Un Personaggio : un bibliotecario.
Un Luogo : La zona morta.
Un Oggetto : Una nota musicale.
Una Frase : “Come sempre, fecero un mucchio di storie e, come sempre, eseguirono il loro compito in metà del tempo preventivato.”
Una Parola: CE193SG
Be', devo averli utilizzati bene, perché ho vinto il Premio SFIDA ed anche il Premio Speciale Lucca Comics (dettagli: qui ). Il racconto, anche giunto secondo al concorso "Le Ali della Fantasia" , è ora pubblicato nell'antologia del XV Trofeo RiLL dal titolo " Reports from enchanted worlds " .
June 21, 1937
The air was clear, and illuminated by a thin crescent moon and reassuring. The steps of the Rua da Quinta, that the lower town on the slopes of the Chiado and Bairro Alto went up, shone with a pearly light, they would lose at sunrise.
At each step, the echoes of rowdy taverns crowded nightspots and the Rossio Square lost power in favor of the sound of cicadas and a violin music coming from the houses of elegant neighborhoods. The last cable car rumbles down the day raced toward the lower town.
Joaquim had never been in that part of Lisbon, at least not as far as he could remember, and did not usually walk alone in the streets that late. Up there, then we went to serve only those who were in the house of the rich, while the rich instead of, oh, they always came in a carriage or automobile, using the avenue on the other side, and never passed to the stradina stretta e tortuosa.
Nei tratti più ripidi, Joaquim faticava a superare da solo i gradini più alti. Si soffermò un istante a pensare a cosa suo padre avrebbe potuto dirgli se lo avesse visto in quel momento. “ Torna immediatamente a casa e va’ a letto, figliolo! ”, probabilmente, e non senza un tono di collera. Eppure il ragazzo non provava alcun timore; in quel momento era come se suo padre, sua madre, e chiunque lo conoscesse, si trovassero da un’altra parte. E non a casa, ad aspettarlo, ma in un posto lontano, troppo lontano, e diverso, perché potessero preoccuparsi per lui e per dove si trovasse. Al pensiero di sua madre, Joaquim provò una stretta al cuore, e si fermò, but then resumed his journey.
The strong slope of the path softened into a slight slope, in which there was no need for steps. After a few tens of meters, when he had passed the old Jewish cemetery sunken between the houses that belonged to the aristocracy of New Lisbon, Joaquim found himself in front of the old door at number 39. He tried to
a thick belly. It was as if he knew already there. The wood of which were formed appeared to wet the leaves, there were holes and speckles, and the old wrought-iron frame for rust stung. Joaquim was twelve, but he was a precocious and intelligent child, he realized he had already made those thoughts, he had already tried the concern thin that he was attacking, but, however hard he tried, he could not remember when.
He tried to push, but it was locked. He turned and sat on the only step, as if waiting for something or someone. After some minutes he stood up and tried again. This time, under the gentle hand push the door opened and let out a noise that seemed familiar. Without further ado, the boy entered.
March 10, 1937
Sun Leandro Caldeira got up early every morning, had breakfast with cold milk and coffee and biscuits with honey, which gave him the energy to face the day, and gave a kiss to Ana Gomes, who wife had taken in thirteen years earlier. Then he went out, and Joaquim accompanied the Jesuit school. From the Escola Redencao was an institution reserved for young and pious of the wealthiest families, and Dom Leandro was proud that his son, heir to one of the winning couture Caldeira, could receive the education of the offspring of the highest quality LISBON aristocracy. Leandro
Sun had obtained the privilege through the intercession of a pair of wealthy clients, and from that moment on, had not only ceased to pay him for his tailoring work, but they also increased the frequency with which they addressed to the shop to take advantage of his valuable services. From the Escola Redencao there were pupils from poor families, very few for Indeed, admitted in accordance with the charitable spirit that was preserved even in such an institution, but, although not ride, Sun Leandro did not want to follow that road, because the combination of two circumstances, or clothes for the nobles and have a child who received (a vested right, and not for charity granted) education of a nobleman, it made him feel closer to the nobility. That step, he thought, maybe one day Joaquim would give him a full member of the aristocracy grandson of the New Kingdom, and he would be remembered as the initiator of the caste. An old Duke. He liked to imagine his image portrayed in a gilt wood frame, and hung on the curve of the staircase of the patrician house in which he lived his progeny. And the guests turn, nod, to pay homage.
Meanwhile, Joaquim was happy to be able to study the history, science, and especially the Portuguese language. From the Escola Joaquim Redencao were also given lessons in the Castilian and French, languages \u200b\u200bhe felt quite similar to your own can take time away from their studies to devote himself to his passion.
