F0129 · The Maroon Kingdom / A Book Under His Arm
Alberto had grown used to walking through the neighborhood with a book under his arm, as though it were a talisman that protected him from the chaos of the world. It was an old edition, with worn covers, bent corners, and a spine that showed its exposed stitching. But for him, that book was more than an object; it was a refuge, a compass that guided him among the streets he walked and the questions that tormented him.
He read it beside the river, where the water whispered a constant litany. He also took it to the tavern, amid the noise of drunken laughter and clinking glasses. Even on sleepless nights, when he came home staggering after drinking too much, he opened the book, though the words danced before his tired eyes. At such moments, the pages seemed to contain not answers but an echo of his own uncertainty.
One night, as he absentmindedly went over its familiar lines, Farid’s music broke the silence from some distant corner of the house. Farid, after months of absence, had returned. Alberto saw him the next day, a Thursday, August 9, sitting in the dining room. Their conversation was brief, almost casual, but something in Farid’s posture, in the tension of his shoulders and the depth of his gaze, hinted at a burden he carried from faraway places, not only physical but spiritual.
—Today is a historic day —Farid said, in a tone that seemed meant more for himself than for Alberto, before disappearing again.
That phrase kept echoing in Alberto’s mind. He went back to his room, opened the book, but could not concentrate. “Today is a historic day.” His restless mind led him to an old manuscript he had read years before: “Granada surrendered on January 2, 1492.” That surrender had always fascinated him, a moment of change that had marked history. Yet now a doubt assailed him: did it refer to the Julian or the Gregorian calendar? That seemingly minor difference could alter the meaning of the event, moving it a few days forward or backward in time.
The thought obsessed him, and the next day he went out in search of answers. He walked the streets looking for a thread that would lead him to the truth. At the public library, the smell of old paper and wood welcomed him. He spent hours consulting ancient chronicles, searching among dates and events, but did not find what he was looking for. Every page he closed filled him with a frustration he could not dispel.
As he leafed through one last book, he stopped. A thought struck him like lightning: “Perhaps the exact date does not matter so much. Perhaps what matters is the echo that event leaves in us.” He closed the book slowly, letting the idea settle in his mind like an unexpected revelation.
When he left the library, evening was falling, and the city was bathed in a golden glow that transformed every corner into something almost unreal. He walked to the river and stopped to listen to the murmur of the water. He took out his book, opened it, and began to read quietly aloud, as though saying a prayer. The words came to life, mingling with the sound of the river and with the music that Farid, in the distance, was beginning to play again.
For an instant, everything seemed to fit. Alberto smiled. Perhaps the past would always be an enigma and the future a mystery, but at that moment the present was enough. And that, he thought, was as close to peace as he could ask for.
F0129 · The Maroon Kingdom / A Book Under His Arm
Alberto had grown used to walking through the neighborhood with a book under his arm, as though it were a talisman that protected him from the chaos of the world. It was an old edition, with worn covers, bent corners, and a spine that showed its exposed stitching. But for him, that book was more than an object; it was a refuge, a compass that guided him among the streets he walked and the questions that tormented him.
He read it beside the river, where the water whispered a constant litany. He also took it to the tavern, amid the noise of drunken laughter and clinking glasses. Even on sleepless nights, when he came home staggering after drinking too much, he opened the book, though the words danced before his tired eyes. At such moments, the pages seemed to contain not answers but an echo of his own uncertainty.
One night, as he absentmindedly went over its familiar lines, Farid’s music broke the silence from some distant corner of the house. Farid, after months of absence, had returned. Alberto saw him the next day, a Thursday, August 9, sitting in the dining room. Their conversation was brief, almost casual, but something in Farid’s posture, in the tension of his shoulders and the depth of his gaze, hinted at a burden he carried from faraway places, not only physical but spiritual.
—Today is a historic day —Farid said, in a tone that seemed meant more for himself than for Alberto, before disappearing again.
That phrase kept echoing in Alberto’s mind. He went back to his room, opened the book, but could not concentrate. “Today is a historic day.” His restless mind led him to an old manuscript he had read years before: “Granada surrendered on January 2, 1492.” That surrender had always fascinated him, a moment of change that had marked history. Yet now a doubt assailed him: did it refer to the Julian or the Gregorian calendar? That seemingly minor difference could alter the meaning of the event, moving it a few days forward or backward in time.
The thought obsessed him, and the next day he went out in search of answers. He walked the streets looking for a thread that would lead him to the truth. At the public library, the smell of old paper and wood welcomed him. He spent hours consulting ancient chronicles, searching among dates and events, but did not find what he was looking for. Every page he closed filled him with a frustration he could not dispel.
