Punk Girl
, Rodolfo Fogwill
In December 1998 I made love with a young punk. Saying "I love" so to speak, because love was done before my arrival in London and that she and I did, that pile of things that "we" she and I were not love or even - I would prove it, today, was a love that and only that were were. What matters in this story is that the girl punk and I "slept together." Another
say, because everything would have been like if we had not given up our standing position -Integrating it (love?) The habitat of dreams: the horizontal, the darkness of the room, the darkness inside our bodies that.
First disappointment of the reader in this story I'm male. I met the girl in front of a window of Marble Arch was ten-thirty, cold to the bone, had completed the film, not a soul in the streets. The girl was blond, did not see his face then. She was with two other girls punk. Mine, the blonde, was skinny and he moved with grace, despite her punk outfit and a roll punk punk gestures clearly. Cold to the bone, I have had. Marked two or three degrees below zero and ice cream north wind clawed her face in Oxford Street and Regent Street. Les four-I and those three girls looked the same punk-stained glass. In the promised warm inside the tent, a computer playing chess alone. A poster announcing the features and price of the machine: 1,856 lbs. White earned the right side of the machine. Black had lost the initiative, was awarded his defense and accused the disadvantage of a central pawn. White
had been attacking with a wedge of pawns protecting his lady, lounging in four tower king. When the three girls were approached turn black. Black doubted in two or maybe fifteen Again it was the scene L16 or L18, and the onlookers, nobody at that time, the cold, they could have reset the game because a small printer came playing the chess game code, and a graph, which consisted machine on your screen in a few seconds, showed the image of the board in every phase of strategic development after the game. The girls spoke a slang that I did not understand, laughed, and without paying any attention went their way westward into Regent Street. At these times, one could look all over the city devastated by the cold without feeling almost human presence, except the three girls leaving.
Near Selfridges someone to expect a bus, because a shadow slipped into the red booth waiting buses and some encouragement had clouded the glass. Perhaps mankind is on the glass, rubbing his hands, writing his name, "scribbling a heart or the emblem of his football team, maybe not.
I confirmed its existence shortly thereafter, when a bus bound for Kings Road and someone stood up. As he passed by our window, half empty, I could see the shadow of the hut had become an aged woman, ragged, trading your ticket.
few cars passed. Most taxis, hunting a passenger, heated, slow, diesel, free. Few private cars passed, Daimlers, Jaguars, Bentleys. In its leading front seats Grave men, mature, sensitive to flashing signs.
At left, ancestral women, makeup for party or the opera, seemed to supervise. A Rolls stood before my glassmaker Selfridges and the driver take a look at the computer, (rehearsing the play 127, turn white), and said something to his wife, a sour-profile gray and bright rings. I could not hear, bulletproof glass windows of these cars make up a tight space, almost Masonic: unfathomable. Shortly
Rolls then walked away as he had arrived at the corner of Glowcester Street hesitated at the light, as if flirting with the green light just been lit. First disappointment of the narrator: the computer tables in the scene ordered 147. If I were white, changing tower and threatening horse overdrawn check, would claim to black favorable an exchange of queens, pawns given my advantage and my best positional situation. I went with rage: he had slept all afternoon on that Friday and it was early to get into the hotel.
Cold to the bone. He wore jeans under a polar-English suit he had bought for a friend under sail at Port Belgrano premiere that night I decided to test him against the terrible cold that the BBC announced.
Her body felt warm, but the mouth and nose ached with cold. The hands in the deep pockets of the jacket duvet, so feared an encounter with the cold air that forced me to resist the fierce pack of like smoking, screaming and waving back of the throat, inside of me. In my outer ears were disappearing: sooner or later dies, or chilblains, if not defended, tried to take shelter with the flaps of my jacket. No hands, had the tips of the flaps between the teeth and so biting and cold, I entered a taxi smelled of diesel fuel and sweat of the driver, and once installed in the enjoyment of that smell tibión, I appointed a corner of Soho and lit a cigarette.
Outdoor anyone. Cold to the bone. English, forward, driving, was a statue full of scent and sleep. Before downloading, I checked they had taxis around the area saw several. I paid with a paper and only after receiving the change I opened my door. Cold air I strafed the face and throat I froze, because the flaps, buckets of saliva deposited on my skin had a slight film of slime, now struck me with their balloons brittle frost.
saw few people in Chinatown London: as always, some Arab and African slum bouncing out knob. In one corner, a group of persons, workers, petty surveillance, perhaps some unfortunate homeless illusion around a little fire of firewood and improvised by a black paper's newsstand. I walked the three or four blocks from the neighborhood that I recognize as I found where to put me on the corner of Charing Cross opened the left rear door of a green taxi, got, say the name of my hotel that night and decided to eat at my room a spicy burger and a salad rather salty thirst to strengthen both deserve beer in Ireland. Too bad TV done so early in London! I checked my watch: it was eleven, was barely half an hour of excellent British programming. Conté
cold, told the polar-suit. Now I am going to tell me: the cold, to the bone, discouraged any resident and any visitor of the ancient city, it was a cold English background, a cold fact of time and distance and - why not? - also made of more cold and fear, and it was a cold arctic mass resulting from the cold spell that was being advertised and promoted for days in endless cuts informative radio and television. Indeed, radio and television, newspapers and magazines and people, employees and vendors, the guys in the hotel and the ladies that you know buying records-all did not speak but the cold snap and the amazing intensity that had reached promotion of the cold snap the bone.
I'm chilly, usually chilly, but I've never been so chilly as to ignore the campaign on the freezing cold so we came, or else, that the very cold snap that was pouring into the capital semiobsoleta.
But I was already in the street, had no desire to return to my hotel and needed to be in a place that was not my room, protected from cold and carefully protected from any reference to cold. Then I saw, two blocks before the hotel, a local who days ago had struck me. It was a pizza place called The Lulu, which did not exist at the time of my last trip.
I remembered well that place because it was the tourist office in Romania in which once did some paperwork for my Italian customers.
From the taxi I read the poster, which proved that the bowling remained open, I saw customers eating, I noticed that the decor was poor but honest, and tables and white wicker chairs cleaning induced a promising concept. I hit
Glasses driver, I paid 60 pence, I lowered the car and went into the pizzeria.
was a pizzeria in English, with English waiters, patterns, English and English clients who knew each other as they shouted, in English, from table to table, opinions, English, and English phrases. I promised not to play that game and in my best English I ordered a spinach pizza girl and a bottle of Chianti. The boy, if I had had a reasonable period of exile in London, I will have been a passenger on the continent, or a native of the Commonwealth a marginal neighborhood, maybe a Malvinas.
I had in the pocket of his jacket issue Aerial daily La Nacion, but avoided showing it for not informing my English-speaking character. The Chianti-bottling Argelera delicious: between him and the warm air of the place was established in three minutes affinity redeemed me from the cold.
But the pizza was mediocre, hard and tasteless. Chewed happily, like, reading my cuts Financial Times and tourism magazine that hit the hotel. I was more hungry and ordered another pizza, claiming to cast him more salt. The second pizza was better, but the waiter had looked at me wrong, perhaps because I found studying their movements, perplexed because of the similarity that can run a story between a young English pizzeria English, English and other pizzeria waiter in Paris, or Rosario. I chose to name both Rosario to Buenos Aires. Dear.
Masqué pizza number two monitor developments in the metals markets in the last fortnight, a nonsense. Prices than the USSR and the newly rich oil continued to inflate with his wild procurement policy did not bode well for Western Europe. Then there were the three girls punk. Were the same three who had been in Selfridges. Mine chose the worst table by the window, his buddies followed. The fat, their carrot-colored hair dyed, stood looking at my table. The other, tall very low and toad-faced, had hair dyed green and the flap of his coat carried a stuffed bird that I thought I'd be a nightingale. I was disgusted. Fortunately, the ugly face with bird and frog was placed facing the street, showing only the opaque surface of the back of greasy coat. Mine, the blonde, landed on his wicker chair looking a little to the fat, a little to the street, I could only see his profile as he ate my pizza and tried to imagine what it would be a nightingale.
A Mockingbird: Banchs reminded of that sonnet.
The other type is also called himself and was deputy Banchs corvette or frigate. It was December, I had crossed many times during the year was ending. That same morning, sipping my coffee, had come to talk to me I do not know why opening of painters, and I mentioned the poet, and he named Banchs swore he heard that Henry Banchs appoint the first time in his life . Then I understood why the lieutenant did not know the existence of polar-suit (at my packet with Helly Hansen was amazed) and also toured Europe understood why wasting their dollars, trying to drop you to all cute and looking for Argentine residents sneak across party which had American. Smoking Gitanes in this also seemed to Nono.
never saw a nightingale. Was to finish the pizza and behind me came a whiff of musk.
looked. The ugliest of the Galician bottom of the table was sitting. Would come from the bathroom, have all his horrible body spray with a spray of Chanel, Patou, Sue or any of those "now you add all your perfumes musk. What would the smell of my girl punk? I myself, as such Banchs, I was sentenced to ascertain and determine, missing very little to finalize the pizza and the little matter of the prices of metals. But something happened out of my head.
owners, the waiters and other customers, in whole or mostly English, I watched. I was the only witness to what they were seeing and that should increase my value to them. Three
had entered the local punks, I was the only English is not able to testify that it happened, who had not called, they were not punk and that there was no one except the three girls punk punk punk had no local that had been trampled by at least a quarter of an hour. Only I was to testify that the bad pizza and excellent local wine was not from any point of view anything that could be considered punk. So I watched, for it seemed to need that time. Locked
look at my girl, because the shape of the bird stuffed and covered her face toad increasingly, I concentrated on my pizza and my reading disregarding the knowing glances of so many English. Al termianar pizza and reading, I asked for it, I went to the bathroom and wash my inane pish and there I did a long scrub with hot hot water from the tap. Since the mirror, how happy nitro rose pink tones of the cheeks and forehead real. Had been born again my ears, I was happy.
