The gratitude of the beggar. A Christmas story of Salvador Robles

The gratitude of the beggar. A Christmas story of Salvador Robles

The streets of the old town of Metropolis, adorned with lights of colors and some splashed Christmas tree of campanitas, balls of froth, puppets of snow and brilliant stars, were crammed with passers-by. Ten days were missing so that the year was ending, and the time, lukewarm and dry, he was inviting to walk along the center of the capital, of course, watching with the leaf stalk of the eye the varied products that were exhibited in the shop windows of the numerous shops that were marking the trip out. Where less it is thought, it jumps the hare. And, as everyone knows, in Christmas times the enjoyment that there bring the walks along the shopping streets of the big metropolises is usually correlated proportionally with the weight of the buy that moves: major all that is the number of bags that the shift consumer transports, major is the pleasure that it impedes, and on the contrary. There have been known citizens' cases that, before the mournful panorama that its naked hands were offering them, have lost the vertical position on having stumbled over its own fortitude, which was creeping for the soils, noqueado for the consuming poverty.
In the shopping street of more ancestry of Metropolis, a beyond the common beggar was left, for its advanced age: eighty years or more; for its aspect: skinny, high place and touched with a captain's cap of the Merchant Marina; and for its novel one to proceed: it neither was begging compassion nor was asking the God's good one for alms but it was directing a few plain words to the potential donors that it was selecting thoroughly, since its depauperadas energies were forcing him to promote to the maximum its working time, two daily ones.
To approximately five meters, between tens o'clock of persons who him were coming closer, the elder pedigüeño concentrated exclusively on a dressed man who was taking briefcase under the arm. What had attracted stranger's attention of him was neither its elegance nor its neat aspect, but its visage, in which campeaba a clean and serene look. Of those that traslucen part of what is cooked between drop cloths.
When the old beggar had to a few centimeters its virtual benefactor, it intervened in its way with the hand as bowl and, without withdrawing the eyes of the eyes of other, it limited itself to pronouncing with cracked voice three words, only three. If before himself it had a generous man, he did not need to say anything more. The rest, the whole world, was getting rid of what he was accompanying to so frugal message.
- Merry Christmas, gentleman.
The good-looking man upset by the frank look of the elder, who seemed to arise from the abysses of its memory, perhaps from the heart of the childhood, deposited the briefcase in the soil and began searching with two hands in the pockets of the pants and the jacket. Regrettably, only it found documents and credit cards.
- he was thinking that it was taking above some cash … A moment, perhaps I have some coins scattered at the bottom of the briefcase.

The look of the beggar was intensified, like illuminated by an interior light, perhaps the light that other more fortunate Christmastime was radiating.
The incursion of the dressed man turned out to be uncultivated.
- do not move from here. I am going to look for a cash dispenser. I give him my word that I will turn in a few minutes.
- I rely on its word, gentleman, but I ask him not to bother; I am content on what it has met to me.
- but if I have not given him anything.
- Is it sure?
- Merry Christmas - the dressed man said goodbye offering its hand.
- Merry Christmas – the old beggar repeated pressing it hard.

 

Salvador Robles Miras is the author of “Against the sky”. In February Bilbao will present another novel in FNAC. There is entitled “Last day, the first one”, and narrates the adventures of a fifty-year old man, Arthrolith, on eve of being produced to life or death of a tumor in the brain. It is divorced, its only daughter died in an accident, it is employed of teacher of Literature at an institute. A failure feels. Last day or the first one will devote himself to turn for its hometown. In the objects and in the personages' gallery with those that one finds in its peripatetic odyssey, the man will discover to another Arthrolith, perhaps the real Arthrolith.

 

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The gratitude of the beggar. A Christmas story of Salvador Robles | Magazine Atticus

The gratitude of the beggar. A Christmas story of Salvador Robles

The gratitude of the beggar. A Christmas story of Salvador Robles

The streets of the old town of Metropolis, adorned with lights of colors and some splashed Christmas tree of campanitas, balls of froth, puppets of snow and brilliant stars, were crammed with passers-by. Ten days were missing so that the year was ending, and the time, lukewarm and dry, he was inviting to walk along the center of the capital, of course, watching with the leaf stalk of the eye the varied products that were exhibited in the shop windows of the numerous shops that were marking the trip out. Where less it is thought, it jumps the hare. And, as everyone knows, in Christmas times the enjoyment that there bring the walks along the shopping streets of the big metropolises is usually correlated proportionally with the weight of the buy that moves: major all that is the number of bags that the shift consumer transports, major is the pleasure that it impedes, and on the contrary. There have been known citizens' cases that, before the mournful panorama that its naked hands were offering them, have lost the vertical position on having stumbled over its own fortitude, which was creeping for the soils, noqueado for the consuming poverty.
In the shopping street of more ancestry of Metropolis, a beyond the common beggar was left, for its advanced age: eighty years or more; for its aspect: skinny, high place and touched with a captain's cap of the Merchant Marina; and for its novel one to proceed: it neither was begging compassion nor was asking the God's good one for alms but it was directing a few plain words to the potential donors that it was selecting thoroughly, since its depauperadas energies were forcing him to promote to the maximum its working time, two daily ones.
To approximately five meters, between tens o'clock of persons who him were coming closer, the elder pedigüeño concentrated exclusively on a dressed man who was taking briefcase under the arm. What had attracted stranger's attention of him was neither its elegance nor its neat aspect, but its visage, in which campeaba a clean and serene look. Of those that traslucen part of what is cooked between drop cloths.
When the old beggar had to a few centimeters its virtual benefactor, it intervened in its way with the hand as bowl and, without withdrawing the eyes of the eyes of other, it limited itself to pronouncing with cracked voice three words, only three. If before himself it had a generous man, he did not need to say anything more. The rest, the whole world, was getting rid of what he was accompanying to so frugal message.
- Merry Christmas, gentleman.
The good-looking man upset by the frank look of the elder, who seemed to arise from the abysses of its memory, perhaps from the heart of the childhood, deposited the briefcase in the soil and began searching with two hands in the pockets of the pants and the jacket. Regrettably, only it found documents and credit cards.
- he was thinking that it was taking above some cash … A moment, perhaps I have some coins scattered at the bottom of the briefcase.

The look of the beggar was intensified, like illuminated by an interior light, perhaps the light that other more fortunate Christmastime was radiating.
The incursion of the dressed man turned out to be uncultivated.
- do not move from here. I am going to look for a cash dispenser. I give him my word that I will turn in a few minutes.
- I rely on its word, gentleman, but I ask him not to bother; I am content on what it has met to me.
- but if I have not given him anything.
- Is it sure?
- Merry Christmas - the dressed man said goodbye offering its hand.
- Merry Christmas – the old beggar repeated pressing it hard.

 

Salvador Robles Miras is the author of “Against the sky”. In February Bilbao will present another novel in FNAC. There is entitled “Last day, the first one”, and narrates the adventures of a fifty-year old man, Arthrolith, on eve of being produced to life or death of a tumor in the brain. It is divorced, its only daughter died in an accident, it is employed of teacher of Literature at an institute. A failure feels. Last day or the first one will devote himself to turn for its hometown. In the objects and in the personages' gallery with those that one finds in its peripatetic odyssey, the man will discover to another Arthrolith, perhaps the real Arthrolith.

 

Magazine Atticus

 

Bookmark

Filed file: General

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