Howard every morning, was in New York or Providence is thoroughly buffed fingernails, shaving and after them. Then, with satisfaction, dry after rinsing, if admired. Neither too long nor too short but very white. It was a feeling that made him feel good but that lasted so little. Already by mid-morning had to resort to other treatments. He could not stand the light black strip that is formed continuously and that he knew of manual labor, dirt invading the places he frequented. It felt peevish annoyance, until they were back to normal. So long times of the year had begun to turn into gloves, which cared for mostly clean and sterilize the inside, turning it over.
several times with Sonia, that his obsession was a source of dispute. A newly married when first, created this compilation of her husband, the woman he had joked about Ukraine:
"Howard what can you do? It 's like for clothes: there are those who wear the pinstripes in the morning and evening still seems like a model, some after a quarter of an hour that she's wearing, he has already reduced a rag ... Resigned to not having always white nails and do it over. "
Under many of these small intrusive and inadequacies of other much more serious twin, Howard failed to exceed the pace of the first few months of living together in Brooklyn and had taken to avoid the occasions of meeting with his wife. Increasingly absent from the long winter evenings, snatched away by the "Circle of amateur journalists," more and more absent during the summer when he called his Providence. What had become, in the end, a "non-marriage." Where the only one to show some dignity in appearances Sonia had been "taken" by his hat, from the care of the house, from the hopes of his wife, but never by her husband. When Lovecraft
drove from Providence to return to New York, found that this time he would not even touch to explain to Sonia. Indeed, it could not even go to her husband's greeting was reasonable "out of business." She had moved to Cleveland after the failure of his small company of hats and left him room to act in New York, without realizing it. No one. So
had returned from Paco de Los Rios and had even had time to pleasant surprises.
He longs to see the Mexican exile. Want to submit his work. It was translated quickly and well. Then there was the letter to be sent to Antoni Gaudi. He hoped that the translation was made ready for the next day. Since these are just a few lines.
Paco had offered a coffee and while, with a curious coffee, waiting for the bubbling over the flame, had picked up the sheaf of paper with the story of Howard. The last was briefly reading a few step-by-case leaning against the kitchen ceramic.
He said, therefore, its price and Lovecraft had smiled.
Paco, Lovecraft created, was a curious character. He was humorous and intelligent eyes, a dry and sleek without being high. Wavy, graying hair, but on a black raven.
She moved her hands fast with gestures of ancient elegance.
had loaded the pot above the flame. He had done with right-hand impression of movement and rhythm, using the enforceability of thumb and forefinger. The only two fingers that were still in the right. His hand, the transaction had been for a few seconds within the flame, but was not burned. Absence had made his advantage. A handicap his greatest honor. At least in the transaction to be a thick and very black coffee.
Then he jumped and blackened the cafeteria had been drinking together. Like two old friends.
"I'm not a poet, Mr. Lovecraft, had said at one point the Mexican-but I understand that what I am translating is not poetry. It 's something more. Or less, depending from the soul you have. So many people come to me to ask such services. Mostly married men who wish to keep in touch with their fans in South America. Then there are the business letters and those between relatives. The market holds good for those who has a beautiful handwriting. But things like its not. I never translated ... "
" You like? "Retorted Howard peaceful.
"I do not know" He smoothed the graying goatee.
"But there's one thing I'd like to know, Mister Lovecraft ..."
"Yes"
"How? How do you imagine these things and not be afraid of? "The eyes of De Los Rios had grown thin, almost serentori.
"Yo I create this ... I think it is hard, then to return to reality. Esposa a nasty, hateful
a niño, el trabajo ... The boss. How do you ...
"not to become unstuck from reality?"
"Exact"
Howard Lovecraft had looked at his translator and, in a moment, decided he wanted to trust, to say a few words to explain. In his shrewd logic, had tried and decided, but only at that time and in the face of the impertinent question, that if the Mexican would be crippled his translator, who was just beginning to understand. At least in outline. So sipped from the cup smoky, ironically became serious, and spoke. Without claiming to be understood on the fly.
Paco she was French Exposition? That's two years ago here in New York? I
yes - Howard smiled. " In Hall was the home of the new technologies of the future. In every room at least one mouth to the current, even in two other ... They showed us how to live a few years, maybe twenty. Almost all homes will be equipped with those mouths. And there will be openings for radio and for machines that wash the dishes and wash clothes to cars. To keep food cold. Work around electricity, thanks to the mouths, the outlets which will be linked ... "
Paco De Los Rios looked dazed, not so much what he said, as to how. Howard had a light, a flame in his eyes that you carried on the crest of his words. Leaving a trail. As a long way of clues to track and reach. Where he was already.