Returning an unjustifiable rodeo allowed me to skim the table of girls and look better than mine: had beautiful blue eyes almost transparent and assembly features that are most like to go, those who are called "aristocratic", because the aristocrats seeking to incorporate their progeny, taking them by members of the populace with the secret order to improve or refine their inherited genetic capital. Wildflowers! Cinderellas of the masses who swallow the insatiable chromosomes sir! It starts in your future wing eggs travel in the innermost dreams of the genetic program of the master). It is known, in times of change, the best of physiognomic heritable property (such sensitive skin, those eyes transparent, accurate features such noses "chiseled" under silky eyelids and just above the lips and gums and tongue tips of perfect crimson flashes which flooded by proclaiming the interior beauty of the aristocratic body) is usually resign in exchange for a field in Morocco, most of New Bank shares such a heroic action the last war or a National Prize of Medicine, and spring and flat noses, small eyes, mouths and skin chirlonas chagrined at the little bodies of the recent offspring of the highest aristocracy, forcing the aristocratic families and poor families rely on the mob looking for good blood traits and herd correct restoring aesthetic balance of the generations that will catapult their names and a bit of themselves, to go to know where at some unlikely a century of the future.
The girl I liked. He wore a baggy man's suit, three or more numbers greater than their size.
of normal height, weigh no more than 44 kilos. your skin so soft (some of it reminded me of Grace Kelly, some of it reminded me of Catherine Deneuve) was more than attractive to me. Astrakhan wore booties perfect, as opposed to making his scratchy wool suit. Oxford shirt collar was open at the height of bust showing something that I thought her skin and realized later that it was bath jacket gymnast. She, to me, and looked at me.
But instead, her friend, the most gorda, la del pelo teñido color naranja, venía emitiendo una onda asaz provocativa. No quise sugerir sexual: provocativo, como buscando riña, como buscando o planificando un ataque verbal, como buscando tina humillación, como ella misma habría mirado a un oficial de la policía inglesa. Así mirábame la gorda de pelo zanahoria. La mía, en cambio no me mira ha. Pero. . .
Tampoco miraba a sus acompañantes. Miraba hacia la calle vacía de transeúntes, con las pupilas extraviadas en el paso del viento. Así me dije: "se pierde su mirada pincelando el frío viento de Oxford Street". Era etérea. Esa nota, lo etéreo, es la que mejor habría definido a mi muchacha para mí, de no mediate those attitudes punk and punk details, wearing, punk, and the carelessness, negligence punk her. For example, cigarette smoking leaf took them with a gesture exhultante Southern European, strong whistled and threw smoke insidiously against the glass of the window. When passing by his table he saw in his hands a yellow, saffron, snuff tar. And dirty hands I ever saw tar snuff like my girl punk! The index, the largest and the ring on his right, from nails to the knuckles, were embedded deep yellow that can only get a heavy smoker for the first joint of the index finger, after years of smoking washed and avoiding smoking. I was impressed. But it was beautiful, something Catherine Deneuve and Isabelle Adjani something at that moment I could not define: I was confused. I paid the bill, I took the hindrance of my bottle of Chianti in the green glass of the restaurant, and drink in hand, so British, "as if it were a patron of a pub confianzudo, I approached the table of punk girls taking risks . Before leaving he had calculated my chance, one in five, one in ten in the worst case, was justified. I tell it in English: - "I can I sit? The three looked punk. The fat punk stroking his victory should believe that I was down to demand explanations their eyes provocative punk. To avoid a rapid rejection sat down without waiting for answers. To avoid discouragement took a sip of wine in my gullet. To avoid impress looked up, pushing my bird embalsalmado visual field. The fat laughing. The punk looked at my green hair, looked the other way, blew smoke from his cigar against nothing, looked at me and without looking he took a sip of that mixture of Coca Cola and Chianti that was prepared on the previous page But I, with this rush to write it, had forgotten to register.
Said the bird
punk - What do you want? "No, sit ... Being here as a substance in fact ... "I said in English cachuzo.
my funny accent certainly spurred the desire to know the fat - Where do you come from ...? He barked.
The question was strong, aggressive, contemptuous.
-In South America ... Brazil and Argentina, "I said, to save a crippling fill the narrative explanation of platitudes. I wondered if he was English, was surprised, "How can one come from Brazil and Argentina not to be British?", I figured I would have imagined it.
Would an Englishman? -No. I'm South American, mourned, "I said.
-Wide Field-South America rages loose.
"Yes, far away. So far. I'll be back next month, "he said.
"Oh yeah ... I see said the blind staring at the face of frog swing his head as if confirming the most elaborate theory of the universe. Then he spoke for the first time and only for me my girl Punk. His voice was delicious and timbre in this paragraph: - What do you do here? Inquired his verbal melody.
"Nothing," I walk, and I remembered a model that always went well with beatniks and hippies and I thought I could work with punks. What I tested: "I enjoy meeting people and then traveled ... Know people, do you understand? ... Travel ... Know ... People! .. Huh.? Ah ..! So ..! People ..!
worked: my girl's face lit up Punk.
"I love to travel, was reeling off without looking at me. I know Africa, India and the States (meaning USA). I think I know almost everything. I no I've never been to Portugal! How is Portugal? He asked.
composed a Portugal to measure:
-Portugal is full of wonder ... Precious lives there rather interesting and good. We live a full wave different from ours ... Seguí
so, and she was wrapped in my story. The perceived by the discomfort that began to show their punk friends. I confirmed by that light I saw his face grow aristocratically punk.
she whispers:
"Once my plane touched ground in Lisbon and I wanted to go down, but not allowed," he said. Meeting people from Lisbon Airport are pigs dirty bastards. Is not that ... Lisbon, Portugal? -. The doubt in her voice tinkled.
"Yes, indoctrinate, but in all airports are alike: they are all dirty stinking lousy bastards.
"As taxi drivers, so are the fat," she interrupted, shaking the smoke of their Players. "As the gatekeepers
hotel, dirty bastards, "conceded pajarófora frog fat face, still.
"As booksellers," said mine - Sons of a bitch! -. And floating in the air, ethereal.
"Yes, of course," I said, celebrating the agreement between the four.
Then something unexpected happened, the green hair spoke to the fat:
"Let us go, let these work on his own, eh ... , And unrolled a fiver, supported it on the plate of the bill, got up and left pulling in its wake in the face of a toad. Well I had seen that they had sunk to ten or fifteen pounds, but left to be deleted, that simplified the story.
-Bay, Borges' he cried Toad's face from the sidewalk, threatening to draw from his waist a little sword or a dagger does not exist, then I was glad to see so much ugliness sinking into the cold, and yet I was glad, thinking about attending another proof that the sporting prestige of my country had crossed the worst social boundaries of London. My girl asked why he had not greeted: "Because they're a dirty motherfucker waxes.
- See? "He said showing me little notes of five pounds that was taking from his pocket to complete payment of the account. I nodded.
As a kestrel, which through the dense clouds of a stormy sky discover the movements of small prey in the grass, attracted by the flow of pounds, a very Galician boy sprang to his side in front of me. He winked, charged, received a tip a few Penns my girl dropped in his saucer, and I ordered another bottle of Chianti and two of Coke and she returned a beautiful gesture, opened her mouth slightly pursed nose raised eyebrow on the same side and shook his head as if to return the ball to someone who would have thrown from behind.
guessed it would be a gesture of agreement. Shortly thereafter, its so greedy to drink the wine mixture and Coca Cola, has just confirmed that the presumption of time-everything had been a gesture of agreement.
I was named Coreen. It was ethereal: the middle of the dialogue her eyes wandered along through the window of the pizzeria English of Graham Avenue in the wind of the street. We took two bottles of Chianti, three of Coke. She mixed those colors in my cup. I drink wine for pleasure and thirst for Coke to have brought pizza, local heat and the same desire to find out the outcome of my story of the Girl Punk. The I invited to my hotel. He declined.
spoke:
"If I go to your hotel, you'll need them pay for my stay. It is nonsense, "she said and invited me to his house. Before leaving in aliquots pay all drunk, but I need to talk more about it. I already wrote that he had aristocratic features. At this point in our relationship (it was 12.30, not a soul in the street, cold English story calaba bones, Argentina, the narrator), I wish mine had stripped it of any initial snobbery. My Girl-aristocratic or punk, that did not matter, "I whipped up: I strayed and by the increasing heat, it was a blind man, yo. I was already dead body of a drowned fingerprints as the current, informer, enters the fiord boyando where everything becomes nothing. But before, when I saw outside my window of Selfridges had noticed strange details, neatly punk, in its thin face, his left cheek was very strong, so I did not know how or why, and the right side of his face had a peculiar because the right wing of his nose, leaned-credible piece of gold foil (I thought) that drawing a camber on the right cheek stood to be inserted into the ear of corn, I thought gold, spoiling his ear lobe the way of a fancy earring. The stem of the stem, about two inches, hung another chain, thicker, falling on his neck freely and had just in miniature can of Coke, metal, gold and red enamel was always going back and forth brushing the blond hair, shoulder and chest, or hit the green glass causing a voice like his music, and sometimes installed , still, on his beautiful white collar bone, curved like the soul of a crossbow, harmonica as a stroke of tai chi. During our conversation I learned that he had thought before bullion was eighteen karat gold, and discovered that he had thought a grain of almost life-size corn applied to the brim of his nose was a gold piece with a grain of corn and almost life-size, supported by a delicate locking mechanism, which crossed shamelessly and entirely left the alite his beautiful nose. She showed me the hole, making a little leverage with the nail of your index saffron, between maize and skin to look better star-shaped hole, about four millimeters in diameter. Was your pussy hole ... ! The left side, which early in Oxford Street had seemed a mark on his cheek, was a deep scar, about an inch long, that seemed caused by something very sharp. Plied that pit three seams rather messy, work of an amateur, or a first-year practitioner of medicine more clumsy than the average British medical practitioners and in the absence of the heads of the guard. Second disappointment of the narrator: the scar on the left, unlike the gold stuff right side, was false. He had forged a makeup artist and my little girl was grieved, for he had begun to shed moisture and cold and now needed a service to retrieve its color and consistency.
