poco pero la dicha no duró mucho: oyó algo tras él y al darse la vuelta vio que solo quedaban unos pocos peces en el suelo. Pidió ayuda gritando y por fin alguien vino en su ayuda y así se propagó la noticia de los sucedido.

A decir verdad, casi nadie le creyó al comienzo. Creían que el hombre se había vuelto loco o trataba de excusar un robo deliberado a través de una historia bastante increíble. Pero eso terminó cuando más eventos iguales tuvieron lugar, siempre cuando el puente estaba solo y únicamente una carreta cruzaba por encima. La gente empezó a temerle al lugar y se propuso tumbarlo pero todos sabían que eso no era posible. Así que determinaron que las carretas solo podrían cruzar de a dos, o más, al mismo tiempo.

Y así se hizo. Pasaron los años, una y otra generación, cambiando de la carreta a los camiones, pero nunca cambiaron sus creencias. Los camiones grandes conectaban al pueblo por una autopista nueva pero los pequeños evitaban el peaje que les habían impuesto a través del puente viejo que solo tenía una regla: cruzar en pares. Visitantes y nuevos habitantes encontraban la tradición una tontería pero les parecía curiosa y ayudaron a que permaneciera.

Lo curioso era que incluso los camiones, bien cerrados y refrigerados, perdían algo de su carga cuando pasaban por el puente. No sucedía siempre pero si lo suficiente para que el mito perdurara. Se habían inventado varios cuentos a raíz de lo sucedido pero nadie sabía si alguno era real, si alguno de verdad retrataba lo que allí sucedía.

El turismo creció, en buena parte gracias al mito del puente y los pescadores. Se organizaban caminatas por la cañada, se vendían camisetas y recuerdos y planeaban visitas tanto al puente como al puerto y los astilleros. Los habitantes de Mitor aprovecharon el misterio que encerraba su pueblo para ganar dinero y atraer a los incautos. Inclusive cuadrillas de arquitectos e ingenieros visitaron el puente y revisaron cada metro pero no encontraron nada fuera de lo común, salvo que se encontraba en un estado excepcional para tener cien años de construido.

Lo que más fascinaba a los visitantes, era que durante los paseos o las caminatas, uno que otro aseguraba que había perdido algo o había visto a la criatura que lo robaba todo. Obviamente, la gran mayoría de avistamientos y sucesos eran mentira. Muchos solo querían tener la atención de otros sobre ellos e inventaban tonterías para ello. Pero, no se podía negar, había ciertos sucesos casi imposibles de explicar: la pérdida de algún objeto personal, muchas veces de comida, mientras veían sobre la baranda del puente.

Nadie investigaba ninguna de esas pérdidas. Se les atribuía a lo distraída que  era la gente con sus objetos personales. Algunas veces, si el robado insistía, se hacía una demanda pero eso nunca había servido más que para perder el tiempo o distraer al departamento de policía del lugar, que tenía un existencia más bien calmada.

Entonces, un buen día, llegó un joven historiador al pueblo. Él no estaba interesado en los cuentos que se decían sobre el puente y el pescado perdido. Él venía a catalogar, para la oficina de patrimonio cultural, varios de los edificios de la región. Era de resaltar, que Mitor tenía una de las iglesias más antiguas del país, de unos ochocientos años de antigüedad y otro par de edificios del mismo periodo.

Al comienzo el chico no se interesó en lo absoluto en la historia del puente, a pesar de que quienes lo ayudaban en su tarea insistían en que debía visitar el lugar ya que, así no le interesara la historia, el puente tenía una historia y arquitectura tan bella que ciertamente podría ser otro elemento del patrimonio de la nación. El chico aceptó ir pero solo cuando todo lo demás fuese clasificado. Así, pasaron dos semanas más en que el tipo solo trabajó en los antiguos edificios, fascinado por todo.

No estaba así cuando, por fin, tuvo que visitar el puente. Un miembro de la alcaldía local y un pescador veterano lo guiaron por el lugar, contándole la historia completa, los mitos, los cuentos, los rumores y todo lo que se debía saber. El joven estuvo ciertamente fascinado por la arquitectura de la estructura e, ignorando el mito, pidió conocer la parte inferior del puente.

