Thank you all for your collaboration and support! These have been difficult days but with these stories/poems that you have shared with us, everything has been more bearable.

 

ELEVENTH STORY

FOR THE CONFINED MOTHERS

(Javier Barraca Mairal)

 

For the confined mothers

how close this spring

 and today they are imprisoned roses

which in the florists,

this naked copla goes here

 this bunch of letters.  

 

They live like sand

lonely on their islands.

Palm trees and dumb beaches

languish without the breeze

nor the waves of laughter

of friendly presences.

Its leaves taste like dunes

Banished from the rain

 

Well, the flower of caress,

because of the bitter confinement

that confines and isolates them,

can't visit them today,

let this bouquet visit them

of kisses and poetry.

And I caressed them a verse,

tender silk petal.

 

 Let the aroma reach them

of the word, which spikenard.

And the voices embrace them

that look for them, like the river

of the sea seeks the lap.

Let the sun come to your doors

warm with some affection

And the sounds find them

vibrant of our beings.

 

TENTH STORY

THAT SUNDAY

(Paul Alzola Cerero)

 

That Sunday he decided to go out with his five-year-old daughter Cleo to stretch his legs. A few days ago, the Government had decreed permission for parents and their young children to leave the house for a walk of a maximum of one hour. It was early, the streets of the neighborhood were deserted and the fog had settled on them. Leaving the portal, he and Cleo headed down the long avenue and toward the containers next to the Cercanías station. He was carrying a garbage bag with some items that, after the long confinement caused by the pandemic, he had deemed useless; among them, four cassettes of María Dolores Pradera that his father, Cleo's grandfather, who had died a few days ago, gave him. He lived in a nursing home in the South zone and only his two sisters attended the funeral, with whom he had not spoken since the snack on the last day of Kings, which was undoubtedly a tense meeting. The fact that he hadn't seen his father's body made him think that perhaps it was a mix-up and that, in reality, he hadn't died. And while he stirred these thoughts, his daughter was humming something aloud, holding her hand. Once they reached the containers, he began to empty the contents of the bag until, just as he was about to throw away the first cassette, a voice stopped him:

"Don't you want them?" He turned around and saw a man of his height, with a white mask that covered much of his face. Do you mind if I keep them?” He shrugged and offered her the four cassettes, which the man promptly stuffed into the pockets of his trench coat. What were you talking about between the two of you?” Such familiarity disconcerted her, and she didn't know what to answer; so she tugged on Cleo's hand to keep them going.

After a few meters, he realized that the man in the raincoat was following them a short distance away. He slowed down and his daughter looked at him. The man approached and said to them:

"Don't you have anything for breakfast?" You see, I don't...

"Stay with us," Cleo interrupted, her voice shrill. Seconds later, he motioned with his head for her to come with them. And beginning with the month of March, that man told them the story of a strange journey that he had made on a bed, to a place that he, he said, escaped all attempt to describe. When they reached the front door of his house, he made another gesture for the man to wait there. He went upstairs with Cleo, and in no time at all, the two of them prepared a thermos of café con leche and a tupperware with three dry croissants from the previous Thursday. They went back downstairs and the three of them sat on the steps between the street and the doorway. And when they were sitting on the steps the man took one of the croissants, broke it and offered it to her. Soon after, they finished breakfast, said their goodbyes, and he and Cleo returned home.

That same day, at lunchtime, Cleo began to hum something while she rolled the spaghetti on her fork.

"What are you singing, Cleo?" He realized he was humming "The time you have left free," the same tune the man in the trench coat had hummed as he walked away from them with a smile. And instantly he was up, heart pounding, and he went very still as Cleo watched him.

NINTH STORY

NO EXIT

(Carolina Valderrey Uzquiano)

It was a gray day, like all the previous ones since he had entered here. I saw how the glass of the sale, the only one we had, began to fog up due to my breathing and the cold day. It was getting harder and harder for me to see outside. It had started to rain. 

− That's right, April XNUMX, XNUMX, very good. 

It was here again, that voice that day after day repeated the date on which we met. Thirty six days. She has been locked up in this place for a month and six days. I don't know how to distinguish if they are many or few, since I entered, every day they seemed the same to me and every day I did the same: look out the window until I stopped seeing what was happening outside. But today was different. It was harder for me to breathe than usual and my desire to hurt myself was increasing. Thirty-six days I haven't seen the people I love and I'm beginning to think they don't know where I am. If I am. 

There were a lot of other people with me, but they didn't interest me, I was fine alone and even if it was hard for me, that's the way it had to be. I have always preferred to stay away and observe how the rest related. 

The days continued their course and I with them. I woke up late, because the only rule there was to do no harm. He had breakfast looking out the window. Made exercise. read. I watched. I cried. Then group talk where my mind was absent. Sitting by the window and not understanding why the sun no longer came out. And the night. No one said this was easy, so I did not part with my bag. That bag was the only one that could recover my breathing level during and after the chaos. 

− Today, May XNUMX, XNUMX, we have good news. I want us all to say goodbye to A. 

Did you hear that? After fifty-six days, I can finally leave. After almost two months locked up, I can finally see the real world without a glass separating us. I can finally breathe. It doesn't rain anymore. I have stopped crying. The sun is rising. 

