MY MEETING WITH ANDRES LAGUNA IN SALAMANCA AUTHOR OF LAZARILLO

 

FATHER TORMES RIVER OF LANGUAGE. PA SALAMANCA LA BLANCA I'M GOING HORIZONS OF LAZARILLO

IN MY LOOK

 

Salamanca the white who supports you. Four little tits that come and go. I walk in the footsteps of my youth that girlfriend I had in Salamanca. A Bogajo town and that house where I had a stomach ache. All my life I suffered from constipation and I thought I had cancer. The bulls, the festivals, the capeas of Vitigudino seen from the balcony. Fortune was generous to me that summer. I'm still poor like my eponymous hero, the good Lázaro de Tormes, a son of the stream like me because he was born in a water mill. I crossed the bridge of my destiny and poked Guisando's bull in the belly to see if there was anything inside. And there was nothing. The shell of the soul was empty. The waters of the father river of our language descended slowly and silently. On the other side of the riverbank, some washerwomen soaped a lost star between ancient songs and reverence. Just noise and the big bump on the head from the fucking blind man who hit me with such force against the stone that it almost left my head in splinters. Since then, Antoñito woke up.

─Lazarus, are you there? Go out. You fell into the garlito for asshole

the laughter of the blind fementido bounced on the waves

ace of the river that drags the force of our language. A torrent of words. The Nereids and the nymphs that Garcilaso saw went out for a walk, even though I didn't see them. He could only make out the robust bodies of the holm oaks on the other side. The fighting bulls grazing near the gravel looked at me with enigmatic eyes. Some already had more than seven herbs. A whole life to die in the albero of a square but life is bullfighting. A Thoronda cow mooed for the lost calf. The ducks enjoyed themselves swimming among the reeds, ash trees and ailantos that shaded the two slopes. I was amazed to see an old man cross the Roman bridge who arrived with a cachava from Segovia and a book in his hand. He was huffing and puffing along the way. He had made the trip from Alcalá to Salamanca. I guessed that he was a clergyman from the three-cornered cap and the doctoral tassel. A group of students approached him to kiss his hand and called him "domine" and "magister". That August afternoon, on the eve of the solemn feast of the Dormition of Mary, Father Tormes allowed me in that vision to meet the author of the Lazarillo, who was none other than Dr. Andrés Laguna, the doctor of Emperor Charles V. He did not dare to sign it out of fear to the Inquisition.

Give him a deep bow. And he recognized me:

─How's life going, Antonio? I know of your many sufferings because you revealed for history that the guide was not anonymous. That the author was me. They ignored you and even made fun of you and called you a raving madman. Spain is a land of inquisitors. They are the ones who command and dominate in all areas of our existence in literature, in politics, in the arts. Bad race exalted by the arrogance of those who believe they are chosen. Jewish arrogance and hatred. It is a curse that we drag and the worst are those of Segovia. You would never be a prophet in your land. Neither was I. They wanted to burn down the house I had in Mozoncillo due to ill will.

─Master, you say the truth, but with these oxen you have to go plow ─ I replied.

─Ox you say? They are not goblin or meek castrated oxen but authentic mihura

I was very comforted by the appearance. Don Andrés, who was on his way to sing vespers in the cathedral, had a slight limp, his beard was silver and his nose was blunt.

 He gave me his blessing and recommended perseverance and not to be discouraged. I deeply appreciated it.

The mighty river Tormes, which never dries up in summer and carries more water than the Duero, which seems to be its tributary, but some are famous and others provide water, witnessed our meeting.

 Very relaxed and grateful for the words of the teacher Laguna who came down from a cloud to tell me about it, I went into one of the many gambling dens that Salamanca has and I remember with nostalgia when I courted Charo I ordered a jug of red wine and drank it whole at Health of Lázaro de Tormes, protector of all vagabonds and of those who profess freedom without debauchery. The eponymous hero who gave birth to the imagination of that Segovian humanist who recommended us to be patient in the face of adversity.

 

Thursday, August 18, 2022