El Cementerio de los Rotos
El Cementerio de los Rotos
No hace mucho, al echar un cartón dentro del contenedor de papel, los azules, vi un montón de libros viejos en el fondo (llamar viejo a un libro parece lo mismo que llamar viejo o vieja a una persona, algo no encaja). No me dio más tiempo a curiosear porque en ese momento se detuvo el camión de la recogida.
—¿Puede esperar un momento a que coja un libro que me ha caído? —le pedí al chófer. Me sentía contrariado. Venían a robarme algo.
—Ni lo sueñes colega. Mi trabajo es recoger los contenedores. Ve al Centro de Recogida y de paso le dices al jefe que me suba el sueldo. Aparta, si no voy a cargarte junto con la basura.
No tenía qué hacer, estoy parado y no encuentro nada digno, así que me acerqué hasta la planta.
—Los libros no se apartan. Forman parte del papel, lo mismo que la propaganda, los certificados de defunción o lo que sea. ¿Has perdido algo de valor?
—No. Nada.
—¿Entonces? Aparta que estás en una zona de peligro y pueden empaquetarte.
Estos chicos lo apartan todo menos los libros. Por lo visto, llevan el aparta en la boca de buena mañana, pensé. Desde aquel día, siempre me ha gustado fisgonear en los contenedores de papel, solo en esos, para ver si encuentro libros. Para mí, uno de los mejores está en la parte alta de la ciudad, no voy a decirte dónde. Algunos de los vecinos ya me conocen y sé que me llaman El Bibliotecario del Bigote (es como si me llamasen El Millonario de la Hipoteca, algo no encaja). Recojo lo que puedo y le echo una ojeada. Hay de todo, pero solo me quedo con los libros de peso y los de tapa dura. No te creas que lo devore todo y menos que sea de esos que dicen disfrutar leyendo. No. Algunos ni los abro, no me atrevo, tengo la impresión de que no voy a entender nada y al final me dolerá la cabeza. Pero son bonitos. Me gusta salvarlos de la quema o llámale como quieras. Sé que pueden llevar algo dentro, ya sabes, un tesoro que nadie nunca va a reclamar, una nota escrita a mano o unas cuantas lágrimas, o unos pocos mocos o flores secas. Da igual. Tengo atiborrada la habitación de mi hija. Ella ya marchó de casa. Empecé a llenarla y continúo haciéndolo. Ya no sé dónde meterlos. Nunca, nunca he vendido ninguno (me da que tirar un libro es lo mismo que deshacerte del perro por la ventanilla del coche, algo no encaja).
Pero, ¿sabes qué me sucede últimamente? Meto las narices en el contenedor rojo. Sí, el rojo, el de los rompecabezas. Si te digo la verdad, nunca he visto a nadie tirar nada dentro de él, lo harán por las noches, pero el rojo que está en el extremo de una la plaza (no te diré dónde) siempre está lleno. Para que te hagas una idea, los interrogantes son del tamaño de las perchas. Los hay de madera carcomida, plástico de ese que con solo doblarlo un poco se rompe, alambre sencillo y de mil colores. Lo más jodido es que a veces es imposible separarlos, cuesta un montón de trabajo y lo difícil es encontrarlos enteros, sin que les falte el punto, porque los meten por la boca del contenedor de cualquier manera, se nota que con mucha mala leche. Luego, con tantas preguntas me sucede lo mismo que con los libros, solo que ellas por suerte, de momento me caben en la cama antes de que cierre los ojos, a mi izquierda, donde dormía mi mujer (también me da que arrojarlas al rojo es como… no sé…, como tirar sin querer el reloj de oro a la basura con los restos del pollo, solo por haber tenido una comida movida con la familia, por decirlo así. Algo no encaja).
The Cemetery of the Broken
Not long ago, while I was throwing away a piece of cardboard in one of those blue containers, I noticed a number of old books at the bottom (calling a book old is like calling a person old, it just doesn’t fit). Unfortunately I didn’t get the chance to rummage around, as the pick-up van stopped by just at that moment.
“Would you mind waiting for a moment while I pick up a book that I just dropped?”, I asked the driver, trying to buy some time.
“Not likely, buddy. I’m here to empty the containers. You can go to the Collection and Sorting Office, and while you’re at it, tell the boss to give me a raise. Move along, or I’ll toss you out with the trash”.
I didn’t have anything better to do (I’m unemployed you see, can’t find anything decent), so I made my way to the Office.
“We don’t save books. Books are paper, aren’t they? Just like propaganda or death certificates. Have you lost something of value?”.
“No, nothing”.
“Then move along, this is a dangerous place and you might get packaged up”.