"... I - Howard said - I thought as a man connected with so many mouths to these cables. My passions, my reality, my desires are connected to these roses. Only instead of bringing current, these cables bring life. She understands me Paco? "
" Honestly no, "the translator He sipped his coffee. Not at all shameful. The writer liked this impudence.
"Each of us have emotions - Howard hung up - some with more strength, those with less intensity. But these, thick or thin they are, are fueled by our thoughts, especially from our senses. "
De Los Rios followed him close. Skeptical.
"I unplug the emotions from my senses, my thoughts. Cut to their spines than those sockets. I can not feel anything. I do not need, I fear, I regret that my senses can food. There are only emotions. Pure emotion that I come from within. From my imagination.
I do not know why, but it is.
I do not know if it becomes, but if it is the reality of my passions that I feel I have to give up. I'm giving up and going forward ... I go on, because it is my idea, my emotion, that must survive, no matter what is private "
" Estas site, sabes? "
" Please? "
" Nada ... Nothing. But this is a life of sacrifice, Mr. Lovecraft. Not to be satisfied for ever. For what? "
" For inner freedom. Who does not feel, does not need. Who do without, is not afraid. Fear not the conditions.
If I were afraid of what I write, or because I believed my senses are connected to my emotions, I could not write "
" What is life? Mister Lovecraft ... A life of fear of fear "
There was a moment of silence, then looked back at Howard Paco.
"The shortage?" He made a small nod, pointing to the right of the translator stretched out on the table next to the cups. He thought that the hand open and incomplete, in the "L" formed by thumb and forefinger, and unnatural curve of the fingers missing, was similar to the tip of a pike.
"No, my fingers I do not miss. Only when the weather changes. Pinched.
"I saw how I prepared the coffee - said Howard seriously - ... If I had had, he could be so clever, so quick. It would be burned. Is this what you did is a really good coffee "
Paco De Los Rios broke out in a fine laugh upright, while his eyes shone awake. Howard then told of his three fingers of his life in Guadalajara and how he had learned English in a few years. As a refugee, from the first in the dusty neighborhood library, then who delivered newspapers at home. He was a man of vivid intelligence. A man who did not waste a moment of his life.
The translation of the letter to Antoni Gaudi would be ready the next day. Paco gave it to him not only as a tribute to the translation of the story that would be ready by early June, but pushed Howard to accept his hospitality for the night.
"Puedes dormir ... aquì can sleep here, Mr. Lovecraft. This room is closed forever. I use it sometimes when they come to visit me from Mexico. There is always someone who needs accommodations "
" Relatives? Wife? "
" I'm not married and my family knows where they are. No, they are friends or friends of friends ... in my country is not easy to live, even today. So every time someone knocks on my door. I open forever. You never know what the future holds for you Mr. Lovecraft, although you can be good or lucky. But so I want to do. I do not ever let anyone out, I never had done with me. "
dined with "mole negro" and red wine that is brought to him by Paco tavern in home, then drank tequila and talked of Zapata and Villa, Calvin Coolidge's foreign policy and the embargo to Mexico. The former accountant reeled from a wooden box, three or four cigarillos and whether they smoked, after having unsuccessfully offered to the writer. Finally, about ten o'clock, De Los Rios Howard walked to his room.
"I hope the noise does not disturb. My house is a sea-port of the Mexican said, smiling - people will at all times ... "That night
Lovecraft struggled to fall asleep, leave the windows open. He listened to the voices coming from the street below, the cackle of the young and then, just as his eyes were closing, feel the entry door that opened a creak. Some ticking in the hallway and some laughing softly. Quell'inequivocabile woman walking on heels, I cleared first and then the curious. Stretched ear and waited. And beautiful to hear the inevitable sound of first kisses and passionate Latin whisper of his host.
It was said that was the time to fall asleep, but did not have time. He remembered the features of its sober and volitional Sonia. The only thought in Cleveland, back order, judge angry with him, he felt as close to the neck of the stomach, but he wondered what it was. He used his forms to distract the imagination of writer dream, returning to the sprawling Cthuluh, all'eccheggiare its Soggoth, their horrible stench, give birth to their homes by the immensity of the cavernous underground, the ranks of disciples of unclean human cruelty.
our thoughts turn to Sonia.
was a thought that went out in that light winds of April. A wind that speaks of summer, but that does not make you forget the winter, when you close your eyes because you're tired.
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