Rafael Dieste

Autoría: Xosé Ramón Fandiño

DOI: 10.17075/adg.2012.22152

Escritor republicano e galeguista exiliado

Como citar: Fandiño, Xosé Ramón : Rafael Dieste. Publicado o 12/12/2012 no Álbum de Galicia (Consello da Cultura Galega) https://consellodacultura.gal/album-de-galicia/detalle.php?persoa=1136. Recuperado o 07/07/2025

Rafael Dieste

Autoría: Xosé Ramón Fandiño

DOI: 10.17075/adg.2012.22152

Escritor republicano e galeguista exiliado

Como citar: Fandiño, Xosé Ramón : Rafael Dieste. Publicado o 12/12/2012 no Álbum de Galicia (Consello da Cultura Galega) https://consellodacultura.gal/album-de-galicia/detalle.php?persoa=1136. Recuperado o 07/07/2025

DOCUMENTACIÓN DE

Postal enviada por Castelao durante unha estadía en Estados Unidos, 1940. Ver Documento. Epístola

En xullo de 1936 Castelao atopábase en Madrid presentando nas Cortes o Estatuto de autonomía de Galicia, que acababa de ser aprobado polo pobo galego. Isto salvou a súa vida. Durante a guerra foi comisionado polo Goberno republicano para participar en viaxes de propaganda á Unión Soviética, Estados Unidos e Cuba.
Chegou por vez primeira a Estados Unidos nunha viaxe sen retorno o 26 de xullo de 1938, acompañado da súa esposa, Virxinia Pereira, e doutros galeguistas como Luís Soto. Percorreron todo o país nunha intensa campaña de mitins para recadar fondos e crear unha opinión favorable aos intereses republicanos. Volve noutras ocasións pero polo que lemos na postal que lles envía aos seus amigos en Arxentina, a súa experiencia non foi boa, non se sentiu a gusto nun país cunha lingua e uns costumes tan alleos.

Fondo: Consello da Cultura Galega. Arquivo da Emigración Galega. Col. particular de Xosé Bieito Abraira

From the imp's archives (selected stories).

I.
ON THE SUBJECT OF BIEITO’S DEATH

It was near the cemetery when I heard poor Bieito stir inside the coffin. (Of the four pallbearers, I was one.) Did I hear him, or was it apprehension on my part? At the time, I couldn’t be sure. It was such a soft rustle!… Like the obstinate moth that gnaws away in the night, so that gentle rustling has gnawed away in my fervent imagination ever since.

It’s just, my friends, I wasn’t sure, and so – please understand, listen – I couldn’t, shouldn’t have said, anything.

Imagine for a moment I had said:

“Bieito’s alive.”

All the heads of the old people carrying candles would have been raised in dumb amazement. All the kids stretching out the palms of their hands beneath the dripping wax would have whirled around me. The women would have huddled next to the coffin. A stunned, unusual murmur would have slid past all the lips:

“Bieito’s alive, Bieito’s alive!…”

The mother and sisters’ lament would have fallen quiet, and soon, getting out of time, so would the weighty march being played on the brass instruments of the wind band. And I would have been the great revealer, the saviour, the focus of everyone’s astonishment and gratitude. And the sun on my face would have acquired unforeseen importance.

Ah! And what if then, when the coffin was opened, my suspicion proved to be false? All that enormous astonishment would have turned into immense, macabre ridicule. All the mother and sisters’ urgent gratitude would have turned into contempt. The hammer banging on the coffin once more would have had a sinister, unique sound in the stupefied afternoon. Do you understand? That is why I didn’t say anything.

There was a moment when the slight insinuation of a shock passed across the face of one of my fellow funereal bearers, as if he too could hear the fleeting movement. But it was only a flash. He immediately became serene. And I didn’t say anything.

There was a moment when I almost made up my mind. I turned to the one on my side and, disguising the question in an ironic smile, slipped in:

“And what if Bieito was alive?”

The other laughed mischievously, as if to say, “What things we think of,” and I deliberately broadened my ironic smile.

I was also on the verge of saying something in the cemetery, when we’d already put the box down and the priest was in full swing.

“When the priest has finished,” I thought. But the priest came to an end and the box descended into the hole without my being able to say anything.

When the first clod of earth, kissed by a child, knocked in the hole against the boards of the coffin, the saving words clambered up into my throat… They were on the verge of coming out. But then there resurfaced in my mind the virtual certainty of the horrifying ridicule and the defrauded family’s rage, should it turn out that Bieito was well and truly dead. Besides, saying it so late increased the absurdity exorbitantly. How to justify not having said so before? I know, I know, one can always explain oneself! Yes, yes, yes, as much as you like! And yet… what if he had died afterwards, after I heard him moving about, as might perhaps be obvious from some sign? A crime, yes, a crime, to have kept quiet! Hearken now to the clamour of the people…

“He asked for help and didn’t get it, poor wretch!…”

“He heard weeping, tried to get up, but couldn’t…”

“He died of fright, his heart burst when he heard himself being lowered into the ground…”

“There he is, his face all contorted from the effort!”

“And he knew all about it. Look at him standing there without a care, grinning like a clown!”

“Is he stupid or what?”

All day long, my friends, I was mad with regret. I could see poor Bieito scratching the boards in that absolute terror, beyond all consolation and consent, of those who have been buried alive. I went so far as to think they could all read the obsession for the crime in my sleepy, distant eyes.

And in the dead of night – I couldn’t help it – I made my way towards the cemetery, my lapel raised, in the shelter of the walls.

I got there. The enclosure on one side was quite low: a few poorly positioned stones held down by ivy and brambles. I stepped over it and went straight to the spot… I lay down on the ground, applied my ear, and soon what I heard froze my blood. In the bosom of the earth, some desperate nails were clawing at the boards. Clawing? I don’t know, I don’t know. There was a mattock nearby… I was just going towards it when I stopped in my tracks. On the road that passes next to the cemetery could be heard footsteps and the murmur of talking. People were coming. Then it really would have been absurd, mad, my presence there at that time, with a mattock in my hand.

Was I going to say I had let him be buried, knowing he was alive?

And I fled with my lapel raised, sticking close to the walls.

The moon was full, and the dogs wrangled in the distance.

II.
THE LIGHT IN SILENCE

I am well aware that my case should not give rise to any metaphysical news, but only to the analyses of some subtle doctor. And yet if I were a fan of conceptual intrigue, I would tell you that night was when I felt the terrible empty presence of Mr Nobody next to me for the first time. It is certainly not my intention to make you afraid, since, as for the rest, the affair was lacking in importance.

I shall tell you what happened.

For some years now, I had been living in the city. In the little town where I had been born and my parents had died, from the family inheritance were left some fields, a house and, in the house, a few odd bits of furniture.

A farmhand who had been loyal all his life took care of everything. It was he who, in a poorly handwritten letter, urged me to make the trip. I myself was needed to sift through the ancient bundles of deeds in order to disentangle a conflict over boundaries.

I arrived almost at night on the disjointed carriage that regularly covered the distance between my town and the administrative centre the train passed through. Two hours of listening to the coachman’s shouts and the kicks he gave the boards of the seat in order to spur on the small, wretched horses.

In the house, a moment’s conversation with the farmhand while I wolfed down the dinner his wife served me.

After that, I was left alone to sift through papers in a spacious room – which had once been a living room – separated from my bedroom by a long corridor…

I have always been inclined to be startled. Loneliness, darkness, silence, unsettle me to this day.

That night, on being left alone – why not say it? – the unease began to dig inside my imagination.

The house with its mouldy walls and old pieces of wood, which had instilled a certain amount of fear in me as a child, full now of the glow-worms of memory, struck me as even more labyrinthine.

The low ceilings, with their badly carved beams, made the living room look longer than it really was.

What was more, the feeble glow from the candle stub I was using to light the room made its limits more imprecise, its corners more turbid.

The darkness from the corridor swept into the room in cold waves and piled up next to the walls, tightening its faint siege in order softly to smother, like a voluptuous criminal, the sleepy light.

The flickering of the flame would sometimes repel the shadows’ onslaught, but soon they would immerse the corners again in thick heaps.

Leafing through the deeds, I realized I needed to examine some notes that were in my bedroom. I stood up and left the living room with the candle still burning.

In the corridor, the darkness’s thousand claws, like bramble thorns, stuck to my clothes. But I paid no attention. A sensible man should pay no attention, even if the beating of his chest is like the din in a forge. Without flinching, I passed in front of many open doors.

Only when I got to my bedroom did I take out the box of matches and strike one on the sandpaper. I struck three with complete serenity. The third caught fire. In order to shield the flame, which a treacherous wind was on the verge of blowing out, I made a screen with my hand. Then I looked around, defiantly… Nobody.

I gathered up my notes, tossed aside the match and headed down the corridor in the direction of the living room.

Who was in there now?

I couldn’t see anybody. I could see only the glow from the candle filling the doorway. But that glow “could not be alone”. Do you understand? That red, restless light framed in the doorway, I don’t know why, gave me the strange certainty that there was somebody inside, absorbed in thoughts of inaccessible logic. Perhaps on hearing me come in, he would lift his head and direct towards me the kind of perplexed look with which intruders are received. Because that glow “was no longer mine”. It was his.

The red light could not be alone and did not belong to me.

I don’t know whether I said all of this to myself at the time. But when I got ready to enter the room, I was resolved to meet that perplexed look with dignity…

I went in. A whiplash of horror rooted me to the spot… In the sad and silent room, there was nobody.

III.
OLD WEATHERWORN

I can’t remember in which tavern of which port it was. All I know is that the curtain at the entrance was red and billowed like a sail in the night breeze. It must have been the lad from on board (he always went around with us, smoked a pipe and winked) who, seeing the curtain like that, said we had a tailwind. Another said it was pregnant. And a third, that it was a dancer. A Moorish dancer, he added, which must have been the reason we couldn’t see her legs. He was already delirious and, desperate as he was to woo the dancer, he disappeared.

The swell of conversations was surging with that happy commotion in which one no longer knows who is doing the talking, and who the listening. At some point it seems to me there was talk of the Chinese… those who filled large rivers with floating houses; and in amidst the Chinese, the English put in an appearance, and soon someone was remembering a girlfriend he had had in Cardiff and how nice it was to listen to her the way you would listen to a bird, pretending to understand (“yes, yes…”) so she would laugh and chatter some more. On the subject of women, what they are like, the best way to treat them, almost all of us had something to say. Things of little consequence, I must admit.

Some of the rowdier lot had left, and you could still hear them singing, tunefully out of tune, as they turned down some alleyway towards the docks, when Old Weatherworn, who up until that point had been very quiet, bared his teeth (I couldn’t say it was a smile) and remarked, looking at me and, more askance, at others who were round about, near his table:

“Rubbish!”

When I made as if to agree with him, though I wasn’t quite sure what rubbish he meant, he was already muttering things I couldn’t understand, as if prepared to sink back into his thoughts.

