imagined the day of the decision to emigrate: "I'm going
to America to see how I fare".
Without speaking the language (in the case of Archibal-
do), they arrived at a port, disembarked, unloaded the
trunks with all their belongings, and travelled thousands
of kilometers with all that stuff to their final destination.
Aniceto, as a good poet, I suppose he must’ve had good
manners. Upon arriving he settled in a village to work at
a clerk's office. I think he was a scribe later. Elegant man.
My grandmother, whom I met as a boy, always dressed
in black. She’d never finished mourning after her hus-
band died. I was not born when it happened. She embroi-
dered wonderful linen tablecloths and as a medium told
me one day in Montreal, she is the one who "protects me".
Who knows about those things? Is that the reason I’ve
never had an accident with La Más?
The sons of Archibaldo were raised as ranchers and
one, I think, was an administrator. The only one with a
university degree was my father who was sent to study
at an English boarding school, could only see his family
once a year, at Christmas.
The sons of Aniceto grew up to be scribes, lawyers and
teachers. My two grandparents left a tremendous legacy.
I have lost count of how many grandchildren they had in
total. Some, like me: lost cases without remedy.
Sometimes, when I feel like it, (because in this state
of absolute irreverence towards commitments, whether
with myself, with time or with life, I do what I want or
don’t want) I grab one of the paintings I have started and
I go out into the alley wearing my Turkish sandals, and
walk towards the more than 2,500 years old cobbled street
a few meters from the house where I stay in the city of
Kas, Antalya, Turkey. There, a yellow armchair awaits me
in the shade where I sit down to paint. And I do so, in
full view, while visitors from the surrounding cities ar-
rive to Kas for the weekend, and slowly walk the slope of
this famous two blocks street that ends in the Sarcoph-
agus of the Lion. Some walkers stop to see how I paint,
others go by without even looking, others take pictures,
some others may ask something, but always and without
exception, the children stop by my side, they watch me as
I wet the brush in the black paint and I slide it between
the lines of my drawing. I look up, I watch them and they
smile at me. They are curious, honest and naughty. I
speak to them in Spanish, they look at me surprised and
they run away.
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