I said goodbye to everyone and thought that it was not a farewell, but a "see you later". After all, A always comes back. Anxiety never goes away, it just goes to sleep. 

EIGHTH STORY

NEWTON AND CREATIVITY IN CONFINEMENT

(Pablo Martinez de Anguita)

 

Isaac Newton was born on January 4, 1643 and to his mother's peace of mind he was a boy. Newton's seventeenth century, as Jane Austen would show a century later in her novels as romantic as "Sense and Sensibility", contains a more dramatic situation than the female search for the perfect Mr. Darcy before which a woman could fall at his feet. The problem with women in that Victorian England and its previous era was that they could not legally inherit land. Only men did. And Doña Hannah Ayscough, after becoming pregnant in 1642, she had been widowed within a few months.

If she had had a daughter, she would have lost all her husband's land to his cousin and would have had to give up the Woolsthorpe Manor estate. But Isaac Newton was male, a posthumous child, and an only child. And this situation made that promising young genius almost stay without going to university, since his mother was afraid that no one would be left to take care of the farm. Thank God an uncle of his convinced Doña Hannah, and Isaac was able to graduate from Trinity College of the University of Cambridge, where who would have thought! , he was a mediocre student… 

Until after three years of university a terrible epidemic of the Black Death loomed throughout the United Kingdom. And in the spring of 1665 Newton, recently graduated, like all his classmates, had to confine himself again to his country house with his mother... The plague had escaped all control and like today, practically every day the deceased were recounted. They even say that this was the beginning of the science of demography.

And then what he called “his miracle year”. In the 18 months that the confinement lasted for him (18 months…!, yes!, you heard right) he began to notice some things.

A tradition tells that his mother, happy to have him back home, sent him to take care of the sheep in the field (how interesting it is to contrast this data with the need for labor today in the Spanish agricultural and livestock sector, which requires 150.000 seasonal workers who they cannot reach the Spanish countryside to harvest the crops or shear the sheep). But Mrs Ayscough soon realized that something was wrong. Desperate, Doña Hannah saw that the sheep were scattered through the mountains at the time of gathering day after day. 

-       Isaac!– she yelled disconsolately at that young genius with Aspergen symptoms. May I know what you do? The sheep are scattered across the field.

-       It is that an apple has fallen - replied Newton.

-       Son - his mother replied on the verge of despair - All things fall.

But Isaac Newton was still absorbed looking at the sunset sky.

-       No, mom... not all things, look at the moon... she doesn't fall.

And Newton continued to wonder when he saw the apple on the ground and the moon in the sky. If the laws are common to both, then it must be that "the force that makes the apple fall from the branch is the same force that makes the Moon not fall from its orbit...”, and if one thing falls and another does not, it must be due to their intrinsic and relative properties, which can be two, their mass and the distance at which they meet, so if the attraction is proportional to the first one but inversely proportional to the second… of course! Eureka!…

The mother returned home accepting her son's genius even without understanding the mystery that her still young Newton had unraveled. That scientist absorbed in the observation of daily events defined himself as "a little boy who, playing on the beach, occasionally found a finer pebble or a prettier shell than usual, before whom the ocean of truth stretched out, uncharted.” And the world changed for us.

And he did it among other things because he confined himself. He laid the foundations of the autonomy of forces in the universe, he had found the force of universal gravitation, which in the case of the moon was opposed by a centripetal force that the moon kept moving without falling due to its speed. 

It didn't just stay there. In "its wonderful year” In addition to formulating universal gravitation, he revolutionized mathematics by inventing infinitesimal calculus, formulated the fundamental laws of mechanics and reinvented optics (he discovered the basic colors for us). All this confined and without internet.

Entrepreneurial connoisseurs say that creative genius emerges in the three “Bs”: “Bath, Bed and Bus”. That the mind when it has properly formulated questions does not rest even though we do. And that we should do it (rest, I mean). Because it is precisely when the mind relaxes with a problem under its belt, when creativity flows. And this happens when we stop thinking about the need to solve it. This is how it happens when that thread of pleasant hot water falls on us in the shower down the neck, when we fall asleep in bed or in the window of a bus traveling... or when we wake up a little before the hour, and still the worries and tensions of the day have not overwhelmed us to the point of letting ourselves be carried away by the urgent and many times ignoring essential and basic realities that are waiting to be seen by the alert eye of the attentive researcher. Attentive but relaxed.

It is true that talking about “being relaxed” is difficult in this situation. Especially for younger research professors, who are going through the roof for having to "babysit their parents' grandchildren." But it is also true that for many others who are already somewhat older, it happens that we are lucky in that the energy invested is less than the work produced by the children (as explained by that indicator of oil exploitation, the Energy Return On Investment, EROI, by which a well was profitable if the energy equivalent of the extracted oil was greater than the energy used in the work of extracting it). At least, for those of us who are so lucky that our children are more of a help than a chore, and that we are not in direct mourning, this time can be a parenthesis of “Bus, Bed and Bath".

