The Spy. Juan Moisés De La Serna

      Juan Moisés de la Serna

      The Spy

The SPY Juan Moisés de la Serna Translated by Annibale Marsili Editorial Tektime 2020

      "The spy"

      Written by Juan Moisés de la Serna

      Translated by Annibale Marsili

      1st edition: may 2020

      © Juan Moisés de la Serna, 2020

      © Tektime Editions, 2020

      All rights reserved

      Distributed by Tektime

      https://www.traduzionelibri.it

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      Preface

      The silence had already taken hold of each of the rooms in the house, so much that sometimes it was difficult for me to go there, where so many things had happened in the family.

      At the beginning, I turned on the television or the radio, to listen to a voice wherever I was in the house, and that comforted me, but then, it seemed so absurd, deceiving myself, doing as if I was accompanied, when there was nobody left.

      Joys, sorrows and sadness, listened in every corner of that home, in which my wife had always worked with such care to maintain order and cleanliness.

      There are moments in life

      that we have to catch

      keeping them with great affection

      and try not to forget.

      But never let's hope

      that is always the same

      if memory fails us

      the memories will go away.

      As much as let's pretend

      to try to remember

      "a bad air" took them away

      and won't come back to us.

      Memories and more memories

      fall already into oblivion

      since the memory as soon as

      took them, they are gone.

LOVE

      Dedicated to my parents

      Chapter 1. The Memory

      The silence had already taken hold of each of the rooms in the house, so much that sometimes it was difficult for me to go there, where so many things had happened in the family.

      At the beginning I turned on the television or the radio, to listen to a voice wherever I was in the house, and that make me feel better, but then, it seemed so absurd, deceiving myself, it was like I was with somebody, when there was nobody left.

      Joys, sorrows and sadness, listened in every corner of that home, in which my wife had always worked with such care to maintain order and cleanliness.

      Gradually I was closing the rooms, those which I didn't use at all, or those which brought me so many experienced memories just by seeing, most of them joyful, which strangely caused me great suffering, perhaps because I longed for them, or maybe because of the certainty that wouldn’t be repeated anymore, that everything that I lived there, would remain only in my memory, as long as it lasted.

      Even though I told my wife repeatedly to move somewhere else, either because of work or retirement, she always said no, her place was where her memories remained, there she had seen her children grow up, and he knew the whole neighborhood, and that made him feel at ease.

      For some strange reason she preferred to leave, as she said, "things as they were", without changing anything in the house, not a single picture or photograph, and when I asked why she just said, "that's fine".

      I had been having trouble leaving on vacation, since on several occasions, when we were older and our sons had already moved out, when we were both alone, nevertheless, she always hoped someone appearing in the house, and finding reasons because she didn’t want to stay away from that place more than two or three days.

      But how were they going to appear? If some of them lived in other continents, and with the one closest to us, we hardly kept in touch after we had that discussion.

      It's something of which I still regret, not so much because it was completely unnecessary, but rather to the consequences it had in our relationship. Since then my wife looked at me in a different way, I know I was right, that our son was wrong, but she, as a mother, didn't understand why I didn't support our son when he needed.

      For me her loss was the most difficult thing, just thinking to that moment, I can barely breathe, so many years of coexistence, although not always peaceful, there was always a lot of love and respect between us.

      In recent years, we almost had separate lives, but we respected each other, we loved each other, but each one tried to develop their own activities without counting on the other, unlike when we met that we wanted to do everything together, and be sharing as much time as possible.

      Perhaps it's the habit, but we almost did not see each other except for lunch and dinner, she had planned each evening, a different activity, sometimes going out with friends, sometimes visiting some relative, others …,I liked to be quietly at home, I had my notes and calculations, without realizing that she had left, but … when she died …

      Everything changed, now I had more time for my things, no one who could tell me that I had been with it for too long, no one to remind me that I had to rest, no one… but for me everything I did, dedicated so much time and believed so important, for me, all that had lost its meaning.

      The house had gradually turned into a mausoleum, I do not know why, but as the years went by, I filled the walls with pictures of the children, and grandchildren, which we were receiving from time to time, in occasion of a new birth or some celebration.

      Now I can barely recognize the ones in those photographs, it's not just for the eyes, that's why I have the reading glasses and it would be impossible without them to see things with details, but those faces no longer tell me anything.

      How many times I stopped discussing with my wife about different photos, about how happy we were, and the desire we had to see that again, instead now, they are there, like stops in time, as if they were from another life, to which I no longer belong.

      Without her, I cannot imagine a past, in each of the places where we went, she was there, in every celebration we attended, she was there, and in so many photos, we were both, but now, except for her, I can hardly recognize the rest of the people in the photos, and … in addition, there's no one I can ask, there is not even with the one who to comment those photos.

      Now they are part of the wall, as if it were a wallpaper, I don't stop to look at them, because for me they are strangers, one day they shared my life but now I do not feel them far away, I just do not feel them.

      When I go down the corridor, sometimes I look at the photos that are hanging, they are from totally unknown places and people, curious to try to guess who they are or what they do, but no, I cannot remember!

      An assistant occasionally comes home to do a little cleaning, at first she asked about my grandchildren, and I pointed them out on the photos, but now, I do not know where those photos are, nor do I know how many grandchildren I have.

      I hardly want to talk, because I have nothing to say, my memories are painful, not because I have not lived