Home » , , , , , , » Deep down in the pupils of infinite time by Miguel Angel Guerrero Ramos

Deep down in the pupils of infinite time by Miguel Angel Guerrero Ramos

The plot revolves around two passionate lovers of life, skins, waves and desert, and around a secret and remarkably strange organisation which plans to assassinate God. Two lovers without so much as an identity, memories of themselves or a reason to be in this world other than the immense affection, passion and tenderness they both feel for one another; two lovers who will nevertheless go through the game of a lustrous and uttermost intense seduction and through the deepest requirements provided by inner feelings of revenge. Will, thus, those two lovers of life and fate murder God? Will they be able to love each other at an overwhelming speed and cross that way the pupils of infinite time?

That spring was the sweet mother of the most beautiful flowers and that each

star owned its own cosmic tail of heat, were truths little Susana sensed, one

way or another, in her little solicitous heart.

Nowadays, nobody knows for sure how she disappeared. Some neighbours in

that coastal region, so rich in reefs and wistful horizons, where such a little girl

of bewildering dazzling eyes and frizzy brunette hair used to live, have ventured

to comment one thing or another to explain what actually happened to her.

They‟ve said, for instance, and always in a tone suggesting hearsay, that Mr

Rodrigo Buenaventura, the father of that girl who used to unveil tenderness

through each of her pores and fibres, sold her one day to a people‟s trafficker;

one of those who tend to seek brand new merchandise overseas. They‟ve also

said, always in a tone suggesting hearsay, that he, that is, the father of the

beautiful child, used to sexually molest her during the frigid cold break of dawn,

the warm and weary afternoon hours and through the uncertain opaque

incomprehensibilities that take place underneath the stars. One night, rumour


has it, before the puzzled stunned glance of a silver moon, he went too far, both

in the exploitation and the clobbering he administered his little child, to the point

he wound up taking her life all of a sudden. It‟s been said that he then

proceeded to conceal her somewhere on the beach, under the sweet droning of

some breezes which wanted to turn into the moon‟s donning, and the incessant

flight of some seagulls infatuated with the sea.

Naturally, only Rodrigo Buenaventura could possibly give us a clue, with some

certainty, about what actually happened that inauspicious cloudy afternoon

when Susana disappeared as if by magic. A hint that would help us substantiate

the way those events, undoubtedly cloudy and covered by the seminal

unsuspecting essence of mystery, took place.

That day, the sky was utterly pouring and it seemed like it was mocking the very

passing of time. When Rodrigo returned from work as usual, he found on the

main table of his house a note where little Susana notified her whereabouts.

That was a common occurrence. Sometimes little Susana left notes for her dad

saying „I‟ve gone to town to buy some bread‟ or „I‟ve gone to draw on the sand

in the beach.‟ The fateful note Rodrigo had in his hands at that moment,

however, merely read „dad, I‟ve fol owed the voice of the horizon.‟

In that instance Rodrigo went out looking for his beloved daughter, the only

company he had at home, since his wife (i.e., Susana‟s mother) had passed

away a few years earlier. He did thus go out looking for his little child amidst an

arrhythmic rain damping his thoughts and drenching the very fabric of his heart,


when he saw her in the distance, just when a furtive wave took her away after

fiercely crashing on the beach and turning back towards the ocean. A wave of

aggressive strength which only left a haze of incalculable size in Rodrigo‟s il -

fated grief-stricken heart.

There hasn‟t been a single dusk since then without Rodrigo standing before the

sea to listen the wind‟s howling with his taciturn distressed gaze and with the

only certainty that his little kid‟s dreams would be forever ploughing through in

the bottom of the ocean the same way seagulls fly over on a daily basis in a sky

open to a limitless colourless hope and with an incessant perennial beauty

which tends to hide, for some reason, a shade of innocence.

Shortly after Susana‟s disappearance, Rodrigo Buenaventura perished. If

anyone had ever known him wel enough they would‟ve said the cause of death

had been grief.

