The next morning Howard was standing in good time. He dressed, he made the same operation on her nails that she took care to file slightly, once a sure shot beard. Paco greeted with a narrow warm, unusual for the writer saw and then deliver two handwritten sheets. It was the letter to Antoni translated into English. Those few lines with which informed all his astonishment, his joy and his iron will to accept the invitation to Barcelona. Paco's sudden made a final nod with his head on the staircase. An up and down with his head clear and promising source of friendship. Lovecraft replied with a smile of his thin mouth and then he dived into the voices of "Barrio" in New York, entered the first grocery store around the corner and purchase envelopes and stamps for postage. Mail the letter holding it as the "Holy Grail" a few steps further.
Then stroll through the streets of that "city within a city", but his look was more indulgent towards the South American chaos that reigned, into the dirt and deteriorating facades vaguely colonial style. He listened to language in that walk and judged to have crossed at least five different languages \u200b\u200bamong those paths. The Spaniard dominated the speech speed of Cubans and Dominicans, giving an impression to the Caribbean segment of New York, who rounded off faster, while lying on the Portuguese immigrants in Brazil. Small groups of children, discovering it was surprised, then had to build bridges between the two languages, such as the lexical trait d'union between the two Iberian spoken. And ended up using terms that Howard still did not know, but who were the musical fusion of the two periods. There was no doubt.
It was a strange world, where many Mexicans were the team to himself and where there was no room, you knew very well, for other races. That they were Irish or Italian. Of the latter, considered the Latin American development as a more acceptable, more softened. Without clothes with bright colors, no vulgar gestures, without eyebrows and shady fronts brachitipe. "The difference - you said - is that a generous gesture of those, can conceal dark intentions, while at the Barrio what they seem, they are".
generally admired the Romance languages. All, without distinction and, indeed, I envied the joint vocabulary, that vocabulary diverse and multifaceted that its language, however, proposes reduced dried. Misunderstanding and being misunderstood. "It 's like - you said, sitting on a park bench - have infinite more possibilities to explain, to argue, to describe, without resorting to repetition in some cases staggering of the English language." Envy why his new friend De Los Rios. I envy his ability to combine the two languages \u200b\u200band disunity, his chiseled phrases in English mosaics of the English language. Realising demiurge of a new, very personal and unique way of explanation. It was probably true: Paco was not a poet, but an engineer of the period. A man and a foundation for building bridges between languages \u200b\u200band dialects. As a foreman of a possible tower of babel. It turned out lucky to have known him when his career was kneeling in front of the parking genius, everything Catalan, Gaudi. A stop hoping that as long as possible.
The Edge of the Barrio, and was directed toward the first stop agibile Metro New York, was later a witness a scene that would change course, intentions. He watched the flight of uneven stairs of a building taken ill, a young father with her legs spread to lock your child protective Creole.
not understand what attracted him, perhaps the innocence of the scene, perhaps the scent of the flower shop next door, most likely the voice of a dad in shorts who taught words to his son "Izquierda Derecha ... ..." And then "... Derecha Izquierda. . 'The child of perhaps a year, looked dazed, as if to say love him "Papa do not bother, it's too soon," while dad in his early twenties, tank top, was holding the little hands, enlarging and close as the laying rhythm of "Derecha Derecha ... ... ... Izquierda Izquierda. At the fifth time the baby was crying prorotto a clear explanation. Far from suffering, closer all'assillo. The father had pulled up with two hands before taking it down on his thigh smoother, had brought his small South American nose to her lips, bite them. As if to sum up all the kisses in the world in a gesture only.
a gesture that moved and found Lovecraft, pungent, came the thought. It was said that thirty-six years were beginning to be too much to have a child and find a thousand excuses. It was said of her work, she told the women, those few, and even wrong, he returned to the inadequacy of Sonia. On his emotional sterility, that had seven years older than him. Age impossible.
He thought then to withhold thoughts blows, stemming with "What was that? ... What would face? ... What dreams would he do? ..." The usual questions that make men and women in the mood for melancholy. But this time, that had nothing to do. Howard knew it.