“Yes, nonsense…” I replied all the same, determined to put my finger on it. “They think all the world’s cases and mysteries can fit in a couple of stock phrases.”

This roused him:

“The world’s cases!… I know of a woman who even today is waiting for her husband… But she waits in vain!”

He bared his teeth once more. Whether it was pain or a smile, tenderness or rage, I do not know. That’s just how he was, Old Weatherworn. From the way he caressed his glass, empty by now, which a lively young lad came and filled and he kissed the rim of, it seemed to us he was going to tell us something, some rare example. We all fell silent and listened.

“She thought nobody would find out…” he started saying after a moment’s silence which for all of us was part of the tale, “and getting carried away, if you ask me, by those knowing looks from women who scanned her slowly from head to toe, she left first her ears open, stopping to hear things she shouldn’t, and then the doors… Gently, gently! You’ll wake the kids…”

The narrator paused and looked at us. In all our faces, he saw that we understood… He could continue.

“Poor wretch!” he said, as if considering the case very delicately. “In secret, in secret, everybody found out, all those who know about such things in towns… And that little sneak, a travelling salesman, as it happens, about whom nothing more was ever known some time later, let a couple of fools drinking at his expense come out with some witty remarks. He let them, because it tickled his fancy. While he just smiled, very discreetly… More or less as an aside, there was mention of her husband, who was far away, at sea. And that was when he said (so the story goes), ‘He may have been a brute, but he sure knew how to pick ’em! Take it from me…’ And he lowered one end of his moustache to bite it and quell some sudden desire that must have been coursing through his body… I don’t know why I linger on such details…”

“Stories need their little adornments,” said one of the company.

“That’s right, adornments, pretty, little adornments,” snorted Old Weatherworn. He drank a little, pushed the glass away and carried straight on, “One day she learnt her husband was coming home. He was nearby, in the city… She learnt he might arrive soon, when least expected, and started tidying the house so she could give him a warm welcome. Apparently she even bought some new clothes… And yet the man never quite arrived. What did arrive was two of those trunks they call ‘worlds’. And then another. And, in a letter, the thousands to pay off the debts. And then another that doubled the first. But about him, her husband, nobody had anything to report. Only questions from the women next door. ‘So, when’s he coming?’ ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow…’ Those who made it their business saw how she looked at herself in the mirror, how she moved his portrait about in its little frame of shells and periwinkles… Tomorrow, tomorrow. The little kids couldn’t get enough of rummaging in the locks of the worlds or circling about. In the end, they were able to open them, because the sailor’s oldest friend came from the city and gave them the keys… And as they rummaged inside, the stranger spoke softly to their mother.

“From the bosom of the worlds, there emerged children’s outfits, garish and smart, sweets, a little train, foreign coins, marbles – blue ones, purple ones, others the colour of silver, gold, fire… They must have been very taken aback when they showed them to their mother and saw how she burst into tears… Well, that’s the woman who’s waiting in vain. There are those who say she loved her husband.”

He fell silent for a moment. He seemed to be made of stone, stone on which dark waves, coming from afar, have deposited quivering foam. Now he was saying:

“Yes, from outside, in speech and advice, it’s easy to have good eyes, a good heart. A heart has to prove itself… For example, by not having contact, for years on end, with a woman. Just like a monk, one of those ancient desert fathers, but turning up to pull on a rope or stow away the cargo, or whatever needs doing, because the arms are still good for something; and on one of them is a flowery name that cannot be erased. A good job those Chinese did you were talking about. Yes, there are those who say she was fond of her husband, there are those who say… But not one of them would dare say so to my face!”

And suddenly Old Weatherworn, whose hand was trembling on his belt, swung his knife through the air and drove it into the table. It stood there shuddering for quite some time.

It may have been me who asked after a silence:

“Was that many years ago…?”

Old Weatherworn ran his hand over his white, shaved head and said:

“Many.”

I didn’t want to ask anything else, and we talked about the appearance of the weather.

IV.
THE OLD MAN WHO WANTED TO SEE THE TRAIN

They were from up in the mountains… From one of those villages with a wild, rustic name that lie secluded among silent peaks. A long journey they had made – on the sturdy ox cart, which creaked, groaned and lurched along uneven mountain tracks – to satisfy the old man’s whim!

A long time he had kept that desire a secret. One day, with the affected shyness of a child that asks for a sweet placed, as on an altar, on the top shelf of a cupboard, the grandfather had stammered out his caprice. He had never seen the train. He didn’t want to die without seeing the train. The daughter and son-in-law laughed good-naturedly at this crazy idea. The poor man, there were no two ways about it, had gone a bit doolally. The railway was so far away! And besides, what the hell did he care about seeing the train at his age? The grandchild, however, sided with his grandfather. And stubbornly stamped his clogs on the floor. “I want to see the train! I want to see the train!”

A moment’s reasoning with the old man and a clip around the ear for the little one, and it all came to nothing the first time. But the scene was repeated, the priest found out about it and, with the radiant composure of an experienced abbot who understands and makes concessions, he took the part of the grandfather and grandson. What the hell! The old man was robust, seasoned by the sun and the scent of pines, and wouldn’t be too exhausted by the journey.

So it was they put a truss of hay on the cart for the old man to sit on, packed a hearty picnic in a hamper and set out early one morning until they reached the forgotten, rotten stopping place where they anxiously await the miracle.

Like the strange frolicking of white cats – or so it seemed to the child – a plume of smoke rushed into the distance, above a pinewood, and a first whistle was lost on some barren crag. Another, more piercing whistle bored a hole in the sky. And another, imperious and long, soon announced, with the trembling of earth, the proximity of the Unseen. There was the train, a line of orderly monsters, with their lofty iron captain in the lead! It grew, and it grew!

Sighs of a condemned man, white hisses, bumps, second thoughts, and at once everything fell into a great silence before the astonished eyes of an old peasant farmer and a child who had put on new clogs that day especially. It was only a brief moment’s respite. No traveller alighted. Hardly anybody looked out. Two women weighed down with baskets hastily climbed into a third-class carriage, acting more sluggishly the more they were impelled by the sense of urgency. The train seemed to suffer the impertinence of formalities when one is in a hurry. And it fled once more, oozing indifference, as if never to remember that poor, rotten stop again.

The grandson talks a lot. How fast the train went! And it didn’t have any horses. And there was a child just like him who had looked out of the window. A well-dressed child with delicate features, wearing the expression of rich kids from cities who travel by train and live in tall buildings. That child thought nothing of being on a train. What secret refinement there was in such indifference! And there was also a young lady with a thin cloth, like a spider’s cobweb, covering her face… A purple cloth.

The old man talks little. He is satisfied, but a little dejected. In that world that had flashed for an instant before him, he had glimpsed many things he had never suspected up in the high gorse fields. There were other worlds apart from his own. Bewitched, happy, enticing worlds. But for him, by now, poor thing…

Suddenly the little lad piped up:

“When I grow up, I also am going to travel by train.”

The old man’s wrinkles wove a web of sombre sadness.

The sturdy ox cart creaked, groaned and lurched all the way back to the village with the wild, rustic name that lay secluded among silent peaks.

V.
THE SUICIDE CHILD

When the innkeeper finished reading that disturbing piece of news – a child had committed suicide with a shot to the right temple – the unfamiliar tramp who had just eaten very frugally in a corner of the seaside tavern spoke, and said:

“I know the story of that child.”

He pronounced the word “child” in a very peculiar manner. So it was that the four drinkers of brandy, the five drinkers of Albariño wine and the innkeeper fell silent and listened with an inquisitive, attentive air.

“I know the story of that child,” the tramp repeated. And after an astute, well-measured pause, he began:

“Back in around 1830, a pious lady who later died of fright saw a very old old man emerge from the flowery, fragrant cemetery of her village in the nuddy. That old man had just been born. Before emerging from the womb of mother earth, he himself had chosen this type of birth. ‘How much better to go from old to young than from young to old!’ he thought, being pure spirit. Our Lord was struck by the idea. Why not give it a go? So it was that, with his consent, a skeleton was formed in the earth’s bosom. Then with worm’s flesh was made the flesh of man. And into the flesh of man seeped the gentle warmth of blood. And since everything was ready, mother earth gave birth. Gave birth to an old man in the nuddy.

“How this old man then found clothes and sustenance is very funny. He reached the gates of the city and, since he still didn’t know how to speak, the ministers, having thrown a cloak around him, took him before the judge, saying as if they themselves had been witnesses, ‘Here we bring you this poor old man who lost the power of speech from the beating he received at the hands of some no-good thieves. They even stripped him of his clothing.’

“The judge gave orders, and the old man was taken to a hospital. When he left, well clothed and fed by now, the nuns exclaimed, ‘What a strapping, fine lad you’ve become. Anyone would think you’ve lost years!’

“By this stage, he had learnt to speak a little and he became a beggar. So it was he travelled through many lands. He was over in Lourdes twice – so rejuvenated the second time that those who’d met him the first believed it was a miracle of the Virgin.

“Having acquired enough experience, he decided the best thing would be to keep that strange condition that made him younger the more years went by a secret. That way, without anybody knowing, bar one or two loyal friends, he could live his true life better.

“He worked as an old man and became rich so he could live at ease when young. From the age of fifty to fifteen, his life was as happy as can be imagined. He pleased the girls more and more and hooked up with lots of them, including the prettiest. Some say there was even a princess… But of that I cannot be certain.

“When he reached childhood, his life began to get complicated. The surprise with which people watched him sauntering into shops to buy sweets and toys frightened him. The odd pickpocket with cap pulled low followed him along many a winding street. And there were times he ate his sweets while trembling with anguish, tears in his eyes and syrup on his lips. The last time I came across him – he was eight by then – he looked very sad. And besides, the memories of old age weighed so heavily on his youthful spirit!

“A tremendous obsession began to assail him day and night. In a few years’ time, he would be picked up in some forgotten alley. By a rich, childless woman, perhaps. And then… Who knew what would happen after that! Breastfeeding, outings in a pram, a rattle in his tender hand. And at the end… Oh! The ending didn’t bear thinking about. To fulfil his destiny of a man living back to front and retreat into the rich woman’s bosom – perhaps when she was asleep – in order there to fade away until he became first a leech, then a louse, and finally a tiny seed…”

The tramp got up very pensively, hands in his pockets, and took a few steps, all overcome by bitterness. Eventually, he said:

“I can understand, yes, I can understand why the poor lad would shoot himself in the temple.”

The four drinkers of brandy believed. The five drinkers of Albariño wine smiled and doubted. The innkeeper denied. And just when they were arguing most heatedly, the innkeeper suddenly stood on tiptoe and glanced around with wide open eyes. The tramp had disappeared without paying.

VI.
ON THE DEATH OF ESTRELIÑA

Her name was Estreliña, and she was very diligent and pretty.