For several years, in fact, Joaquim had dedicated his life to a demon so that was burning inside of words that would fill the bed sheets or even, perhaps, the walls of the neighborhood. So, he thought, maybe someone else would letto le sue storie, oltre a sua madre. Ma nessun demonio è tanto generoso, e il prezzo da pagare per le passioni dello spirito è sempre alto. Questo, Joaquim doveva ancora scoprirlo.
Dopo il bacio del piccolo davanti all’ingresso del palazzo della scuola, Leandro voltò le spalle, puntò in alto con il naso e procedette verso l’uscita del cortile, sotto gli sguardi degli altri genitori (ma più spesso, dei loro inservienti) e dei rispettivi figlioli. Sorrise e inchinò il capo per un istante solamente, alla vista della contessa Rodrigues, che dalla sua Daimler salutava la primogenita. Poi voltò l’angolo e iniziò a correre verso la sartoria. Era tardi, e lui doveva tirare su la saracinesca.
June 21, 1937
A shot of cold air shut the door and moved the flames that lit barely inside the strange place. It was very dark, but the eyes of Joaquim, accustomed to the starry night, it struggled to adapt. The air smelled of rotten wood and wet, as if a storm had just ended, and yet out there had been a hot summer day. At times
Joaquim was again the impression of knowing the place and feel at ease, while in others it was about to scream, turn on his heel and run away. From that input was leaving a single corridor. An ordered series of candles placed on the ground seemed to indicate a path. The flames swayed lazily, and Joaquim remembered in a cemetery at night.
The boy inhaled deeply, and courage to build up oxygen in the place that would serve both. He picked up the nearest plate with the candle and took his first steps. At the sight of his shadow moving on the wall started, but then felt a fool, he defeated the fear thinking of his mother, and left accompanied by the changing shadows of its path. Finally felt his heart slow down, and sweat back dry.
the corridor fell off the side branches, placed at regular intervals; Joaquim chose one that seemed slightly more enlightened than others, and went on. The walls overflowed
books. The walls were filled with shelves and shelves were crammed with books, volumes of any size, appearance and color. Joaquim wondered how it was possible to get to those higher up, because the libraries reached the ceiling and the ceiling was at least four, maybe five feet from the floor. After some initial mistrust began consulting on the shelves within his reach, and saw it was written in dozens, even hundreds of different languages. There were books written in the languages \u200b\u200bof the West and those in the Near and Far East, words of Latin, greek and Eastern Slavic languages \u200b\u200band dialects of the cold North of the South, African languages, Arabic, and signs of which would not have been able to guess even the continent of origin. What
braided lines or words were understandable, Joaquim he was kidnapped. After rooms, bedrooms, crypts and stairs, and even redundant passages of books, I imagine that in that place there must be millions, perhaps billions of volumes. Thought to be finished in the largest library in the world.
Immersed in the ocean of paper, images and words, Joaquim saw the shadow that deform their silhouette projected on the wall of books. She held her breath, and heard a breathing fast and heavy. It was close. It seemed that a piece of ice was put in the back.
March 30, 1937
Mind Joaquim gave birth to imaginary characters, insane and monstrous, and his prose instilled a mixture of awe and fear. One day a nosy brother had read a few lines and had recommended to Sun Leandro to watch his son, because he had said, the temptations of paganism were eradicated at the root. Almost every day
Joaquim implored his demon. Whispering, she begged him to make him a skilled writer, well known as Edgar Allan Poe, the American, to whom he had read everything he could, mostly in French, because very little had been translated into your language. He trembled at the thought of being able to invent a story about those who saw the movies with his dad, his favorite era quella sul terribile conte Dracula. Joaquim amava i suoi denti, il suo sguardo cupo e la sua voce, che si spezzava nelle tenebre.
Ogni volta che finiva una storia, il piccolo correva a farla leggere a sua madre, che in genere rimaneva spaventata dalla sua fervida fantasia, ma non mancava mai di rincuorarlo.
“Non smettere, figlio mio. Per nulla al mondo.”
Un mercoledì, Joaquim tornò dalla scuola con una storia che aveva scritto di nascosto durante la messa, acquattandosi in fondo alla navata laterale nel confessionale di frate Timòteo (che era vecchio e spesso non scendeva a confessare i fedeli). Ma appena fu entrato in casa, Dom Leandro gli strappò i fogli di mano e gli disse : “Va da tua madre, and keep them company. And do not take them no fear, for today. "
Joaquim realized that his father had cried. The boy dropped his papers, he climbed the stairs, and came to the door. Ana Gomes Caldeira was lying on the bed and the doctor, who had just measured a temperature, exhibiting an air of forlorn.
June 21, 1937
Joaquim turned to the slowness with which the moon moves across the sky that night.
The boy would not be able to say what he saw, and perhaps that is let out a shrill cry, leaping back and getting a blow on the head when his head hit the library.
