cracking up

That early evening, as it always happened, the kids from that tiny little town had broken out through the widely opened classroom door into a rather quite dusty opened space where  they were entangling their screams with the revolting atmosphere of that sleeping square in that town that, little by little was going to be awaken by the deftening cries of the swifts which were circle-flying the XVI century steeple of the church. Some honorable elderly were sitting on comfortable chairs in front of the shabby unleeched façade of the halltown, in a sort of balcony that in the summertime let the almost imperceptable fill of air stream cool the humid face of the mayor, that of  the heratic constable man,and that of the skinny secretary, that of the plumb priest ,and that of the stylist GP who used to wear carefully lovingly ironed black suit ,though raggy and shabby drap with the passing years; it was black  the casual colour in a doctor garment at that time as it wanted to mean that it was in morn for the high rate of deads of both the elderly, who would pass away by the reasonable cause of getting old at the age of fifties or as it wanted to match the black with the mornful toll of the new bells, which the red faced priest had purchased in Toledo with the churchgoers’ generous help to replace the worn out cracked bronze of the old ones, whose sound was so unclear that they better sound like the tiny bell hanging down from the neck of the he-goats in a small  herd of sheep that would “balar” through the muddy lanes, which  give in the main square, after having been grassing out by the outskirts of the township since the sunrise; it seemed so    unnatural  the tolling for the babies that so often died in the July sun due to the unhealthy fresh water that women used to pull out of the still Roman wells , which surely were the house of any kind of bugs like those of the “paludismo” or malaria, which would cut short the lives of  those uncareful hungry kids; the uneasy walking fat pharmacist sommetines carried on with the others’ misery in often cheering talks or their own successful lives during that decade of the fifties so much painful to the community of countrymen, who hardworked in the paramo pulling the ploughs, sowing the barley or the wheat; and before the first scarcely October rainfalls they would trim the dry vine twigs once the golden or black grapes had been cropped in the hope of elaborating crystal transparent wine, which would turn the dwellers cheerfully drunk in the solitude of the sad winter evenings.The hard time had marked its trace in those poor sun dried farmers’ faces, who never would complain about their sad working day which always streched out  from autom to summer from winter to spring , from the sunrise to the sunset… their sweating arms and faces they would dive in the warm water of tinned pails , warm  in the summer for the shortage of iced bars, but quite warm in the winter as their wives lovingly heated in the fireplace fueled with the dried vine branches, which have been cropped in the September tasks…Once the countrymen had washed up and worn their bleeched white underwares and their collarless shirts would walk down to the towncenter to meet their pairs in Andrés’bar for a hand of cards, while they were sharing their fears as well as their ambitions for the coming new seasonal crop: the barley and the wheat, which would help to bring up their numerous kids and feed their beasts with.

Whitesnow together with others girls were dancing about in circles,  practising the songs Ms Ortensia had taught them along a few periods – ” a la rueda de la patata, comeremos ensalada, la que comen los señores: naranjitas y limones…”- which the girls tended to sing the higher the better, whose noisily notes brought a fresh air of hapiness to that somber afternoon sun. A few yards behind standing up against a rather unbleeched wall that limited the square by the south some lttle scoundrels were glancing at the dancing girls who seemed to dance bouncing about awared of being spied; sometimes showing off their pants, which the old honorable men from the balcony appreciate not only the fitness of their wiry slender figures of those kids who longed hastily to become young ladies but also their yet meaningless wobbling breasts. A suddenly rash of an air draft, whirling up obscene dusty daft high in the sky of that late afternoom, broke up the cheering moment of that grape of girls who would never miss the chance to find out allure in the middle of that never ending futility.

D Aristophanus, the big bellied priest, took his time to leave the casual meeting in the balcony, when D Alfred the mayor had begun his insulting speech getting at the Roman Catholic Church banning the priests from getting married – all were aware that  the obnosious mayor was trying to bring about the rumors which were about in the town over D Aristophanus’ love affair. The caretaker, who happened to be a lady living next door to the church, had opened wide th raw door to welcome the costumary church goers for the evening rosary prayers. Ferdinand had already climbed to the steeple to hit the tower bronze new bell which  crystally clear called up them for the first time; meanwhile at the church front door, like a swam of flies, the rest of the scoundrels were rounding the priest kissing his hand willingly as they wanted to gain the heaven through stamping their innocent lips on the priest` glorious backhand.