When fourteen years passed since the absurd and mysterious departure of

such little girl in that coastal town so rich in riffs and many fortuitous unexpected

encounters with destiny‟s absence, she showed up, aged over twenty, on a

train, with a red outfit and not knowing or having the most remote idea of who

she was exactly.



His eyes were slowly opening. Within himself, it seemed like time had been lost

in some dark and hazy abyss and was gradually returning like the good son

coming back home. The sweet light of day, by its side, covered him all of a

sudden with its brightness. Sounds from people and the general milieu, on t he

other hand, slowly reached his ears as brief sustained whispers. Then, after

some seconds of regaining consciousness, in which either he or she could have

heard the sound of breeze amongst petals which in autumn fall on the floor,

assuming he, or she, would have wanted to and would have been in the right

place for that, the first certainty showed up: he or she, or whoever it was, was

travelling on a train, there was no doubt about it. Next to him – or her – there

was a window by which a landscape full of trees with green and dense attires

could be seen. The vehicle where they were being transported was also

producing a mild sound, just like a train, very similar to a modest babbling river.

„Who am I? Who on earth am I?‟ Was what he asked himself at first after

discovering he was a man who for some reason was travelling by train. In that

moment, the fractious waters of his being hastily twirled within himself with an

impetuous overwhelming strength. „Who am I? Who am I?‟ He asked over and

over again, as if he wanted his heartbeats to turn strong and desperate enough

for his true identity to be revealed.


At this point it‟s yet to be known if two or three minutes – or perhaps even more

- passed after that, al that is clear is that the man who‟d just woken up without

any memory whatsoever about himself, after having quietly cried a bit,

uncovered his face from the hands that had wrapped it as a gesture of anguish

and at that moment, over a little table that was right in front of him, a sheet of

paper with something written on it powerfully caught his attention.

He took it and started to read it, not knowing that by doing so, a fear of

unsuspected limitations would invade each and every one of the fibres and

nerves of his body, and with good reason: that sheet had something addressed

to him, a note, filled with lines that kissed the contours of some unidentified

complexity and which read:

You might be asking yourself, dear friend, who you are, why you don‟t

remember anything about yourself and why you‟re travelling by train on your

own. Do you know what? All we can certainly tell you is that those questions will

never be answered unless you fulfil a series of steps which we‟ll now indicate:

First, you must remain on the train. Should you get off or should you issue any

comments about your situation to anyone, asking for help to somehow search

for your identity, which by the way will be in vain, someone who‟s discretely and

quietly keeping an eye on you will shoot you right away, so I‟d think twice before

I left this game if I were you.

The next thing you ought to do is look for a very attractive woman wearing a red


and really tight one-piece suit and whom you‟ve got to take to the third wagon of

this vehicle before three o‟clock in the afternoon. I‟ll let you know, by the way,

that only by telling her about the wonders of the landscape run by the illustrious

train where you‟re at will you be able to persuade her to join you.

Last but not least, I shal warn you that if you don‟t want to lose your life this

very instant, you‟ve got to immediately burn this paper using the flare from a

candle which is located quite near you. Good luck.

Building up the strength coming from his vital centre in order to encourage

himself and be filled with hope, such amnesiac man got up from the chair where

he‟d been sitting and went out to the corridor of that train wagon where he was

travelling without knowing why. A man wearing a tie, a hat and a smart dress

was passing by said corridor in that moment, which is why our amnesiac friend

took the chance to ask him for the time. „Half-past two in the afternoon,‟ was his

response, and it was then that our amnesiac friend‟s forehead began to be

moist by some drops of anxiety-generated pearly sweat.

He started thus to hastily look for the attractive lady in red and, while doing that,

bumped into a mirror and was able to grasp in it the reflexion of a young elegant

good-looking man who should be around thirty. That image of himself didn‟t

disturb him; on the contrary, he was quite pleased with it. After having seen

himself in the mirror, he kept looking for the woman dressed in red by walking

towards the last wagon of the train.


Eighteen-to-three in the afternoon, our amnesiac friend had reached the last

wagon without finding the woman he was searching for, which meant said

beautiful woman wearing red was in one of the first three wagons of the train,

where he hadn‟t looked for her yet, by the way. To add insult to injury, he was in

the eight wagon, so he had to sprint as quickly as possible to get to the second

and third ones.

