cuentos de barro - DSpace Universidad Don Bosco

el coNTaGIo
Después del aguacero de la noche, había
clareado gris, mojado, encharcado,
invernicio... Venía la mañana en ondas
frescas, anegando la oscuridad. Todavía
no daban sombra las cosas; las sombras
eran diluyentes, borrosas como luz
golpeada, como humedad de sal. Se
venía el olor jelado del cielo, con algo
de amoníaco y algo de ropa limpia.
Silbaba, único, un pajarito invisible en
un árbol frondoso; silbaba con dulzura
de agüita plateada. Las hojas nadaban
en los remansos de brisa, como
pececitos oscuros. Iba clareando... Y
el alma, como los matorrales, estaba
empapada de felicidad.
En la casa de la finca, el patio cuadrado
dormía aún. Por el lodito habían pasado
los chuchos. Una teja salediza se había
quedado contando gotas azules,
sobre un charquito que, abajo, bailaba
trompos diagua. Salía el humo de la
galera, como una parra celestial. Don
Nayo, enrollada en la nuca una toalla
barbona, venía por el corredor. Con el
bastón abría un hoyito, y sembraba una
tos; abría un hoyito, y sembraba una
tos. Los murciégalos se iban enchutando
en las rendijas oscuras del tabanco158 ,
como pedradas de noche.
81
THe aPPle DoeSN’T
fall far froM THe
Tree 155
After the downpour of the prior
evening, the morning was gray,
wet, waterlogged, winter-like... 156
The morning light arrived in fresh
waves flooding the darkness. Things
hadn’t given birth to their shadows
yet. Shadows were blurry, faded like
subdued light, like clumps of dirty
snow. 157 Cold aromas wafted from the
sky with the odor of ammonia and smell
of fresh laundry. A single unseen bird in
a leafy tree whistled singing with the
sweetness of silver water. The leaves
were swimming in the backwaters of
the breeze, like dark little fish. It was
getting lighter... And her soul, like
the bushes, was overflowing with
happiness.
At the farmhouse, the square yard was
still asleep. Dogs had walked in the
mud. A dripping bay tile 159 had been
counting blue drops in a tiny puddle on
the ground, forming circles that looked
like spinning tops. Steam rose from the
loft like a heavenly vine. Señor Nayo
was coming down the corridor with
his neck wrapped in a thick towel. As
he walked his cane poked a hole in the
ground and planted a cough; poked
another hole and coughed again.
The bats were flying through the dark
cracks of the barn, like stones hurled at
night.
155. The original story is called “The Contagion.” Tradition says that parents should warn their daughters against
sex so that they don’t get “the infection.”
156. In this context, winter-like means rainy, in the rainy season.
157. Literally, like clumps of wet salt.
158. Desván.
159. Architecture: a protruding rooftile