Her mother would say to her, “Go to the fountain, Estreliña.”

And Estreliña would go to the fountain.

Her mother would say to her, “Go to the orchard, Estreliña, and tell Daddy to stop pruning and come and have his lunch.”

And Estreliña would run off, happy to be on an errand, and call to her father.

Her father would say to her, “Stay still, Estreliña, the dog is going to bite you.”

And Estreliña would stay still, her whole face ablaze, smiling.

And her marriageable sister would say to her, “Go to school, Estreliña.”

And Estreliña would take her primer and, very upright and content, make her way to school.

And so it continued.

And when the other kids saw her, they would shout from far away, “Estreliña! Estreliña!”

And Estreliña would run in their direction, nibbling on a bun, and give them a piece, and they would play puss in the corner.

And sometimes, very early, a child would pass beneath her window and say, “Estreliña!”

And Estreliña, smiling as if nothing had happened, would show her face in the window for a moment. A moment, not more. And the child would run off laughing, as if it had been up to some mischief.

And so it continued.

And one day Estreliña died. She was in the coffin, as pretty as always, looking as if nothing had happened.

And her mother, and her marriageable sister, wept behind the coffin. Her marriageable sister wept and recalled the little things little Estreliña would do every day.

And her mother hardly said a thing.

Only from time to time, measuring and supporting her marriageable daughter’s lament, would she say:

“Estreliña, go to the fountain. Estreliña, go to the orchard. Estreliña, go to school… Estreliña yesterday! Estreliña today! Estreliña tomorrow!”

VII.
ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN TWENTY-SIX

I woke up, raised my head and… what crazy anguish, my friends! My forehead knocked against a surface, smooth and cold as if polished by the hard horns of Evil. My hands – oh, hands, humble bowmen of the spirit in darkness! – went up and encountered the same smooth, cold surface. My knees as well, and soon my whole body, wriggling about in that metal niche with all the desperation of a caged snake. I lay there, afterwards, trembling like a little child, letting myself be cradled by the immense drowsiness weighing down on my eyelids. When I came to once more, I wanted to overcome my misfortune. I shall never forget the thoughts of that moment. Traditional consolations, which had so diligently huddled next to my pain, disappeared in silence, as if ashamed of their own impotence. The last to leave, I must confess, not without some embarrassment, was the consolation of – what shall I call it? Aesthetics? Never mind. I had to take refuge in conformity, and also in that welcoming half-sleep backing up the itchiness in my eyes.

It was then this certainty, I cannot say how, came to assert itself in my mind. I haven’t been buried alive. I am in this niche in order to carry out a weighty mission.

What mission was this? Without realizing, I began to stroke my chin – I can’t remember whether it was bearded or not – with a highly meditative and perhaps conceited air.

Sleep was overwhelming me. From far away, faint and indecisive, there came small snowflakes of memory.

“Yes, anything is possible,” the doctor had said with that smile of physicians well versed in orientalism. At that point, the clock, insomniac and delirious, had struck an absurd hour.

Anything is possible, anything is possible… Had I, then, slept for ten thousand years?

I came to at once.

Yes, that was it. There could be no doubt. I recalled no illness or other circumstance leading up to death or a funeral.

All right then. Let’s say that was the case. The doctor must have provided me with the means to get out of the niche and see what the world was like in the year 11926.

My hands rummaged shakily in the bottom of my pockets. A watch, a thermometer, a box of matches, a tobacco pouch, a pistol, an electric torch, a sealed letter… a key!

I examined the top of the niche with the torch on and soon came across an intricate keyhole. The key fitted.

My joy was as big as the greatest horror. So many, new forces leapt about inside my soul and got so mixed up in search of facts to calm their strained, painful impetus they almost wiped me out. I wasn’t a man buried alive. I was a “most ancient” culture buried alive. I was an archsolitary spirit. What can have happened to my parents, to my most ancient friends, to that most ancient warm and fair young maiden? Not being able to tell them what I saw, not being able to dazzle them with my account of the most excellent, perfect, miraculous sovereignty of the men – colonizers of the stars, perhaps – whose footsteps I thought I could hear above me, saddened me somewhat. And the doctor? Poor doctor, magnificent, heroic, most spiritual doctor, rotten in the ground, having sent me across the immense parabola of ten thousand years! I burst into tears, trembling with a mixture of tenderness and happiness.

Who knows how long I would have remained like that, still and content, had I not noticed, above my forehead, a little needle like that of a clock bringing its indicative point around to the symbol for death so fashionable back in the twentieth century: a skull and crossbones? I understood. It must have been set in motion by the movement I made when I woke up from my millenary sleep and meant my stay in the niche had to end before the needle made the gesture for silence on top of the skull’s teeth. A little sign next to the circuit the needle had travelled around confirmed what I had suspected:

Once the normal rhythm of functions has been re-established, the provision of… (and here there was a chemical formula I didn’t understand) will be exhausted in a single revolution of the needle and your life will be in danger.

I gathered together all my strength in a tightly packed sheaf and inserted the key in the lock.

How shall I describe the crypt – I shall call it that – where I found myself on exiting the niche?

I cannot see its limits very well. All that appears before my memory is a nicely carved stone corner with a barrel, and next to it the creaking door I pushed… Was there then a short staircase leading to a corridor? Followed by a small reception room with three doors, one of them very low (that’s the one I went through), more staircases and corridors, and at some point water in the middle? Things like that, I seem to recall, but the images are uncertain and not always the same. You shouldn’t set much store by them.

I must now bring you up to date with the secret of that sealed envelope, which I opened carefully, repressing my desire, as you can well imagine. It contained two crucially important documents.

In one of them, the doctor gave me the advice I should follow closely for my life, which had been compromised by the fearful experiment, not to ebb away in a matter of years (months, perhaps, or days, or even hours!).

The other was a long, very respectful and dignified letter addressed to the doctors of the year 11926.

They both bore the same date – Compostela, 1926 – and the same name – Dr Nóvoa Santos. Signed with a flourish.

I read the documents, free by now, out in the open, somewhat superficially and absent-mindedly, glancing up from time to time with growing astonishment. Because Compostela, my friends, had disappeared.

I stuffed the papers in my pockets with such bewildered haste that I crumpled them and started dashing from side to side of the uncultivated, deserted landscape. I leapt onto a small elevation dotted with crags, and from the top of one of them gazed at the distance all around. A bolt of surprise caused me to hear my own articulate voice for the first time in ten thousand years. “The sea!” I shouted. There it was, and not so far away. Sparkling, merry… But also deserted. No sails or plumes of smoke indicated the presence of man. How had it got there? In a single fervent, furious bound, or very slowly, over a span of centuries? This wasn’t the time to be thinking about such things, and I came down from the summit, first towards the valley, then…

How much happier I had been in the bosom of the niche than afterwards! I had been walking for many hours, following the sun’s path, and the pangs of hunger, while excruciating, were not as bad as a suspicion that had begun to dig its nails into my imagination, growing in competition with my normal steadfast optimism. I didn’t want to believe it, but I was going to have no choice but to accept it: the earth had to be deserted. And I, the only survivor. A conceited, mocked survivor. All alone in the world. How the stars would make fun of me when night came! How they would wink at each other! But maybe not. Perhaps they would greet me with a glittering hurrah! Perhaps they would sing their Pythagorean requiem to me, as I lay on the rocky ground, the pallor of death on my features. This thought gave me the strength to carry on walking.

The sun was low by now, and the day was growing cold.

Three figures on the brow of a scorched mound: a tree, a man and a child. The three of them silhouetted against a red evening sky. A man and a child! Yearning to turn into a bundle of festive fireworks, I started running towards them. Inhabitants of the great Perfect City, which wouldn’t be far away, I surmised. And still running, I didn’t stop laughing nervously, full of this explosive childish glee.

As I got closer, I was struck by something – a lump hanging off a branch of the tree, swaying gently, but erratically. I carried on, more deliberately now…

I still couldn’t make out the lineaments of that thing. I didn’t want to give credence, so abruptly like that, to the admonitions of horror and carried on smiling, with this fixed smile, as I rummaged in my mind for an explanation that would furnish me with some encouragement. Certainly, that thing hanging off the tree was a human leg… But pretend, no doubt. The man had to be the master and the child, his disciple. Teaching under the open sky. How wonderful! It couldn’t be any other way in the year 11926.

But no. There was no other explanation. The man and the child were gorging themselves, sinking angry, greedy teeth into the slices they were cutting off the bloody leg. I was rooted to the spot, motionless, watching in dumb amazement, a few feet away, how they stuffed themselves.

Suddenly, they raised their eyes and saw me. They dropped their slices and started shouting things I couldn’t understand. A new and simple fact presented itself to me in a flash: over a period of ten thousand years, the evolution of languages made it unlikely I would be able to communicate with men of that kind. And I decided the best thing was to flee.

Beneath the blackness of that failure, how the deepest questions were rephrased in my spirit! Good and evil, heroism, saintliness, wisdom, God… There was no time to think.

I ran, letting myself be carried by the slope of the hill. Behind me, it wasn’t just two people coming. There was a deafening horde chattering furiously – who knows in what jargon? – and throwing stones so they would roll after me. How the stars would weep when they saw my pulverized body at nightfall! In leaps, rolls and tumbles, being pursued all the time, I covered a lot of difficult ground, all the way down to the seashore, which was fearful and imprecise in the shadow of dusk.

On one side, degraded man; on the other, the same sea as always. With tears in my eyes – whether of sorrow, fear or rage, I cannot say – I took out the pistol and fired two shots.

I was about to fire the third when a third knock shook the house… and I awoke. I awoke at once, shivering with cold. A trickle of moist light filtered in through a crack in the windows.

On the flagstones in the street, the rhythm of clogs and the cry of every morning:

“Who will buy my milk!”

Sad, comforting and strange…

VIII.
THE KNIGHT’S DRAMA

The scene is filled by a chessboard beneath a sky with stars and a large moon, half obscured from time to time by the passing of a stormcloud. When the curtain rises, all the pieces can be seen, each of them in position, except for the King’s White Knight.

The black king: Are you all there?

A black pawn, standing stiffly to attention: We are, sir, yes.

The white king: Are you all there?

The king’s white bishop, after a silence and seeing nobody is going to speak: There’s one missing here… The Knight on my side.

The white king: That Knight, that Knight!… He always has to be the same! And now, as if he wanted to complicate the stars’ speech even more, making out he’s some kind of soothsayer…

A white pawn, lively and chatty: Would you like me to go and fetch him?

The other white pawns, laughing mockingly: Oh, he’s a brave one! Let him go then! He’s only going to get bitten!…

The white bishop: All this chit-chat! Tell those boys to be quiet! To the King, craning his neck: I think that’s him coming.

The lively pawn: That’s right, boys, little boys… And who goes in front? And who’s the first to let himself be swallowed up? All this chit-chat… All this pride, you mean! Afterwards, in the box, we’re all one.