Allí abajo estuvo un rato con los dos hombres un buen rato hasta que estos dos se aburrieron, ya que el joven solo estaba interesado en los detalles magníficos del puente. Le dijeron que enviarían a alguien para acompañarlo pero él no escuchó. Mientras estuvo solo vio que había mosaicos en las bases del puente y hubiera querido ver el otro lado también pero se conformó con quedarse allí, fascinado.

De pronto, sintió frío y un extraño viento revoloteó su pelo. Entonces perdió fuerza en sus piernas y cayó arrodillado al polvoso suelo. Se sintió enfermo, como si de repente una horrible enfermedad hubiera penetrado su cuerpo y este no hubiera estado listo para enfrentar algo de ese estilo. Con la poca energía que tenía, tratóo de mover leste no hubiera estado listo para enfrentar algo de ese estilo. Con la poca energque el joven solo estaba interesadoó de mover las piernas pero no quisieron responder. Se sintió mareado pero trató de respirar lentamente y no perder el sentido de la realidad.

Entonces sucedió algo que él sabía que era real pero que no podía haberlo sido, no tenía sentido alguno. De todas partes empezaron a salir animales: lobos, gatos monteses, osos y también otros menos peligrosos como castores, todo tipo de aves y otros mamíferos. Todos parecían verlo pero lo extraño del caso es que lo miraban con ojos brillantes de color azul, o eso veía él al menos. Después de un rato ya no vio nada.

Se despertó de golpe, horas después, en el hospital de Mitor. Dijeron que había sufrido un colapso nervioso y se había golpeado fuertemente contra el duro suelo bajo el puente. Él contó su historia pero esta vez, nadie le creyó. No era como las otras historias respecto del puente. De hecho, esta ni siquiera era una historia como tal sino una escena y una bastante extraña. El chico no volvió a repetirla y decidió irse lo más pronto posible.

Sin embargo, algunos escucharon su relato y así otra historia más se adhirió al mito del puente de Mitor, el puente que había unido a una comunidad con su bien más preciado. Pero que también había dañado irremediablemente el viejo ecosistema de la zona, que había tenido que adaptarse a las nuevas circunstancias, como pasó luego con la autopista.

Sea como fuere, el puente siguió siendo un atractivo único ya que la gente que iba sabía que no iba a ver nada pero de todas maneras aún iba. Era una especie de fe que los impulsaba y los hacía creer que la magia era posible.

Underworld

   Lillian didn’t care and if she had cared before, she didn’t remember. She had lived so much, so many times and for so long that now she had been hardened, like the toughest diamond. Now, Lily was ruthless and perfect in her job, but not so much in her private life, which was largely nonexistent.

She did have a mother and a father but didn’t visit them as often as they would have wanted. She did so for one simple reason: she wanted them to be safe, not in the way of someone that would love to hurt her or make her do something against her current clients.

Clients sounds funny though. No, Lily is not a prostitute nor an escort of any kind. Lily works in the security area so people who need her to do a job for them to be safer, look her up. She works more like a spy or secret agent but she has no relation with those organizations, as she knows they would be more than interested to question her about all the jobs she has taken care of.

That’s why, besides not being close to her family, she had decided not to have a family of her own or any romantic relationship with anyone. She knew her duties, the enemies and friends she had acquired with time, were all dangerous for her, let alone for people to close. She had committed that mistake once and was sure she wouldn’t let herself go, not again.

It had happened with a man. His name was Aaron and worked in his family company. At first, Lily was attracted to him because of his family’s power, which could bring her more clients and more interesting jobs, which always fascinated her. She actually met him during one of her duties and liked him right away.

Like her, Aaron enjoyed power and the luxuries of his privileged life but when they were alone, he was simply the kindest and cuddliest man she had ever known. Of course, she had sex many times but never a real boyfriend or partner but when she met him she thought that might some day change. What if she fell in love?

And she did. And he did too. There was no way in denying that when the two met, they felt like they were the only people in the world. It was as if the world stopped and everything was just ideal and perfect.

That was until she started receiving threats. Letters in which they advised her she had stepped out of a line she had traced herself. The person that sent them told her to be careful and to return to her duties and her single life, or she would be sorry. Love didn’t let her listen or take it seriously. She ignored it all and kept on seeing him. And then, more problems erupted, closer to home.