As he leafed through one last book, he stopped. A thought struck him like lightning: “Perhaps the exact date does not matter so much. Perhaps what matters is the echo that event leaves in us.” He closed the book slowly, letting the idea settle in his mind like an unexpected revelation.
When he left the library, evening was falling, and the city was bathed in a golden glow that transformed every corner into something almost unreal. He walked to the river and stopped to listen to the murmur of the water. He took out his book, opened it, and began to read quietly aloud, as though saying a prayer. The words came to life, mingling with the sound of the river and with the music that Farid, in the distance, was beginning to play again.
For an instant, everything seemed to fit. Alberto smiled. Perhaps the past would always be an enigma and the future a mystery, but at that moment the present was enough. And that, he thought, was as close to peace as he could ask for.
F0129 · El Reino Cimarrón / Un libro bajo el brazo
Alberto se había acostumbrado a caminar por el barrio con un libro bajo el brazo, como si fuera un talismán que lo protegiera del caos del mundo. Era una edición vieja, de tapas desgastadas, con las esquinas dobladas y un lomo que revelaba costuras expuestas. Pero para él, ese libro no era solo un objeto; era un refugio, una brújula que lo guiaba entre las calles que recorría y las preguntas que lo atormentaban.
Lo leía junto al río, donde el agua susurraba una letanía constante. También lo llevaba a la taberna, entre el ruido de las risas ebrias y los vasos que chocaban. Incluso en noches de insomnio, cuando regresaba a casa tambaleante después de haber bebido demasiado, abría el libro aunque las palabras bailaran frente a sus ojos cansados. En esos momentos, las páginas parecían contener no respuestas, sino un eco de su propia incertidumbre.
Una noche, mientras repasaba distraídamente sus líneas familiares, la música de Farid rompió el silencio desde algún rincón distante de la casa. Farid, después de meses de ausencia, había regresado. Alberto lo vio al día siguiente, un jueves 9 de agosto, sentado en el comedor. La conversación fue breve, casi casual, pero algo en la postura de Farid, en la tensión de sus hombros y en la profundidad de su mirada, insinuaba un peso que cargaba desde lugares lejanos, no solo físicos, sino también espirituales.
—Hoy es un día histórico —dijo Farid, con un tono que parecía más para sí mismo que para Alberto, antes de desaparecer nuevamente.
Esa frase quedó resonando en la mente de Alberto. Regresó a su habitación, abrió el libro, pero no pudo concentrarse. “Hoy es un día histórico.” Su mente, inquieta, lo llevó a un viejo manuscrito que había leído años atrás: “Granada se rindió el 2 de enero de 1492.” Aquella rendición lo había fascinado desde siempre, un momento de cambio que marcó la historia. Sin embargo, ahora una duda lo asaltaba: ¿se refería al calendario juliano o al gregoriano? Esa diferencia, aparentemente mínima, podía alterar el significado del evento, moverlo unos días adelante o atrás en el tiempo.
El pensamiento lo obsesionó, y al día siguiente salió a buscar respuestas. Recorrió las calles en busca de un hilo que lo condujera a la verdad. En la biblioteca pública, el olor a papel viejo y a madera le dio la bienvenida. Pasó horas revisando crónicas antiguas, buscando entre fechas y eventos, pero no encontró lo que buscaba. Cada página que cerraba lo llenaba de una frustración que no lograba disipar.
Mientras hojeaba un último libro, se detuvo. Un pensamiento lo golpeó como un relámpago: “Tal vez no importe tanto la fecha exacta. Tal vez lo que importa es el eco que ese evento deja en nosotros.” Cerró el libro lentamente, dejando que la idea se asentara en su mente como una revelación inesperada.
Al salir de la biblioteca, la tarde estaba cayendo, y la ciudad estaba bañada en un brillo dorado que transformaba cada rincón en algo casi irreal. Caminó hasta el río y se detuvo a escuchar el murmullo del agua. Sacó su libro, lo abrió y comenzó a leer en voz baja, como si pronunciara una oración. Las palabras cobraron vida, mezclándose con el sonido del río y con la música que, a lo lejos, Farid empezaba a tocar nuevamente.
Por un instante, todo parecía encajar. Alberto sonrió. Tal vez el pasado siempre sería un enigma y el futuro un misterio, pero en ese momento, el presente era suficiente. Y eso, pensó, era lo más cercano a la paz que podía pedir.