Shortly before we left, she went to the bathroom and I was surprised again at the table wondering:
- What's wrong with you? He asked in English. What are you thinking?
"Nothing," I replied. I thought of this damn cold scars marring ...
But I lied: I had thought of that cold just for a moment. After the street had looked at the orientation was nothing, and tried to imagine what would walk by the few people who, from time to time, producing short breaks in the record of that empty cityscape. I touched the frosted glass, smelled the edges of the green crown of it to recognize its scent, and came to think of the figures that were happening behind the glass, hazy with steam from the pizza man. Then I wondered why any human moving through the streets, I always seemed to cover an Irish terrorist, carrying messages, instructions, loads of plastic, miniature medical equipment and all that they cherish and move, by night, from house to house, from town to town, from shop to shop, and even anywhere elsewhere. "Why?" "I asked" Why is it? " Trying to understand, while being close to my beautiful little girl would pish, or washing with warm water, and when just pulling the thread of the warmth of her image, exploded a grenade into a thousand fragments of visions and intimate associations, intense, but along the roads, for Argentine and shameful, disloyal to her. Is there a God? I do not think there is a God, but something or someone punished, because when I noticed he was being unfair and ignoble Punk with my little girl and I felt that began to grow in my body or my soul, the delightful idea of \u200b\u200bsin, flashed through the window as a cyclist, and I saw him ride suspension in the cold and I knew this was the man whose false French passport concealed the identity of the former Jesuit IRA would ever break out with their plastic pump the pub where I was, waiting for some bureaucrat in BAT, find my purpose and then closed my eyes, clenched fists I saw my temples and hurry to go there the path of the pub, he stretched forth from there, I ran after her breathing the perfumed air and April in London, and at the instant of attaining Sorry together the explosion, and she hugged me, and I saw in his eyes blue two mirrors that man's arms around my Girl Punk was just me but the skin Jesuit dug by smallpox, and guessed that soon between pieces of masonry and twisted flippers, Scotland Yard identify the fragments of an author 'who could never write with the history of Girl Punk. But now she was there, out of the text and began to hear my sentence: '"Nothing ... I thought of this damn cold that ruins scars ... "I heard it.
And then bowed his head (Irish chau!), I fixed his blue mirror and say "thank you" in English ("Thank you", he said in his tongue with your tongue), and the English middle of the night made me feel grateful for my sympathy, I, against the cold, to fight for the consevación of his beautiful scar and also grateful that I was me, as I am, and that it was built as it is, as I did, as I wished.
my tears must have been warned. I justified: "I had flu
. . . thereto. . . The cold makes me sad, it's a letdown ...! "Lt me downs!" translated. That abájame! - Let the hotel! "I said, and without tears.
- Hotel no! She said, history repeats itself.
not insist. I did not know, I still do not know, "how can one impose its will on a young punk. We left the cold seeped. Bones. Not a soul. The streets. I called a taxi. The did not stop. Soon came another. He stopped and climbed. Driver smelled of sweat and oil gas. My Girl named a street and several numbers. imagined I would live in a slum in a pigsty of subsurface ice or in a loft and I figured I'd share the room with half a dozen smelly punks and drug addicts, which at that point of the night would crawl on the ground remains disputing food, or worse, the remains of a hypodermic unsterilized that circulate among them with the same arrogant ease with which our gauchos are left sucking their mate piorreicas cold bulbs and washing. I was wrong: she lived in an apartment paquetísimo opposite Hyde Park. At the door of the building said "Shadley House. At the door of his apartment, double swing, bronze and lust, "he said" RH Shadley. "
"It's the home of my family," said Punk humble me and move on to a great reception. On the right, the armory preserved hunting trophies and numerous short and long arms were displayed alongside other, more medium-sized, glass tables and windows. On the left, had a room upholstered with bordeaux satin quilted gleaming in the light of three chandeliers big as Volkswagens. The entry corridor opened into a music room where voices sounded. Passing through the door she yelled "hello" and a voice returned in a string of rudeboys French. I went back, I heard, memorized our prayer "queterrecontra" and with a lightning glance, looked dirty mouth and glory in the classroom. Not identified. Instead I saw two pianos, a small concert stage, several old chairs and two sofas facing each other.
Among them, on cushions, half a dozen smelly punks disputing smoked hashish in French for something which I did not to understand.
A black skeleton lay naked and lying on the purple carpet. For its thinness and the greenish color of her skin seemed like a corpse, but then I saw his ribs that moved spasmodically and reassured me: epilepsy. I figured that the black
punk in his dreams would be dying of cold, but I would not be a punk who shelter dogs that night, while he, punk, punk busted drug among many stupid friends punk.
Copamos the kitchen. My girl told me that the frogs in the music room were "his people" and lock the door while I explained that they were off & screwed ("angry" he said) with her because they were prohibited from entering the kitchen. They argued that it was a "miserable bitch", believing that the closure was due to his desire to prevent depredations on refrigerators and cabinets, but the reason was the complaints and fears of the servants of the house, which had met several times against half-naked punks who ate with their hands in an area of \u200b\u200bthe house that his staff felt for three generations and which should always rule the laws of the Empire. That day he had received new complaints from the housekeeper, since one of the punks, the Moroccan, had been tinkering with automatic weapons in the collection and when the old butler rebuked him punk smell a dagger made Bedouin, who always wore taped on his crotch. Coreen was between two fires and would soon have to choose between his friends and servants of the house.
hesitated:
-pigs are smelly bastards, "he said, referring to the two Frenchmen, cl Moroccan, Sudanese and American, who also" contained "nasty habits." I could not tell what, but I sat on a stool to imagine punk half dozen possibilities, as she shone a delicious coffee with cinnamon. When the coffee bubbled and told me that that department had been her mother's grandparents, which was a critique of museums working in New York. The father, twenty years older, had been married for prestige, taking the surname of the woman when they did the old queen knight in return for their 'sevicios spy, or police in India.
Linked to the government oil company, the old man had made a considerable fortune and now spent his last years in Africa, managing properties. My Girl Punk admired him. They also admired his mother. However, concern the relations of the two old with her and her older sister, he said several times that were "smelly bastards." I understood that there was a bank manager of the household expenses, salaries of the servants and chauffeurs and food bills, cleaning and taxes, and the two girls-mine and her sister received fifty pounds. "Pigs smelly," he said again touching the scar and explained that the service-that in times of moisture should be conducted weekly veiticinco cost him pounds, and thus could not live. Asked my opinion. I chose not to take advantage of their parents, but neither wanted to compromise giving your support of that position, to me, morally, it did not seem worthy. Then I kissed her.
drank coffee while the girl went out to fix some issues with their friends. I took advantage of to look a little kitchen, we were in fourth pilot, but one of the shelves are open to the basement of a hundred or more square feet of warehouse and officiating food store. There were hams, sausages and one hundred forty and four boxes with cans of soft drinks and preserves. I saw boxes of whiskey, wines and champagnes from various brands.
against the wall facing my stairs, slept thousands of bottles of wine, lying on wooden racks very soft white.
There was a smell of spices in place. I figured a stock enough food for an entire family and friends besieged Argentine could withstand the siege of the Norman invaders of six moons, until the arrival of the liberating armies of King Charles, and the advance of the attackers, forcing us to launch our last reserves of granite ball with the big turret catapult the west, appeared again my princess punk, which record the heat of battle, again locking the door double-locked and looked at me face apology.
I said, say, which seemed justified fear of their servants. "You never know," he said in English, and I explained in English "is not easy to know." She shrugged and said his friends were capable of anything, "as poor Charlie." I wanted to know who was "Poor Charlie" and told me he was a relative, who had made famous when he pulled the ears of a baby in Gilderdale aged Gardens but now forgotten in an asylum near Dundall, pretending to be crazy to avoid a conviction.
