“And now the plan called for her to set out on another crossing, which she wished or wanted to be her last—did she really wish that?—by way of the so-called Puerto de Candeleda, a route from before the war, on today’s map merely a name—but wasn’t a name something, at least?—and recognizable by the complete absence of any indication of a road or even a footpath down the steep southern flank of the Sierra directly after the “pass,” more like a random spot up on the ridge. And at the same time she ...was confident that by evening she would be down in Candeleda, at the foot of the southern flank, over fifteen hundred meters below the out-of-service pass named after the small town that did not belong to any meseta or plateau but, rather, lay on the edge of a lowland, surrounded by groves of palms, oranges, olives, and who knew what else. (She instructed the author to insert words like “confidence” and “confident” into her story, from way station to way station, from section to section, but to avoid expressions for “hope,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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