Juan Jose Millas
Just another since I had the accident. My family, my friends, my co-workers, everyone, in short, know that my car did four laps of a bell and I was hospitalized for four months, a month back, but nobody noticed the changes experienced during that time mypersonality.
Remember to enter the house, still recovering, I was oblivious to this domestic world.Kept some memory of the familiar spaces of the tenderness that I had inspired my children and loving indifference which was before the accident, by my wife. But all that picture had changed. The home, now seemed like a compendium of all households without children, were creatures to be annoying beyond my influence and my strange affection watched them, in short, to the curiosity with which children are observed the other, establishing absurd comparisons with some imaginary children whose character had come to feel proud. As for my wife, I must say that I began to observe the intruder disguised greed.
So when I had breakfast in bed, after the children had gone to school, and I put the thermometer to monitor the progress of my temperature, I felt like a being that had been given the rare fraudulently privilege of occupying the bed of another man and a woman caring for others. Lived, in short, the rare freedom to enjoy without guilt or danger of a kind of adultery dimmed.
What a life. I still remember how he bent over me with the coffee tray stretched the neckline of her gown, through which offered me her breasts with maddening indifference, or how to fix the covers the ends of her hair wandered lonely my thighs. But do not forget the ease with which he dressed in front of my eyes, making casual remarks about the weather, upon receipt of light or the color of those rare cold morning in early March.
Sometimes, against such domestic scenes, and spurred by a moral conflict that did not materialize, I felt the urge to confess that I was different, in order to preserve my eyes and my feelings. But immediately reasoned that it was not wise to waste this rare opportunity that gave me life and that was to put in a schematic way in the everyday look with different eyes, free from any wear and devoid of any trace of innocence.
When she left to make the purchase, at about noon, I sat up and out of bed with the agility of a corpse, to look at the corners of my house and pry the secrets of my own existence. Our bedroom had a closet which was filled bottom drawers in which my wife kept her clothes. Inside, belts and scarves, but also their favorite clips and, finally, all those intimate apparel and use objects that had eroded, depositing the substance on them that gave character to the darkest corners of your body. It pleased me to kiss the tissue rubbing their English was slightly frayed or stroking with the fingertips of your bras that area that was closer to the armpit. Sometimes I got into bed with one of his belts and played with him to a state of delirium that surely my recovery lasted more than estimated by physicians.
However, despite the joy that such aberrations gave my convalescence, I felt a movement of desire, a move that would bring these objects into the body that they possessed and that I also wanted to own, though under certain circumstances, it is very hard realize that your desire is not reflected in the eyes of that person you want to rely.And as I grew and otherness my health was restored, the greater the need he felt to have her in my arms, not my wife, who was not, but another, as invasive as I am of those domestic spaces that were ours.
One day, when after careful consideration definitely gave me high, my wife thought we should go to church together to thank God for my recovery. It was eight o'clock and the church was empty. I remember the sound of our steps and increased the movement of his black mane on the surrounding darkness, peopled with echoes. We got into a side chapel inhabited by a saint that we were devotees, and lit as many candles as I had broken my bones in the accident. Then we look at the flickering light of small flames and she smiled as we women tend to smile at the corners in dreams. Crazy thought, wearing a jersey a little runaway that could see the birth of her neck and depression sweet guess your collarbones. I reached out my hand and I gathered around the neck blank on his right shoulder. Then came a tight white underwear dividing the surface of the meat with the finesse of a casual track, as the footprint of a skid on the snow surface.
She made do with a quiet provocative as new as my wish. The smell of burning wax increased my disorder. Pulled her to me and while looking at his eyes whispered
I can not.
She blinked and said:
Nor me. Come behind the altar.
There was a small hollow where lay the remains of a cardinal or a bishop. We sat together on the stone and watched our shadows cast by the light of the candles on the wall, overlapped and mixed forming love wonderful silhouettes. Then I had a fit of honesty and said:
Know that I am another.
I too have been answered sweetly another all my life, but years ago I quit and find another, you see, you were by my side.
Since that day we are very happy. What happens is we do not know how to tell our children that we are not their parents. Because now we feel like living alone, although we planned to have children, but later. In any case, we would prefer that it were ours.
Anyway.
Juan Jose Millas
Summary of his work
Spanish writer born in Valencia in 1946, where he lived until six years old. He later moved to Madrid, where he lives today.
He studied Philosophy and Letters, but did not complete the race. Besides his work as a writer, Juan Jose Millas has worked as a journalist. He currently holds a weekly column in the Spanish newspaper El Pais.
In 1975 he published his first novel, Cerberus is the shadows, which had won the Sesame Award last year.
Vision is also the author of drowning (1977), Wet Paper (1983) and Dead Letter (1983).Gonzalo Sobejano critic says that the nightmare is the experience model of the fables of miles on their first novels. Since there are three reasons backbone capital of distress: the solitude, harmony and belonging.
Cerberus is in the shadows is captured the nightmare of loneliness of the individual by reference to the core interpersonal consanguineous: the family. Vision and drowned in wet paper Millás expands the scope of the nightmare at least the near horizon: the coexistence of the individual who, without family, we are close in age and treatment (lovers, friends, people from the same generation). Unheeded, Sobejano see the nightmare of membership: individual outsider who acts in the service of an antisocial group to undermine a social group hated it ends assimilated and depersonalized under the oppression of the hierarchy.
A second period in the narrative texts like Miller make disorder in your name (1988), this was Solitude (1990), with whom he gets the Premio Nadal, Going Home (1990) and Tonto, dead bastard and invisible (1995).
His stories have been collected in the volume of mourning Spring and Other Stories (1989). The protagonists of these stories are people who are part of our everyday life but that behind the apparent normality, move suddenly, from strange chain of events in a messy and paradoxical space, however, returns to its true condition, stripped of fragile costumes prevented them from seeing their own reality.
The other story book integrates the Spring of mourning and other stories
