Home Entertainment The new story of Marcelo Birmajer: The widower

The new story of Marcelo Birmajer: The widower

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The new story of Marcelo Birmajer: The widower

The New Story Of Marcelo Birmajer: The Widower - Light Home News

dove He was late for the Barreiro Alves Christmas. She had taken time to get ready, took time to buy the gift on the way, and took time to find her way.

The party was in a private neighborhood, in an endless residence, with a swimming pool, a glazed barbecue area, dunes of clipped grass, a golf court, a tennis court, and amenities for all tastes.

It was the first time I had visited a house where the owners were also the owners of the neighborhood.

They did not have to pay the expenses, it was the repeated joke. The Barreiro Alves had been friends of his father – he had represented them in a couple of minor causes, but the friendship exceeded the employment relationship – and to a lesser extent of his mother. Both of Paloma’s parents had died.

They had invited her by means of a postcard: a relic.

He decided to attend and did not really know why. Probably in memory of his father. Emilio Barreiro Alves recognized her as soon as he entered: “You have the grace of your mother and the aura of your father,” he said. I invited you because I can’t stand Christmas without your father. We saw each other little, but at this time we were inseparable. Maybe because he didn’t give a damn about the holidays, like me.

“I know,” Paloma was moved, more than she wanted. My parents always argued before going out: my mother prepared more than necessary, and my father told him that you were simple people.

“There are no simple people,” Emilio replied, and invited her to pour herself a drink, before continuing to receive guests.

Paloma drank the first aperitif and He promised not to go beyond a dozen canapes. She was at number five, rigorously selected, when she sat next to a man a few years her senior, with an open light blue shirt, graying hair and white pants.

She was wearing elegant espadrilles, in a faded green, that matched her gaze. He wanted the stranger to speak to him, but he was silent for a long time, looking at a nonspecific point, as if an invisible landform caught your attention.

Finally, without coquetry, perhaps forced by circumstances, the man asked Paloma what brought her around and what she did.

“I am the daughter of some friends of the homeowners,” Paloma explained. And I work in marketing for a law firm.

“Enrico,” the man held out his hand. My wife was the cousin of the landlady.

– Aren’t they cousins ​​anymore? Paloma heard herself ask stupidly.

I’m a widower Enrico clarified unnecessarily.

“In fact,” Paloma thought to stand up, “my parents aren’t at this party anymore.”

Finally the verbal patch was elegant.

“I have a place in Rome,” Enrico explained, when Paloma asked him. I design my own clothes, with a partner. A small business. I am in Buenos Aires until January.

Paloma thought that if Enrico invited her to leave the party together, perhaps the path, that path that was so difficult for her to find, would take her, like everyone else, to Rome. But he preferred not to be carried away by speculation: came from a traumatic separation because of the peaceful.

Leo and Paloma loved each other, they loved each other, they accompanied each other: but something it always went wrong between them, for more than ten years. It had been time to let go. Better to be alone for a while, she pretended to recommend herself. The imperceptible decline of the talk sent her away like a room-temperature stream.

Maité Barreiro Alves, Emilio’s wife, monopolized her for half an hour, and described her dead cousin, the one who had been Enrico’s wife.

Paloma walked away from the hostess with the melancholy of someone who fires a mother for an indeterminate time. But he did not have time to relegate himself to that nostalgia: the distinguished bearing, the long golden hair, even the heels, not recommended for the occasion, personified Natacha, the dead woman that Enrico and Maité had just told him about.

As if he had described her according to his perception, for an author of holographic sketches.

The impression was of such magnitude that Paloma found herself next to the woman as if a magnet were drawing her, unable to stop or direct her steps. Natacha left the plate halfway with a lemon and chocolate mousse on the sweet table; he lit a cigarette and offered another to Paloma, who was pretending to pour herself a coffee.

When Paloma accepted the cigarette, she thought that perhaps Natacha had died of cancer. But it was the bewilderment at the meeting: Maité had detailed her death. A collision with a truck, nearby, five years ago, in the prime of age, of beauty. A tragedy.

Paloma was not so much surprised to see her, as to be seen by the other guests: they spoke to her naturally. Only when Natacha appeared before Enrico, her widower, did Paloma notice the phenomenon: I was the only one who did not see her. He remained watching the distance, the horizon, whatever it was.

Until a woman, younger than Paloma and Natacha, although not prettier than either of the two, took him by the arm. They barely kissed, and continued towards the end of the party. An unexpected golf ball broke an empty glass. Leaving the hacienda, Paloma discovered that Natacha needed a ride. Natacha spontaneously stayed inside Paloma’s car.

“On the nights of the 24th I try to win him back,” Natacha explained, as if they were two friends, with no need for clarification. But he is the only one who does not perceive me.

Paloma made a silence that was an invitation to continue.

– I wanted to leave him, after this party. I went alone with the car. But halfway there, I regretted it and decided to go back. So … the truck. Enrico never knew why I left, with the car. Even today he wonders. Somehow, me too. But I do not know. I couldn’t explain it to him even now. There is only one life.

With the halo of a vague but intense sadness, Paloma wondered how long or how long that journey would last. Natacha asked him to leave her there, in a field. The headlights illuminated a tin sign, with a painted star, in memory of a car accident. Before raising the window, Paloma asked Natacha: – Tell my mother that I miss her.

WD

Reference from clarin