Then he asked my name and my parents and laughed. He also returned to tell me about his scar, which had cost fifty pounds, the price of your weekly pension "as a substance of fact." The bank liquidated fifty pounds a week to my girl and as many of her older sister, but the makeup required service. (I'm sure you've written, but she returned to tell me and I am respectful of my protagonists. Art, I must bear witness to the reality, not to become in a clumsy way of masturbation, because there are better.) needed to service the scar and prevent him from, among other things, the practice of swimming and water skiing. Coreen loved skiing and stays long time outdoor humidity and invited me to a joint: a joint. I refused because I had drunk a lot, I was drunk with plans, and did not want a sudden drop of my blood pressure will destroy them. My Girl drenched the role of small joint with a creamy liquid which he kept in his Coke miniature gold pendant. "Oil of heroin," he said. She had been addicted and frying the little juices that soaked the paper and the grass reassured her wishes.
was a year that came out of the habit, fear falling back into the puncture that had killed his best friends one night in Paris, septicemia and now wanted to heal and get out of that because his pension was not enough to overcome the habit, and many service problems brought him to her makeup artist. Then again leave me alone in the kitchen, went to the bathroom and I stole a can of cheese cellar cammembert, and as I was eating it with my wooden spoon, I did a tour of the kitchen units, art testimonial. Amen
several vertical furnaces, and a great home covered with mud to make bread in the next room had an electric grilling machine, with a spiedo that would measure ten feet wide by a circumference. I figured that a people's way to the grill there could release half a dozen Mormon missionaries with a thousand desperate for his fervent Watussi aliquot of sweetish meat roti Mormon missionary. Beyond the room was the gas tank pipe, wood, coal and spices. The place smelled of garlic, but garlic but did not see a laurel wreath and jute bags with herbs that I did not know qualify. "Romero? "Peter Nollys? "Kelpsias? Go one to distinguish the preferences of those maniacs sophisticated British magnates ...! When Coreen-My Girl Punk, mistress of the house was the "bathroom, locked the door between the kitchen of office-to which she called" home "in English in the classroom where his friends were yelling outrageous. I do not know what you have told them, but as a summary lice said that they were bastards, seriously. Lit another joint with the glow of my 555, and - Achalay! - We went with him to suck his sister's bedroom, where we would sleep, for his inordinate came the previous evening.
The hallway leading to rooms, was guarded by large paintings that looked like good quality. I noticed the floor: oak slats whole extended over fifteen or twenty meters. No carpet or any luster, white wood repolishing evoked cover me those clippers that are made to build the noble band of Disraeli was about to spend their holidays in Gibraltar. A waste! Sister's room was spacious, carpeted soberly, and in one corner was a tiger skin in another, a zebra and other thick skins viel I assumed would be some exotic sheep, because they were bigger than the skins of sheep bigger than my eyes have seen and that any human could imagine with no joints or substances embedded in X. We
bed. Third disappointment the narrator: My Girl Punk was as clean as any flowers or chitrula Belgrano R. Nothing predictable in English and all discordant with my expectations of what punk. Sheets ...! The sheets were softer than the best hotel I met in my life! Yo, that my former profession camouflarme used in all first-class hotels and I even slept-in cases of errors in the reserves thus treated reparare managers special suites for wedding nights or for VIP guests, I never felt in my skin so soft fibers such as soft silk sheets that smelled of lime, bergamot or buds on the eve of the opening of their cups. Third reader's disappointment, I never slept with a girl punk. Worse, I never saw girls punk, and I was in London, and I was stamped as the doors of homes of distinction. I can prove it: Since March 1976 I have not made love with other people. (She left, went to the fifth, never again, never called me again. The men breached through others. We have forgotten, I think I've forgotten). Fourth
narrator's disappointment: I will not say she was a virgin, but it was more awkward than the worst girl in the neighborhood of Belgrano virgin or Centennial Park. Midway through that (love?) I went off to recite the litany well known by any visitor to London: "Ai ai Camin Camin Camin ai ai ai camin way", yelling, screaming, shouting, replacing the familiar "voi ai ai ai voi voi voi ai" of the babe of my payment, which join the more disturbed man in the haystack of doubt about the nature of this sacred site they say go to the girls in the southern hemisphere and come to believe their British counterparts. But you do all this for a living and molds. Go if it fits! For example: And then fell asleep. Was it the wine or drugs, but fell asleep smiling, and his body was seized with a wondrous softness. I checked my watch: it was 5.30 and could not sleep a wink, perhaps because of coffee, or what you add to coffee. I checked
the books piled on the bedside table sister's room (she my girl Punk. Good books! Blake, Woolf, Sollers: good literature. Cortázar in English! (Must see one of those stately beds it seems since the late Cortázar in English!) had physical manuals and serial numbers of many natural sciences and Systems Theory.
to separate some reported that it was this theory that I know but justified tub monthly publication was already the number one hundred thirty-four. I looked at. interesting enrich my conversation for a while.
walked on that quote was the sister of My Punk Girl with her boyfriend. The girl said her name was Dianne and naturalist, Marxist, studying biology, he hated drugs, punks despised and did not take anything good that we were lying in her room, but concealed. When he spoke, his expression grew more serious as a reproach to a nude from his own bed, to be addressed to her in English as a kid.
not like and she could not hide it more.
Instead boyfriend showed me sympathy. He was a biology student, naturalist, Marxist, deeply hated the punks and expressed a strong disdain for drugs and their customers.
I think it not been for the episode meeting and the irritation of his girlfriend, could have taken tub profitable friendship. I was invited to their fruits, very delicious, like the medlar and very refreshing, which eradicated the gustito my gums to Coreen. She, in spite of our conversation in a loud voice, my cries Anglo-Argentine, my laughter, and 1 () s crusts laugh at my jokes achieved any of the biologist, did not wake up.
I told the guys dress and I had to leave, waiting for me in my hotel. They said it was not necessary, always slept on the floor for hygienic reasons and that I could keep reading, because "'the light of the light does not bother us." So they said. Stripped, stretched out on a bear skin and eyes were covered up with an Indian blanket. He immediately went into a deep sleep and sleep and breathe saw at the same rate, and agarraditos backs of hands. But I could not sleep, I turned off the light from the light and I spent some time watching and listening to the contrast between breaths symmetrical partner, and Coreen, stronger and more sinuous rhythm.
turned on the light and checked the clock: the seven would soon dawn. I stroked the hair of my girl, her face, her shoulders and arms prettiest, and I almost made love again, but I feared that an involuntary movement might wake her. I took to look at your skin delicate and smooth. Anything punk, very aristocratic skin of my girl. She studied well the hole in the nose, measuring six millimeters wide and formed a five-pointed star. Or was five millimeters and had six-pointed star? Never looked back. Appropriate enough for this story was drawn with precision and must be the work of a plastic surgeon who will be charged no less than five hundred pounds in fees. A waste! I looked at the scar on the left half of my girl, had lost color and was caked by rubbing my chin to the two-day beard became abrasive. I just imagine that in the afternoon Next, on waking, I would keep my little girl Punk grudge for that. I wrote a note saying that the service was to my office and left him fastened with a clip with a fifty pound bought so cheap in Buenos Aires in the throat of his boots astrakhan. Thus assumed my responsibility, and she does not need to wait another week to put his scar to zero kilometer. I acted as a man and Argentine and although nobody ever Atine determine expected punk people, I could not allow the other day my little girl is bitter and walked all the discotheques in London suggesting that we are sons of bitch disturb his scars and do not pay the service, fading even more horrible image of my country for some time to inculcate in young Europeans. I dressed. To leave the room lights turned off. To unlock the lock out of the kitchen but I closed it again and slid the key under the door. The punks still fighting: the African accused the other have not woken for dinner. Another cried, I think it was French. I heard a syllable
rare: it was someone who spoke in Dutch.
Thank God I found a taxi and were not well out into the street, cold as a Russian dagger forgotten by the Russian geologist fresh out the fridge of a hotel next to the Middle Paraná suspended works.
The next afternoon, I read in The Guardian that during the night fourteen homeless, because of the cold, had died, or crepe, stretching without rancor their twenties wandering feet English, in the heart of the city of London.
They do not know how many degrees Fahrenheit, I estimate that would be about ten degrees below zero, penny, penny less. In the hotel I stuck a bath and warm and the water up the nose, I read in the international edition of Clarín beautiful news of my homeland. I wanted to return.
next day I flew to Bonn and then went to Copenhagen. On the fourth day was most rampant in London and not well settled in the hotel I wanted to find my girl Punk. He had his phone, his name was not on the board of the old city. I ran home. I received friendly Ferdinand, the groom's sister, my girl was in New York visiting his mother and then jump to Zambia to meet with the parent. again only in late April, and he invited me to go because at that time left for college, where he gave classes cytology. Ferdinand nice guy: Morris had a black and prudently managed through rougb hour of that winter afternoon. Expressed concern that came to him for a year failing the indicator lights of the little car swing. I suggested that it should be a fuse, surely that was most likely would happen to Morris. Ruminated a while and finally gave my hypothesis: I do not know, maybe you're right ...
I left at Victoria Station where I had to buy a catalog of weapons and articles about big game for my people of Buenos Aires.
We parted warmly. The dealer of Aldwick was an English Jew of beard and curly black locks, lubricated with blue highlights.
bookseller between him and the Embankment, a Pakistani-ended to spoil the evening with his little collaboration and veiled censorship of my accent. The Jew asked me what my source, the Pakistani asked me where I came from. Answered in both cases the truth. What could I say? Was hanging out with fuss and stated bluntly when more of them? What would have done in my place ...? Many would see in a situation like that sad winter evening English ...! Dark. Final, we are the night was falling over. When he heard the word "Argentina", the Jewish dealer made a gesture with his hands spread it to me, clenched his fists, broke his thumbs and elbows turned in a circle with the ends of the fingers. Not quite understand, but I figured it would be a ritual gesture linked to the way of naming them.
The paqui, when he heard her say "Buenos Aires, Argentina, South," he arranged his turban violet and adopted a pose of a Greek dancer, type Zorba (Or would be a folk dance pose from their land ...?). Turned in the air, hissed rhythmically clapped their hands and (very tune sang the phrase "cidade maravilhosa dincantos thousand", but leaning against the melody of the operetta Evita.
Then turned back, touched his ass with both hands was applauded, and was very happy showing perfect teeth of ivory.