What meat would have his children, and that language, and who desire to live, he told himself before the stop s'infossava in the subway, he had really wanted to know. He dodged the blow
how does a boxer have enough played before entering the ring. What forces do not have to hit hard and heart, but only agility to dodge "Right ... left right left ...". In the end he had done. His time was running out, did not take a punch that was one. Was intact in its uselessness parent
"right .. left ... right .. left" had tripped in the subway and decided to head to Central Station and unknowingly he had thrown a bridge with his past.
"What are you doing?" He had asked Sonia, leaning on his shoulder, now more than four years before
The train was crowded and smoky. They had found a place, only fatigue, sitting on the steps of compartment bags. Packed, tight, love. There were
projects, there was love, there was passion.
"Nothing touches your arm ..." The Howard said smiling, while stroking one finger with a white skin, even toned arms and face.
Come on ... "
" Leave it had extended his laugh-a writer - I want to see, to hear that my children will meats "
And it was lying on what looked dark, like a veil of sadness, misunderstanding never clarified, and quell'idillio serenity gave way to an absence of words that they suffered harm. At both.
It was the only time that Howard had believed, and his belief was extinguished by the very fact that he had on.
"I feel that my children will meats"
He took the ticket to Cleveland and became immersed in reading drafts of other stories.
That made him feel good, I was thinking without thinking, made it something else all the reality around him. It made it easier to remove the thorns, oblivious that he was always easier. No meaning, no perception, only emotion. What comes from within, and that allows you to reach new extreme originality, aesthetics of amazing complexity. He had been quite
for him, make the gesture intense and instinctive, to decide on that stage. To this day there would be no further contact with reality, you could, you had to design, write, get excited. By themselves, from within, as amphibious hermaphrodite which has in itself the seeds of both procreation. It will only be fruitful. How to be sufficient unto itself. To its species.
traveled at night and wrote in the light of his small flashlight in the car empty.
He planned to Cthulhu and his progeny, outlined other stories, threw his imagination beyond any obstacle. He stopped on the bestial forms. Walked around, jumped, he sent. Sieve as a gold prospector. Its period went on the action, dialogue reported that he loved, he lingered on the descriptions monstrous as unusual block its creation.
was not afraid to have lost the thread, and simply omitted omitted again. As a child he discarded the vegetables in the pot and stab his fork into a slice of roast chicken. No mother
writers reached a slap on him.
slept three hours before reaching its destination.
His destination was a great big room, divided by the entrance compartment by a wooden counter. Beyond which a long row of identical desks, confused views. If it were not for the feminine movement that the soul, Howard would judge it to be a prison for writers who knows what attitude. Prone on the desks, throwing his eye on the next sheet, soberly dressed women fighting continued on the keys of the "Remington". Unmistakable latter, as a Lovecraft. Churches
Sonia, waited a few moments and one of the files right, his strong-willed wife, nose glasses, rose unmistakable. It seemed never gets old. The thought of once again seeing her coming towards him, with his haughty look, full of dignity.
"Howard Hello"
"Hello ... I have come to greet you a"
After whispering, decided, with the old boss, Sonia Greene picked up his bag and Howard came up with.
"So, tell me?" Pressed gently, yet aggressive, doing right away to see her husband for that one time, she would be to conduct the report. She would have said, she would explain.
"I wanted ... I wanted to talk. You did not say anything about the decision you have taken. I wanted to understand "
The air was fresh, the lakefront in Cleveland was led by a bright sun.
"You want to understand? Smile-without irony - and you need to know Howard? My hats are not sold, they are not closed and I returned with his creditors. I left. Everything here, "
" Yes, but we ... "
"We do nothing, Howard. There is no "we." Never existed. " His face was peaceful, as his words, in spite of them. "I do not know if it was my fault .. I do not know. I just know that you've never been, even the few times you were there. I'm sorry for you Howard ... Maybe my words are too simple, but I find these to explain now. Of us "
" I have not ever taken care of you "Howard squeezed his hat in the two hands.
