XII
happy note: the clemency of Pluvio walked to frequent the park regularly. The days were lengthened to the point that at nine o'clock the sun shone again, because we were near the Arctic Circle and all the rest. The air temperature is softened. We were fresh air and invigorating the complexion.
Improved weather conditions restored new life to the people who came out of a gray period, as a long hibernation. In this favorable time a new species, stretched his neck out of the hole to sniff the fresh air of the summer, the population for the entire winter holed up showed cheerful and lively: the Dutch cycling. They were the ones to conquer the city. The blonde Dee on two wheels. Back sinuous, hair flying, sit firmly planted on the seat, long legs decided to give pedal strokes, full calves as ripe fruits, fluttering skirts, short skirts depraved panties that looked like jewels from their tired legs. A caravan of athletic beauty to make my blood boil. The girls had wanted to take off the weight of winter, to undress and give body and soul to us horny guys. Eroticism inflamed the streets of Amsterdam like Nero did to Rome.
It was through this cataclysm of excitement that I happened to come out with a couple of them in a row without beating. Janneke met her at Bourbon Street, the venue of the trailer. She was blonde, tall, with a diamond embedded in an incisive. She liked it and engage. We made love that night. It was beautiful. And I went over. I wanted to call to find out how he was, every now and then gave her a flower, and coaching to below the gate giving the kiss goodnight. When I left work we met at the park, and we held hands each riding on his bike. Slowly I felt reborn a fire straight into his chest. She asked me to be engaged. I accepted.
One day we were at the Vondel park lying on a blanket in the sun. Janneke looked me straight in the eye and I said: 'Santiago who have ambitions in life? Your job satisfy you? Do you feel accomplished? How do you imagine your future? "I was pleased that Janneke interested by her. I put aside this absurd habit of telling lies and I sincerely confessed. Truth that I kept hidden in God knows what.
told her to be confused. I wanted to change jobs because I lied to myself all day but I had the courage to do so. My future, it felt uncertain, with no fixed points. Before it was not. Once I was sure of myself and what I did. Was to face any situation, even with broken bones I came out still out. Now things had changed. Part of that courage was gone, leaving me helpless to my fate, unable to take matters in hand.
From an early age, I told her I had a passion for reading. My favorites were the books of geography and natural sciences. I loved animals and nature. Then comiciai to read authors like Pavese, Calvino, Stephen King and was also my desire to write. Over the years, writers such as Celine, Bukowski, Flaubert, were of heroes to me. I flung open the doors to the world without having lived. A bad world. The world of men.
In any case, once the school started working with my father as a carpenter. Shortly after my father blew up a hand and I decided to quit. A minimum careless as I was there I left her arms. It was then that I decided to indulge my dream: I moved to Rome to become a writer. Castellammare left without regret. I would return to spend old age, I thought.
The first job I found was to keep me in a call center. Gained so much to survive. Often the last day of the month I stayed without eating. But I do not care. At that time, was inside. I wrote and I was drinking like a madman took the lead from the myth of my heroes drunk that I imagined sitting at a table in a bar: Kerouac, Celine, Miller, Bukowski ... and did everything possible to sit down with them.
I found a second job. With an online magazine called Pickwick. Send me the books at home, reviewed them and paid me money to fifteen article. Certainly the best job ever had. Through all that reading seized what stuff they were made writers. A complex category, you know? There is a pattern. There are those who write to tell a story, a diary, and those who publish to charges of enriching publishers and nonsense flooding the world, those who give themselves airs. Others are convinced that the damned and drink coming until his remorse for having vomited blood. There is also the recommended category. I've reviewed several of the singers, politicians, actors, children of one or another who had ventured into writing and sent letters of complaint to the office because of my judgments. But if those books for me were shit, what was I supposed to say? Yet many of them are convinced they are good. They think they have talent. Reading the latest best-seller say, "I could write it myself, and even better, what I have without this little man?". Fortunately, there are also those that have it one thousand per thousand in the talent, there is no bluff, have a square head, are stubborn and believe that the reason is the way to improve tenacity. And they become writers. Unfortunately
Pickwick did not last long. The publishing house failed. I stayed the call center. That unhappy period. Everything I touched ended in ruin. Everything But Penelope. A plate of spaghetti, a hug breathtaking and the world was perfect.
(Janneke while listening carefully)
short time passed and things are not meshing. Although I gave you to do a lot of my stories were not blood. They were boring, sloppy, recycled, so defined them. I was now a whole stack of rejection letters from publishers to half of Italy, all with the same opening words: "Dear Mr. Sanchez, we regret to inform you that your manuscript does not fall ... "and bla bla bla. I do not give up. I continued to write even though he knew that something overdriven. I tried to change his gender. I gave her horror, the noir, the thriller, the romantic, I wrote some pieces even pornographic. Then I realized there's nothing. And I went back on my feet. I went to write me. Just write me know. I watched the world, I was laughing or disgusted, filtered and transferred to the casino on the sheets. Nothing. Waste always, always out of the series, out of place, out of balls, and every time my dream is shattered by a bastard NO!
Scott Fitzgerald had one hundred and twenty waste before it is published. I did not get to thirty and I softened it. I was made to write, that's all. In years of practice I had not caught anything. It simply was not for me. Better to devote time to other stories. Then, well, I gave up Penelope, I moved to Amsterdam, and now expect something that shook me. Janneke
dropped my words in silence. I stroked his cheek and started to sunbathe.
that night took her home. I do not invite them to come. We kissed. And from that moment disappeared. I tried to call dozens of times to no avail. His cell phone was always off. At home there was no answer. I worried. I was convinced something terrible had happened. I was ready to inform the police when Gary told me that Janneke had taken a colleague to attend office.
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