The Faint-hearted Bolshevik by Lorenzo Silva Read Free Book Online

uniforms start to come out, dozens of Sonsoles in the bud, dragging out their “s” below their incisors. It is a sight that alternately turns my stomach and awakens morbid desires in me. At last Sonsoles appears, accompanied by a girl or young lady of around fifteen years of age. My heart stops as if they’d pulled the plug on me. Then it happens
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    The girl is the most extraordinary thing my sinful eyes have ever seen in all their cocksucking existence. If Sonsoles is her mother, I accept the divine plan that has placed Sonsoles on this planet, however inappropriate this celestial act may have seemed to me up until this moment. If she isn’t, the act of going to collect this girl provisionally lends a precious usefulness to her miserable existence. My heart starts beating again, at top speed. It has been centuries since something similar has happened to me and with some effort I order my thoughts, but instinct immediately compensates for lack of habit. Slowly it dawns on me that I’ve just fallen into a trap. They get into the car and I pull out after them, without resistance, without plans, without a hope
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    From that moment on Sonsoles, who until then I have persecuted, becomes no more than a fuzzy blob escorting this disturbing adolescent goddess. The girl fills everything with her presence. I can even see her if I close my eyes: she is tall, her body, not yet in full bloom, long hair flowing in the wind like those stunning nymphs that rascal Botticelli used to paint, and a blue gaze so immense that distance doesn’t matter. I vaguely remember that I’ve never been attracted to blondes, but she isn’t a woman, and the effect she has on me is more than mere physical attraction. As everyone knows, the garbage cans of the spirit are overflowing with mere physical attractions
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    The rest is too fleeting. I follow them as far as Calle Serrano, where they enter a store where the price of all the clothes is rounded up in multiples of ten thousand pesetas. Of course I would have liked to follow them into the changing rooms, by which I mean the girl’s changing room, but my mere presence in the shop would have been too suspicious. When they get back in the convertible, freeing a guy whose car has been blocked in by Sonsoles’ for a quarter of an hour, the girl is carrying a couple of bags and Sonsoles has about six. They don’t stow them in the trunk because it looks much better when you carelessly throw them on the back seat, over the convertible’s bodywork. Also because the trunk is a sight to behold as a result of the bash I gave it the other day. They climb in and I tail them again. When we stop at a traffic light, the girl sweeps her hair to one side and starts looking at one of the cops who go around showing off on their motorbikes and dismounting from time to time to direct the traffic at a crossroads. The local police cowboy is struck down on the spot, his whistle dangling from his lips, upright only thanks to his biker boots, mortally naked faced with his own insignificance. Five minutes later, the garage door of Sonsoles’ building opens again, and the convertible is swallowed up by the subterranean darkness. End of the apparition
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    Let’s say it is quarter past seven. Day is not over and the sun is still up in the sky, but nothing makes sense anymore. There I am, sitting in a borrowed car, watching with my soul smashed to smithereens as the door closes with a clang that plunges me into deepest night. Disappointment and depressing thoughts don’t usually bother me, because my garden is overrun with all their weeds and I’ve even learned to sculpt them into hedges. But this bitterness has disarmed me and overpowered me in a way I no longer remembered possible. I think I’ve experienced this before. Perhaps the time when I went to a raffle with other children and one of them won the bicycle I yearned so much for and I got a stupid tank that fired rubber suckers instead of bullets. Perhaps when we were