The bishop: Watch out! He’s coming!

Beneath the impulse of the shadow that carries him to his destiny, the King’s White Knight arrives, with a few lazy swerves, in one of which he knocks over the talkative Pawn.

The pawn: Not so fast! He stands up indignantly.

The white king, to the Knight: You always have to be the same! Why on earth did it take you so long to come? The Knight withdraws into himself. May I know, dear Knight, why it is you don’t answer the questions you’re being asked? I am asking you!

The white bishop, intervening diplomatically, half in jest: It seems he doesn’t want to be a Knight… He wants to be a Bishop.

The white knight, snorting: That’s all that fits inside a Bishop’s pear-shaped, twisted noggin! Who ever heard me say such a thing, even in dreams? With a superhorse’s guffaw: A Bishop, me!

The white king, imposing and smiling, with a friendly glance towards the Bishop and a conciliatory lowering of his eyelids towards the Knight: Be quiet, dear Bishop, and let our friend, the Knight, say what he knows better than anyone.

The white knight: I don’t want to be a Knight, a Knight and nothing but a Knight, but nor do I want to be a Bishop, or a Pawn, or a Rook, or a Kkkk… He stops himself in time before the King and Queen’s inflamed, aggravated gaze and, instead of saying “or a King”, fakes a cough and continues: I want to be something that is at once Knight and Bishop and Pawn and Rook and…

The white king, piqued once more: And King? Go on, speak! And King?

The white bishop, half to rescue the Knight from a difficult situation, half to make fun of him: No, he wasn’t going to say such a thing, your Majesty. He was going to say… White, isn’t that so?

The queen, abruptly: White! There’s no respect even for White anymore! She lifts her eyes to the heavens, where the omens are mixed.

The white knight, on the slippery slope of daring confessions by now: That’s right! White as well!

The king: There’s no understanding him. Who knows where he’s been?

The queen: Or in what company… To the Knight on her side: You’re not like your brother, are you?

The queen’s white knight: No, milady, no. The same stick, the same shape, and I don’t understand him.

The queen: You do well. Nor do I. And yet, without me, everything goes downhill.

The Black King is heard bellowing impatiently.

The black king: So what! Are you coming out or not?

The blackies: Come on then, palefaces! They let out a whoop.

The blondies: Just you wait, firebrands! They let out a whoop.

The white king: Enough of that. Silence! Forward, that Pawn. Careful now! Just one step!

The pawn: Have the customs changed? Wasn’t it always two?

The white king: One, I tell you! That’s it, very good.

The pawn: It’s not a bad idea. Blackie over there is having to think about it… He took just one step as well! Didn’t take you long to learn, did it, blockhead?

The king: Shut up, worm. Now you, his cousin, forward. Two steps and hold firm, without fear of the corner-cutter who’s trying to catch you unawares. You, metaphysical Knight, one leap in the direction of the Rook. Don’t let the one over there know what it is you’re planning. Defend me well! Keep it up, everyone! Each to his own!

There follows a succession of orders and speeches.

The king’s bishop, to the Rook: The Knight reckons those things only fit inside his bonce. Me too… If you could see how I envy you your destiny. The way you travel along that broad road without having to slip through the crack of corners, like me…

The rook: And if only you knew how I envy you that lance with which you pierce from afar…

The bishop: And me, those broad hips of yours…

A pawn who’s listening in: Well, I felt the Rook’s broad hips weighing so heavily on top of me once I thought they were mine.

The rook: You know that’s true? I also have felt the Bishop on the other side burrowing with such persistence I got to thinking his lance was mine somehow.

The pawn: And once, I recall, I felt so many paths passing over me that, the more I was a Pawn, the more I thought the whole game was just little old me.

Another pawn: So many paths!… You’re heading for trouble on the one you’re on. They’re calling for you!

The first one: Here I come.

The bishop: To be the whole Game! It might not be so bad… If I were the whole Game, what a bishop’s, bishopy-bishop’s game it would be! Bish, bosh, bash! Checkmate. It’s over.

Suddenly there’s the astonished grumbling of myriad pieces. Orders are interrupted, stammered out. The moon is covered. Darkness.

The king, from the height of the ruckus: Keep still now! Nobody move from where he is. The lanterns! Come on, come on! To a sleepy Rook: What is it! Can’t you hear me?

The rook: So long forgotten, motionless, I had myself a little nap. Taking out his lit lantern and peering into the distance: What stage is the Game at? What’s going to happen? What’s happening?

The bishop, craning his neck: Nothing now. It’s the end.

The lively pawn: The King’s Knight suddenly galloped off of his own accord and went to die at the feet of the Black Queen! If you ask me, he committed suicide!…

The white queen, to the Rook still holding his lantern aloft, like a lighthouse: You don’t need to shine that thing anymore. If only everyone could be content being what they are, as I am content being the White Queen!

The rook, blowing out his lantern and putting it away: Quite so, quite so… I think I’ll have myself another sleep.

The murmuring of pieces gradually fades, sinking into stupefied silence, and all the pieces become stiff and quiet, just as if they were made of wood. As the moon, yellow now and sullen, reappears, the curtain falls.

Dos arquivos do trasno (escolma).

I.
SOBRE DA MORTE DE BIEITO

Foi preto do camposanto cando eu sentín boligar dentro da caixa ó pobre Bieito. (Dos catro levadores do cadaleito eu era un). ¿Sentino ou foi aprensión miña? Entonces non podería aseguralo. ¡Foi un rebulir tan maino...! Como a teimosa puvulla que rila, rila na noite, rila de entón no meu maxín afervoado aquel mainiño rebulir.

Pero é que eu, meus amigos, non tiña seguranza, e polo tanto —comprendede, escoitade— polo tanto non podía, non debía dicir nada.

Imaxinade nun intre que eu dixese:

-O Bieito vai vivo.

Tódalas testas dos velliños que portaban cirios ergueríanse nun babeco aglaio. Tódolos pícaros que viñan estendendo a palma da man baixo o pingotear da cera, virían en remuíño arredor meu. Apiñocaríanse as mulleres a carón do cadaleito. Escorregaría por tódolos beizos un marmular sobrecolleito, insólito:

¡O Bieito vai vivo, o Bieito vai vivo...!

Calaría o lamento da nai e das irmás, e axiña tamén, descompasándose, a gravedosa marcha que planxía nos bronces da charanga. E eu sería o gran revelador, o salvador, eixo de tódolos asombros e de tódalas gratitudes. E o sol na miña face cobraría unha importancia imprevista.

¡Ah! ¿E se entonces, ó ser aberto o cadaleito, a miña sospeita resultaba falsa? Todo aquel magno asombro viraríase inconmensurable e macabro ridículo. Toda a arelante gratitude da nai e das irmás, tornaríase despeito. O martelo espetando de novo a caixa tería un son sinistro e único na tarde estantía. ¿Comprendedes? Por iso non dixen nada.

Houbo un intre en que pola face dun dos compañeiros de fúnebre carga pasou a insinuación leviá dun sobresalto, coma se el estivese a sentir tamén o velaíño boligar. Mais non foi máis que un lampo. De seguida ficou sereno. E non dixen nada.

Houbo un intre en que case me decidín. Dirixinme ó da miña banda e, acobexando a pregunta nun sorriso de retrouso, deslicei:

—¿E se o Bieito fose vivo?

O outro riu picaramente coma quen di: “Que ocorrencias temos”, e eu amplifiquei adrede o meu falso sorriso de retrouso.

Tamén me vin a rentes de dicilo no camposanto, cando xa pousarámo-la caixa e o crego requeneaba.

“Cando o crego remate”, pensei. Mais o crego acabou e a caixa deceu á cova sen que eu puidese dicir nada.

Cando o primeiro cadullo de terra, bicado por un neno, petou dentro da cova nas táboas do ataúde, rubíronme ata a gorxa as verbas salvadoras... Estiveron a punto de xurdiren. Mais entonces acudiu novamente ó meu maxín a case seguranza do arrepiante ridículo, da rabia da familia defraudada, se o Bieito se topaba morto e ben morto. Ademais o dicilo tan tarde acrecía o absurdo desorbitadamente. ¿Como xustificar non o ter dito antes? ¡Xa sei, xa sei, sempre se pode un explicar! ¡Si, si, si, todo o que queirades! Pois ben... ¿e se tivese morto despois, despois de o sentir eu remexerse, como quizais puidese adiviñarse por algún sinal? ¡Un crime, si, un crime o me ter calado! Oíde xa o rebumbio da xente...

—¡Pediu auxilio e non llo deron, malpocado...!

—El sentía chorar, quíxose erguer, non puido...

—Morreu de espanto, saltoulle o corazón ó se sentir decer na cova...

—¡Velaí o tendes, coa cara torta do esforzo!

—¡E ese que o sabía, tan campante, aí a sorrir coma un pallaso!

—¿É parvo ou que?

Todo o día, meus amigos, andei tolo de remorsos. Vía ó pobre Bieito grafiñando as táboas nese espanto absoluto, máis alá de todo consolo e de toda conformidade, dos enterrados en vida. Chegoume a parecer que todos lían nos meus ollos adormiñados e longanos a obsesión do delito.

E alá pola alta noite —non o puiden evitar— funme camiño do camposanto, coa solapa subida, ó arrimo dos muros.

Cheguei. O cerco por unha banda era baixiño: unhas pedras mal postas, apreixadas por edras e silveiras. Pasei no e fun dereito ó sitio... Deiteime no chan, apliquei a orella, e axiña o que oín xioume o sangue. No seo da terra unhas unllas desesperadas rabuñaban nas táboas. ¿Rabuñaban? Non sei, non sei. Alí preto había un sacho... Ía xa cara a el cando fiquei suspenso. Polo camiño que pasa a rentes do camposanto sentíanse pasadas e rumor de fala. Viña xente. Entonces si que sería absurda, tola, a miña presencia alí, daquelas horas e cun sacho na man.

¿Ía dicir que o deixara enterrar sabendo que estaba vivo?

E fuxín coa solapa subida, pegándome ós muros. A lúa era chea e os cans latricaban lonxe.

II.
A LUZ EN SILENCIO

Eu ben sei que o meu caso non debe dar pé a ningunha nova metafísica, e si, soamente, ás análises dalgún médico sutil. Pero se eu fose afeizoado ás trupias de concepto diríavos que aquela noite foi cando por primeira vez sentín a carón meu a terrible presencia baldeira do Señor Ninguén. Lonxe de min a intención de metervos medo, xa que, polo demais, a cousa non tivo importancia.

Direivos como foi.

Dende había algúns anos vivía na cidade. Alá na viliña onde eu nacera e finaran meus pais, quedaban do herdo  familiar algunhas leiras, unha casa e, na casa, uns cantos trastos vellos...