I am far from asking for 18 months of confinement like Newton had, thanks to which he was able to later write the Philosophiæ naturalis principia mathematica. These, by the way, were written thanks to the help of a friend from the rival University of Oxford, Sir Edmund Halley, who had the humility to go visit Newton to reap the fruits of that confinement (something like if a coach of the Real Madrid humbly went to learn from Messi at the Masía del Barça)

But what I do ask of myself, and I encourage those who find themselves in circumstances similar to mine, is that they do not fail to take advantage of these days to rethink many things that we have pending in the storage room of our minds, to look again at our work, our object of study and letting creativity and imagination flow. To chat with a colleague about what we do and think with no more intention and pleasure than that of a good scientific conversation, with no better pursuit than to fall in love again with that reality that continues to fascinate us as researchers. I think it could be a relaxant in the face of the tension of the current situation, and who knows if someone (like me) will end up giving thanks for these very productive weeks in many areas of life away from the laboratory, in which to be absorbed in deep reflection and in love with what we do and what we seek. Maybe we find something unexpected and valuable one morning when taking a shower, and that discovery becomes an essential idea for a few years of career and research. Cheer up!

SEVENTH STORY

WITH, UNTIL THE END.

(Lourdes Bononato Perez)

 

It leaves another day, like every morning. 

Water the plants on your balcony. Although that looks more like a jungle. You hardly see her. 

It is surrounded. Her balcony lines up until it touches the next balcony, and she barely sees it. All the plants he owns are rescued. 

Of course, her name is Rosa. 

Rosa threatens to throw bleach at those who dare to break any rules on her street. Not on her street. 

Not long ago it was his birthday, and the corresponding song played on the street. And Pont Aeri. And Rosa smoked more than usual that day on her balcony. 

He has five dogs and two cats. Like her plants, all her animals are rescued. He usually takes them out for a walk a couple of times a day, maybe four now. But first take out four of them. 

The poodle goes last, separately. And the street is yours. And he enjoys it like nothing. Like we used to do.

Rosa's mother lives next door, she has senile dementia and is alone. 

She brings him food, but she can hardly do that anymore. With her mother's age, she is considered a person at risk. Absolute. 

And we must not relax in the face of these restrictions.  

The result could be fatal.

Two girls younger than Rosa live next to him, but they get along just as well. Rather. They get the hell out of here. One is from Murcia, and the other… The other is not. 

They tend to neglect safety rules and share cigarettes from time to time. They, loudly, call them that. And I do burst out laughing. 

The one who seems to smoke the most is Myriam. The Murcian 

He makes more solo escapades to the balcony. Take advantage of every ray of sunlight that dazzles in your direction. Gives them for quite a few hours when there is. 

And when there is, you know. And there are more people on the balconies.

And you breathe better. I think those are her favorite moments. 

Above is Jesus. 

He has an Argentine accent, although he is from Segovia. 

He lived in Buenos Aires for many years for work, and confesses to having been much happier there. 

He smokes very occasionally. If that means every morning, and every night, but just a couple of cigarettes. 

His window overlooks a wall full of books. I hope you have read them all. Many, even twice. Sure.

To the left are two balconies, next to Jesus. But there is a sign. 

 

MALASANA FLOORS

FOR SALE 

609 90 89 632

 

To date I have no data on neighbors of that floor.

Although I must confess that I have called. Yes. 

I love knowing about houses. How much do they cost, how much are they really worth, what could they be, what did their walls see... One day maybe it could be mine. Or ours. 

But below. Not in Rosa's flat. But under the ivy. There live not one, not two, not three. But three people. A couple of boys and a girl. 

Although the couple really are the one with long hair and the blonde. And not the one with the beard. 

This other presents an apparent bachelorhood. 

I wouldn't put my hand in the fire, but the one with the beard suffers his love for his companion's long hair, in silence. 

Still, the three of them seem very busy. Even from the balcony. Telecommuting seems to be affecting them. 

Things are happening in the building next door too. 

This one has a roof terrace, divided in two. 

On the left side, a man came out once. He didn't go out anymore. But next to him, a woman with black curls, goes out every day. 

He has an improvised awning with a square fabric, forming a diamond, tied to a pole and several corners of his terrace. 

At least it looks better than the one next door. It is obvious that he cares for her. And what comes out 

It has a window that leads to a kitchen.

He asked me what coffee he will drink. I always see her make coffee.

Underneath I see a shelf, and there are only a couple of deodorants, each on a shelf, and an alarm clock. 

He's in the house downstairs, where it sometimes seems like an uncle lives. Others could be three. Others, one of them looks like a woman. 

Next to him is a couple. They are middle aged. I would even dare to say young. 

They still feel young, and they always will. 

They seem calm, but they don't hesitate to keep the spark. 

They read a lot. Next to the window. One in front of the other. 

They always sit across from each other. 

They spend a lot of time in silence. Reading at the window. 

They drink wine some nights, and share a cigarette, leaning out the window. Then they continue dancing.

Unfortunately, that building does not have balconies, and the sun it gives them is taken from the living room. The one in front of the other. Like everything else. As usual.

A little further down lives Pedro. Although Peter, like Jesus, lives alone. 

He is a computer scientist and I see his room, but also his living room. And I feel like cleaning. And throw a lot of shit. And to play the guitar. And to compose a song. And to write a book. 

They are contradictory feelings. Yes too. 

But Pedro, apart from appearing to suffer from Diogenes syndrome, spends his afternoons practicing with his guitar. And he also pretends to compose. I haven't heard any yet. 

