Intemperie & Delirium
Before finishing it off, he squeezes the neck of the bottle of brandy from Jerez. Once empty, he lets it fall to the ground. He takes a few more steps, few and short, as if treading on a wavering light or a tightrope walker’s rope. Dawn breaks. In the middle of the seedbed, the vagabond looks around. “No one else.” He shivers, coughs, burps, but doesn’t hesitate. He attacks head-on. With two sharp swipes, he snatches the frayed hat and the threadbare coat. As he wraps himself in the clothes he has just snatched, he casts a glance—somewhere between dismissive and grateful—at the stiff, bare pole standing before him. And he snaps at it: “You won’t need them. Scarecrows don’t feel this cold.” Suddenly, a drop of freshly melted frost slides down from a small knot in the wood.
Ricardo Bermejo Álvarez