Un labrador fiel de toda a vida, termaba de todo. Foi el quen me urxiu, nunha carta de letra revesgada, para que fose alá. Facía falta que eu mesmo remexese nos seculares feixes de escrituras para desenliar unha discordia por cuestión de estremas.

Cheguei case de noite no coche estrangoado que facía de cote a viaxe entre o meu pobo e a cabeza de partido por onde pasaba o tren. Dúas horas a oí-los berros do tralleiro e os couces que daba nas táboas do pescante para espabilar os cabalos cativos e desventurados.

Na casa un intre de conversa co labrador, entrementres engulía a cea que me serviu a súa muller.

Despois quedei só a remexer papeis nun van amplexo —que fora sala nalgún tempo— separado da miña alcoba por un longo corredor...

Sempre tiven propensión ó sobresalto. A soidade, as tebras, o silencio, aínda hoxe me inquedan.

Aquela noite, ó me quedar só —¿por que non dicilo?— o desacougo encomenzou a escarabellar no meu maxín.

A casa, de muros balorentos e madeiras vellas, que xa de neno me impuña certo medo, agora chea de vagalumes de lembranza, parecíame aínda máis labiríntica.

Os teitos baixos, de trabes mal arrefeitadas, daban á sala unha falsa longura.

Ademais a luz ruín do anaco de cirio con que me alumeaba, facía máis imprecisos os límites do van e máis turdios tódolos currunchos.

As tebras do corredor entraban no van en frías bafaradas e amontoábanse a rentes das paredes, estreitando o seu cerco esmorecido para afogar mainamente, coma os criminais voluptuosos, a luz chea de sono.

O latexar da chama escorrentaba por vegadas o asedio das sombras, pero de novo asolagaban os currunchos e mestas moreas.

Folleando as escrituras decateime de que tiña que examinar unhas notas que deixara na miña alcoba. Erguinme e saín da sala deixando nela o cirio aceso.

Polo corredor as mil poutas das tebras, como picos de silveira prendíanme a roupa. Pero non fixen caso. Un home asisado non debe facer caso, anque o latexar do peito sexa un barullo de fragua. Sen respingar pasei por diante de moitas portas abertas.

Soamente ó chegar á miña alcoba saquei a caixa de mistos e rasquei un na lixa. Rasquei tres con toda serenidade. O terceiro prendeu. Para defende-la chama, que un ventiño traidor estivo a rente de matar, fíxenlle pantalla coa man. Despois mirei arredor, desafiante... Ninguén.

Apañei as notas, guindei o misto e funme cara á sala polo corredor.

¿Quen estaba alí agora?

Eu non vía a ninguén. Non vía máis que o resplandor do cirio enchendo o vao da porta. Mais aquel resplandor “non podía estar só”. ¿Comprendedes? Aquela luz roxa, inqueda, enmarcada na porta, dábame, non sei por qué, a estraña seguranza de que dentro había alguén, absorto en pensamentos de lóxica inaccesible. Quizais ó me sentir entrar erguese a testa para me dirixir esa ollada perplexa con que son acolleitos os intrusos. Porque aquel resplandor “xa non era meu”. Era seu.

A luz roxa nin podía estar soa nin me pertencía.

Non sei se me dixen todo o que levo dito. Mais cando me dispuxen a entrar na sala, ía resolto a soster dignamente aquel ollar perplexo...

Entrei. Un trallazo de espanto deixoume entalecido... Na sala, silandeira e triste, non había ninguén.

III.
O VELLO MORENO

Non me podo lembrar en qué taberna de qué porto foi. Só sei que a cortina da entrada era vermella e que se enchía como unha vela co vento noitego. Debeu de se-lo rapaz de abordo (sempre andaba con nós, fumaba en paipa e chiscaba o ollo) quen ó ve-la cortina daquel xeito dixo que iamos en popa. Outro dixo que estaba empreñada. E outro que era unha bailarina. Moura..., engadiu; razón, supoño, de que non lle visen as pernas. Este xa tresvariaba, e no pulo de ir namorar á bailarina desapareceu.

Bulía a marexada das conversas con ese ledo barullo en que xa non sabe un quen fala e quen escoita. Nalgún intre paréceme que se falou dos chinos... duns que ateigaban grandes ríos coas casiñas boiantes; e por entre eses chinos apareceron uns ingleses, e xa de seguida estaba outro lembrándose dunha noiva que tivera en Cardiff e do bonito que era oíla coma quen oe a un paxaro, facendo que entendía (yes, yes...), para que ela rise e garulase máis. Sobre mulleres, cómo son, cómo convén tratalas, case que todos tivemos algo que dicir. Cousas, por certo, de moi pouco peso.

Fóranse algúns dos máis trouleiros, e aínda se lles oíu cantar, desafinando polo fino, ó virar por algunha venelacara ós diques, cando o Vello Moreno, deica entón moi calado, arregañou os dentes (non podo xurar que aquilo fose un sorriso) e dixo ollando para min e, máis de esguello, para outros que estaban por alí, preto da súa mesa:

—¡Parvadas!

Cando lle quixen da-la razón, sen saber ben aínda a qué parvadas afitaba, xa estaba el rosmando cousas que non entendín, como disposto a se pechar de novo nos seus pensamentos.

—Si, lerias... —dixen eu non obstante, na teima de certar—. Coidan que en catro retrousos caben tódolos casos e misterios do mundo.

Entón espabilouse:

—¡Os casos do mundo!... Eu sei dunha muller que aínda hoxe agarda polo seu home... ¡Mais agarda en balde!

Arregañou os dentes outra vez. Se era dor ou sorriso, ou tenreza ou furia, eu non o sei. Era el así, o Vello Moreno. Polo xeito de acariña-lo vaso, xa baleiro, que un mociño espilido acudiu a encher e que el esbicou, pareceunos que ía contar algunha cousa, algún raro exemplo. Todos calamos e escoitamos.

—Ela coidou que ninguén o había de saber... —rompeu a dicir despois dun intre de silencio que, para todos nós, era parte do conto—; e como se sentía, digo eu, moi enlevada por aqueles ollos de entendido en mulleres que a percorrían paseniño de pés a cabeza, deixou primeiro abertas as orellas, parándose a oí-lo que non debía, e despois as portas... ¡A modiño, a modiño! Non espertar ós nenos...

O narrador fixo unha pausa ollando para nós. Nas caras de todos viu que si, que entendiamos... Podía seguir.

—¡Malpocada! —dixo como considerando o caso moi delicadamente—. En segredo, en segredo, fórono sabendo todos, tódolos que nas vilas saben estas cousas... E o raposiño aquel, viaxante, por máis señas, e do que non se soubo máis nada algún tempo despois, deixou dicir cousas moi churrusqueiras a catro lampantíns que trincaban á súa conta. Deixounas dicir, sentindo as cóchegas. El a sorrir, moi reservado... Máis ou menos de esguello, falouse do home dela, que andaba lonxe, a navegar. E foi cando el dixo (aínda agora se conta): “¡Disque é un toscalleiro, pero soubo escoller! Dígovolo eu...” E baixou unha punta do bigote para desafogar, mordéndoa, algún degaro súpeto que lle gavearía polo corpo. Non sei por qué me entreteño neses detalles...

—Os contos hai que adornalos —dixo algún dos presentes.

—Si, hai que adornalos, moi ben adornadiños —fungou o Vello Moreno. Bebeu un pouco, apartou de si o vaso e seguiu xa de corrido—. Un día soubo que o seu home viña xa de volta. Que estaba preto, na cidade... Soubo que podía chegar axiña, no intre insospeitado, e encomenzou a arranxa-la casa para recibilo con agarimo. Disque ata mercou algunha roupa nova... E velaí que o home non remataba de chegar. Chegaron en troques dous deses baúis que chaman mundos. E aínda outro despois. E, nunha letra, os miles para o desempeño. E de seguida outra que dobraba á primeira. Mais del, do home, ninguén daba razón. Soamente preguntas das veciñas. ¿E logo, cando vén? Mañá, mañá... As avesulladoras viron como se miraba nun espello, como poñía aquí, alá, o retrato del, co seu marquiño de cunchas e caramuxos... Mañá, mañá. Os picariños non se fartaban de remexer nas pechaduras dos mundos, ou de andar arredor. Ó cabo puideron abrilos, porque da cidade chegou o máis vello amigo do navegante e deulles unhas chaves... E mentres eles remexían, o forasteiro falaba moi baixiño coa nai.

Do seo dos mundos encomenzaron a saíren adobíos de neno, feitucos e charramanduscos, lambetadas, un trenciño, moedas estranxeiras, bólas de vidro, azuis, moradas, cor da prata, do ouro, do lume... E deberon de se quedar moi aglaiados cando llas mostraron á nai, e viron que ela rompía a chorar... E ben, esa muller é a que agarda en balde. Hai quen di que lle quería ó seu home.

Calou un intre. Parecía de pedra; unha pedra na que fosen deixando tremulentas escumas, vindo de moi lonxe, unhas escuras ondas. Dicía agora:

—Si, dende fóra, en falas e consellos, é moi doado ter bos ollos e boas entrañas. As entrañas demóstranse... Por exemplo, non tendo trato, anos arreo, con muller ningunha. Talmente un frade, deses antigos, dos desertos, mais acudindo a tesar un cabo, ou a empuxar vultos na estiba ou ó que cadre, que os brazos aínda rexen; e hai nun deles un nome floreado que non se desborra. Un bo traballo, feito por eses chinos que falabades. Si, hai quen di que lle tiña lei ó seu home, hai quen o di... ¡Mais a min, a min, non haberá quen teña cara a mo dicir!

E de súpeto o Vello Moreno, que tiña a man a tremer no cinto, arrandeou no aire o seu coitelo e espetouno na mesa. Longo tempo quedou o coitelo a abanear.

Seica fun eu quen preguntou despois dun silencio:

—¿Hai moitos anos que foi...?

O Vello Moreno pasou a man pola branca testa rapada e dixo:

—Moitos.

Non quixen preguntar máis, e falamos do semblante do tempo.

 

IV.
O VELLO QUE QUERÍA VE-LO TREN

Eran de alá da montaña... Dunha desas aldeas de nome bravo e silvestre que repousan perdidas entre calados cumios. ¡Longa viaxe fixeran —no rexo carro de bois, que rinchaba, xemía e daba tombos polos agres caniños montesíos— para lle dar cumprimento ó antollo do vello!

Moito tempo tivera secreto aquel desexo. Un día, coa mimosa cortedade dun neno que pide unha lambetada posta, como nun altar, nos máis altos andeis do almario, o avó tatexou o seu capricho. El nunca vira o tren. El non quería morrer sen ve-lo tren. A filla e o xenro riron boamente daquela tolería. O pobre vello, non tiña volta, estaba xa un pouquiño lelo. ¡Pasaba a vía tan lonxe! E ademais ¿que demos lle importaba ós seus anos ve-lo tren? En troques o neto púxose da parte do avó. E petou testarudo cos zoquiños no chan. “¡Eu quero ve-lo tren! ¡Eu quero ve-lo tren!”