Aaron’s father had told him to stop seeing Lily. Amazingly it was not because she had a shady life or because she was driving Aaron away of the family company. No, the older southern gentlemen had decided long ago that no son of his, let alone the one that was meant to run the company in the future, would ever marry a black woman. Lily laughed at first but then, when looking at Aaron, she realized it was not a joke, a distasteful joke.

But they kept on seeing each other. Big mistake. Aaron was practically expelled from his family, left penniless and with no prospects of a new life. His father had been sure to let everyone in the region know that Aaron no longer represented him or the family. This devastated the young man but his love for Lily was stronger, and he felt he could fight anything in order to be with her, forever.

That didn’t last for long. A hit man, out of nowhere, shot Aaron twice in the head while going to meet Lily for dinner. She waited for him for hours and finally got a call from Aaron’s father. Telling her he had been killed and telling her never to get near his family again. He blamed her for his son’s death and Lily knew he was right.

She spent months trying to get to the killer, to know if he had been the one sending the letter or if someone had hired him. She didn’t get too far in the investigation. The person that had killed the love of her life had vanished. She only knew it had been one of her many enemies who had given the order and she tortured herself thinking it had been her fault he had died. Loving him had been a curse.

So now Lily tries never to be seen, to be the center of attention for anyone. She changed the way she looked, her haircut and the way she did her makeup. Everything to look less interesting, less attractive if you will. She was a beautiful, stunning young woman but that had proven to be more of a problem that something going on for her.

Although, she kept using her body to help her in certain moments, she tried to do everything disguised as what she was: a common woman trying to make a living in a world that had denied her everything. It is true she had gotten into it herself but now there was no way out and she knew it. Only dead she would stop being afraid, scared of her on shadow.

It deserves to be clarified that Lillian had never killed anyone. She sometimes thought to herself that maybe it was better if she had that ability, the cold blood needed to killed someone but she preferred the subtle moves: something in a drink that would make them sleep or knocking them out with one of her special moves. She knew a couple martial arts and considered she had developed a style of her own and no one could say she hadn’t.

Lily tried to work as often as she could. It didn’t matter if it required flying half around the world, sailing in a cruise or hopping on a train or a bus. She loved travelling and it was one of the few things she actually enjoyed of her work. Besides, the people that contacted her were always loaded with money, so she would always buy first class.

For other things she was less flamboyant, more secretive. But she just couldn’t get inside a plane and not seat in a beautiful wide chair in the first class area, with all those delicious meals and small details that made her so much more special than she was. Travelling that way made her feel as if the world gave her a small chance to feel like a real person, or at least the person she felt she had been born to be.

But when landing or getting of the bus, train or boat, she came back to reality, and saw there was no way it could be like that daily. If she had lived a life of excess and luxury, her enemies would have paid a thousand hit men to kill her and the bounty would have been enough to make them salivate like hungry dogs.

When meeting her clients, she knew that she was both hated and needed and that also made her feel great, much more special than any of them was. They might have been the ones to have the life she wanted but, in the moments they looked for her, it was Lillian who really made the difference. It was her who made things right for them, who made their lives livable.

She stole secrets and money, changed data and exchanged information. She infiltrated companies and made them stumble to the ground from inside. It required a lot of lies and deceit, a lot of disguises and fake smiles but she pulled it of easily, because she had always known that fake world of the riches was her own. She owned every single moment and always knew what to say.

When they finally realized something had happened or who she really was, Lily was already enjoying a glass of champagne in a transatlantic flight. And they wouldn’t trace her because that would mean admitting she had won, that a single woman had destroyed their lives or that they had been dishonest enough to hire someone to topple down the obstacles in their way.

Her enemies where born of those who felt they had been attacked for no reason, those people who would never admit defeat, not in business nor in a real war. So they where patient, as only people in the finance world can be. They waited for her to commit a mistake and she had already done that with Aaron.

Nowadays, they are still waiting for Lillian to do the wrong turn, to slap the wrong person, to take the wrong road. Some people only have revenge in their soul and when you have taken everything away from them, is it not understandable? They were desperate and that was the point that gave her the advantage.

She was not only beautiful and, in many ways, lethal. Lily was also bright and she was now waiting them to go over the line. She had nothing to lose, nothing to fear. But she had a special need to be victorious. And she often was.