He saw himself in a trap, blocked between a monster and a wall in the bowels of Lisbon. The creature that the parade had before, a kind of infernal monkey whose stature was at least two and a half times his own, he made a turn to somewhere between a gasp and a bar, and dropped in a chandelier from the ground that, despite the confusion, it seemed to Joaquim a hairy paw fingers equipped with claws. The boy had the impression that even the giant beast was afraid of him, continued to rattle and tried to cover her face with her paws.
"Adelaide," she heard shouting behind the monster. "Adelaide, who you're talking about? Move, baby, damn it! "
A reminder that the beast grunted and walked to few steps. Joaquim saw that his bulk blocking the corridor almost entirely.
the first place where he was the creature was now standing a little man down, with thick white hair, pointed chin and eyes of fire.
"A guest ..." he said hoarsely, whistling, and with a tone at once pleased and shocked.
"Do not forget your manners, Adelaide. You have already welcomed our little visitor, I suppose. Where did you get in, my boy? "His tone had become softer.
"Da .. entrance, in the street ... "said Joaquim still trembling.
"I mean, from what city?"
The boy was too confusing the situation, and the application, to order your thoughts and be able to respond. Joaquim
Staring straight into her eyes still full of terror, the old footage to make a monster.
"Adelaide! Where did our little friend? "He cried.
"Urgh-Muu-mu-aah. Arrage. Muhagan "
" What? "Replied the librarian, screaming her rage. "And who, pray, the wicked of you who have missed the open door of Dreams? A month without meat for the guilty! "
May 15, 1937
Ana Gomes Caldeira did not move out of bed by now more than a month. Joaquim and his father took turns awake, because the doctor, who had not yet made a precise diagnosis, it was recommended that never left her alone. Sometimes the old Bernad, who lived opposite, gave a hand to family, but not that much, because she had a house to run.
The boy went to school when he could, but even there I kept thinking about his mother. The tailoring business was bad, because Sun Leandro had no time or desire, to keep up with the whims of rich clients.
June 21, 1937
"Sir," Joaquim said in a trembling voice, "I ..."
"Hold on, son. Talk later. Now bisogna chiudere quella maledetta Porta dei Sogni, o fra breve ne verranno altri come te. Sognatori. Puah. Adelaide! Andiamo.”
Il mostro si mosse, e zoppicando il bibliotecario lo seguì.
“Vieni” intimò poi questi a Joaquim.
“Da dove hai detto che arrivi?”
Questa volta il ragazzo trovò la forza di rispondere: “Da Lisbona, signore. E... io non sto sognando, signore. Almeno, non mi pare.”
“Ah” rispose il vecchio senza mostrare molto interesse.
“Signore, potrebbe dirmi dove ci troviamo?”
“Dove? Figliolo, come diavolo potrei risponderti? Non saprei dirtelo. Sono solo un bibliotecario, io.”
"This ... is a library? "
" And what else could it be? I see no ham, no wine. "
The old man burst into a roaring laugh.
Joaquim, who began to calm down, reached out to pick up a book.
"Altolia", bade him a librarian. "You are not allowed to stick your nose in immaculate stories of others, is that clear? For now I think you've seen too, "he added. "And I hope you did not look at our books in your country ... Spain "ended with inquiring tone.
"Portugal" the boy corrected him.
"Yes, yes, does the same. You all the same out there. Men. Ugh.
The odd group went on his way, coming back in the main corridor, the old man called the main path. Sometimes the librarian turned to Adelaide, and the answer with its guttural verses. Bothering quick glances left and right, Joaquim saw in the distance of those other monsters, which seemed to busy to take the infinite ordered libraries.
arrived in a room where Joaquim contemplated admired a long line of people, orderly and quiet. It seemed that everyone was waiting for something. There were men, women, old people and children dressed in different ways, as if they came from all parts of the world.
"... and every time" said the old man, completing the thought of the boy. Looking towards the bottom of the lineup, Joaquim could not see the end.
stories of others. Joaquim not stop mulling over the words of the librarian.
On top of that silent and endless queue of men and women, there was a door.
"And that, son," said the old anticipating his question "is the gateway to the Dead Zone. And you may wonder what lies beyond. I'm just a librarian, I do. "
June 20, 1937
Brother Timothy came running in the classroom, interrupting the lesson, Joaquim had to run home. When he came
nella stanza di sua madre, il piccolo vide il dottore ai piedi del letto, con gli occhi stanchi e la bocca piegata. Dom Leandro era seduto vicino a lei, singhiozzava e le teneva la mano. Un prete impugnava una boccetta di olio degli infermi in una mano e un crocifisso nell’altra. Joaquim gli scoccò uno sguardo carico d’odio.
Ana Gomes Caldeira vide il ragazzo e sussurrò: “Piccolo mio... siedi qui, vicino a me, e raccontami una storia.”