Catro reflexións ó vello e catro azoutas ó pícaro e todo quedou en nada pola primeira vez. Pero repetiuse a escena, soubo o cura do conto e, con aquela sorrinte calma do abade experimentado que comprende e transixe, volveu polo avó e o neto. ¡Que diaño! O vello estaba rufo, curado polo sol e o arume dos piñeiros e non había de rendelo moito a viaxe.

Así foi que puxeron no carro un feixe de palla para asento do vello, meteron nun garabelo unha forte meren da, e moi de matinada puxéronse en camiño, deica che garen ó ignorado e apodrecido apeadeiro onde agardaren inquedos o miragre.

Coma un estraño rebuldar de gatos brancos —así lle pareceu ó neno—, correu lonxe, por riba dun pinal, unha fumarada, e un primeiro asubío foise perder nalgunha erma penedía. Outro máis furente foise espetar no ceo. E outro, imperioso e longo, axiña denunciou, co tremer da terra, a veciñanza do Non Visto. ¡Alí viña xa o tren, unha riola de monstros ben mandados, co alteiro capitán de ferro ó frente! ¡Medraba, medraba!

Salaios de condenado, sichos brancos, topadas, trasacordos, e de seguida todo ficou en gran silencio diante dos ollos aglaiados dun labrego vello e dun neno que aquel día estreara uns zoquiños novos. Foi só un pequeno intre de repouso. Non baixou ningún viaxeiro. Case que ningún avicou. Subiron moi á presa nun coche de terceira dúas mulleres atrancadas de cestos, máis torpes canto máis espavorecidas polo apremio. O tren parecía sufri-la impertinencia das moitas cortesías cando se está apurado. E fuxiu de novo, cheo de indiferencia, como para non se lembrar máis do pobre apeadeiro apodrecido.

O neto fala moito. ¡Como corría o tren! E non levaba cabalos. E había un neno coma el que avicara pola ventaniña. Un neno ben vestido, de cara fina, que tiña nos ollos esa expresión dos ricos nenos das cidades, que andan en tren e viven en casas moi altas. Aquel neno non se asombraba de ir en tren. ¡Que secreta finura había naquela indiferencia! E tamén ía unha señorita cunha teíña leviá coma as que fan as arañas, cubrindo a face... Unha teíña morada.

O vello fala pouco. Vai satisfeito pero un tanto tristeiro. Naquel mundo que lostregara un intre diante del, avesullaba moitas cousas endexamais presentidas alá nas altas toxeiras. Había máis mundos có seu. Mundos embruxados, ledos e tentadores. Mais el, xa, malpocado...

De súpeto o rapaciño dixo:

—Eu cando medre tamén hei de andar en tren.

As enrugas do vello teceron unha sombriza tristura.

O rexo carro de bois voltaba rinchando, xemendo e dando tombos para a aldea de nome bravo e silvestre perdida entre calados cumios.

V.
O NENO SUICIDA

Cando o taberneiro rematou de ler aquela nova inquedante —un neno suicidárase pegándose un tiro na sen dereita— falou o vagamundo descoñecido que acababa de xantar moi pobremente nun curruncho da tasca mariñeira, e dixo:

—Eu sei a historia dese neno.

Pronunciou a palabra neno dun xeito moi particular. Así foi que, os catro bebedores de augardente, os cinco de albariño e o taberneiro calaron e escoitaron con xesto inquiridor e atento.

—Eu sei a historia dese neno —repetiu o vagamundo. E, tras dunha solerte e ben medida pausa, encomenzou:

—Alá polo mil oitocentos trinta, unha beata que despois morreu de medo viu saír do camposanto florido e recendente da súa aldea a un vello moi vello en coiro. Aquel vello era un recén nacido. Antes de saír do ventre da terra nai escollera el mesmo ese xeito de nacencia. “¡Canto mellor ir de vello para mozo que de mozo para vello!”, pensou sendo espírito puro. A Noso Señor chocoulle a idea. ¿Por que non face-la proba? Así foi que, co seu consentimento, formouse no seo da terra un esqueleto. E despois, con carne de verme, fíxose a carne  do home. E na carne do home aformigou a caloriña do sangue. E como todo estaba listo, a terra-nai pariu. Pariu un vello en coiro.

De cómo despois o vello topou roupa e mantenza é cousa de moita risa. Chegou ás portas da cidade e como aínda non sabía falar, os ministros, despois de lle botaren unha capa enriba, levárono a diante do xuíz coma se tivesen sido testemuñas: “Aquí lle traemos a este pobre vello que perdeu a fala coa tunda que lle deron uns ladróns mal entrañados. Nin roupa lle deixaron”.

O xuíz deu ordes e o vello foi levado a un hospital. Cando saíu, xa ben vestido e mantido, dicíanlle as monxiñas: “Vai feito un bo mozo. Ata parece que perdeu anos”.

Daquela xa aprendera a falar algo e fíxose esmoleiro. Así andou moitas terras. Alá en Lourdes estivo dúas veces; da segunda tan amozado que, os que o coñeceran da primeira, coidaron que fora miragre da Virxe.

Cando adquiriu experiencia de abondo pensou que o mellor era manter secreta aquela estraña condición que o facía máis mozo cantos máis anos corresen. Así, non o sabendo ninguén  non sendo un ou dous amigos fieis— podería vivir mellor a súa verdadeira vida.

Traballou de vello e fíxose rico para folgar de mozo. Dos cincuenta ós quince anos a súa vida foi a máis feliz que se pode imaxinar. Cada día gustaba máis ás mozas e andou enliado con moitas e coas máis bonitas. E ata disque unha princesa... Pero diso non estou certo.

Cando chegou a neno encomenzou a vida a se lle ensarillar. Dáballe medo a sorpresa con que o vían entrar tan ceibe nas tendas a mercar lambetadas e xoguetes. Algún rateiro de viseira calada teno seguido ó longo de moitas rúas tortas. E algunha vez ten comido as súas lambetadas a tremer de anguria, coas bágoas nos ollos e o almibre nos beizos. A derradeira vez que o topei —tiña el oito anos— andaba moi triste. ¡Pesaban, ademais, tanto no seu espírito de neno os recordos da súa vellice!

Logo encomenzou a lle escarabellar día e noite unha obsesión tremenda. Cando pasasen algúns anos recolleríano en calquera calexa extraviada. Quizais algunha señora rica e sen fillos. Despois... ¡Quen sabe o que pasaría despois! A lactancia, os paseos nun carriño, cunha sonalla de axóuxeres na manciña tenra. E ó remate... ¡Ou! O remate poñía espanto. Cumpri-lo seu sino de home que vive ó revés e refuxiarse no seo da señora rica —poida que cando ela durmise— para ir alí devecendo ata se trocar primeiro nunha sambesuga e despois en arumia e logo en pequenísima semente...

O vagamundo ergueuse moi pensabundo, coas mans nos petos, e deu algúns paseíños todo amargurado. Ó cabo dixo:

—Explícome, si, explícome que se chimpase un tiro na sen o pobre rapaz.

Os catro bebedores de augardente, crían. Os cinco de albariño, sorrían e dubidaban. O taberneiro negaba. Cando todos desortían máis enfervoadamente, o taberneiro ergueuse de súpeto nas puntas dos pés e púxose a mirar todo arredor cos ollos moi abertos. O vagamundo desaparecera sen pagar.

VI.
NA MORTE DE ESTRELIÑA

Chamábase Estreliña e era moi gabaxeira e linda. Dicíalle a nai: “Vai á fonte, Estreliña”.

E Estreliña ía á fonte.

Dicíalle a nai: “Vai á horta, Estreliña, e dille a papá que deixe a poda e veña xantar”.

E Estreliña ía a correr, moi contenta de cumpri-lo mandado e chamaba polo pai.

Dicíalle o pai: “Ponte queda, Estreliña, que che vai traba-lo can”.

E Estreliña poñíase queda, toda a cara en lume, a surrir.

E dicíalle a irmá casadeira: “Vai á escola, Estreliña”. E Estreliña collía o catón e moi dereita e leda íase camiño da escola. E así sempre.

E cando a vían os outros picariños berraban xa de lonxe: “¡Estreliña! ¡Estreliña!”

E alá ía Estreliña a correr, depenicando un cornecho, e dáballes un anaco e xogaban ás moradas.

E ás veces, moi cedo, pasaba por baixo da súa fiestra un neno, e dicía: “¡Estreliña!”

E a cara de Estreliña, a sorrir tan campante, aparecía na fiestra un intre. Un intre nada máis. E o neno íase a correr e a rir, coma se fixese unha trasnada.

E así sempre.

E un día Estreliña morreu. Estaba no cadaleito bonita coma sempre, e tan campante.

E a nai, e a irmá casadeira, atrás do cadaleito, choraban. A irmá casadeira choraba e lembraba as cousas miúdas que a miúda Estreliña facía tódolos días.

E a nai case que non dicía nada.

Só dicía por veces, medindo e apoiando o pranto da filla casadeira:

—Estreliña, vai á fonte. Estreliña, vai á horta. Estreliña, vai á escola... ¡Estreliña onte! ¡Estreliña hoxe! ¡Estreliña mañá!

VII.
ONCE MIL NOVECENTOS VINTESEIS

Espertei, erguín a testa e... ¡que tola anguria, meus amigos! A miña fronte petou nun teito liso e frío, como luído polos duros cornos do Malo. Erguéronse as miñas mans —¡ouh, as mans, humildosos proeis do espírito nas tebras!—, erguéronse e toparon o mesmo teito liso e frío. E tamén o toparon os xeonllos, e, axiña, todo o corpo, a se debater con aquel nicho metálico nun desespero de cobra engaiolada. Despois quedeime a tremer como un neniño e deixeime acaloumiñar pola modorra inmensa que de novo pesou nas miñas pálpebras. Cando outra vez me espabilei quíxenme sobrepor á miña desventura. Endexamais esquecerei os pensamentos daquel intre. Os consolos tradicionais, que tan dilixentes se apiñocaran a carón da miña dor, liscaron logo silandeiros, coma envergoñados da súa impotencia.

O derradeiro en fuxir, teño que confesárvolo, non sen certo rubor, foi o consolo... ¿estético, chamareille? Deixemos isto. Tiven que me acoller á conformidade, e tamén a aquel semisono cariñento que asegundaba o formigueo nos meus ollos.

Foi entonces cando, sen saber por onde, veuse impoñer no meu maxín esta certeza. Eu non son un enterrado en vida. Eu tópome neste nicho cumprindo unha gravedosa encomenda.

¿Que encomenda era aquela? Sen me dar conta encomencei a me acariña-lo queixo —xa non me lembro se barbado ou non— con aire moi meditativo e poida que fachendisco.

Vencíame o sono. De moi lonxe chegaban, esmorecidas e indecisas, miúdas folerpiñas de lembranza.

