Sunday, September 19

A black dot in the snow

If I had the camera here I would take a photo. Even if it is to remember this scene, in case one day I stopped caring about everything, in case that happened to be able to have a record of when I cared. As a guarantee. A reserve for the future, just in case.

I was about to turn 18 when I got on an Aeroflot plane from Buenos Aires to Moscow to visit my brother, who was 22 and working with a group of Spanish journalists. My first trip. The trip that brought me back to Argentina as a different person. The snowy roads of Moscow remained in my head as my favorite scene from a non-existent movie. But I go to the important thing: it was one of the first nights and I could not sleep, almost one in the morning, I got up, went to the window of the room and saw a woman walking her dog, -20 degrees, a Huge black dog, she in a coat, scarf and hat. I thought that when I was older I would live in a snow-covered city and walk with my dog ​​at dawn like that woman, so I opened the window, I didn’t care about the cold, I was 18 years old and at 18, nobody cares about the cold, I wanted to see the dog more clearly: a black dot in the snow.

They drifted away until I lost sight of them and fell asleep thinking about them. Imagining, because in truth she was a stranger with her dog.

The next morning we crossed the city with my brother, also by subway, in the middle of a violent and silent snowfall, to meet a Russian boy who had recorded the complete discography of Vladimir Vysotsky for us. He handed it to us in a white shoe box on the steps of the station. Later, with the box in hand, we were lost underground by the gold ring I don’t know for how long.

Today, when I hear Vysotsky’s hoarse and scratchy voice, I see the dog in the snow from my room in Moscow. And when I cannot sleep, and I think that yes, that I am already great, that I am great and I did not, that I did not comply, but that somehow I told it by giving it life in a play. After all, that’s what writing is all about: a black dot in the snow, from that window, on any given night. But from another window, today in Madrid, I also understand that I am on time, that I still did not have to use that reserve of “just in case”, that luckily twenty years later I still care about the lady with the hat, that I am on time to comply with me, that you have to make all the possible illusions, but that you also have to carry them out, that the illusions if they accumulate more than necessary, they rot. So here, with my dog, from my house in Puerta del Sol, with the magical colors of this city I make plans and I understand, I understand what I thought from that other window in Moscow, but between that Moscow and this Madrid many things happened that They could end everything and yet that happened, I understood something: you can make weakness strong if you look into her eyes, I learned that there is always something more, that everything says more than it says, that details matter, that there is To observe more, that you must not let certain things pass, that not everything does not matter, that a lady in a hat with a dog in the snow in the middle of the night can save you after years without even knowing it.

The afternoon falls with 41 degrees, the heat is unbearable, but Vysotsky’s capricious Horses sound: “Along the ledge of the abyss, on its very edge, the horses run (…) I drink the wind, I swallow the fog ( …) Run slower, horses! “, And I look at my dog ​​concentrating on the sounds of the street, the orange sky. If I had the camera here I would take a photo. Even if it is to remember this scene, in case one day I stopped caring about everything, in case that happened to be able to have a record of when I cared. As a guarantee. A reserve for the future.



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