He awoke with the premonition that something would happen. He couldn’t know what; he was incapable of imagining it. Only that that day something would happen. Large, small, medium: something singular would occur. Nor did he have any idea why that enlightened certainty would come to him as he opened his eyes and received the always impertinent light that penetrated his window. Annoyed, he set aside the invasive feeling as much as he could and, like any other morning of his life, he resolved to face the day. He brewed coffee, smoked cigarettes, fed Garbage II. He got ready to hit the streets in search of books, earning his living how he could. He remembered, due to some subconscious whim, or perhaps because of his recent relationship with the feast days, that it was December 17, Saint Lazarus’s Day. The leprous saint surrounded by dogs, the Babalú Ayé of the Yorubas: a day for fulfilling promises or awaiting miracles. Perhaps he would be surprised by one and that would be what could happen: it would be welcome, for example, to find a good library for sale whose books would help him come out of the recurrent poverty in which he seemed to live. That would be an acceptable miracle. Although he was fed up with the same circumstances, and continued without believing in the intangible, he now knew better than if one has enough faith, a miracle can happen. But faith, precisely, was what Mario Conde most lacked and would lack. He also lacked coffee. Real coffee. And dreams. And hopes. And years to think that it was or would be possible to begin again, if such a miracle were practicable. Luckily, other things abounded. Premonitions for example. And he had the certainty that some of them would even become true.
MANTILLA, DECEMBER 17, 2014–AUGUST 10, 2017