These guys really do save everything except books. And that darn “move along” stuck to their mouths. Since that day, I’ve always enjoyed peering into paper containers (and only the paper ones, mind), to see if there are any books to be found. One of the best containers is uptown, but I won’t say where. Some of the locals know me, they call me The Librarian with the Moustache (it’s like calling me The Millionaire with the Mortgage, it just doesn’t fit). I collect what I can, I take a quick look at the books. There are all kinds of books there, but I’m only interested in the hardback, heavy tomes. And don’t think I’m a bookworm, or that I’m one of those who claims to enjoy reading. No. I don’t even dare open some of them, I get this feeling that I just won’t understand them and that I’ll end up with a headache. They are beautiful, though. I love rescuing them from the flames, or whatever you want to call them. I know they might hide something inside, you know, a treasure that no-one will ever claim, a handwritten note or some tears, a few bogies or dried flowers. Doesn’t matter, really. My daughter’s room is full of books. She’s left home already. I just started filling it with books one day and never stopped. I don’t even know where to put them any more. And I’ve never, ever been able to sell one (getting rid of a book feels a bit like throwing someone out the car window, it just doesn’t fit).
You know, I’ve recently started poking around the red container. Yes, the red one, the one with all the puzzles. To be honest, I’ve never seen anyone using it, perhaps it’s only used at night, in any case the one that’s in the square uptown (I won’t say where) is always full. The question marks are as big as the hangers, you know. Some are made out of rotting wood, others of that kind of plastic that breaks as soon as you bend it, or of multi-coloured wire. The problem is that most of the time it’s impossible to separate them from one another, it’s very hard work and they’re often broken and without their dot because they’re inserted through the opening of the container roughly and angrily. And then, with so many questions, it’s the same as with the books, except that, unlike books, I find space for the questions, in my bed, before I close my eyes, to my left, where my wife used to sleep (throwing them out in the red container is like, I don’t know, like throwing your gold watch out together with the chicken bones, just because the family dinner was a mess. It just doesn’t fit).
Not long ago, while I was throwing away a piece of cardboard in one of those blue containers, I noticed a number of old books at the bottom (calling a book old is like calling a person old, it just doesn’t fit). Unfortunately I didn’t get the chance to rummage around, as the pick-up van stopped by just at that moment.
“Would you mind waiting for a moment while I pick up a book that I just dropped?”, I asked the driver, trying to buy some time.
“Not likely, buddy. I’m here to empty the containers. You can go to the Collection and Sorting Office, and while you’re at it, tell the boss to give me a raise. Move along, or I’ll toss you out with the trash”.
I didn’t have anything better to do (I’m unemployed you see, can’t find anything decent), so I made my way to the Office.
“We don’t save books. Books are paper, aren’t they? Just like propaganda or death certificates. Have you lost something of value?”.
“No, nothing”.
“Then move along, this is a dangerous place and you might get packaged up”.
These guys really do save everything except books. And that darn “move along” stuck to their mouths. Since that day, I’ve always enjoyed peering into paper containers (and only the paper ones, mind), to see if there are any books to be found. One of the best containers is uptown, but I won’t say where. Some of the locals know me, they call me The Librarian with the Moustache (it’s like calling me The Millionaire with the Mortgage, it just doesn’t fit). I collect what I can, I take a quick look at the books. There are all kinds of books there, but I’m only interested in the hardback, heavy tomes. And don’t think I’m a bookworm, or that I’m one of those who claims to enjoy reading. No. I don’t even dare open some of them, I get this feeling that I just won’t understand them and that I’ll end up with a headache. They are beautiful, though. I love rescuing them from the flames, or whatever you want to call them. I know they might hide something inside, you know, a treasure that no-one will ever claim, a handwritten note or some tears, a few bogies or dried flowers. Doesn’t matter, really. My daughter’s room is full of books. She’s left home already. I just started filling it with books one day and never stopped. I don’t even know where to put them any more. And I’ve never, ever been able to sell one (getting rid of a book feels a bit like throwing someone out the car window, it just doesn’t fit).
You know, I’ve recently started poking around the red container. Yes, the red one, the one with all the puzzles. To be honest, I’ve never seen anyone using it, perhaps it’s only used at night, in any case the one that’s in the square uptown (I won’t say where) is always full. The question marks are as big as the hangers, you know. Some are made out of rotting wood, others of that kind of plastic that breaks as soon as you bend it, or of multi-coloured wire. The problem is that most of the time it’s impossible to separate them from one another, it’s very hard work and they’re often broken and without their dot because they’re inserted through the opening of the container roughly and angrily. And then, with so many questions, it’s the same as with the books, except that, unlike books, I find space for the questions, in my bed, before I close my eyes, to my left, where my wife used to sleep (throwing them out in the red container is like, I don’t know, like throwing your gold watch out together with the chicken bones, just because the family dinner was a mess. It just doesn’t fit).
