never had been known for their intelligence as Evaristo.
The Magin had given him little more to fix and clean pools gardens if demand levels are low and the owners did not ask the impossible. Also defended decently with messages not too complex gossip tinkering here and there because all the cuts that Mendel's laws had given his mind, he had joined the wrong way into the language. However, Spartan loyalty bordering on obsession, to the late father of Mila has always been unwavering. At the end of the day, if I had a roof over their shelter, a savings and a half sound reasonable age just around the corner was thanks to the efforts of the man whose absence no one wept except the gardener idiot. Still reread with tears in his eyes, night after night, old Marcial Lafuente EstefanÃa novels with which the Lord taught to read decades ago.
But remember crying and would not be sufficient to pay outstanding bills-well knew, and still had the silly Evaristo something to do with his benefactor before he left for good. The letter had been waiting for years had come as did the man who would arrive the night before she disappeared. In fact, Evaristo spent all those years at the bottom of the canyon, living as if nothing had happened, to fulfill its role as a necessary spring machinery whose function unknown. Passing above the pitying looks of the rich who used him as an overflow of conscience over the visceral disgust, atavistic, he felt for the lady of the house.
And with the letter the very end. Or the beginning of something. Her shyness was not enough to discern effectively.
was not yet noon and already had made the case and put his only suit. The same herringbone suit that gave Mr. Mila when she made her first communion. A lack of proper time had not relocated since then, but years of closet in that house which was home wet had worn to the point that showed every appearance of being very old. And smelled of mothballs.
From the window of the hut Mila noted that the girl was crossing the garden with a slow pace. He carried a book in her hands. That book fucking not taking off for a minute and that, somehow, Evaristo knew that was the key with which she had opened wide the gates of perdition. Then he jumped in and began to rummage in the pocket of the jacket worn.
In fact, it's time.
the cleaner now, with this gesture of stubborn determination that only outline the oligophrenic know, out of the hut and the girl is about dodging the jets of the sprinklers. The apple of his eye, the ceiling of its dark and shameful desires. The zenith of his masturbatory delusions. And by his side he brings the little package wrapped up a quintet of bargains words: "by your father." Then, just before vanishing in the same place that has become, look askance at the upstairs window, the one from which that boy again Fear, observes the scene, and the gardener's face is drawn a face of irrational hatred, crude, barely discernible pathological and perennial stupidity. Grit your teeth until you feel pain in the jaw and into the dugout.
Robina then closing the gate behind him, perhaps, that is a personal account to settle before leaving.
Mila, perhaps surprised, you may terrified of the puzzle, the packet includes cubic stupefied resting on the palm of your hand.
© From the text: Biedermann & Francis P.
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