I envied and asked God to die, but did not die. Argentina then smiled and he smiled his way and I looked at the piece visible from London after the glass of his window, night was pure heaven, had to leave several times and pointed to my watch to rush it. It was nasty bad that mulatto son of a bitch, but, as every owner of British trade, was petulant and achanchado: it took almost an hour to find a simple catalog of Webley & Scott. So they will ...
say, because everything would have been like if we had not given up our standing position -Integrating it (love?) The habitat of dreams: the horizontal, the darkness of the room, the darkness inside our bodies that.
First disappointment of the reader in this story I'm male. I met the girl in front of a window of Marble Arch was ten-thirty, cold to the bone, had completed the film, not a soul in the streets. The girl was blond, did not see his face then. She was with two other girls punk. Mine, the blonde, was skinny and he moved with grace, despite her punk outfit and a roll punk punk gestures clearly. Cold to the bone, I have had. Marked two or three degrees below zero and ice cream north wind clawed her face in Oxford Street and Regent Street. Les four-I and those three girls looked the same punk-stained glass. In the promised warm inside the tent, a computer playing chess alone. A poster announcing the features and price of the machine: 1,856 lbs. White earned the right side of the machine. Black had lost the initiative, was awarded his defense and accused the disadvantage of a central pawn. White
had been attacking with a wedge of pawns protecting his lady, lounging in four tower king. When the three girls were approached turn black. Black doubted in two or maybe fifteen Again it was the scene L16 or L18, and the onlookers, nobody at that time, the cold, they could have reset the game because a small printer came playing the chess game code, and a graph, which consisted machine on your screen in a few seconds, showed the image of the board in every phase of strategic development after the game. The girls spoke a slang that I did not understand, laughed, and without paying any attention went their way westward into Regent Street. At these times, one could look all over the city devastated by the cold without feeling almost human presence, except the three girls leaving.
Near Selfridges someone to expect a bus, because a shadow slipped into the red booth waiting buses and some encouragement had clouded the glass. Perhaps mankind is on the glass, rubbing his hands, writing his name, "scribbling a heart or the emblem of his football team, maybe not.
I confirmed its existence shortly thereafter, when a bus bound for Kings Road and someone stood up. As he passed by our window, half empty, I could see the shadow of the hut had become an aged woman, ragged, trading your ticket.
few cars passed. Most taxis, hunting a passenger, heated, slow, diesel, free. Few private cars passed, Daimlers, Jaguars, Bentleys. In its leading front seats Grave men, mature, sensitive to flashing signs.
At left, ancestral women, makeup for party or the opera, seemed to supervise. A Rolls stood before my glassmaker Selfridges and the driver take a look at the computer, (rehearsing the play 127, turn white), and said something to his wife, a sour-profile gray and bright rings. I could not hear, bulletproof glass windows of these cars make up a tight space, almost Masonic: unfathomable. Shortly
Rolls then walked away as he had arrived at the corner of Glowcester Street hesitated at the light, as if flirting with the green light just been lit. First disappointment of the narrator: the computer tables in the scene ordered 147. If I were white, changing tower and threatening horse overdrawn check, would claim to black favorable an exchange of queens, pawns given my advantage and my best positional situation. I went with rage: he had slept all afternoon on that Friday and it was early to get into the hotel.
Cold to the bone. He wore jeans under a polar-English suit he had bought for a friend under sail at Port Belgrano premiere that night I decided to test him against the terrible cold that the BBC announced.
Her body felt warm, but the mouth and nose ached with cold. The hands in the deep pockets of the jacket duvet, so feared an encounter with the cold air that forced me to resist the fierce pack of like smoking, screaming and waving back of the throat, inside of me. In my outer ears were disappearing: sooner or later dies, or chilblains, if not defended, tried to take shelter with the flaps of my jacket. No hands, had the tips of the flaps between the teeth and so biting and cold, I entered a taxi smelled of diesel fuel and sweat of the driver, and once installed in the enjoyment of that smell tibión, I appointed a corner of Soho and lit a cigarette.
Outdoor anyone. Cold to the bone. English, forward, driving, was a statue full of scent and sleep. Before downloading, I checked they had taxis around the area saw several. I paid with a paper and only after receiving the change I opened my door. Cold air I strafed the face and throat I froze, because the flaps, buckets of saliva deposited on my skin had a slight film of slime, now struck me with their balloons brittle frost.
saw few people in Chinatown London: as always, some Arab and African slum bouncing out knob. In one corner, a group of persons, workers, petty surveillance, perhaps some unfortunate homeless illusion around a little fire of firewood and improvised by a black paper's newsstand. I walked the three or four blocks from the neighborhood that I recognize as I found where to put me on the corner of Charing Cross opened the left rear door of a green taxi, got, say the name of my hotel that night and decided to eat at my room a spicy burger and a salad rather salty thirst to strengthen both deserve beer in Ireland. Too bad TV done so early in London! I checked my watch: it was eleven, was barely half an hour of excellent British programming. Conté
cold, told the polar-suit. Now I am going to tell me: the cold, to the bone, discouraged any resident and any visitor of the ancient city, it was a cold English background, a cold fact of time and distance and - why not? - also made of more cold and fear, and it was a cold arctic mass resulting from the cold spell that was being advertised and promoted for days in endless cuts informative radio and television. Indeed, radio and television, newspapers and magazines and people, employees and vendors, the guys in the hotel and the ladies that you know buying records-all did not speak but the cold snap and the amazing intensity that had reached promotion of the cold snap the bone.
I'm chilly, usually chilly, but I've never been so chilly as to ignore the campaign on the freezing cold so we came, or else, that the very cold snap that was pouring into the capital semiobsoleta.
But I was already in the street, had no desire to return to my hotel and needed to be in a place that was not my room, protected from cold and carefully protected from any reference to cold. Then I saw, two blocks before the hotel, a local who days ago had struck me. It was a pizza place called The Lulu, which did not exist at the time of my last trip.
I remembered well that place because it was the tourist office in Romania in which once did some paperwork for my Italian customers.
From the taxi I read the poster, which proved that the bowling remained open, I saw customers eating, I noticed that the decor was poor but honest, and tables and white wicker chairs cleaning induced a promising concept. I hit
Glasses driver, I paid 60 pence, I lowered the car and went into the pizzeria.
was a pizzeria in English, with English waiters, patterns, English and English clients who knew each other as they shouted, in English, from table to table, opinions, English, and English phrases. I promised not to play that game and in my best English I ordered a spinach pizza girl and a bottle of Chianti. The boy, if I had had a reasonable period of exile in London, I will have been a passenger on the continent, or a native of the Commonwealth a marginal neighborhood, maybe a Malvinas.
I had in the pocket of his jacket issue Aerial daily La Nacion, but avoided showing it for not informing my English-speaking character. The Chianti-bottling Argelera delicious: between him and the warm air of the place was established in three minutes affinity redeemed me from the cold.
But the pizza was mediocre, hard and tasteless. Chewed happily, like, reading my cuts Financial Times and tourism magazine that hit the hotel. I was more hungry and ordered another pizza, claiming to cast him more salt. The second pizza was better, but the waiter had looked at me wrong, perhaps because I found studying their movements, perplexed because of the similarity that can run a story between a young English pizzeria English, English and other pizzeria waiter in Paris, or Rosario. I chose to name both Rosario to Buenos Aires. Dear.
Masqué pizza number two monitor developments in the metals markets in the last fortnight, a nonsense. Prices than the USSR and the newly rich oil continued to inflate with his wild procurement policy did not bode well for Western Europe. Then there were the three girls punk. Were the same three who had been in Selfridges. Mine chose the worst table by the window, his buddies followed. The fat, their carrot-colored hair dyed, stood looking at my table. The other, tall very low and toad-faced, had hair dyed green and the flap of his coat carried a stuffed bird that I thought I'd be a nightingale. I was disgusted. Fortunately, the ugly face with bird and frog was placed facing the street, showing only the opaque surface of the back of greasy coat. Mine, the blonde, landed on his wicker chair looking a little to the fat, a little to the street, I could only see his profile as he ate my pizza and tried to imagine what it would be a nightingale.
A Mockingbird: Banchs reminded of that sonnet.
The other type is also called himself and was deputy Banchs corvette or frigate. It was December, I had crossed many times during the year was ending. That same morning, sipping my coffee, had come to talk to me I do not know why opening of painters, and I mentioned the poet, and he named Banchs swore he heard that Henry Banchs appoint the first time in his life . Then I understood why the lieutenant did not know the existence of polar-suit (at my packet with Helly Hansen was amazed) and also toured Europe understood why wasting their dollars, trying to drop you to all cute and looking for Argentine residents sneak across party which had American. Smoking Gitanes in this also seemed to Nono.
never saw a nightingale. Was to finish the pizza and behind me came a whiff of musk.
looked. The ugliest of the Galician bottom of the table was sitting. Would come from the bathroom, have all his horrible body spray with a spray of Chanel, Patou, Sue or any of those "now you add all your perfumes musk. What would the smell of my girl punk? I myself, as such Banchs, I was sentenced to ascertain and determine, missing very little to finalize the pizza and the little matter of the prices of metals. But something happened out of my head.
owners, the waiters and other customers, in whole or mostly English, I watched. I was the only witness to what they were seeing and that should increase my value to them. Three
had entered the local punks, I was the only English is not able to testify that it happened, who had not called, they were not punk and that there was no one except the three girls punk punk punk had no local that had been trampled by at least a quarter of an hour. Only I was to testify that the bad pizza and excellent local wine was not from any point of view anything that could be considered punk. So I watched, for it seemed to need that time. Locked
look at my girl, because the shape of the bird stuffed and covered her face toad increasingly, I concentrated on my pizza and my reading disregarding the knowing glances of so many English. Al termianar pizza and reading, I asked for it, I went to the bathroom and wash my inane pish and there I did a long scrub with hot hot water from the tap. Since the mirror, how happy nitro rose pink tones of the cheeks and forehead real. Had been born again my ears, I was happy.
