We couldn’t close our mouths.
You won’t believe me, but it’s true.
A lovely carriage drawn by ten white horses!
“Could it be the Queen of England?” I wondered. “But how could she have heard about the adventure of Dailan Kifki so fast and come all the way to Ituzaingó by carriage?”
“Who could it be?” everyone started to ask.
Granddad prepared for war.
“Atten…shun!” he shouted. “Everyone put on your overalls!”
Everyone did as they were told. Of course, none of them actually had any overalls because they weren’t at school, but everyone smoothed down their clothes, combed their fingers through their hair, shook off a few bits of fluff, did up their buttons, straightened their top hats and lined up in rows with the most serious expressions they had, to receive the dazzling and mysterious visitors.
Someone suggested that since we’d spent so many days coming and going and so many nights without so much as forty winks, maybe we were just seeing things, like those travellers in the desert.
But it turns out we weren’t.
The carriage was getting closer and closer. And it was real.
It was a real carriage made entirely of gold, and little pearls, except for the mudguards, which were plastic.
The horses were real, too: all of them made of one hundred per cent horse, twirling their very long curly manes, dyed green, pink and yellow.
The carriage braked right in front of Dailan Kifki, and my brother Roberto said:
“We’re toast.”
The soldiers stood to attention and saluted, just in case.
Granddad presented arms.
My Auntie Clodomira was convinced that it was the President of the Republic inside that carriage, but that sounded a bit strange to me, as I know the President doesn’t travel by carriage, nor by skateboard, but by car or helicopter.
The carriage just stood there, with its doors and windows closed.
And the horses were calm and still, as though their clockwork had suddenly wound down.