"I have loved you for that. Did not I married to slow down your incredible talent, with my mediocrity ... I just wanted to love me. In your way, whatever. There are successful. I knew it would difficult ... I never thought that I would not even had a chance, yes "
" I write. Our designs, your stories. I wanted to make you the best of me. I wanted ... .. "
" Our plans? - Sonia pulled her head back slightly in a gesture of quiet anger - my stories? Howard ... No, there is no "my" story. There .. there is only your talent projected onto me. I wrote to you, I've lived in your neighborhood. Eh not the physical - smiled without malice. " I have lived the fact that you were there. Somewhere. With the body and mind. I draw the hope that that part of your being, a small, perhaps infinitesimal part, was dedicated to me. In your thoughts, in your heart ... "
" In my own write .. "
" No, no that. Never, not once I had hoped. I already knew that was something you, essential, not divisible. Yes, I have tried of coming back, but you were always too far away. Unattainable, even in the letters you wrote to me. Your writing, Howard is a great thing, I am too small for you - stood up and looked at him as a hope to be heard - it is my talent, my emotion is so different from yours ... I tried to make me useful in your everyday life. Yes, I confess: I hoped to be essential in the few weeks that you have given me, I pushed too hard. You ran away ... There is no other reason, the explanation you give is this. There is not another ".
Howard felt stupid. Do not ever happened to him, he could not handle this. So he stayed silent for a moment and his eyes jumped over the wall. Among the discrete waves of Lake Erie, he flew on a few sailboats in the distance and then sank back down from above.
"What did you do Howard? - You said - Why did you come from Sonia? "
" You're at least glad to see me? "The man did as a child
She smiled at him, stopping a moment. Again.
"I'm always happy to see Howard. I'm always worried about you. "
Then the writer began to tell of his trip to Europe. He told her all of Italy, and continued to walk and she watched him with his stern gaze that melted in dense, fragrant intense eyes and shiny. He spoke of Antoni Gaudi in Barcelona and the invitation "Where - said sitting at a table in a restaurant - would go with the certainty that awaited him an important task. That was worth a lifetime. " He explained that he had wanted to investigate anything and that the pleasure to discover his mission in Catalonia, it would leave the words of the architect.
did not need to tell him of his stupor, his virulent happiness, the new force that gave life to his writing and his desire to lay the foundations for new stories in a manner totally new for him. Those in the proximity of the reference to a single, large Mother horror. That of Cthulhu. Stories that have had the privilege of having a European origin. Catalana. With all the incredible unfolding of new horizons inspirational that followed it. Sonia
followed him with longing of exhausting all its sweetness, extended himself and sometimes his eyes, jumped over the lake, making vent his imagination. All projected on Howard, on his dreams, his goals. His face nice feature of the hard and hardened woman, betrayed all the infinite tenderness, all his unspoken love, secure in the womb, chained hours. In order not to bark, to keep it up man to leap from the thin lips and chin jutting.
was the last act of love for Sonia Howard: listen to his plans, his travels, the story, its future and know that she would not have been a member. Hide, keep in him all the love and the strength of his dreams. Dreams that were so easy to love. To be loved. Howard
not. Howard did not notice anything, as he told and explained and raving. Did not even notice the slight tremor of the upper lip of Sonia. An imperceptible Ukrainian woman who hid the quiver with his handkerchief, as if to wipe something.
the late afternoon, body time to say goodbye. Lovecraft offered to accompany Sonia to her work and there was a moment of silence just before arriving.
"And what will you do now," asked the writer
"I'm here at the Standard Oil. It 's a good job. I also found the house, nothing that ... "
wife's face had become serious again,
He took his two hands" Hey Sonia ... "
" Go Howard. Go "She broke off, decisive and bowed his head.
He turned to look at continuing with the neck shot on the first steps, with as a look of bewilderment and self-awareness. Limits. Then he gave her neck.
By midafternoon, the central streets of Cleveland came back to invigorate male figures. They were office workers, refinery workers, the laborers who worked in the great company of Rockefeller. Howard dived into it, following the trail towards the station.
felt like an emotional void. Not given the time to go over all the promises that he had done and to see with the eyes of his soul, alone in a city that was not his to do a job that was not his.
returned to the coldness of a child's unconscious mind to wander with his stories about the future. Sonia
the looked after him for a while 'Just for a bit' more.
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