Returning an unjustifiable rodeo allowed me to skim the table of girls and look better than mine: had beautiful blue eyes almost transparent and assembly features that are most like to go, those who are called "aristocratic", because the aristocrats seeking to incorporate their progeny, taking them by members of the populace with the secret order to improve or refine their inherited genetic capital. Wildflowers! Cinderellas of the masses who swallow the insatiable chromosomes sir! It starts in your future wing eggs travel in the innermost dreams of the genetic program of the master). It is known, in times of change, the best of physiognomic heritable property (such sensitive skin, those eyes transparent, accurate features such noses "chiseled" under silky eyelids and just above the lips and gums and tongue tips of perfect crimson flashes which flooded by proclaiming the interior beauty of the aristocratic body) is usually resign in exchange for a field in Morocco, most of New Bank shares such a heroic action the last war or a National Prize of Medicine, and spring and flat noses, small eyes, mouths and skin chirlonas chagrined at the little bodies of the recent offspring of the highest aristocracy, forcing the aristocratic families and poor families rely on the mob looking for good blood traits and herd correct restoring aesthetic balance of the generations that will catapult their names and a bit of themselves, to go to know where at some unlikely a century of the future.
The girl I liked. He wore a baggy man's suit, three or more numbers greater than their size.
of normal height, weigh no more than 44 kilos. your skin so soft (some of it reminded me of Grace Kelly, some of it reminded me of Catherine Deneuve) was more than attractive to me. Astrakhan wore booties perfect, as opposed to making his scratchy wool suit. Oxford shirt collar was open at the height of bust showing something that I thought her skin and realized later that it was bath jacket gymnast. She, to me, and looked at me.
But instead, her friend, the most gorda, la del pelo teñido color naranja, venía emitiendo una onda asaz provocativa. No quise sugerir sexual: provocativo, como buscando riña, como buscando o planificando un ataque verbal, como buscando tina humillación, como ella misma habría mirado a un oficial de la policía inglesa. Así mirábame la gorda de pelo zanahoria. La mía, en cambio no me mira ha. Pero. . .
Tampoco miraba a sus acompañantes. Miraba hacia la calle vacía de transeúntes, con las pupilas extraviadas en el paso del viento. Así me dije: "se pierde su mirada pincelando el frío viento de Oxford Street". Era etérea. Esa nota, lo etéreo, es la que mejor habría definido a mi muchacha para mí, de no mediate those attitudes punk and punk details, wearing, punk, and the carelessness, negligence punk her. For example, cigarette smoking leaf took them with a gesture exhultante Southern European, strong whistled and threw smoke insidiously against the glass of the window. When passing by his table he saw in his hands a yellow, saffron, snuff tar. And dirty hands I ever saw tar snuff like my girl punk! The index, the largest and the ring on his right, from nails to the knuckles, were embedded deep yellow that can only get a heavy smoker for the first joint of the index finger, after years of smoking washed and avoiding smoking. I was impressed. But it was beautiful, something Catherine Deneuve and Isabelle Adjani something at that moment I could not define: I was confused. I paid the bill, I took the hindrance of my bottle of Chianti in the green glass of the restaurant, and drink in hand, so British, "as if it were a patron of a pub confianzudo, I approached the table of punk girls taking risks . Before leaving he had calculated my chance, one in five, one in ten in the worst case, was justified. I tell it in English: - "I can I sit? The three looked punk. The fat punk stroking his victory should believe that I was down to demand explanations their eyes provocative punk. To avoid a rapid rejection sat down without waiting for answers. To avoid discouragement took a sip of wine in my gullet. To avoid impress looked up, pushing my bird embalsalmado visual field. The fat laughing. The punk looked at my green hair, looked the other way, blew smoke from his cigar against nothing, looked at me and without looking he took a sip of that mixture of Coca Cola and Chianti that was prepared on the previous page But I, with this rush to write it, had forgotten to register.
Said the bird
punk - What do you want? "No, sit ... Being here as a substance in fact ... "I said in English cachuzo.
my funny accent certainly spurred the desire to know the fat - Where do you come from ...? He barked.
The question was strong, aggressive, contemptuous.
-In South America ... Brazil and Argentina, "I said, to save a crippling fill the narrative explanation of platitudes. I wondered if he was English, was surprised, "How can one come from Brazil and Argentina not to be British?", I figured I would have imagined it.
Would an Englishman? -No. I'm South American, mourned, "I said.
-Wide Field-South America rages loose.
"Yes, far away. So far. I'll be back next month, "he said.
"Oh yeah ... I see said the blind staring at the face of frog swing his head as if confirming the most elaborate theory of the universe. Then he spoke for the first time and only for me my girl Punk. His voice was delicious and timbre in this paragraph: - What do you do here? Inquired his verbal melody.
"Nothing," I walk, and I remembered a model that always went well with beatniks and hippies and I thought I could work with punks. What I tested: "I enjoy meeting people and then traveled ... Know people, do you understand? ... Travel ... Know ... People! .. Huh.? Ah ..! So ..! People ..!
worked: my girl's face lit up Punk.
"I love to travel, was reeling off without looking at me. I know Africa, India and the States (meaning USA). I think I know almost everything. I no I've never been to Portugal! How is Portugal? He asked.
composed a Portugal to measure:
-Portugal is full of wonder ... Precious lives there rather interesting and good. We live a full wave different from ours ... Seguí
so, and she was wrapped in my story. The perceived by the discomfort that began to show their punk friends. I confirmed by that light I saw his face grow aristocratically punk.
she whispers:
"Once my plane touched ground in Lisbon and I wanted to go down, but not allowed," he said. Meeting people from Lisbon Airport are pigs dirty bastards. Is not that ... Lisbon, Portugal? -. The doubt in her voice tinkled.
"Yes, indoctrinate, but in all airports are alike: they are all dirty stinking lousy bastards.
"As taxi drivers, so are the fat," she interrupted, shaking the smoke of their Players. "As the gatekeepers
hotel, dirty bastards, "conceded pajarófora frog fat face, still.
"As booksellers," said mine - Sons of a bitch! -. And floating in the air, ethereal.
"Yes, of course," I said, celebrating the agreement between the four.
Then something unexpected happened, the green hair spoke to the fat:
"Let us go, let these work on his own, eh ... , And unrolled a fiver, supported it on the plate of the bill, got up and left pulling in its wake in the face of a toad. Well I had seen that they had sunk to ten or fifteen pounds, but left to be deleted, that simplified the story.
-Bay, Borges' he cried Toad's face from the sidewalk, threatening to draw from his waist a little sword or a dagger does not exist, then I was glad to see so much ugliness sinking into the cold, and yet I was glad, thinking about attending another proof that the sporting prestige of my country had crossed the worst social boundaries of London. My girl asked why he had not greeted: "Because they're a dirty motherfucker waxes.
- See? "He said showing me little notes of five pounds that was taking from his pocket to complete payment of the account. I nodded.
As a kestrel, which through the dense clouds of a stormy sky discover the movements of small prey in the grass, attracted by the flow of pounds, a very Galician boy sprang to his side in front of me. He winked, charged, received a tip a few Penns my girl dropped in his saucer, and I ordered another bottle of Chianti and two of Coke and she returned a beautiful gesture, opened her mouth slightly pursed nose raised eyebrow on the same side and shook his head as if to return the ball to someone who would have thrown from behind.
guessed it would be a gesture of agreement. Shortly thereafter, its so greedy to drink the wine mixture and Coca Cola, has just confirmed that the presumption of time-everything had been a gesture of agreement.
I was named Coreen. It was ethereal: the middle of the dialogue her eyes wandered along through the window of the pizzeria English of Graham Avenue in the wind of the street. We took two bottles of Chianti, three of Coke. She mixed those colors in my cup. I drink wine for pleasure and thirst for Coke to have brought pizza, local heat and the same desire to find out the outcome of my story of the Girl Punk. The I invited to my hotel. He declined.
spoke:
"If I go to your hotel, you'll need them pay for my stay. It is nonsense, "she said and invited me to his house. Before leaving in aliquots pay all drunk, but I need to talk more about it. I already wrote that he had aristocratic features. At this point in our relationship (it was 12.30, not a soul in the street, cold English story calaba bones, Argentina, the narrator), I wish mine had stripped it of any initial snobbery. My Girl-aristocratic or punk, that did not matter, "I whipped up: I strayed and by the increasing heat, it was a blind man, yo. I was already dead body of a drowned fingerprints as the current, informer, enters the fiord boyando where everything becomes nothing. But before, when I saw outside my window of Selfridges had noticed strange details, neatly punk, in its thin face, his left cheek was very strong, so I did not know how or why, and the right side of his face had a peculiar because the right wing of his nose, leaned-credible piece of gold foil (I thought) that drawing a camber on the right cheek stood to be inserted into the ear of corn, I thought gold, spoiling his ear lobe the way of a fancy earring. The stem of the stem, about two inches, hung another chain, thicker, falling on his neck freely and had just in miniature can of Coke, metal, gold and red enamel was always going back and forth brushing the blond hair, shoulder and chest, or hit the green glass causing a voice like his music, and sometimes installed , still, on his beautiful white collar bone, curved like the soul of a crossbow, harmonica as a stroke of tai chi. During our conversation I learned that he had thought before bullion was eighteen karat gold, and discovered that he had thought a grain of almost life-size corn applied to the brim of his nose was a gold piece with a grain of corn and almost life-size, supported by a delicate locking mechanism, which crossed shamelessly and entirely left the alite his beautiful nose. She showed me the hole, making a little leverage with the nail of your index saffron, between maize and skin to look better star-shaped hole, about four millimeters in diameter. Was your pussy hole ... ! The left side, which early in Oxford Street had seemed a mark on his cheek, was a deep scar, about an inch long, that seemed caused by something very sharp. Plied that pit three seams rather messy, work of an amateur, or a first-year practitioner of medicine more clumsy than the average British medical practitioners and in the absence of the heads of the guard. Second disappointment of the narrator: the scar on the left, unlike the gold stuff right side, was false. He had forged a makeup artist and my little girl was grieved, for he had begun to shed moisture and cold and now needed a service to retrieve its color and consistency.
