EN UN RINCÓN / IN A CORNER by @palabreador (Esp - Eng)

      Justo a las doce del mediodía, Juan regresó a la casa. En los pueblos, la casa del muerto jamás se cierra sino luego del novenario, cuando ya su alma parte en definitiva paz. Y aunque se mantuvo abierta durante el tiempo que duró el sepelio, le encomendó a su compadre Rodrigo que no dejara a nadie allí, pues quería estar sólo al retorno. El compadre Rodrigo, como buen mensajero, así lo hizo. Juan se detuvo justo frente a la puerta de la casa. Allí se le vino encima un miedo extraño, que hacía muchísimos años no sentía. Aun así, entró.

      Decidió ir hacia la cocina a servirse un vaso de agua, para lo cual debía pasar por el comedor. Aunque era mediodía, no hacía mucho calor pero tenía una sed terrible después de aquella caminata. Luego de tres pasos, sintió una presencia y una fuerza tremendas. No quiso voltear de inmediato, quizás esperando que sólo fuera una jugada de la mente en tan duro trance. Tan pronto pudo, miró hacia la mesa con la plena seguridad de que allí había alguien. Juan quedó paralizado, sintió cómo un frío, venido recorrió su espalda desde arriba hacia abajo. Quiso decir algo, pero las palabras no salieron de su boca tras ese primer intento. Aquella arrolladora visión lo enmudeció.

      De pie, recostada en la mesa del comedor, con un ajustado vestido que delineaba un bien tratado cuerpo; con zapatos de tacón, un bolso de piel y un collar negro que hacía ver un provocador escote, Rosilda parecía imponente a sus 53 años.

      Luego de 34 años, Rosilda se acercó de nuevo a Juan quien estaba allí, en un rincón de aquella casa, y puso su mano justo en el mismo lugar donde la colocó cuando él tenía 16 años. Las indiscretas vecinas de la calle, que regresaban del cementerio, se miraron extrañadas al ver cerrada la puerta de la casa de Juan.

      The coffin occupied almost half of the small room of that humble bahareque house in which Juan and Jacinta lived together for 34 years. Standing there in silence, Juan did not take his eyes off the face of the woman lying dead in the coffin. Jacinta had been with him since she was 16 years old. Until the day of his marriage, the closest Juan had ever been to a woman was when his cousin Rosilda, three years older than him, took him to a corner of her parents' house and kissed him lasciviously while she caressed his sex over his pants and then ran away, leaving him with an erection that took a long time to get off. Juan never forgave that ordeal to Rosilda, who almost immediately went to the capital to study at the university. The only thing she said to him was: "You've got it big! After that misfortune, Jacinta was the only woman in his life and he never saw Rosilda again.

      Although they did everything possible to have children, from going to the state capital to visit a doctor famous for his fertility treatments, to traveling through the mountains to see every quack or curious person in the area, they were never able to conceive one, something they could not explain given her health and his virility, which often turned Jacinta's moments of pleasure into scandalous screams. After three decades of trying, they decided to settle for silence. One fine day and as if they had come to an agreement, Jacinta told him, without a hint of complaint in her voice.

      Until that moment, the subject was discussed in that house that both had built with their own hands, on part of a five hundred square meter plot of land that Juan had obtained at a good price from a friend. Nothing was ever mentioned again. They both decided to keep each other company without waiting for their son to come home from school or dreaming of grandchildren who would "shit his head", as they say in those parts. In spite of that, since then they felt that without that idea in their minds, they could enjoy each other more. So they did. They even went to the river in the afternoon, after the siesta; they walked naked around the house while cooking or having lunch; they learned to hide themselves as a way to provoke desire; they found in their solitude an intimate space that raised their love to such high levels that only the best lovers, on the one hand, and the most gossipy neighbors, on the other, could envy. One afternoon before her sudden death, Jacinta's moans were heard in the street for the last time.

      In the midst of his growing grief, Juan was interrupted by Rodrigo, a compadre of his who indulged him by making him godfather to two of his six boys, with whom he had built a solid friendship.

      Four more men accompanied them to carry the coffin to the carriage. Although it was only 30 steps from the living room to the hearse, Juan lost track of time and space completely. When he reached the door of the house where his beloved Jacinta would leave for the last time, he felt he had walked miles on a journey he would never have wanted to end.

      The cortege left for the cemetery, located on a hill, about two kilometers from his house. As was customary, almost the entire town accompanied Jacinta to her final resting place. Juan walked the whole way in absolute silence, thinking, talking to himself incessantly, about how he would resolve his life from now on.

      The funeral was brief. That was Juan's wish, who found in that ephemeral ceremony a kind of rest for himself and an escape from the weeping, wailing and moaning that shaped the burials in his town. In the end, he knew that the most painful part would begin when he returned to that house without the voice, the laughter and the noises with which Jacinta had made it her own. Houses end up resembling the women who rule them.

      Just at noon, Juan returned to the house. In the villages, the house of the dead is never closed until after the novena, when his soul departs in final peace. And although it remained open during the time of the burial, he asked his compadre Rodrigo not to leave anyone there, because he wanted to be alone when he returned. Rodrigo, as a good messenger, did so. Juan stopped right in front of the door of the house. There a strange fear came over him that he had not felt for many years. Even so, he went in.

      He decided to go to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, for which he had to go through the dining room. Although it was noon, it was not very hot, but he was terribly thirsty after that walk. After three steps, he felt a tremendous presence and strength. He did not want to turn around immediately, perhaps hoping that it was just a play of the mind in such a hard trance. As soon as he could, he looked towards the table with the full certainty that someone was there. Juan was paralyzed, he felt how a cold, coming chill ran down his back from top to bottom. He wanted to say something, but the words did not come out of his mouth after that first attempt. That overwhelming vision silenced him.

      Standing, leaning on the dining room table, with a tight dress that outlined a well treated body; with high heels, a leather handbag and a black necklace that showed a provocative cleavage, Rosilda looked imposing at her 53 years of age.

      After 34 years, Rosilda approached Juan again, who was there, in a corner of that house, and placed her hand in the same place where she had placed it when he was 16 years old. The indiscreet neighbors on the street, who were returning from the cemetery, looked at each other in surprise when they saw the door of Juan's house closed.