He came to stick his head out the window, and his ukulele, like mine, and play La Flaca by Andrés Calamaro with me, a happy Thursday of confinement. Happier than other ordinary Thursdays. 

In the next building, which has balconies again and is therefore more beautiful than the previous one, a man lives. On the first floor. That he looks out on the second balcony from time to time. 

He has no hair on his head, but he does have a good repertoire for his record player. 

The only thing I can see in her living room is a plant. Almost a palm tree. And a record player. That from time to time turns, and sounds. And it sounds great. 

On those days I open my balcony. Almost in front of yours. And I stop my music, and listen to his. And I feel like he's sharing something very much his own. With me. And the others. And it's brutal. And that's my neighborhood.

They used to be just neighbors.

But they are my neighbors. And I'm glad to be here. 

Perhaps there is a double face in all this. 

We see the one from behind, from the television. 

But ahead we continue. And we are watching it. Absorbed. convinced. 

And we don't see each other.

 

“Because of a global clouding

and with it, massive drool falls in front of televisions, 

more than 80% of the population has drowned in their homes. Diver services are collapsed and beg for collective support, asking them to turn off theirs.”

 

This is a message, to say the least, surreal. 

But it still has realistic in its essence. It's true. 

I have transformed a reality into a mere metaphorical joke, but it does not mean that some, more than others, continue to inject fear, when there is still hope on our balconies and life in us. 

Take a look at your balconies. 

And shine in the sun. 

And keep living.

FIRST SONNET

(Ricardo Moreno Roxdriguez)

 

When the dark shadow has passed

And we can give each other again

Wander aimlessly, the sun, maybe look at us

In the eyes knowing that he has touched

 

The first trumpet, but fate

He gave us another day to find each other,

Resurface strong and thus console us

For those who fell, for what we cried,

 

Let's not forget the applause at night

of the expired day, nor the isolation,

Neither the fear for ours, or the waste

 

Of help between equals, that like the wind

We ran to help each other without reproach, 

And resisting became our breath.

SIXTH STORY

WORLD CHAMPIONS!

(Gonzalo Vinuales Ferreiro)

 

Year 3081 AD Somewhere not referenced for security purposes of the current location number M-564025, previously known as the old city of Madrid. It's hot. The sun's rays bounce off the globular building with a glass surface. Inside, the androids of the Millennium Laboratory2 move the object inventory number S-743555 in a hermetic anti-laser cabinet. Dated to the beginning of the XNUMXst century, thanks to the tracking of mega databases, it has been identified as Apple iPhone 11, a rudimentary smartphone device. It was discovered by chance among the remains of an underground structure during debris removal operations carried out after a small asteroid impacted a residential capsule complex. Technicians from the Antiquities Commission have managed to repair the old terminal and decrypt a file. Its reconstruction has required meticulous and precise work by surgeons. In the center of the cyber room, the SAMN (Supreme Authority for National Memory) is personally supervising this historic moment for the country. A country paralyzed by this historical moment. The audiovisual signal is being broadcast throughout the territory. The rumor has spread among the population that it may be the only documentary evidence that has been preserved, to date, of the Final of the Soccer Sport that made our old national team champion of the world back in 2010, the last millennium . Having such evidence would be a great honor for the nation, reliving having achieved glory, World Champions!

 

Exposed as the jewel in the crown, behind the armored glass the piece is truly archaic and anachronistic, a piece of rusty and deformed metal, and raises serious doubts that it could have been of any use. Despite the secrecy of the investigation, it has been leaked that the file we are talking about could be an image, a photograph, but of poor quality. And very damaged. It would be, in principle, the cover image of a newspaper, a classic communication format of that ancient era. Together with the exhibitor, standing and uniformed, he forms the entire panel of experts in Ancient Paleography in charge of interpreting the typographical signs written in old Spanish that, although somewhat evanescent, they have been able to read in the image. It's hot outside. Inside, and in all homes, the expectation is very high. From one moment to another the text will be made public. The Head of Heritage receives the solemn authorization and suddenly there is a cosmic silence: “Covid-19 is over. WHO confirms the end of the pandemic”, pronounces the message deciphered from the image in a monotonous, routine voice. Faced with the expected burst of joy, the previous cosmic silence is maintained. What a disappointment! A feeling of despair fills the room. A real bucket of cold water. The Supreme Authority of the National Memory begins a timid applause, to which those present join, more protocol than meaning, in recognition of the great work of the experts. But everyone knows that the expectations generated by the possible news have not been met and the atmosphere turns into a loud murmur tinged with a certain disappointment, which spreads through all homes. The signal stops broadcasting.

 

A millennium later, today in the year 3081 AD, the entire nation remembers with absolute clarity what Covid-19 was. Nothing new under the sun. Covid-19 changed the world and the world changed with it. Even the children remember him at school. Even today, ten centuries later, the “Day of Tribute to those who left”, an emotional and profound offering to all our dead who lost the battle against the virus, whom we remember with great sadness. Even today, and it has rained for a hundred decades, the “Tribute to Health”, tax rate to defray extraordinary health expenses and guarantee maximum security for staff. Even today, in our XXXI century, we retain the traditional expression, "Madrid ended the Covid”, to refer to something that is almost impossible for us but that in the end becomes, with the effort and collaboration of all, a happy reality. And even today, and more than a thousand years have passed, in every home, every morning, all the members of all families give each other a hug and a kiss as a reminder of the hugs and kisses that were no longer given. our ancestors during the time of confinement. And in case you want to know, yes, Spain won a World Cup again, the 2020 Solidarity World Cup, World Champions!

