INTERLUDE: THE CURSE (Small framento for the novel) 
walked awkwardly not because his legs were to fail, but rather as if their shoulders bear the weight of history. All the good and the evil that men have done, and pay for it.
And maybe even out really well.
had no name, no past, no more clothes to shreds itself, which rags a thousand lives and a million unspeakable losses. His eyes were black and dull, cloudy, sunk in a sea of \u200b\u200bwrinkles unfair and a moth-eaten skull. Her hands were claws, deformed and dirty, stained with the blood of too many friends. And many more enemies forgotten.
looked forward, children with low rings autumn rain, the sandy square footprint, with the jets of fresh water carried by the wind. And he knew that this was not your site. He looked at the one-storey houses with whitewashed factions, the old knees washing in the river, men on horseback returning till the fields, with a huge red sun on his back dying. Sol
blood.
Hands of blood.
died The sun died as Josie, with a bullet through his chest and blood flooding the Castilian plain. Castila is wide and flat like a man's chest. As an bloody chest does not want to die but who will no longer breathe again. Lung Airless swimming in pleura broken. Red foam on his lips. War.
Children ran among flocks of pigeons, scaring the girls as they passed, causing false cries of fear and pleated skirts fluttering. Childhood is the best age of the world, when your people embraces the whole universe, and the only concern is to keep the plates. Josie had been the janitor until they reached the bar examination and was never wrong. Loaded the window of Mr. Henry in the sixth, and gave him a good beating, but other than that no gossip had given the people until they knocked up the daughter of Martinez, and had to marry them secretly.
Perhaps the child was one of them, oblivious to the evil of the world, focused on playing ball and catch insects. Ignorant of what fear really means, how much can be lost in a single guard in trenches. There is no greater value on the face of this world be able to preserve innocence, because it seems that everyone is looking forward to snatch it, and never returns.
confusing walked through alleys that were all alike, hopelessly trying to catch the sharp memories that shunned him as a jumping fish unless the fish basket. His memory was a thick curtain of fog, muddied by years of agonizing screams and strategies of combat, with sore feet of snow and humidity in your bones. Josie had lived in these streets, had laughed and drank beer with these people, had a life, but could not find exactly where. Every damn houses were exactly alike, the facades of limestone, window and door. An interior patio to store tools, and a supposedly decent life out.
And it was not a bad life, they suffered, they fought against a dry soil where plants will not grow. A life of gruel for all, in a skillet with legs on the ground, and dipping bread. And then go to plow a field of black as evil men, and water it with your sweat, and pay your dreams, knowing that not one of them will be served. You're so caught up as mules to the yoke.
But it's a good life, and honestly, things that do not have to bow before anyone, proud and onion harvesters frost. There is no greater praise that can give a man to say who is honest and hardworking. There is nothing more holy. The rest is packaging.
not like Mr. Martinez and his doomed oil factory, where workers a hundred years, broke his back so he could spruce up in Madrid, and go to the Bulls with a carnation in his lapel, and drink cognac with Casino fireplace. He did not sweat, and he hated himself for the bitter end or died in any trench of mud, surrounded by friends and death lead.
Perhaps because of that, the end had lost a daughter, instead of gaining a son.
face is protected from cold wind and rain in October and was hospitalized with the complex network of streets was the village, guided more by memory than by anything else. Pouring rain. The roofs were crying shame to see him, and rivers of tears flooded the ground, slowing his steps, eating away. That was peace, was innocent, was the lengthy time in the goodness of thousand people who consider themselves brethren. Life was parsimonious with your dreams.
Unfortunately, he was already away from all those things, for a long, long time.
And at last I saw, right in the place I expected to see, where it always was: on the door, looking toward the road out of town, where returning the living, and bad news. At first there was the slightest gesture, apart from the natural distrust the arrival of a stranger, but once they saw her walking to her house to him, understood why.
was an eminently old, old and cracked in his features, but with the strongest arms and shoulders wider than any twentysomething city. His eyes were dull, almost blind, imbued with a profound awareness of who knows more than a professor. His voice was dark, husky, a mix of victories and defeats, a happy life because he never had to endure a war. Until today.
"Good afternoon," said the stranger.
"Good afternoon," replied the old man.
And in these sentences had already said everything. They had given their condolences and shared your pain.
- Is this the house of Joseph Bondenza?
"Yes, here it is. What do you want?
"Nothing
good. I have to say that he is dead. I saw it went down near the Ebro squad mates.
And the old man looking at the road continued undaunted. He had already had time to be aware and digest. Already knew.
And ... How was it?
"We saved them all. Led the group to a safe place, away from the air strike, but he could not tell. Was not required, but we lost to the officials, and we were killing them like rabbits. If not for him, I would not be here today.
"Always ... it was a good boy.
-yet had time to say something. I heard some words, and for you. He said: "Go and see my family and tell them they want." So I am in town. To tell.
"Always ... Always a good boy.
He turned, heading towards the road that had arrived, but the old man's voice still had one last question for him.
"Hey ... Thanks for coming. Do not forget. Stay with us for dinner. What's your name?
"No ... I can not. I have to leave. But thanks anyway. Only I came to say that, that Josie was a good man and we owe much.
and left forever that Castilian village, and peace, and innocence, that this night would sleep a little more ingratiating.
And he's only gone are the memories that were not even entirely theirs.
That his name, said the man. What was his name ...
José Bondenza. Now named Joseph Bondenza. And Arturo Leis. And Juan MartÃnez Palomo. And thirty-five more good men who died before his eyes. Because
fortune that Josie had died not as a hero, and he had to forget his name. Josie had died as men die in wars, by chance. The bullets did not know people or parents who expect their children in ways, and the guns shoot where many see something moving. A Josie pierced his chest from side to side, and air escaped his lungs as water sneaks a sieve. It took forever to completely drown the most agonizing and horrible eternity of the world. There is no worse way to die than be aware that you have no air and you will not have it anymore.
And in all that eternity, Josie could not say a word.
Ni was hero, nor gave anyone any loving message to his family. It was just another poor fool who thought he was doing the right thing, and nobody cared that he died. Except him.
kept walking, through the mud of the gutter and the memories of the next town. Another father, another fictional hero. And he felt in his heart that he himself was doing the right thing. All that was left to these people without children was the satisfaction that at least something had died, they could remember with pride of parents. They raised good children, good men of good, and it was unfair that the only reason for losing was a wayward shot.
Sometimes a lie can sugarcoat the monstrosity of a war, and nonsense. The human mind seeks an explanation for everything that happens. The hardest thing to accept is bad luck.
And him? What remained for him now?
Le was Arturo Leis. Was next.
He looked at his hands. Blood red hands of his friends. Hands sunset. For all the years he lived would always remember the blood on their hands ... but not a single wound on the body. Because
fortune had willed that, unlike the other thirty-eight men the pack, he came out alive from the war. And there is no more terrible pain, no guilt more unbearable than that of the survivor.
looked at the sunset and the sky was stained a mottled black light. The sky was like the face of Arturo Leis when he died. Black as sin, with a hundred eyes open looking at the destination. Red Eye. Eyes of death.
