When he opened his eyes, he knew this time would be different. He would no longer have to feel the cold steel in his mouth, nor hear that explosion. This, at last, would be the goodbye.
It wasn't a feeling or an intuition. It was the silent alarm that something was about to happen—like the light that reveals an unforeseen stain upon a white surface.
The watch post was the same. His gestures had not changed. The reflexive act of leaning against the wall, the strange taste in his mouth that compelled him to light a cigarette, the weary boredom of scanning the sparse furniture for insignificant variations. He was like a clerk trying to complete an infinite catalog. Like an actor rehearsing a play that would never premiere.
Nothing unusual. The palisade blocking the sector's only entrance. The tall, uneven logs which, after a few months, showed signs of weakening. Then it would be time to build a barricade out of shredded armchairs, the remains of desks, bags of earth and sand.
The whisper of the wind filtering through the cracks reminded him that the afternoon was waning and his partner would soon arrive. He stood up, approached the crevice that served as a window, and scanned the horizon, the valley, and the groves with his binoculars. Then, with the naked eye, he liked to imagine that the mist was a small sea and that the dark shapes were drifting vessels, trembling upon the waves, waiting for the shipwreck.
His partner’s approaching steps were slow and spaced. He never forgot that he was moving across the little that remained of an old balcony, suspended over a jumble of stone and brick.
He saw him arrive out of the corner of his eye, avoiding direct stares—those rituals that had become superfluous. His figure was gray. The meager light and the dust drove all color away. The faint sound of his movements: the backpack in a corner, the crystal radio settled on the small table near the lighter. Then his close breath, smelling of something he could never quite decipher. It was time to stand and leave. His watch was over.
II
That afternoon they had only buried three bodies. They weren't tired, and the weather had granted them a truce. They stowed their tools and walked to the edge of the road to scan the valley, looking for signs of a bonfire or the glint of a mirror. The ash-gray horizon offered nothing new.
"Let’s go back across the inlet this time," his partner said, pointing east. "There’s a shortcut at the end of the cliffs."
"How do you know?"
His partner shrugged and began to walk.
He followed, trying to whistle a tune, but he could only recall fragments of what seemed to be a military march. He let himself be accompanied by the screeching of boots and the chafing of canteens.
"The bodies weren't as mangled. Did you notice?"
His partner stopped and looked at him fixedly.
"We’d better find a place to eat something."
He didn't want to comment. He wanted to tell him that he felt he was losing his sense of smell, of taste, of sight. But his partner would only shrug, spit, and say: "It’s the air; it’s still too contaminated." As if it were merely a passing ache.
The silence seemed to have already become part of the landscape.
The path ended at the ruins of an old paddock surrounded by flagstones and beams. Beyond that lay the valley. At the bottom of the slope, a narrow trail peeked through black rocks. They sat near a wall speckled with soot.
His partner inspected the ashes.
"Don't worry. They’re very old. No one has been here in a long time."
They ate bread and dried meat. As he leaned against the floor to stand up, he noticed something strange happening. A murmur. Then something like marbles rolling.
His partner was cleaning the mud from his boots with a pocketknife—slowly, as if shaving them. He stopped. Their eyes met. Birds took flight.
Together they stood and scouted the outside. Not far away, several figures moved, blurred in the midst of a strange mist. Then they heard children's laughter. The sound children make when they play.
His partner reached for the binoculars. He was trembling as he tried to focus.
"They’re small beings. They seem to be moving in a circle with sticks."
He slid to the floor, restless, against the wall. He reached for a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands. As he watched the smoke dissipate, he heard his partner begin to sob.
"They’re playing with a hand," he said, his voice breaking, overtaken by panic. "It’s a hand… they’re moving it back and forth with the sticks…"
He understood then ...
..."
--Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source community of Spanish writers--
fictograma in LiteraturaESP @lemmy.world
Rehearsal for a Goodbye (Ensayo para un adiós - Original title in Castilian language)
https://fictograma.com/d/1427-ensayo-para-un-adiosExcerpt:
Rehearsal for a Goodbye
Year 47, amidst the ruins of the world
I
When he opened his eyes, he knew this time would be different. He would no longer have to feel the cold steel in his mouth, nor hear that explosion. This, at last, would be the goodbye.
It wasn't a feeling or an intuition. It was the silent alarm that something was about to happen—like the light that reveals an unforeseen stain upon a white surface.
The watch post was the same. His gestures had not changed. The reflexive act of leaning against the wall, the strange taste in his mouth that compelled him to light a cigarette, the weary boredom of scanning the sparse furniture for insignificant variations. He was like a clerk trying to complete an infinite catalog. Like an actor rehearsing a play that would never premiere.
Nothing unusual. The palisade blocking the sector's only entrance. The tall, uneven logs which, after a few months, showed signs of weakening. Then it would be time to build a barricade out of shredded armchairs, the remains of desks, bags of earth and sand.
The whisper of the wind filtering through the cracks reminded him that the afternoon was waning and his partner would soon arrive. He stood up, approached the crevice that served as a window, and scanned the horizon, the valley, and the groves with his binoculars. Then, with the naked eye, he liked to imagine that the mist was a small sea and that the dark shapes were drifting vessels, trembling upon the waves, waiting for the shipwreck.
His partner’s approaching steps were slow and spaced. He never forgot that he was moving across the little that remained of an old balcony, suspended over a jumble of stone and brick.
He saw him arrive out of the corner of his eye, avoiding direct stares—those rituals that had become superfluous. His figure was gray. The meager light and the dust drove all color away. The faint sound of his movements: the backpack in a corner, the crystal radio settled on the small table near the lighter. Then his close breath, smelling of something he could never quite decipher. It was time to stand and leave. His watch was over.
II
That afternoon they had only buried three bodies. They weren't tired, and the weather had granted them a truce. They stowed their tools and walked to the edge of the road to scan the valley, looking for signs of a bonfire or the glint of a mirror. The ash-gray horizon offered nothing new.
"Let’s go back across the inlet this time," his partner said, pointing east. "There’s a shortcut at the end of the cliffs." "How do you know?" His partner shrugged and began to walk.
He followed, trying to whistle a tune, but he could only recall fragments of what seemed to be a military march. He let himself be accompanied by the screeching of boots and the chafing of canteens.
"The bodies weren't as mangled. Did you notice?" His partner stopped and looked at him fixedly. "We’d better find a place to eat something."
He didn't want to comment. He wanted to tell him that he felt he was losing his sense of smell, of taste, of sight. But his partner would only shrug, spit, and say: "It’s the air; it’s still too contaminated." As if it were merely a passing ache.
The silence seemed to have already become part of the landscape.
The path ended at the ruins of an old paddock surrounded by flagstones and beams. Beyond that lay the valley. At the bottom of the slope, a narrow trail peeked through black rocks. They sat near a wall speckled with soot.
His partner inspected the ashes. "Don't worry. They’re very old. No one has been here in a long time."
They ate bread and dried meat. As he leaned against the floor to stand up, he noticed something strange happening. A murmur. Then something like marbles rolling.
His partner was cleaning the mud from his boots with a pocketknife—slowly, as if shaving them. He stopped. Their eyes met. Birds took flight.
Together they stood and scouted the outside. Not far away, several figures moved, blurred in the midst of a strange mist. Then they heard children's laughter. The sound children make when they play.
His partner reached for the binoculars. He was trembling as he tried to focus. "They’re small beings. They seem to be moving in a circle with sticks."
He slid to the floor, restless, against the wall. He reached for a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands. As he watched the smoke dissipate, he heard his partner begin to sob.
"They’re playing with a hand," he said, his voice breaking, overtaken by panic. "It’s a hand… they’re moving it back and forth with the sticks…"
He understood then ...
..."
--Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source community of Spanish writers--