 

 

FIFTH STORY

THE MARKET UNMARKED

(Jose Manuel Santa Cruz Chao)

 

Spring day. Today I have earned what I eat, or so I think. I have given normally where they say I work. I am at home confined by this insufferable pandemic. The doctor already told me that, of course, I have high cholesterol. The diet that I must assume must contain foods that help the daily pill that I take. My partner advises me that eating water animals is usually good for these chronic conditions.

 I go down to the street to do the shopping almost weekly, entering a super, hyper or whatever the hell you say. Inevitably I keep taking cans and super, hyper-prepared food. I go to the fishmonger's area attended by good women from the distant highlands; upon my arrival they greet me interestedly so as not to leave and think when closing that all the fish is sold:

- Good morning, gentleman, tell me.

I answer with the little shame that characterizes me:

- Good morning, tall women.

- Do you want fish? We have it exposed. We have cockerels, shiny whiting, casicorral sea bass and sea bream all the same.

- The truth is that I need fish with more flavor. sardines! Do you have sardines?

- Ooohh sir, of course. I see you like strong flavors. And smells, I thought.

The small woman indicated to me the place where some cleverly placed animals rested, saying:

- Here are the sardines.

I put on a circumstance face. I imagine he ideally looked like a Kevin Kostner with gills. I couldn't help but say that thepilchardus they looked dead.

Mariela answered me astonished that all the exposed fish were dead. I indicated to her that she was not understanding me.

- Sir, sir, I don't understand you, he exclaimed. These sardines, all of them, are dead.

The truth, and said with respect, is that all the fishmongers seemed the same to me.

- Dear Nancy, you don't understand me, I blurted out. I do not look for fish that look dead but look like they are alive.

- Sir, don't make fun of me, I can't understand you, explain it to me...

- Look Yameli, what I want are sardines that look alive. If they seem to be dead, they are too dead.

- Sure, sure, I understand. That the fish is not fresh...

 

 

FOURTH STORY

SEA MORE, I'M NOT ALONE

(Jose Manuel Santa Cruz Chao)

It is a chosen day, it is a prepared day, my stay here is not accidental. I am alone at the moment. Later friends, acquaintances and surely someone more unique will appear.

I am lying in front of Mar, today very rebellious, stubborn like me, caressing and crushing the same coast, contemplating its inevitable liveliness, its immeasurable restraint and its continued constancy.

I feel somewhat small and light, somewhat slow, somewhat blocked, somewhat paralyzed; So much beauty immobilizes me.

The days pass and others approach, terribly different at the end and at the same time always more the same.

I must take advantage of this peace, this slab of tranquility, of thunderous calm caused by the virulent and invisible enemy that attacks us.

Basically I have come to tan part of my body, the sun here is not daily and I must take advantage of it. The whole village does the same, he talks here on the beach, he comments, he even eats. This year the distances are kept. Sea is witness to all this and some of its waves cavort haughty.

Now I want the one I'm waiting for to come. I must think and prepare for this momentous encounter today and less or more tomorrow. Just a wave breaking my thoughts with a loud noise, plus a roar of strength. Instinctively and inevitably I raise my hands and protect my face, my eyes. What incombustible beauty!

 I decide, to change the scenery, slide down and start a small journey near the sand and water border variant. I even look at the geographical or personal horizons trying to spot, guess, verify that my visitor is coming. I can't go looking for him. We always love each other here and travel to the nearby island where we are more equal, where we can travel, swim and dive together.

 It's coming, with light from the west. Her faded silhouette gleams, my wish is going to come to pass, what a pleasant uneasiness.

 Come on, my existence. I'll tell you about Ulysses. Hold on, today I'll swim faster.

 

 

THIRD STORY

DANTE'S CORONAVIRUS

(Enrique Graza Grau)

 

That afternoon life was offered with almost religious fervor: intense, drunk with dreams and illusions. Dulce, she went to the URJC in her Fiat 500 with a certain Monday drowsiness, moon this, day of the moon and sleep. She slammed her bag down on the apple-green coffee table, like she did every morning before first class started. The light slid through the windows from south to north: it illuminated and caressed her dark arms like a delicate feather of light that tightened the pores of her skin, creating in her a certain texture, almost sensual. From the back seat, I watched him out of the corner of my eye as the light reflected in a crescent on my companion's face. accomplices, friends, lovers; we began the old university game that consists of pretending to be strangers, although our weekend was long and wonderful, our secret was just that, a little game that placed us in a privileged position to listen with inner sarcasm to class confidences. In our degree, Law; the fourth grade is a good year: if I look in the rearview mirror and see what I have overcome since I was a child until today, I feel good, at the zenith; if I look forward, I see the magnetic precipice I must jump over to fly over the unpredictable landscape of life.

