not remember a day in the sun for at least a month, and that could only be the thirty-day moist and dense fog made the hard and smelly clothes.
It seemed that all the evil in the world had been sprinkled on the black earth and hard, and that every morning he repeated the miracle of the resurrection. Reached a few feet high and fell to the ground, as if the sun up there would not be contaminated. The pushed back allowing him to lick the faces of men, before their own abominations.
dawn no different from many others.
The cold was so intense that the sleeves of his jacket to squeak every little movement.
Some roar in the distance does not worry him more than the sound of axes which creaked. He put the straw and a blanket to insulate from the cold floor of the attic.
Moving to reactivate the movement, his eye was caught by the semi-open trunk stuck in the lower part of the roof.
Someone had already robbed of what could be used: a shrine violated. The style of the brass handles the chest reminded him that his wife was in the bedroom. She had been given by his grandmother and maintained as the most precious thing in the world. The hinges were always lucid, and the checkered cloth that covered it was clean and crisp. His wife had kept there kits, wool blankets and sheets, well-being of the thalamus. Up to last.
still remember the smell of lavender which erupted when, after two turns, it opened the flap. It was the smell of home, alcove, tenderness. Something sadly forgotten. past is consumed, just as the land and people: individuals, tortured and then thrown in the roulette of the survivors.
A cry from the edge of the courtyard below him back to the reality that for a while he used to call "the neglect of good things."
A gray shape approached the fence had to urinate, while not far away a vehicle was coming. About ten seconds later, they went down in five and began to pull out of the bread bags and boxes. The voices grew stronger, and men less tense. Although the weather was still a sheltered place where you can stop and have a few laughs.
That reminded him of the courtyard house campaign. He had built his father on the lawn and planted orange trees and two large elms. On weekends, free from the commitments in tailoring, took the bus and went to relax. Remembering those good times he had the impression of still smell the smell of the embers of the barbecue and enjoy the taste of blood oranges.
The shouts of happy grandchildren who ran on the grass were clouded by the coarse laughter of people just arrived. One of them was placed astride the fence imitating an unlikely cowboy.
He looked at them carefully, one by one.
one with the face that seemed to run away from a sculpture Notre Dame, the other that should not have more than seventeen years, with another piece of newspaper and straw inside the jacket to ward off the cold. All the looks as pale as the mist, eyes absent. The only sign that they were still in this world were his cheeks red from the frost and condensation around their mouths grinning.
Yet another, isolated from the others, was writing something in a notebook. Even from there he could see his finger at the shadow of a faith. Thin fingers, a pianist, shivering with cold.
Two hundred, two hundred and fifty yards, he thought. That was the distance that separated him from his fellow men, lost souls in the wind.
He pulled the chain around her neck. There were two faiths and the cross that led Carla, his wife. For a moment her face changed color and his eyes actually twinkle back in, just like a man, not a ghost. But it was the epiphany of a moment, just long enough to bury the memory and his spirit back into the depths of his jacket.
He took a breath and relaxed. The hand moved two shots the wheel is relaxed and the cheek on the stock. The officer who was at the center of the telescopic sight slumped in his notebook.
The first shot shook the group unexpectedly and before the others are preparing to do something about the man on the fence was on the ground with his hands on his neck, a fountain by the high red splashes.
The shutter moved again, with absolute calm and the tailor took aim and shot down another. A sergeant ran to the vehicle to operate the MG, but there were more than three steps.
The other opened fire. Random. Without seeing where the shots came from, they just scream of terror and attack anything around them.
Up there in that attic close to the sky, the tinkle of a cartridge case on the floor stated that the scythe of death was ready to fall again.
A soldier threw a grenade in the barn, and a flurry of coverage under one of two survivors crossed the courtyard to enter the building. Took a shot in the leg, immobilizing him between cries of pain.
The wounded man was saying something to the buddy. It was an unknown language, but it was the valedictory tone of someone who is about to leave but still want to live like all the other comrades in arms, as the enemies, like Carla, as the grandchildren, as he himself .
began to fire again optics.
A helmet rose slowly from the depths of the gutter to fly immediately to at least two meters away.
The extruder spat out the last cartridge case with its characteristic clack-clack.
Silence.
not felt vehicles, tanks and other soldiers coming. The man lying in the mud of the courtyard was also a dead body, twisted, perhaps in a last attempt to keep the ghost anchored to the ground. I kept looking through the lens of the gun, a kind of distorted room from which to see the world: distant and close simultaneously.
distance, the roar of artillery was replaced by the sound of a bell.
The Tailor wiped the small tears that flowed slowly on the cheek and closed the lens cap, a black knight that he placed the sword in the sheath after the fight.
We looked at the finger wet.
preferred to think that that day was the residue of gunpowder to make him cry, and not his soul that was approaching darkness every day.
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