Guernica by Dave Boling Read Free Book Online Page A

everybody knows that a little donkey, an astokilo , needs its rest. That made sense to Miren, and in her natural concern over the foal’s welfare, she conceded that it would
     be against sound judgment.
    The only truly offensive part of sharing her home with domestic beasts came in the coldest months, when her father butchered
     chickens on the first floor rather than fight the weather while doing the job outside. The decapitation was noisy and the
     chicken died without dignity. Blood was everywhere.
    A neighbor boy who sometimes helped her father with the process delighted in gathering up an amputated chicken foot and clasping
     the exposed tendon to maniacally manipulate the foot as he chased young Miren. She knew these were only the severed feet of
     chickens, but she still would race out into the cold to escape. Those nights, she’d awaken, shaken by dreams of clenching
     talons. She would roll over, hear the comforting sound of a cow pissing prodigiously downstairs, and float gently back to
     sleep.
    Picasso spotted the young woman through the storefront windows of the Galeries Lafayette on Boulevard Haussmann and prowled
     outside the grand department store until the attractive light-haired shopper exited. He rushed to her side before she could
     cross the street.
    “Mademoiselle, you have an interesting face; I would like to paint your portrait,” he offered, tossing out an invitation that
     rarely failed. “I have a feeling that we will accomplish great things together.”
    She examined the man with the wild sweep of thinning hair and dark eyes, who had not actually bothered to introduce himself
     before promising a productive future relationship. He sensed her initial reluctance and, as if it would explain everything,
     added, “I am Picasso.”
    Marie-Thérèse Walter was a blonde seventeen-year-old, and she agreed to model for the artist. To celebrate her arrival at
     the age of majority the next year, they consummated their relationship. Marie-Thérèse would become the face of many paintings,
     and her gracious and placid nature came through as tincture to the art. Hers would become a mournful face in his most famous
     painting.
    Dodo Navarro named his game the Loop. Miguel had no interest in the competition, but it was difficult to reject a challenge
     by a big brother. And it ultimately gave him an early victory, a sense of peace in the water, and an understanding of the
     Lekeitio harbor that would one day preserve his freedom.
    When Dodo and Miguel were in their early teens, the Loop was strictly a circling of the harbor. They swam across the harbor
     mouth, scrambled up the steps of the lower breakwater wall, and sprinted through the dangerous gauntlet of flying hooks being
     cast by sport fishermen on the pier. With Dodo teasing Miguel with every stride, they raced through the clusters of families
     socializing at Independence Plaza, hit full speed in the stretch up the wharf, curved around the net boxes and fish carts
     at the north corner near the fish processors, and made the final sprint back down the high breakwater wall. The first to dive
     back into the sea, completing the loop, won.
    Dodo, more mature and stronger, dominated the early races. Miguel accused him of cheating from time to time because Dodo often
     altered the path or shaved corners. “The only rules are to do what it takes to win, little brother,” Dodo responded. But when
     Dodo hurdled a baby carriage in the plaza to gain an edge and their father was lectured that afternoon at the wharf by an
     agitated amuma , Dodo was made to apologize. He quickly invented a new course. The next route was solely a test of swimming to San Nicolas
     Island, which rose outside the gates of the harbor like a humpbacked whale frozen in midbreach.
    “I only have one question,” Miguel said. “Why do you get to choose?”
    “Because I’m the oldest; I get to lead the way. That’s how it is. If you want to race with your sisters, you get to