            The furtive weekend was spent in a cute little row house: whitewashed concrete exteriors and ornate beams common in XNUMXs mountain architecture. It was my surprise gift to celebrate its twenty-first anniversary: ​​a weekend in a small mountain house in Navacerrada that I rented through airbnb. We had breakfast in her small sunny garden, smelling of freshly cut grass, on that almost summer morning. 

            —Your father is a doctor, what does he think of the coronavirus? I don't know how such a tragedy could have happened in Italy; I'm sure it's because of the lack of quality of its healthcare: people who know Italy well have told me that it's quite chaotic. I suppose that in Spain, with our health logistics and the hospitals that we have, this can be stopped in a matter of days and it will be isolated in the ICUs.

            —That's what my father says; It is probably a virus similar to the flu, with a higher contagion capacity, but controllable. So far, health professionals in Spain do not have much information about COVID-19, only the experience of emergencies and the information provided by the media. He is convinced that Europe has the resources to tackle this or any other virus that may break out," commented Juan, without taking his eyes off Dulce, as he remembered the way she walked around the house barefoot and was overcome by the aroma of La Toja gel. —. Man, science and reason in the XXI century, are above this type of health anecdotes.

            —Yes, Juan, I think like you; Although the doomsayers are winning hours of television by scaring the people, I think we should not be alarmed. What are we going to do when we pass the State exam to access the practice of law? My father has some savings and is going to leave the restaurant where he works to set up his own business: we can help you with advice. After so many years of Maitre d ', you have friends, clients and acquaintances who know of your professionalism and it will not be difficult for you to find financing to get ahead until retirement. It will be a good time for us to set up our firm; I don't think we're going to lack clients, and if we have a little control over expenses, I'm sure we'll get a salary each," said Dulce, inhaling the intense smell of hot chocolate, while she sank the croissant in the cup and drew a delicious little mustache on the corners of his lips, which I took advantage of to clean him on each trip with my napkin.

            We walked towards the Sunday market on the esplanade. The dry sand dusted our slippers New Balance: mine blue, yours red. The sun beat down on the awnings where we took refuge among vinyl records; hand-painted milk jugs with colorful flowers to reuse as umbrella stands; newly varnished hammocks had such a seductive and enveloping shine that they were forced to be taken away as if they were a jewel from the Porta Portese market in Rome. Once whatever was acquired, the buyer realized that the object had neither functionality nor space in his home. Under the canvas umbrella, I picked up an old brass mirror that caught my eye; the seller smiled at me complacently thinking that the jewel was going to be mine. In that instant, I felt a pang on my back, as if an invisible enemy was embracing me to bring down my little ivory tower, the jewel of my life. While we walk hand in hand next to the Navacerrada reservoir, away from our classmates and our families, so different and distant; we enjoy feeling adults, thinking of a safe future that we touch with our fingers. My father is a man of old customs, very familiar, with traditional tastes: Easter, Palm Sunday and Midnight Mass. His parents, as Dulce told me, are from worlds and education very different from mine. My mother is always very busy during the week: gym, organizing food, yoga classes, some shopping, tea on Wednesdays with bridge and on Thursdays visit to museums or conference. When I met Dulce's parents, I was struck by their young-adult appearance, even though they are older than mine. Her parents are divorced and remarried; they have, as they say now, very good vibes. Dulce never felt uneasy about her divorce since they didn't let her know: they are always affectionate and accommodating with her; fasts in reciprocal criticism; any fundamental choice in life, they deliberate between the three of them. They functioned as a family board of directors in which each director, once the work is finished, returns to their respective homes and they meet from time to time to play tennis or have a drink. Her parents used to spend Christmas Eve together—with their respective partners, without emotional difficulties, old attachments, or jealousy; they are a real modern family. For my parents, the life profile of the García family was not going to turn out to be criticizable, but it was sure to be quite picturesque. 

            That week my father treated some patients in pulmonology who presented atypical flu symptoms. He told us over dinner, while he broke the bread with his hand like the ancient Christians, that the patients "derived into bilateral pneumonia with an unjustified rapidity." That Monday he was miserable, weak and depressed. In twenty-five years of profession he had seen many people die, but not so quickly and out of statistics, as that weekend in which he had the misfortune of the monthly guard shift. Dulce's father came home excited because he had received funding to set up a wonderful wine cellar on Calle Goya and was able to pay three months' rent in advance. Like a spiral fall through the circles of hell of Dante Alighieri, the news in the media followed one another that Monday night: “the number of infected is increasing”; “We are in a state of alarm”; "Spain confined"... 

            Our parents were confined to their homes with a telephone diagnosis "coronavirus, inconclusive". We made the decision to confine ourselves together in the apartment that my parents had to rent in Conde de Peñalver and avoid contagion; it seemed that the world was sinking: health, work, dreams, debts, hopes... On the smoking table, my father forgot a book: The Divine Comedy. Author, Dante Albirio. Translation, A. Echevarría. We read each tercet with a good wine and the company of Dante and Virgilio.

            "Why now, John?" Our parents with their flaws and weaknesses, like any human being; They have been good people. They don't deserve this! Neither do we, to see our dreams truncated!” She said, Dulce as tears ran down the contour of her round cheek. All our illusions have collapsed in a few hours. The world has changed.

