First pages - In the misty city of captive dolls

(First pages)
In the misty city of captive
dolls
Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos

Copyright © Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos
© edition- La Lluvia de una Noche
Front: La lluvia de una noche
Translated from Spanish by Sebastian, authorized by the Author.
November 2013

Dedicated to the magic of flowers, the breezes, the swallows and springs.

…I know there is beauty in the forest lighted
and magical woman.
Juan Carlos Mestre, La tumba de Keats
Among
life is beautiful.
And worse:
fascinating.
Olga Malaver, Existencias

Synopses
This is a story profoundly linked to affection and to the recollections of its main
character‟s youth and underscoring, as a result, a boy and his two companions in a
mystical mysterious city bursting with undisclosed secrets, where they meet and
fall in love with several women of remarkable beauty and unexpected uniqueness,
who gradually fade out without a trace. The tale appears to spread out,
consequently, from a most intense passionate outbreak or from the hastiest
strangest shudder of tenderness. It is also, it has to be said, a story surrounded all
the way through by certain baffling aura, a thorough frenzy of eroticism and the
setting of an immaculate invincible terror. An overcast account, just like the
unstrained scenery where the outstandingly unusual occurrences take place, and
where sundry damsels and inhibitions vanish and an assortment of diverse
ambiguities flourish and become increasingly as peculiar as the most outlandish of
locations for life itself to be situated.

ZERO
Strange as it may seem, those three women are far more mysterious
and hermetic than the puzzling and semi-illusory city where they live.
Nobody knows, by the way, if one day they were about to drown in a
sea made with butterfly tears, or who knows if in those mystical secret
life’s babblings that take shelter in the flowers of winter. The only thing
that’s known about them, or at least all I can add about the limited
knowledge you have about them, my dear and highly revered friend, is
that they profoundly, intensely and vigorously love the outstanding
exquisite idea of fondling. Indeed! How wouldn’t those three women
cherish the idea of stroking more than anything else in this world, if
they believe them to be like a truly unique dance which is performed
around a most passionate furnace? They also love and are outright
fascinated by the idea of dance, which portrays life itself in their eyes,
being able to speak with a tongue which can raze the forbidden fruits
from heaven and which could well get to the point of talking with a fiery
hallucinated tongue capable of piercing life’s very own glance.

You know what? After thoroughly thinking about it, I’ve decided to help
you putting up with the grime coming off from epileptic nostalgic cogs
of this story. I’ll assist you with the incongruously crackling flames
spawning the interstices of everything you and your two friends went
through in that strange mysterious city you’ll never forget. I’ll lend you a
hand, starting right now, in supporting the weight of a roving song of
luxury and the perfume of each and every one of the reverberations of
delusion and the echo of the various voices of a perpetually
unconsummated oblivion. At the moment, however, my way of aiding is
limited to telling you to be strong. No, don’t give any space to any kind
of nostalgia or destructive sadness. You ought not to let your soul be
smouldered by its own fire. Keep tears from a star or a coldly deferred
moon from leaving you with nothing to live for.
It is quite certain, on the other hand, that in the upcoming lines you’ll
present the story in your own way (in fact, that’s something I could
swear to), so before that, I’ll step in and submit my perspective as the
tale of a relentless flux of temptations, as the chronicle of your soul and

that of your friends, an unconventional city and five beautiful unique
women slightly impregnated with evanescence.

I
The hip-hop festival had begun over three or four hours earlier when
my friend Julian and I arrived. He‟d decided, incidentally, to join me in
order to reminisce about old school times in which both he and I were
formidable emcees although, to be honest, neither of us knew that term
in those times and simply went by „rappers‟. Turning up at the event,
my friend Julian looked quite enthused with the idea of reviving the way
in which, during our adolescence, both of us focused on such jagged
rap pulses which so strongly evoke (to me, at least) a magical
unstoppable beat of African drums. Those teenage exploits of our
school days were, nevertheless, some ten years ago, and at the
present time my friend Julian‟s clearly not so much into hip-hop
anymore, or at least not to the extent he claims as he, indeed, does
argue that hip-hop‟s still an essential part of him. Myself, I think he

says that in order not to lose face before me, since in our school years,
both he and I used to say something along the lines of no matter how
much time passed, we‟d always love hip-hop more than anything else
in life, even far more than the uncertain complex scents of young love.
If I currently state my friend Julian‟s no longer into hip-hop (at least not
as much as he says he is), it‟s because as soon as we‟d arrived to the
festival he immediately focused his attention towards a gorgeous girl
who happened to have turned up to it, and right there and then he
forgot his company and approached her.
People who were enjoying the music at the place, which was a central
urban venue, kept their arms up and moved them sideways to the beat
of whichever song was being played. I suddenly turned around to
check on Julian and saw him passionately kissing the girl he‟d just met.
I was a bit resentful at first since her looks were really stunning,
enough for me to have given everything for a girl like that in a different
situation. If I‟m sure of something now is that, hadn‟t I attended the hiphop
festival with Julian, I would‟ve been the one talking to her. I‟m
adamant of that, although what I wouldn‟t be able to tell is how far I‟d
have gone with her. Oh, and I admit I was jealous because as soon as

I arrived to the City of the Crescent Mist (just as my friends and I have
decided to name this hazy and hermetic city), my friend Julian hasn‟t
stopped talking about another girl, more precisely some Amalia, the
love of his life according to him, the woman who‟s made him spread
the enthusiastic wings of passion and for whom he‟d be able to climb
over the roughest steepest mountains of destiny. “And what does she
do” was the first thing I asked Julian when he mentioned that Amalia
for the eleventh time. „She‟s a woman of the easy life‟, he said, just like
that, nonchalantly. Not even our prude friend Gonzalo, who happened
to be there, dared say anything at the moment.
Gonzalo is the third and last member to mention our group of friends.
As Julian and I, ten years ago he was also a skilled hip-hop artist. I had
a great facility, by the way, to make songs in reggae style, but was a
little shy about getting on a stage to give a presentation.