The Carpenter's Pencil
“The boy selling newspapers sometimes had the impression that the minute hand, the longer of the two, trembled slightly before giving up again, unable to cope with its weight, like the wing of a hen. The boy thought that, deep down, the clock was right and that eternal malfunction was a stand in favour of realism. He would also like to have stopped, not at five minutes to ten, but four hours earlier, at the exact time his father was waking him in the hovel that was their home in Eirís. In winter... and summer alike, a cloud of mist would settle there, compact damp that seemed gradually to be shrinking the house year after year, weighing down the roof, opening cracks in the walls. The boy was sure that, at night, one of its tentacles came down the chimney and stuck to the ceiling with its huge suckers, leaving behind those circular stains like the images of craters from a grey planet. The first waking landscape. The boy had to cross the city to Porta Real, where he would pick up the copies of La Voz de Galicia.MoreLess
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