            -Not that! Don't be discouraged, ever! Like Dante and Beatriz, our parents and, of course, us; we will ascend to heaven in a new and better world. We will climb the rope of love, respect, generosity, effort and a sense of justice, Dulce. Don't lose hope for a second. Overconfidence in man leads us to despair. We will come out of this experience reinforced, don't hesitate. Both we and our parents, friends, colleagues and countrymen will take a seat in the paradise that Dante describes. He thinks the following: if we can draw positive conclusions from this tragedy, the main one is that we are entering a new era. As Don Quixote says: "He is not one man more than another, if he does not do more than another"; and, all our illusions are going to be fulfilled in the foreseen times and outside the dictatorship of the banal. Perhaps we will walk together along paths that we do not imagine; perhaps we will get out of the wheel that makes us live to produce mechanically; perhaps, we love each other much more than before; perhaps we will realize how important it is in this life, Being; darling, Sweet. Perhaps we will live in that small house in Navacerrada and we will telecommute in the shadow of the mountain; maybe we will have time to walk, to buy freshly baked bread, smell the flowers, enjoy the landscapes, play cards with the townspeople. Perhaps, indeed, we begin the era of the death of the superman and the birth of humanism.

 

 

SECOND STORY

AND... WHEN THIS IS ALL OVER! 

(Mar Monton Garcia)

 

I still remember New Year's Eve, at the end of the last chime, when we ate the last grape, the twelve, making it one more year without drowning, all of us, glass raised and shouting loudly, we toasted happily, happy and excited by the new digit that We joined that magical date that we premiered, the new year 2020 began. And as always we were proud to say: this yes, this will be a fantastic year, this will be my year! each his own, yes!

But, I don't know, there was something in me, that sense of witchcraft that some members of my family have, that something wanted to convey to me, a discomfort... something...

And we begin a month of January, with our batteries charged, to work, to begin the final stretch towards summer, yes, that teachers, in this first month we already see the cracks on the shore of the beach, we can the wish for a good dip!! And remember: in Madrid there is no beach!!!

And my feeling, my inner nervousness, the one we don't want to hear, was still there.

The month of February began with a radiant sun, very hot for this time of year, as they did not stop repeating on TV, and we were all so happy, like snails we went out to the terraces, for a walk, in the Madrid sun; we kept running from here to there, those from the north to the south, those from the east to the west, those who work in one place who live in another, those traffic jams so characteristic that at six in the morning the entrance to the capital is already boiled with the cars that fill the M's that I have already lost count of how many there are, the R's…. a coming and going…; and in the meantime we began to hear news from China and we said… oh, oh, those Chinese, what things do they eat, and we stopped going to their shops and their restaurants decreased their affluence…. but plop!! Suddenly, they left. Wasn't it strange that those who work so hard closed their shops? and there it stayed… we kept on living, flowing… it was others who had to worry.

Suddenly... something alarmed us, in Italy, our neighboring country... it began to deteriorate, to overflow, to crack... and everything began to go wrong... nothing flowed, nothing continued and everything began to pause, in slow motion and we began to see our sad disaster movie.

Certainly we are the protagonists of the largest global overproduction, Spain on high alert, everything is paralyzed, and nobody could believe it, where is that country so evolved that has the best healthcare in the world, where the toilets are the highest prepared worldwide?

And the answer is clear: they continue, there they are giving everything, even when their forces fail them, because they are the heroes of this unique country, unique for its people, but mistreated by its politics, wounded by pride and beaten by arrogance. of those who did not know how to take care of those who today protect us and resurrect us. And it doesn't matter what color we have chosen at the polls, no one in that swing of junk that is thrown at their heads has known at some point in their "political life" to heal the wounds that are open today.

And we all seclude ourselves in each house, yes, our houses that today we call homes because we, the people of Madrid, spend very little time enjoying those four walls of ours that today take us in, take care of us and protect us.

And it is that although every day we wake up thinking that we are living a nightmare, suddenly we have become the protagonists of our own film, and all of us, neighbors, acquaintances, friends... we live the same film and we want to have a nice ending... although there are times when the forces are not with us, but there we have the hope present in young people, in those little adolescents and children who are the example of this country, its future, those who when we see the marked wrinkles on our face also they will protect as much as we are doing with our elders; the youth, whose wings we have glued to their bodies, whom we have kept in our little cages without bars so that they have a clean future, they will know how to do it better, easier.

A future that we all must create, because from now on, everything begins again, because tomorrow when everything ends…. we will be the same but different, happy but melancholic, strong, but knowing that we have weaknesses, but united, together, we can achieve it.

Change, we will change, hopefully we become better, maintaining our essence, that we change pride by compression, that hypocrisy evolves towards tolerance and that we can create that long-awaited better world, nature, life, science... or something stronger has put us to the test, let's show him that he was not mistaken in placing us in the place where we find ourselves, let's take advantage of the moment that life has offered us, for our elders and, above all, for the young, let's be the example of a better future.

 

FIRST STORY

- "A NIGHT BELL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PANDEMIC"-

(Javier Barraca Mairal)

 

Suddenly, in the middle of the deep silence of that night, someone broke his dream with a loud and violent ringing. Yes, although it seemed impossible, it was her own door that trembled with the shock of that unusual noise. She freaked out, imagining some unexpected dark visitor, in the middle of her spooky building that she knew was empty because of the coronavirus.