Si, todo pode ser —dixera o doutor con ese sorriso dos doutores versados en orientalismo. Naquel intre o reloxo, insomne e desvariado dera unha hora absurda.

Todo pode ser, todo pode ser... ¿Tería eu, logo, durmido dez mil anos?

Espabileime de vez.

Si, era iso. Non había dúbida ningunha. Eu non lembrava enfermidade nin outra circunstancia precursora de morte nin de enterro.

Ben. Poñamos que fose iso. O doutor debeu de me deixar medios de me valer para saír do nicho e ver como era o mundo no ano 11926.

As miñas mans cachearon a tremer no fondo de tódolos petos. Un reloxo, un termómetro, unha caixa de mistos, unha petaca, unha pistola, unha lanterna eléctrica, unha carta lacrada, ¡unha chave!

Percorrín coa lanterna acesa o teito do nicho e dei co revesgado ollo da pechadura. A chave axustaba.

A ledicia foi tan grande como o máis grande arrepío. Tantas e tan novas forzas rebrincaron na miña alma e de tal xeito se ensarillaron unhas coas outras en procura de feitos que calmasen o seu tesante e doroso ímpeto, que a rentes anduvieron de me aniquilaren. Eu non era un home enterrado vivo. Era unha cultura “antiquísima” enterrada viva. Era un espírito arquisolitario. ¿Que sería de meus pais, dos meus antiquísimos amigos, daquela antiquísima rapariga tan garimosa e branca? O non lles poder conta-lo que vise, o non poder atordoalos co meu testemuño da xurdia, perfectísima e miragrenta soberanía dos homes, quizais colonizadores de astros, as pasadas dos cales me parecía sentir xa enriba de min, atristoume un pouco. ¿E o doutor? ¡Pobre doutor, magnífico, heroico, espiritualísimo doutor, apodrecido na terra despois de me disparar a min ó longo desa inmensa parábola de dez mil anos! Boteime a chorar, tremendo de tenruras ensarilladas con ledicias.

Permanecería así, quedo e feliz, quén sabe canto tempo, se non tivese reparado, mesmo enriba da miña fronte, nunha agulliña coma de reloxo que ía paseniño acaroando a súa punta indicadora ó seño da morte que se estilaba alá polo século XX: unha caveira enriba do xe feito coas canelas. Comprendín. Aquilo debeu de ser posto en movemento polos que eu fixen ó me espilir do sono milenario, e quería dicir que a miña moradía no nicho debía finar antes de que a agulla fixese o seño do Silencio sobre o dentamio da caveira. Un letreiriño posto a unha banda do circo percorrido pola agulla rematou de me esclarexa-lo que xa eu enxergara.

Restablecido o ritmo normal das funcións, a provisión de... (aquí unha fórmula química que non entendín) esgotarase nunha volta da agulla, e a túa vida perigará.

 Arranxei tódalas miñas forzas nun feixe ben unido e metín a chave no fecho.

¿Como era a cripta —chamareille así— en que me topei ó saír do nicho?

Non vexo ben os seus confíns. Soamente se evidencian para o meu recordo un recuncho de pedra ben labrada no que había un bocoi e ó lado a porta salaiante que empuxei... ¿Viña despois unha pequena esqueira, ata o andar dun corredor? ¿E logo unha saleta con tres portas, unha moi baixiña (por alí fun eu), e outras esqueiras e corredores e, nalgún sitio, auga polo medio? Cousas así coido lembrar; pero son imaxes incertas, e non sempre as mesmas. Non me deades moito creto.

Terei agora que vos pór ó tanto de cal era o segredo do sobre lacrado, que abrín coidadosamente, e represando o meu anceio, como ben suporedes. Dous trascendentais documentos contiña.

Nun deles o doutor dábame os consellos que debía seguir estrictamente para que a miña vida, comprometida polo témero experimento, non devecese no termo de moi poucos anos (quizais meses, ou días, ¡ou horas!).

O outro era unha longa carta moi respectuosa e digna, dirixida ós médicos do ano 11926.

Os dous levaban a mesma data: Compostela, 1926; e a mesma firma: Doutor Nóvoa Santos. Rubricado.

Lin os documentos, xa ceibe, a plena luz, un pouco á lixeira e distraído, erguendo os ollos por vegadas cun crecente aglaio. Porque Compostela, amigos, desaparecera.

Metín os papeis nos petos con tan atortorada présa que os enruguei, e púxenme a correr dunha banda para a outra pola campía inculta e deserta. Galguei a un pequeno altor encurutado de penedos, e dende riba dun ollei ó lonxe en redondo. Unha sacudida de sorpresa fíxome oír por vez primeira dende había dez mil anos a miña voz articulada: “¡O mar!”, berrei. Alá estaba, e non moi afastado. Escintilante, ledo... Pero tamén deserto. Nin velas nin fumaradas puñan nel as insignias do home.

¿Como tería chegado o mar ata alí? ¿Nun rechoutar enfervoado e furioso, ou moi de vagar, ó longo dos séculos? Non era intre para meditalo e baixei do curuto, primeiro cara á valgada, despois...

¡Canto máis feliz fora no seo do nicho que despois! Xa levaba moitas horas de andar, a segui-lo camiño do sol, e as puntadas da fame, con seren laceirantes, non o eran tanto como unha sospeita que encomenzaba a me espeta las unllas no maxín, medrando en loita co meu circio optimismo de sempre. Eu non o quería crer, mais non ía ter máis remedio que aceptalo: a terra debía de se topar deserta. Eu sería o supervivinte único. Un supervivinte fachendisco e burlado. Soíño no mundo. ¡Como terían de se riren de min as estrelas cando chegase a noite!

¡Como se chiscarían os ollos! Mais poida que non. Quizais me saudarían cun hurrio tremelucente. Quizais me cantasen, caído eu no chan pedregullento e coa livor da morte no semblante, o seu funeral pitagórico. Este pensamento deume azos para seguir camiñando.

O sol estaba xa moi baixo e o día aterecía.

Tres figuras na lomba dun cotorelo requeimado: unha árbore, un home e un neno. As tres moi pretas sobre un ceo moi roxo de serán. ¡Un home e un neno! Degorando trocarme nun feixe de foguetes festeiros, encomencei a correr cara a eles. Moradores da gran Cidade Perfecta, que non estaría lonxe, pensei. E, sen deixar de correr, non paraba de rir nerviosamente, cheo dun estralante xúbilo infantil.

Cando me ía aproximando chocoume un pouco algunha cousa, un vulto, que penduraba dunha ponla da árbore movéndose manseniñamente, inda que sen concerto. Seguín adiante, máis a modo... Xa podía ver ben os perfís daquela cousa. Pero non quixen dar creto, así de socato, sen máis, ós avisos do espanto, e seguín a sorrir, cun sorriso de careta, mentres no meu maxín buscaba aínda as voltas que me desen folgos. Certo que aquela cousa pendurada da árbore era unha perna humana... Pero, sen dúbida, finxida. O home debía de se-lo mestre e o neno o discípulo. O ensino a ceo descuberto. ¡Moi ben! Non podía ser doutro xeito no ano 11926.

Mais non. Non había volta. O home e o neno comían a fartar, chantando o seu dentamio, sañento e larpeiro, nos anacos que rebandaban da perna sanguiñenta. Quedeime entalecido, inmóbil, ollando babiolamente, a poucos pasos, como se fartaban.

De súpeto ergueron os ollos e víronme. Deixaron cae-las talladas e romperon a berros que non entendín. Unha evidencia nova e simple mostróuseme nun relampo: no termo de dez mil anos a evolución das linguas facía inverosímil que me puidese entender con homes daquela caste. E coidei que o mellor era fuxir.

Baixo o negror daquel fracaso ¡como se replantexaron no meu espírito as cuestións máis fondas! O ben e o mal, o heroísmo, a santidade, a sabiduría, Deus... Non había tempo de escismar.

Corrín deixándome levar pola pendente do outeiro. Atrás de min non eran dous os que viñan. Era unha grea abrouxadora que garulaba furiosa, quen sabe en que xerga, e guindaba pedras a rolos para que me acadasen.

¡Como chorarían as estrelas cando, pola noite visen o meu corpo esmaguzado! A choutos, a rolos, a tombos e sempre perseguido, corrín moito mal camiño, mesmo ata a beira do mar, agora témero e impreciso na sombra do anoitecer.

Dunha banda o home degradado, e da outra o mar de sempre. Coas bágoas nos ollos non sei se de pena, de medo ou de carraxe, saquei a pistola e fixen dous disparos.

Ía face-lo terceiro, cando a terceira aldaboada conmoveu a casa... e espertei. Espertei de vez, aterecido. Un fío de luz mollada entraba pola fenda das xanelas.

Nas lousas da rúa, o compás duns zocos e o pregón de tódalas mañás:

¡Quen merca o leite!

Tristeiro, confortante e raro...

 

VIII.
O DRAMA DO CABALO DE XADREZ

Enche a escena o taboleiro de xadrez baixo un ceo de estrelas e de lúa grande, medio encuberta ás veces polo paso dun escuro nubeiro. Ó se ergue-lo pano veranse tódalas pezas, cada unha no seu sitio, non sendo o Cabalo Branco de Rei.

O REI PRETO. ¿Estades todos?

UN PEÓN PRETO, moi tesiño no seu posto. Estamos, si, señor.

O REI BRANCO. ¿Estades todos?

O ALFIL BLANCO DE REI, despois dun silencio, e vendo que ninguén se adianta a falar. Aquí falta un... O Cabalo da miña banda.

O REI BRANCO. ¡Ese Cabalo, ese Cabalo...! ¡Sempre ha de pasa-lo mesmo! E agora, nin que quixese complicar máis aínda as falas das estrelas, facéndose el o agoirento...

UN PEÓN PRETO, lareto e espilido. ¿Quere que eu vaia buscalo?

OS OUTROS PEÓNS BRANCOS, a se riren con bulla. ¡O valente! ¡Que vaia logo! ¡Vaille dar unha dentada!...

O ALFIL BRANCO. ¡Tanta garula! ¡Que se calen eses rapaces! (Ó Rei, alongando o pescozo): Paréceme que aí vén.

O PEÓN ESPILIDO. Si, rapaces, rapaciños... ¿E quen vai diante? ¿E quen é o primeiro que se deixa engulipar? Tanta garula... ¡Tanta fachenda, digo eu! Despois, na caixa, todos somos uns.

O ALFIL. ¡Coidado! ¡Velaí vén xa!

Baixo o pulo da sombra que o trae ó seu destino, chega o Cabalo Branco de Rei, con algúns desvíos remolóns, e nun deles derruba ó Peón falador.

O PEÓN. ¡A modo! (Érguese indignado).

