TALES THAT ARE NOT TALES

Recoleta's memories I

That Sunday in January, the sky looked blue, without any clouds. The temperature was nothing like the torrid summers of Buenos Aires. A gentle breeze dampened the heat that was not even intense. Determined to enjoy the afternoon, she included the Recoleta Cemetery in her tour of the Plaza and the Cultural Center.

She entered without paying attention to the map and far from the guided tours. She was willing to find in the corners, marks of the past, and memories lost in the present.

She stopped to look at the mausoleums covered with abandonment. With their broken glass and the plants growing in the stone joints. The last refuge of unknown beings, many of whom held the titles of European royalty.

Tombs immersed in the tidy oblivion of synthetic grass and cloth flowers, aroused his curiosity. He read the names of the occupants. They were as unfamiliar to him as the previous ones.

In the marble monuments and in the cared-for bronze, he found surnames of the political history. He also discovered others that are still trademarks of active industries, or at least alive in recent memory.

In all of them, he read the plaques that made him think that death erases defects and magnifies virtues. That it does not matter that the latter were few and distant from each other, before the infinite pettiness of the deceased. Death had the opposite effect on the memory as it did with the body.

She arrived at one of the patios and was paralyzed by the bas-relief that crowned the entrance's mausoleum lintel. The skull of a skull confirmed what she would find when she crossed the fence.

There was a carved stone cross, the left half-covered with a cloak on the roof. She looks for the name of the person who was lying there on the lintel under the skull. Only three letters were within reach, a tree obstructed the rest. He took a few steps forward and read "Vla" but could not register the letters that followed those first three, although he was now looking at it from the front. She rubbed his eyes and read, "Val."

Amazed at not being able to see the name written and at seeing the first three letters, altered, she lowered her eyes to see inside the crypt that was several meters away. At that moment, a dark grey cat, with eyes barely lighter than its thick, fluffy fur, rubbed its back against one of its legs. She looked at him. The cat parted and headed for the mausoleum. On the way, it stopped, turned its head towards her, and meowed as if to ask her for something. She followed him to the gate, which was padlocked to prevent entry into the crypt. Behind the stoically worked bars, he observed an altar with a golden cross. To one side was a kind of stone tomb, at the foot of which the cat lay to rest. Suddenly he saw on that monument a face blurred behind what seemed to be a shadow, in which only his eyes could be seen; the emerald green glow stood out against the darkness around it. Disturbed walked at a brisk pace towards the exit. As he was about to walk through the reception hall, a hand on his right shoulder prevented him from continuing. He felt a cold breath on his neck, turned his head, and saw only those same green eyes. As he looked straight ahead, the pressure on his shoulder disappeared; he ran out into the square. Terrified, she began to walk among the craftsmen's stalls. Every so often, she thought she saw those eyes watching her through the thick foliage of the trees.

For many nights she dreamed in front of the mausoleum reading "Vla" or "Val" in a high voice, while she felt a hand on her shoulder, a cold breath on her neck, and heard the melodious voice of a man whispering in her ear that he was reading. For many nights he fails to finish the word and wakes up. On each of these nights, as he recovers, he feels the hand on her shoulder, feels the cold breath on her face, and before her eyes are the face blurred in the half-light from which only the emerald green eyes stand out.

Tonight is different. He managed to read the full name and repeated it. She wakes up, startled. She feels the hand on her shoulder and the cold breath on her face. In the gloom, she sees a man's face clearly. A face of features marked by deep folds that make it hard. Dark, straight hair frames his white skin. His green eyes shine in the half-light. She stretches out her hand. As she lets her fingers touch the cheeks of her strange visitor, she stops hesitating. It is not a dream. She's not hallucinating. He's there.