EL LAZARILLO DE TORMES FRIEND OF THE ONE WHO WRITES THIS

 

FATHER TORMES RIO DEL IDIOMA. FOR SALAMANCA LA BLANCA I'M LEAVING HORIZONS DEL LAZARILLO

IN MY LOOK

 

Salamanca the white one who supports you. Four little chickadees that come and go. I am walking in the footsteps of my youth, that girlfriend I had in Salamanca. A Bogajo town and that foster home where I had the stomach ache. I suffered from constipation all my life and I thought I had cancer. The bulls, the festivals, the Vitigudino capeas seen from the balcony. Fortune was generous with me that summer. I am still poor, like my eponymous hero, good old Lázaro de Tormes, a son of the stream like me because he was born in a mill. I crossed the bridge of my destination and poked Guisando's bull in the belly to see if there was something inside. And there was nothing. The soul conch was empty. The waters of the river, the father of our language, flowed slowly and silently. On the other side of the bank, some washerwomen (were they the nymphs of Garcilaso or the Nereids of Apollo?) were soaping a lost star between ancestral songs and bows.

Only noise and the big slap from the fucking blind man who hit me with such force against the stone that he almost left my head in splinters.

Since then Antoñito woke up.

─Lázaro, are you there? Go out. You fell into the trap for being an asshole

The laughter of the blind blind man bounced on the waves of the river that drags the force of our tongue. A torrent of words. The nereids and nymphs that Garcilaso saw went out for a walk, even though I didn't see them.

I could only see the robust bodies of the mollar oaks on the other side. The fighting bulls that grazed 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 plaza but life is bullfighting.

A red cow mooed calling for the lost calf.

The ducks enjoyed themselves by swimming among the reeds, ash trees and ailanthus that shaded the two slopes. I was amazed to see an old man crossing the Roman bridge who arrived with a cachava from Segovia and a book in his hand. He came puffing sweaty down the road. He had made the trip from Alcalá to Salamanca.

  I guessed he was a clergyman from the three-pointed cap and 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., and I did not know. He dared to sign it for fear of the Inquisition.

Give him a deep bow. And he recognized me:

─How is life going for you, Antonio? I know of your many sufferings because you revealed for history that Lazarillo was not anonymous. That the author was me. They didn't pay attention to you and even made fun of you and called you crazy. Spain is a land of inquisitors. They are the ones who rule 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 carry and the worst are those of Segovia. You would never be a prophet in your land. Neither was I.

They wanted to burn the house I had in Mozoncillo out of malice.

"Master, you say the truth, but with these oxen we have to go plowing," I replied.

─Oxen you say? They are not elfin or meek castrated oxen but authentic mihura

I was very comforted by the appearance. Don Andrés Laguna, the wise clergyman, expert in the art of herbs and medicine, who was going 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 thanked him deeply.

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 carry the fame and others provide the water, witnessed our meeting.

  Very comforted and grateful for the words of maestro 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 was courting Charito, I asked for a jug of red wine and I got it. I drank entirely the health of Lázaro de Tormes, protector of all vagabonds and those who profess freedom without debauchery. The eponymous hero who gave birth to the imagination of that Segovian humanist who recommended that we be patient in the face of adversity.