Genaro and Fermín
knew each other from school and, now in their forties, they had the habit of
meeting up on Saturday afternoons in the modest café Horizonte which was
situated opposite the park.
They spoke about childhood memories, old films that had been televised again, books that they read and swapped, and sometimes topics that they considered existential, like suicide.
“I don’t think I’d ever kill myself,” said Genaro after “What’s the point? The end comes eventually without one having to provoke it, don’t you think?”
“I, on the contrary,” said Fermín, “would not dare to discount it so definitively.”
“But, for what motive? Anguish? Economic hardship? Illness? A disillusion with regards to love?
“No, nothing like that. If I were to make this decision, on a misty, quiet afternoon with no ringing of church bells, it would be quite simply out of curiosity. To know what comes next. It’s possible that it’s fascinating.”
“If there’s anything at all.”
“Listen, just in case something happens I’m letting you know; if at one point I end it all, and if I do and I find something, absolutely anything, the sign would be that even if it were not autumn, dry leaves would begin to fall.”
“Where’s that come from?”
“I dreamt it.”
“It’s just as well. I thought you had a screw loose.”
That conversation took place on the last Saturday of November. The first Saturday of the next February, Genaro and Fermín met as always in the café Horizonte.
They sat in silence for a long silence. It appeared that they had exhausted all their available topics.
Fermín finished his coffee and gave Genaro a look of affection, saying, “Chau.”
Genaro saw hem walk towards the pine forest. Then he disappeared.
Half an hour later, the shot rang loud and without any echoes. After the initial shock and before he had had time to recover from the surprise, Genaro noticed that, in the height of summer, a group of dry leaves began to fall onto his table.
They spoke about childhood memories, old films that had been televised again, books that they read and swapped, and sometimes topics that they considered existential, like suicide.
“I don’t think I’d ever kill myself,” said Genaro after “What’s the point? The end comes eventually without one having to provoke it, don’t you think?”
“I, on the contrary,” said Fermín, “would not dare to discount it so definitively.”
“But, for what motive? Anguish? Economic hardship? Illness? A disillusion with regards to love?
“No, nothing like that. If I were to make this decision, on a misty, quiet afternoon with no ringing of church bells, it would be quite simply out of curiosity. To know what comes next. It’s possible that it’s fascinating.”
“If there’s anything at all.”
“Listen, just in case something happens I’m letting you know; if at one point I end it all, and if I do and I find something, absolutely anything, the sign would be that even if it were not autumn, dry leaves would begin to fall.”
“Where’s that come from?”
“I dreamt it.”
“It’s just as well. I thought you had a screw loose.”
That conversation took place on the last Saturday of November. The first Saturday of the next February, Genaro and Fermín met as always in the café Horizonte.
They sat in silence for a long silence. It appeared that they had exhausted all their available topics.
Fermín finished his coffee and gave Genaro a look of affection, saying, “Chau.”
Genaro saw hem walk towards the pine forest. Then he disappeared.
Half an hour later, the shot rang loud and without any echoes. After the initial shock and before he had had time to recover from the surprise, Genaro noticed that, in the height of summer, a group of dry leaves began to fall onto his table.
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