Joaquim decise di comportarsi da uomo, si asciugò il viso e obbedì.
Alla sera, sua madre era ancora in vita. Joaquim si addormentò spossato, affogando fra le proprie lacrime.
21 giugno 1975 (ovvero, trentotto anni dopo)
"I am ... thirty-six escudos, sir, "said the man at the wheel.
Engineer Joaquim Caldeira paid and got out of the cab, bought a bouquet of fresh tulips and walked towards the entrance of the Cemetery Dos Prazeres. It was a sunny day, and the air was clear and the Lisbon lit by a warm sun of early summer. A fresh breeze from the bay went up the Tagus and moved her hair.
After a short path, the man reached the tomb where he had gone into each of the seven previous anniversaries. He looked at the photo full of joy that he had chosen for the plaque and read the inscription aloud and with a hint of pride.
ANA CALDEIRA GOMES
Mother generous and happy.
Evora, March 14, 1892 - Lisbon, 21 June 1967
The flowers were fresh, thanks to his tips, Susan, the guardian, did a good job. Yet, near the tomb, Joaquim noticed signs of strange footprints, and watched as they were big. Next to them, respectfully placed a crown on one side, the flowers were fresh, and put joy. He bent down and read the dedication.
For Ana, EC 193, SG
was a plunge into another world, a world in precarious balance, consisting of fragments of his past, the pieces tell fanciful stories that he had stopped writing, and dreams of his nights childhood. The images were confused, but he seemed suddenly to be able to rebuild everything with sufficient certainty. It was at night in early summer of thirty-eight years earlier. He remembered vividly the eyes of fire, and giant beasts that populated his dreams. Beasts females. And books, millions, billions of books ... He felt a thrill, he knelt on the grave and let go of the memory itself. Everything was vague and confused, but at some point, the fog began to clear, leaving tears of ice on his face.
June 21, 1937
The old library had forbidden me to touch his books. He said that I was dreaming that I had come there from the Gate of Dreams of a troll (all females, and did not allow me to ask why) was left open by mistake, and did not have to be there, but also said that if we had arrived, it was for some personal reason that he was not interested. He added he does not know if behind the other door, that the dead zone, there was nothing, heaven or hell, Hades and Valhalla. He was just a librarian, he kept repeating, and it was not his business. All those people in that line without beginning or end, they had stopped walking in the world, because their book was read to the last line of the epilogue. I, however, was only an intruder, and soon I would wake up and I would have remembered more nothing. After all, he was just a dream. The my dream.
He stopped taking care of me and dragging Adelaide, left me alone. While away, I seemed to hear him laugh.
But I would not believe him. Not entirely, anyway. Whatever they say the brothers, I knew that the fate of a man is in his hands. Only those who live their lives have the right to write the chapters. But maybe sometimes you can make an exception. If you really
I was dreaming, well, 'then I do not know to wake up. Now I understood why I was there, I was sure, with the same force with which the sun rises every morning and warms the world.
on each book I saw a name, a surname, and a strange code made of letters and numbers.
I went to work and after some research I found an entire wall of books in my country and then, among these, those that contained the lives of people I knew, and their friends, their relatives, friends of friends and relatives and relatives. On one of the tomes I saw my name! Ah, you trust me, it was painful refrain from browsing, I was sure that would not have been more of one, an exceptional occasion and could not wasting a tantrum.
I finally found the book, unwittingly, in the dreams of those days I had been looking for.
On a hardcover, red like life, was engraved in gold letters that identified the code:
Case Far 193, Senhora
Gomes (born Ana Caldeira)
I opened the book about the life of my mother.
On page 330, the history of rushing to a premature end of which I preferred to forget the details. The last lines of the narrative were appearing at that time, before my very eyes, and the word "death" had made its appearance in black and white. Five letters cursed, cursed the priest as that invoked in the name of his god.
I was or was not a writer? Well, my chance had come. My demon claimed due, and I do not hold back.
wrote a new story, full of health, joy and sweetness. Freed from the bondage of my father His conceit and I gave my mother a happy and prosperous life. The author restituii what a cynical and unknown had stolen, and wrote more in the style crystal clear and understandable that I have ever used. Anyone who read that story would not have had any doubt that Ana Caldeira Gomes, aka EC SG 193, still had a long and happy life ahead of him.
did not know if I had it done, but I swore that if they were, I stopped writing for all the years when my mother was still living. When I awoke the next morning, I did not remember much of that dream confused and smoky, but I felt that the smell of death had left our house. Stealing
thirty years to the demon of writing for donation to that of life, I wrote my last story, in which the protagonist had become my only reader.
It was the best work of Caldeira Joaquim Gomes, son of Dom Leandro Caldeira, a tailor in Lisbon, and author of a dream that lasted a lifetime.