O REI BRANCO, ó Cabalo. ¡Sempre has de se-lo mesmo! ¿Por que diaños tardabas tanto en vir? (O Cabalo péchase en si). ¿Pódese saber, señor Cabalo, por que non responde ás preguntas que se lle fan? ¡Que lle fago eu!

O ALFIL BRANCO, intervindo diplomático e con media mofa. Disque non quere ser Cabalo... Que quere ser Alfil.

O CABALO BRANCO, estoupa. ¡Iso é todo o que cabe nunha cachola de Alfil, apirucada e esguellada! ¿Quen me oíu a min dicir nin en soños cousa tan cativa? (Cunha ri sada de supercabalo): ¡Alfil eu!

O REI BRANCO, impoñente e sorrinte, cunha amizosa ollada para o Alfil e un conciliador caer de pálpebras adicado ó Cabalo. Cálese vostede, señor Alfil, e deixe dicir ó señor Cabalo o que el sabe mellor que ninguén.

O CABALO BRANCO. Eu non quero ser Cabalo, Cabalo e nada máis que Cabalo, pero tampouco non quero ser Alfil, nin Peón, nin Torre, nin Rerr... (Detense a tempo baixo os ollos acesos e agraviados do Rei e da Raíña e, en troques de dicir “nin Rei’’, finxe un tosido e segue): Eu quero ser algo que sexa a un tempo Cabalo e Alfil e Peón e Torre e...

O REI BRANCO, de novo picado. ¿E Rei? ¡Fala! ¿E Rei?

O ALFIL BRANCO, medio por salvar ó Cabalo do compromiso, medio por se chufar del. Non, el non ía dicir semellante cousa, Maxestade. Ía dicir... Xogador das Brancas, ¿non si?

A RAÍÑA, de súpeto. ¡Xogador das Brancas! ¡Xa non hai respecto nin para o Xogador das Brancas! (Ergue os ollos ó ceo, no que se enredan os agoiros).

O CABALO BRANCO, xa no pendor das confesións ousadas. ¡Pois si! ¡Xogador das Brancas tamén!

O REI. Non se lle entende; quén sabe onde andou.

A RAÍÑA. Ou en qué compañas... (Ó Cabalo da súa banda): ¿Ti non serás coma teu irmán?

O CABALO BRANCO DE RAÍÑA. Non, señora, non, o mesmo pau, a mesma feitura, e non lle entendo.

A RAÍÑA. Fas ben. Eu tampouco. E non obstante, sen min todo vai costa abaixo.

Óese o frémito impaciente do Rei Preto.

O REI PRETO. ¡E logo! ¿Saen ou non saen?

OS PRETIÑOS. ¡Vinde para acó, louridos! (Aturuxan). OS BRANQUIÑOS. ¡Alá imos, tizóns! (Aturuxan).

O REI BRANCO. Abonda xa. ¡Silencio! Adiante ese Peón. ¡Ollo! ¡Soamente un paso!

O PEÓN. ¿Mudáronse os costumes? ¿Non eran sempre dous?

O REI BRANCO. ¡Un, estou dicindo! Así, moi ben.

O PEÓN. É boa moda. O pretiño de alá está a cavilar... ¡Tamén deu un pasiño! Axiña aprendiches, túzaro.

O REI. Cala, besbello. Agora ti, seu curmán, adiante. Dous pasos e firme, sen medo ó fendeángulos que xa che vén buscando as voltas. Ti, Cabalo metafísico, un chouto cara á banda da Torre. Que a de alá non recee o que matinas. ¡Defendédeme ben! ¡Ánimo todos! ¡Cada un ó seu!

Seguen as ordes e as arengas.

O ALFIL DE REI, á Torre. O Cabalo coida que soamente na súa cachola caben esas cousas. Eu tamén... ¡Se vises que envexa me dá o teu sino! Iso de ir por unha ancha estrada sen teres que te escabulir, coma min, por esa reganduxa das esquinas...

A TORRE. E se soubeses ti que envexa me dá esa falarica con que fendes dende lonxe...

O ALFIL. E a min as túas anchas costas...

UN PEÓN QUE ESCOITA. Pois eu sentín unha vez sobre min as anchas costas da Torre con tanto peso que coidei que eran miñas.

A TORRE. ¿Sabedes que é certo? Tamén eu teño sentido o escarabellar do Alfil da outra banda con tanta sobreteima que cheguei a coidar que a súa falarica era miña dalgún xeito.

O PEÓN. E unha vez, lémbrome, sentía pasar por min tantos camiños que, canto máis Peón era, máis coidaba ser eu soíño todo o xogo.

OUTRO PEÓN. ¡Tantos camiños...! Polo que levas vaste ensarillar. Aquí chaman por ti.

O PRIMEIRO. Alá vou.

O ALFIL. ¡Ser un todo o Xogo! Quizais non estivese mal... ¡Se eu fose todo o Xogo, que xogo alfilino, alfilinísimo sería! ¡Zis, zas... zis! Mate. Acabouse.

De súpeto hai un aglaiado rosmar de moitas pezas. As ordes trúncanse, tatexan. Encóbrese a lúa. Escuridade.

O REI, dende o cumio do rebumbio. ¡Quedos! Ninguén se mova de onde está. ¡Os faros! ¡Listo, listo! (A unha Torre adormiñada): ¡Que! ¿Non me estás oíndo?

A TORRE. Tanto tempo esquecida, inmóbil, botei un soniño. (Sacando, aceso, o seu farol e esculcando ó lonxe): ¿Por onde vai o Xogo? ¿Que vai pasar? ¿Qué pasa?

O ALFIL, alongando o pescozo. Agora, ren. É a fin.

O PEÓN ESPILIDO. ¡O Cabalo de Rei galgou de súpeto pola súa conta e foi morrer ó pé da Raíña Preta! ¡Para min que se suicidou...!

A RAÍÑA BRANCA, á Torre, que aínda sostén a luz por alto, coma un faro. Agora xa non fai falta que alumees. ¡Se cada un se contentase con se-lo que é, como eu me contento con se-la Raíña Branca!

A TORRE, mentres apaga e garda o seu farol. Así e, así é... Seica vou botar outro soniño.

Vaise esvaíndo e mergullando nun silencio estantío o marmular das pezas, e todas fican tesas e caladas, mes mo coma se fosen de madeira. Segundo se vai descubrin do a lúa, marela agora e amuada, cae o pano.

-------------
Obra da cabeceira:
Alá, alá lonxe onde habite o esquecemento. Roberto González Fernández [fragmento]

1982. Debuxo
Medidas: 106 x 150 cm
Lapis de cor sobre cartón Daler tinxido
Da serie Vida privada. (40 obras)
[Ficha en Atalaia]

Ligazóns de interese

Luz na terra. O Seminario de Estudos Galegos, unha institución de alta cultura, exposición conmemorativa do centenario do SEG. Cidade da Cultura, 4 de xullo de 2023 a 7 de xaneiro de 2024

Fonte: https://www.cidadedacultura.gal/gl/evento/luz-na-terra-o-seminario-de-estudos-galegos-unha-institucion-de-alta-cultura [Consulta: 2023-08-31]

Sitio web conmemorativo do centenario do Seminario de Estudos Galegos, elaborado polo Consello da Cultura Galega

Fonte: Consello da Cultura Galega
http://consellodacultura.gal/area2.php?arq=4372 [2023-03-08]

O Seminario de Estudos Galegos (1923-1936) en Galiciana. Biblioteca Dixital de Galicia

Fonte: http://biblioteca.galiciana.gal/gl/consulta_aut/registro.do?id=35606 [Consulta: 2022-12-28]

Acceso á publicación Arquivos do Seminario de Estudos Galegos. Galiciana

Fonte: Galiciana. Biblioteca Dixital de Galicia
https://biblioteca.galiciana.gal/gl/consulta/registro.do?id=401088 [Consulta: 2022-12-30]

51 páxinas das nosas Letras

Catálogo da exposición organizada polo Parlamento de Galicia en 2013 para conmemorar o 50 aniversario do Día das Letras Galegas

Fonte: Parlamento de Galicia
https://www.parlamentodegalicia.es/sitios/web/Publicacions/51%20paxinas%20das%20nosas%20letras.pdf [consulta: 2022-12-30]

Epístolas de

Tarxeta de Rafael Dieste a Lois Tobío Fernández, sen data.

Carta de Rafael Dieste a Lois Tobío Fernández, 1951.

Carta de Dieste a Luís e Maruxa Seoane. 1962

Carta de Dieste a Luís e Maruxa Seoane. 1970

Carta de Dieste a Luís e Maruxa Seoane. 1972

Carta de Muñoz Manzano e Dieste a Luís e Maruxa Seoane. 1974

Carta de Dieste e Muñoz Manzano a Luís e Maruxa Seoane. 1976

Carta de Dieste e Muñoz Manzano a Seoane. 1976

Carta de Muñoz Manzano e Dieste a Luís e Maruxa Seoane. 1978

Carta de Dieste e Muñoz Manzano a Luís e Maruxa Seoane. 1979

Videos

Audios

Homenaxe a Rafael Dieste (gravacións de 1957, 1959 e 1980)

Sobre da morte do Bieito / O vello que quería ver o tren / O neno suicida

Referencias bibliográficas

- AXEITOS, X.L. (coordinador): Rafael Dieste (1889-1981). Unha fotobiografía, Edicións Xerais de Galicia, Vigo, 1995.

- CASAS, A.: Rafael Dieste e a súa obra literaria en galego, Galaxia, Vigo, 1994.

- FREIXEIRO MATO, X.R.: Rafael Dieste. Vida, personalidade e obra, Laiovento, Santiago, 1995.

- OTERO, D.: A vida de Rafael Dieste, Galaxia, Vigo, 1995.

- REI NÚÑEZ, L.: A travesía dun século. Biografía de Rafael Dieste, Ediciós do Castro, Sada, 1987.

- VILLANUEVA, D.: “La integridad creadora de Rafael Dieste”, en Rafael Dieste. Obras literarias, Fundación Santander Central Hispano, Madrid, 2006.

Publicacións periódicas

Miliciano Gallego, El (1936-1937) .

Órgano del Cuarto Batallón de la Primera Brigada Mixta de Líster

Galicia Libre (1937-) .

Semanario popular informativo

Nova Galiza (1937-1938) .

Boletín quincenal dos escritores antifeixistas

Aquí…Galicia! (1960-) .

Órgano de la Peña Cultural Gallega "Rosalía de Castro"

Libros do ccg sobre Rafael Dieste

Charamuscas, 1923.
Unha revista galega na Guerra de África: estudios e transcrición

1995 | Xosé Luís Axeitos, Autoría. Rafael Dieste, Autoría. Xosé María Brea Segade, Autoría. Xesús Romero Suárez, Autoría. Rosa Brea Suárez, Autoría.

Homenaxe a Rafael Dieste.

1995 | Afonso Cid González, Locución. Afonso Vázquez-Monxardín, Coordinación. Vidal López, Son.