Shortly before we left, she went to the bathroom and I was surprised again at the table wondering:
- What's wrong with you? He asked in English. What are you thinking?
"Nothing," I replied. I thought of this damn cold scars marring ...
But I lied: I had thought of that cold just for a moment. After the street had looked at the orientation was nothing, and tried to imagine what would walk by the few people who, from time to time, producing short breaks in the record of that empty cityscape. I touched the frosted glass, smelled the edges of the green crown of it to recognize its scent, and came to think of the figures that were happening behind the glass, hazy with steam from the pizza man. Then I wondered why any human moving through the streets, I always seemed to cover an Irish terrorist, carrying messages, instructions, loads of plastic, miniature medical equipment and all that they cherish and move, by night, from house to house, from town to town, from shop to shop, and even anywhere elsewhere. "Why?" "I asked" Why is it? " Trying to understand, while being close to my beautiful little girl would pish, or washing with warm water, and when just pulling the thread of the warmth of her image, exploded a grenade into a thousand fragments of visions and intimate associations, intense, but along the roads, for Argentine and shameful, disloyal to her. Is there a God? I do not think there is a God, but something or someone punished, because when I noticed he was being unfair and ignoble Punk with my little girl and I felt that began to grow in my body or my soul, the delightful idea of \u200b\u200bsin, flashed through the window as a cyclist, and I saw him ride suspension in the cold and I knew this was the man whose false French passport concealed the identity of the former Jesuit IRA would ever break out with their plastic pump the pub where I was, waiting for some bureaucrat in BAT, find my purpose and then closed my eyes, clenched fists I saw my temples and hurry to go there the path of the pub, he stretched forth from there, I ran after her breathing the perfumed air and April in London, and at the instant of attaining Sorry together the explosion, and she hugged me, and I saw in his eyes blue two mirrors that man's arms around my Girl Punk was just me but the skin Jesuit dug by smallpox, and guessed that soon between pieces of masonry and twisted flippers, Scotland Yard identify the fragments of an author 'who could never write with the history of Girl Punk. But now she was there, out of the text and began to hear my sentence: '"Nothing ... I thought of this damn cold that ruins scars ... "I heard it.
And then bowed his head (Irish chau!), I fixed his blue mirror and say "thank you" in English ("Thank you", he said in his tongue with your tongue), and the English middle of the night made me feel grateful for my sympathy, I, against the cold, to fight for the consevación of his beautiful scar and also grateful that I was me, as I am, and that it was built as it is, as I did, as I wished.
my tears must have been warned. I justified: "I had flu
. . . thereto. . . The cold makes me sad, it's a letdown ...! "Lt me downs!" translated. That abájame! - Let the hotel! "I said, and without tears.
- Hotel no! She said, history repeats itself.
not insist. I did not know, I still do not know, "how can one impose its will on a young punk. We left the cold seeped. Bones. Not a soul. The streets. I called a taxi. The did not stop. Soon came another. He stopped and climbed. Driver smelled of sweat and oil gas. My Girl named a street and several numbers. imagined I would live in a slum in a pigsty of subsurface ice or in a loft and I figured I'd share the room with half a dozen smelly punks and drug addicts, which at that point of the night would crawl on the ground remains disputing food, or worse, the remains of a hypodermic unsterilized that circulate among them with the same arrogant ease with which our gauchos are left sucking their mate piorreicas cold bulbs and washing. I was wrong: she lived in an apartment paquetísimo opposite Hyde Park. At the door of the building said "Shadley House. At the door of his apartment, double swing, bronze and lust, "he said" RH Shadley. "
"It's the home of my family," said Punk humble me and move on to a great reception. On the right, the armory preserved hunting trophies and numerous short and long arms were displayed alongside other, more medium-sized, glass tables and windows. On the left, had a room upholstered with bordeaux satin quilted gleaming in the light of three chandeliers big as Volkswagens. The entry corridor opened into a music room where voices sounded. Passing through the door she yelled "hello" and a voice returned in a string of rudeboys French. I went back, I heard, memorized our prayer "queterrecontra" and with a lightning glance, looked dirty mouth and glory in the classroom. Not identified. Instead I saw two pianos, a small concert stage, several old chairs and two sofas facing each other.
Among them, on cushions, half a dozen smelly punks disputing smoked hashish in French for something which I did not to understand.
A black skeleton lay naked and lying on the purple carpet. For its thinness and the greenish color of her skin seemed like a corpse, but then I saw his ribs that moved spasmodically and reassured me: epilepsy. I figured that the black
punk in his dreams would be dying of cold, but I would not be a punk who shelter dogs that night, while he, punk, punk busted drug among many stupid friends punk.
Copamos the kitchen. My girl told me that the frogs in the music room were "his people" and lock the door while I explained that they were off & screwed ("angry" he said) with her because they were prohibited from entering the kitchen. They argued that it was a "miserable bitch", believing that the closure was due to his desire to prevent depredations on refrigerators and cabinets, but the reason was the complaints and fears of the servants of the house, which had met several times against half-naked punks who ate with their hands in an area of \u200b\u200bthe house that his staff felt for three generations and which should always rule the laws of the Empire. That day he had received new complaints from the housekeeper, since one of the punks, the Moroccan, had been tinkering with automatic weapons in the collection and when the old butler rebuked him punk smell a dagger made Bedouin, who always wore taped on his crotch. Coreen was between two fires and would soon have to choose between his friends and servants of the house.
hesitated:
-pigs are smelly bastards, "he said, referring to the two Frenchmen, cl Moroccan, Sudanese and American, who also" contained "nasty habits." I could not tell what, but I sat on a stool to imagine punk half dozen possibilities, as she shone a delicious coffee with cinnamon. When the coffee bubbled and told me that that department had been her mother's grandparents, which was a critique of museums working in New York. The father, twenty years older, had been married for prestige, taking the surname of the woman when they did the old queen knight in return for their 'sevicios spy, or police in India.
Linked to the government oil company, the old man had made a considerable fortune and now spent his last years in Africa, managing properties. My Girl Punk admired him. They also admired his mother. However, concern the relations of the two old with her and her older sister, he said several times that were "smelly bastards." I understood that there was a bank manager of the household expenses, salaries of the servants and chauffeurs and food bills, cleaning and taxes, and the two girls-mine and her sister received fifty pounds. "Pigs smelly," he said again touching the scar and explained that the service-that in times of moisture should be conducted weekly veiticinco cost him pounds, and thus could not live. Asked my opinion. I chose not to take advantage of their parents, but neither wanted to compromise giving your support of that position, to me, morally, it did not seem worthy. Then I kissed her.
drank coffee while the girl went out to fix some issues with their friends. I took advantage of to look a little kitchen, we were in fourth pilot, but one of the shelves are open to the basement of a hundred or more square feet of warehouse and officiating food store. There were hams, sausages and one hundred forty and four boxes with cans of soft drinks and preserves. I saw boxes of whiskey, wines and champagnes from various brands.
against the wall facing my stairs, slept thousands of bottles of wine, lying on wooden racks very soft white.
There was a smell of spices in place. I figured a stock enough food for an entire family and friends besieged Argentine could withstand the siege of the Norman invaders of six moons, until the arrival of the liberating armies of King Charles, and the advance of the attackers, forcing us to launch our last reserves of granite ball with the big turret catapult the west, appeared again my princess punk, which record the heat of battle, again locking the door double-locked and looked at me face apology.
I said, say, which seemed justified fear of their servants. "You never know," he said in English, and I explained in English "is not easy to know." She shrugged and said his friends were capable of anything, "as poor Charlie." I wanted to know who was "Poor Charlie" and told me he was a relative, who had made famous when he pulled the ears of a baby in Gilderdale aged Gardens but now forgotten in an asylum near Dundall, pretending to be crazy to avoid a conviction.
Then he asked my name and my parents and laughed. He also returned to tell me about his scar, which had cost fifty pounds, the price of your weekly pension "as a substance of fact." The bank liquidated fifty pounds a week to my girl and as many of her older sister, but the makeup required service. (I'm sure you've written, but she returned to tell me and I am respectful of my protagonists. Art, I must bear witness to the reality, not to become in a clumsy way of masturbation, because there are better.) needed to service the scar and prevent him from, among other things, the practice of swimming and water skiing. Coreen loved skiing and stays long time outdoor humidity and invited me to a joint: a joint. I refused because I had drunk a lot, I was drunk with plans, and did not want a sudden drop of my blood pressure will destroy them. My Girl drenched the role of small joint with a creamy liquid which he kept in his Coke miniature gold pendant. "Oil of heroin," he said. She had been addicted and frying the little juices that soaked the paper and the grass reassured her wishes.
was a year that came out of the habit, fear falling back into the puncture that had killed his best friends one night in Paris, septicemia and now wanted to heal and get out of that because his pension was not enough to overcome the habit, and many service problems brought him to her makeup artist. Then again leave me alone in the kitchen, went to the bathroom and I stole a can of cheese cellar cammembert, and as I was eating it with my wooden spoon, I did a tour of the kitchen units, art testimonial. Amen
several vertical furnaces, and a great home covered with mud to make bread in the next room had an electric grilling machine, with a spiedo that would measure ten feet wide by a circumference. I figured that a people's way to the grill there could release half a dozen Mormon missionaries with a thousand desperate for his fervent Watussi aliquot of sweetish meat roti Mormon missionary. Beyond the room was the gas tank pipe, wood, coal and spices. The place smelled of garlic, but garlic but did not see a laurel wreath and jute bags with herbs that I did not know qualify. "Romero? "Peter Nollys? "Kelpsias? Go one to distinguish the preferences of those maniacs sophisticated British magnates ...! When Coreen-My Girl Punk, mistress of the house was the "bathroom, locked the door between the kitchen of office-to which she called" home "in English in the classroom where his friends were yelling outrageous. I do not know what you have told them, but as a summary lice said that they were bastards, seriously. Lit another joint with the glow of my 555, and - Achalay! - We went with him to suck his sister's bedroom, where we would sleep, for his inordinate came the previous evening.