 It was an energetic, angry ringing, like an inadvertent and merciless punch on a defenseless eye. It rang a single, terrifying time. But this was enough to strike fear into the heart of the lonely tenant. She did not know how to get up in time and manage to look through the peephole at her author. Or she didn't manage to do it fast enough. Or, perhaps, rather, she slowed her trembling steps somewhat unconsciously, until the entrance, in order not to come face to face with the unknown presence that announced that mysterious call.

 She stood behind her own door, frozen with fright for a long time, not daring to open it or ask who it was. She sensed that she shouldn't look through the hole right away either, that if she did she risked facing a terrifying sight. For this reason, after a long, almost infinite moment of petrified permanence in her hall, she returned to bed overwhelmed, while she felt a deep chill run through her body.

 After the declaration of the state of alarm, after several weeks of home confinement, his building constituted a spectral mass that had been left almost uninhabited. No one remained on her stairs, or indeed a single, rather spirited older neighbor on the top floor. The two had met in the supermarket and joked, affirming that the coronavirus did not scare them, that they were not going to open the door, that they could not handle them, since they were already the only two resistant people on their block who had not fled. . Moved by this enthusiasm, her partner even announced her intention to hang a sign from the terrace with the slogan: “Give up, coronavirus. We will defeat you, helping each other.” But her neighbor would never have bothered her, in the middle of the night, in that way, since she didn't go out or come in at such hours, apart from the fact that they lived on floors separated by a long distance. Did she, now she, perhaps, need some kind of supportive and urgent support? As she had her cell phone, just in case, with trembling and restless fingers, she asked him on whatsapp if she was okay; but she got no answer. Of course, this is not the time for messages, she told herself, she will be asleep. Who, then, came to knock on her door? Access to the portal at that time, four in the morning, was closed to everyone, except residents.

 Already between the sheets, he wondered if the unexpected visitor had found the access from the street open by mistake and if, after that frustrated call, he had hurried to leave. If only… But there was also the scary possibility that he was still there, on the stairs, waiting for her, on his own side of the door. He understood that he was not going to be able to fall asleep again, he got up and inched forward until he was once again in front of the entrance. This time, though, he didn't turn on the light. 

He rested his ear, anxiously, against the wood, trying to hear some noise, some whisper, someone's breathing... But he heard nothing. Suddenly, she imagined that the nocturnal visitor waited, in the shadows, crouched behind the door, waiting for her curiosity to overcome her initial fear and she would unwisely open it, letting him pass.

She backed away several meters and remained hieratic. She was still there, surely, she thought. No, she was not supposed to open the door. It was dangerous, suicidal. When she got back into bed, she was aware that she wouldn't be able to close her eyes. Her room was filled with the horror that gripped her. Unable to sleep, restless, she took her mobile again and called the police. "It will be some neighbor who has been confused," was the agent's response. It was useless for her to insist that she was practically alone, in the middle of an uninhabited block.

 

 The next morning, the cleaner discovered the two bodies. On the last section of the stairs that led to the entrance of the building, her older neighbor lay dead, with two serious head injuries. In front of her, her young friend, also deceased, was resting a few steps behind her, with a dislocated look of terror. A mask partially covered her face and thin gloves on her hands. None of those preventive elements had been able to free her from terror. The coroner ruled that the second of hers had died from a fall, probably caused by her fright after her unexpected discovery of the inert body of her neighbor. In fact, the first seemed to have sought help at her last moment, knocking on the young woman's door, since her doorbell was stained with blood, as well as the railing next to it. The old woman must have hit her at home and went downstairs to ask for help. But the other one hadn't opened (surely, due to an excessive, excessive prudence, in which she incurs herself in moments of social alarm). And when she decided to do it, it was already too late. By this time, the injured woman had hit herself again, and this time irreparably. Her curiosity led the girl to finally open the door and go down a bit to investigate what had happened. Finding her corpse in the shadows, she became extremely frightened, suffered a heart attack and fell against her hard steps, losing consciousness until she too bled to death. 

 

 No, ironically neither of the two deceased suffered from the coronavirus that kept them cloistered. And yet, this invisible and cunning monster had relentlessly claimed their lives. They were two more victims to add to his sinister credit, although on this unusual occasion he managed to do so without even infecting them, he killed them from a distance, keeping them incommunicado and isolating them through fear. They would never figure in his lethal stats. Without them, now, in that building there was no one left who could offer him any resistance; he had completely won, despite the naive slogan of the cartel that one of the two had contrived against his power. That mass of cement, like many others, had been transformed into an absolute desert. 

 But, despite the tragic outcome, like a symbolic and irreducible adversary, the defiant cartel of the older neighbor still remained in place, in sight, for a long time. This, without the authorities noticing the paradox that its existence represented. Finally, one day, the wind detached him and he flew through the nearby streets, carrying his rebellious plea and filling those who read his hopeful message with courage, since they ignored the fatal fate of its author. When the pandemic was indeed defeated, someone randomly bumped into it, respectfully picked it up from the sidewalk, and put it away. He wanted to keep it in memory of that long-suffering fight, of that hard battle against the disastrous coronavirus in whose course there were no shortage of episodes as unique and disconcerting as the one described here.