From other pens ... Romance between our things The Black Fontanarrosa | Although much of the work that left Roberto Fontanarrosa is embodied in drawings, I feel I have found among their stories clear strokes of a talented writer. He said that he cared little to be recognized as more of a cartoonist than as a true writer. I like to imagine him in the bar "in Cairo, where he sat down to say what he titled literary form" table of the suitors "to write and converse with friends, source of many stories. It makes me think of Cortazar elbow in the corner of a Paris bistro looking out the window and letting the words flow to his prolific pen. And that you sit down to write to the corner of a coffee stained glass onto streets that never fail to move men and women with their faces and rush and cold and briefcases, has always borne good fruit. We will have to let go. |
Ulpidio Vega Vega Ulpidio, I name. And the shadow of your name off your pace slow rescue the cobblestones Saladillo messy and some fame without bending handsome submissive chased you, as the silent and tenacious loyalty of a dog.
who ever saw you on the bass, do not forget. Of quiet restraint, somber demeanor, petty coins words like faces. Black eyes in the dark same as on the low front wing you just threw up gray curve of your hat, so well known. Ulpidio
Vega, call your name. And your name exhaled breath kerosene cheap, cookie, cheese grating and red wine. Aroma
warehouse, bazaar, which was your poor old San Martín laburante by street, almost in Tablada. Scented soap puncture, a bitter mate, the same one that you reached the cordial hand of Dona Cata, your poor old woman who got tired of looking out the window. Ulpidio
Vega, call your name. And they cross themselves brave the four corners of Ayolas and Convention, which came so often escraches print, when a stiff shot appeared at that crossroads. Pray
jovatas trouble the long memory to remember your stamp fine figure, walking heavy, a gesture of disgust in the Indian-looking face and body upright for his knife as the back, waist, you splint.
By working in the Swift you were called "The Butcher of Saladillo."
What was I going to impress you blood, Ulpidio Vega! If daily slaughter animals and the blade was as natural as you a ring, a simple hurdle in the little finger.
But there were two Vegas, John and Ulpidio. "The Vega kid," he said to another, who also worked in the fridge.
And if the excessive low Ulpidio courage in the fight, "Vega Boy" was also quick pick, and heartless.
in black the two, always, even tomorrow.
But, as often happens in these things, Ulpidio got a mine that was up one night at Club Atlético Carnaval Olegario Victor Andrade. The mine was a burst that had drinks at the Panamerican Dancing, face Sunchales, and had already deleted the estampadito flowery sheets of Amenábar, from time to scrub. But a passing female and left the air like sweet perfume embalmed and inflamed. Rosa was called, and was justice. Ulpidio
Vega, call your name. And I'm not mistaken. As the fatal mistake that night that when I call mine "Ulpidio", "John" I said.
dark hand of fate Which bastard put face to face, Ulpidio Vega!
You and your brother, inseparable ever faced by the fallacy of a lost love! Time
were biting their desire to hold on. In looking deeper, and without words. Measured with hatred. And not to speak. The whole neighborhood knew about the bolonqui that rattled the teeth of the Vega. But when once jumped over the anger, and his knife appeared shining in both right-handed, something the bulwark on the floor and nailed them to the curb the anger. Something, that back in the house from guys caress the forehead, the lumpfish ironed them and let them either shiny boots when they went to Central Córdoba milonga. Something. The old.
"If I kill you", I said very clearly Ulpidio to John, "only for her." "If you do not chill," he replied John, who was not slow, "is old."
And so went the two, encajetados, without power or sleeping bag rather than facts. And over the burst of the Rose I got the weeds of his lip, his empty promises, his craft.
And he could not more. That night Ulpidio and John arrived on time to the camper. It was a pure pasture and scrub land that used to play brats Fulbe. But tonight was no moon. And it was not a game. Ulpidio
peeled a large knife that was this long. Uy Dio, how bright silver moon on the frozen edge of steel!
And Juan, Juan stripped also tremendous spike that just seeing her, I came fear.
"Venite!"
"Come here you!", We discovered later that they said. And it was when it came to the checkbox Dona Cata, a pale face, eyes suffered, hands clasped and black scarf. You never knew who passed the data. Maybe it was that magical mother's intuition that led her there in that time.
not heard from his mouth a word. And no tears in his eyes saw. But yes, his hands chapped from washing clothes outside in the winter, drawn in the air scared of the night, a gesture, reached down, took off a shoe and all, frate mine, long story.
A Johnny wad it up in his neck, he distorted the sabiola to chancletazos, and shook him so many sticks on the back that left him mormoso the poor. Neighbors had heard that lying on the ground, John begged and begged forgiveness old shouted.
A Ulpidio, the tresses that I caught the old and ruined the snout to hit chancletazos for half an hour, in a row.