The hallway leading to rooms, was guarded by large paintings that looked like good quality. I noticed the floor: oak slats whole extended over fifteen or twenty meters. No carpet or any luster, white wood repolishing evoked cover me those clippers that are made to build the noble band of Disraeli was about to spend their holidays in Gibraltar. A waste! Sister's room was spacious, carpeted soberly, and in one corner was a tiger skin in another, a zebra and other thick skins viel I assumed would be some exotic sheep, because they were bigger than the skins of sheep bigger than my eyes have seen and that any human could imagine with no joints or substances embedded in X. We
bed. Third disappointment the narrator: My Girl Punk was as clean as any flowers or chitrula Belgrano R. Nothing predictable in English and all discordant with my expectations of what punk. Sheets ...! The sheets were softer than the best hotel I met in my life! Yo, that my former profession camouflarme used in all first-class hotels and I even slept-in cases of errors in the reserves thus treated reparare managers special suites for wedding nights or for VIP guests, I never felt in my skin so soft fibers such as soft silk sheets that smelled of lime, bergamot or buds on the eve of the opening of their cups. Third reader's disappointment, I never slept with a girl punk. Worse, I never saw girls punk, and I was in London, and I was stamped as the doors of homes of distinction. I can prove it: Since March 1976 I have not made love with other people. (She left, went to the fifth, never again, never called me again. The men breached through others. We have forgotten, I think I've forgotten). Fourth
narrator's disappointment: I will not say she was a virgin, but it was more awkward than the worst girl in the neighborhood of Belgrano virgin or Centennial Park. Midway through that (love?) I went off to recite the litany well known by any visitor to London: "Ai ai Camin Camin Camin ai ai ai camin way", yelling, screaming, shouting, replacing the familiar "voi ai ai ai voi voi voi ai" of the babe of my payment, which join the more disturbed man in the haystack of doubt about the nature of this sacred site they say go to the girls in the southern hemisphere and come to believe their British counterparts. But you do all this for a living and molds. Go if it fits! For example: And then fell asleep. Was it the wine or drugs, but fell asleep smiling, and his body was seized with a wondrous softness. I checked my watch: it was 5.30 and could not sleep a wink, perhaps because of coffee, or what you add to coffee. I checked
the books piled on the bedside table sister's room (she my girl Punk. Good books! Blake, Woolf, Sollers: good literature. Cortázar in English! (Must see one of those stately beds it seems since the late Cortázar in English!) had physical manuals and serial numbers of many natural sciences and Systems Theory.
to separate some reported that it was this theory that I know but justified tub monthly publication was already the number one hundred thirty-four. I looked at. interesting enrich my conversation for a while.
walked on that quote was the sister of My Punk Girl with her boyfriend. The girl said her name was Dianne and naturalist, Marxist, studying biology, he hated drugs, punks despised and did not take anything good that we were lying in her room, but concealed. When he spoke, his expression grew more serious as a reproach to a nude from his own bed, to be addressed to her in English as a kid.
not like and she could not hide it more.
Instead boyfriend showed me sympathy. He was a biology student, naturalist, Marxist, deeply hated the punks and expressed a strong disdain for drugs and their customers.
I think it not been for the episode meeting and the irritation of his girlfriend, could have taken tub profitable friendship. I was invited to their fruits, very delicious, like the medlar and very refreshing, which eradicated the gustito my gums to Coreen. She, in spite of our conversation in a loud voice, my cries Anglo-Argentine, my laughter, and 1 () s crusts laugh at my jokes achieved any of the biologist, did not wake up.
I told the guys dress and I had to leave, waiting for me in my hotel. They said it was not necessary, always slept on the floor for hygienic reasons and that I could keep reading, because "'the light of the light does not bother us." So they said. Stripped, stretched out on a bear skin and eyes were covered up with an Indian blanket. He immediately went into a deep sleep and sleep and breathe saw at the same rate, and agarraditos backs of hands. But I could not sleep, I turned off the light from the light and I spent some time watching and listening to the contrast between breaths symmetrical partner, and Coreen, stronger and more sinuous rhythm.
turned on the light and checked the clock: the seven would soon dawn. I stroked the hair of my girl, her face, her shoulders and arms prettiest, and I almost made love again, but I feared that an involuntary movement might wake her. I took to look at your skin delicate and smooth. Anything punk, very aristocratic skin of my girl. She studied well the hole in the nose, measuring six millimeters wide and formed a five-pointed star. Or was five millimeters and had six-pointed star? Never looked back. Appropriate enough for this story was drawn with precision and must be the work of a plastic surgeon who will be charged no less than five hundred pounds in fees. A waste! I looked at the scar on the left half of my girl, had lost color and was caked by rubbing my chin to the two-day beard became abrasive. I just imagine that in the afternoon Next, on waking, I would keep my little girl Punk grudge for that. I wrote a note saying that the service was to my office and left him fastened with a clip with a fifty pound bought so cheap in Buenos Aires in the throat of his boots astrakhan. Thus assumed my responsibility, and she does not need to wait another week to put his scar to zero kilometer. I acted as a man and Argentine and although nobody ever Atine determine expected punk people, I could not allow the other day my little girl is bitter and walked all the discotheques in London suggesting that we are sons of bitch disturb his scars and do not pay the service, fading even more horrible image of my country for some time to inculcate in young Europeans. I dressed. To leave the room lights turned off. To unlock the lock out of the kitchen but I closed it again and slid the key under the door. The punks still fighting: the African accused the other have not woken for dinner. Another cried, I think it was French. I heard a syllable
rare: it was someone who spoke in Dutch.
Thank God I found a taxi and were not well out into the street, cold as a Russian dagger forgotten by the Russian geologist fresh out the fridge of a hotel next to the Middle Paraná suspended works.
The next afternoon, I read in The Guardian that during the night fourteen homeless, because of the cold, had died, or crepe, stretching without rancor their twenties wandering feet English, in the heart of the city of London.
They do not know how many degrees Fahrenheit, I estimate that would be about ten degrees below zero, penny, penny less. In the hotel I stuck a bath and warm and the water up the nose, I read in the international edition of Clarín beautiful news of my homeland. I wanted to return.
next day I flew to Bonn and then went to Copenhagen. On the fourth day was most rampant in London and not well settled in the hotel I wanted to find my girl Punk. He had his phone, his name was not on the board of the old city. I ran home. I received friendly Ferdinand, the groom's sister, my girl was in New York visiting his mother and then jump to Zambia to meet with the parent. again only in late April, and he invited me to go because at that time left for college, where he gave classes cytology. Ferdinand nice guy: Morris had a black and prudently managed through rougb hour of that winter afternoon. Expressed concern that came to him for a year failing the indicator lights of the little car swing. I suggested that it should be a fuse, surely that was most likely would happen to Morris. Ruminated a while and finally gave my hypothesis: I do not know, maybe you're right ...
I left at Victoria Station where I had to buy a catalog of weapons and articles about big game for my people of Buenos Aires.
We parted warmly. The dealer of Aldwick was an English Jew of beard and curly black locks, lubricated with blue highlights.
bookseller between him and the Embankment, a Pakistani-ended to spoil the evening with his little collaboration and veiled censorship of my accent. The Jew asked me what my source, the Pakistani asked me where I came from. Answered in both cases the truth. What could I say? Was hanging out with fuss and stated bluntly when more of them? What would have done in my place ...? Many would see in a situation like that sad winter evening English ...! Dark. Final, we are the night was falling over. When he heard the word "Argentina", the Jewish dealer made a gesture with his hands spread it to me, clenched his fists, broke his thumbs and elbows turned in a circle with the ends of the fingers. Not quite understand, but I figured it would be a ritual gesture linked to the way of naming them.
The paqui, when he heard her say "Buenos Aires, Argentina, South," he arranged his turban violet and adopted a pose of a Greek dancer, type Zorba (Or would be a folk dance pose from their land ...?). Turned in the air, hissed rhythmically clapped their hands and (very tune sang the phrase "cidade maravilhosa dincantos thousand", but leaning against the melody of the operetta Evita.
Then turned back, touched his ass with both hands was applauded, and was very happy showing perfect teeth of ivory.
I envied and asked God to die, but did not die. Argentina then smiled and he smiled his way and I looked at the piece visible from London after the glass of his window, night was pure heaven, had to leave several times and pointed to my watch to rush it. It was nasty bad that mulatto son of a bitch, but, as every owner of British trade, was petulant and achanchado: it took almost an hour to find a simple catalog of Webley & Scott. So they will ...