She wasn‟t in the third one either and it seemed that everything was going down

towards the darkest limbo. What if, for instance, the lady in red had been in the

fifth or sixth wagon and when he searched for her there she happened to be in

the bathroom? What to do or how to act before a misfortunate event such as

that one?

Yes, everything would‟ve definitely gone down towards the darkest limbo hadn‟t

he suddenly found the woman he so briskly sought in the second wagon, thanks

to a favourable effect of destiny, fate or who knows what. She looked quite

stunning while reading a newspaper, it has to be said.

Since the beautiful woman wearing a red garment was travelling on her own,

our amnesiac friend sat in front of her and casually greeted her whilst trying to

conceal his concerns and anxiety. The adrenalin that pumped through all of his

body helped all of his senses to be enhanced, as his life ultimately depended on

everything turning out fine.

“Have you got the time?” He asked her after a long minute of silence he spent


thinking of an ice-breaker.

“Ten-to-three in the afternoon,” was her response.

“It‟s now or never. There‟s no time to slow down,” our dear amnesiac friend


“Do you know what I like the most about this beautiful journey in such a

fabulous train?”
“Tel me,” she inquired interested, as luck would have it, her eyes moving away

from the newspaper she was reading.

“That splendid and marvellous landscape we can see running thro ugh these

crystals…. Do you know what? There are things you can only see at this speed,

such as the perennial tranquillity with which trees, downright fragrant flowers

and pensive mountains reveal their thought and all the grass is being left


“The grass as well, you say?”

“Wel … what I actual y mean, since you seem to be keen on this subject, is that

travelling at this speed is, partly, being like the breeze.”

“Like the breeze?”


“Yes, sure, for just the breeze knows the woods‟ green floury signals she‟s

running through every day, you know? I think, in fact, that all her desires strip

themselves in the beautiful and unparalleled nature. Breeze does get naked and

recognises herself in each and every one of natural life‟s trembles.”

The lady in red gazed at one of the windows of the train and contemplated the

landscape. Some seconds later, her eyes were stifled with an exotic mixture of

sweetness, beauty and life.

“Come with me”, inquired our amnesiac friend to the woman wearing red, all of

a sudden.

He didn‟t demonstrate any emotion or doubt whatsoever at the moment he was

making such request, the same way she didn‟t disclose anything when she got

up from the chair where she was sitting and joined him.

Three-to-three, both the lady in red and our amnesiac friend reached the third

wagon, where one of the train employees told them a small and cosy cavity had

been reserved for the two of them. They walked in without asking a single

question and, after an uncertain moment of silence in which they both seemed

to be examining each other while they were waiting for something to happen, or

perhaps while they both devoted themselves to recognising each other‟s spirit,

he approached her, she approached him and then they kissed. Intimacy

followed, in which they went through smal segments of eternity. That‟s how


love and passion gradually boosted in that petite train chamber. He then swore

an intense love, which she requited with a grin and an absolute and placid

devoted hug.

After many minutes of harmony and recklessness in each other‟s skin, he

confessed her he‟d woken up in that train having no previous memory of himself

and with no indications of anything other than finding her and taking her there.

She consequently admitted she‟d also woken up there, in that train, without any

memories and next to a piece of paper advising her to pretend to read a

newspaper up until three o‟clock, if she wanted to live; she‟d also been

instructed to wait for a man in a suite whom she‟d then join if and only if he

eloquently and poetically mentioned the landscape that could be seen outside

the train.

“I can‟t believe it!‟ he whispered. All of this is truly strange. But strangest of all, I

feel like I‟ve known you for ever.”

“The same thought occurred to me”, she said, shortly before an employee

knocked on that room‟s door where they were both naked in order to hand them

a note.

Our amnesiac friend then read the note out loud, which was vanishing in the

convexities of all and nothing, and which had the following content:

Let me inform you that, despite the two of you not having met previously, your


souls had already been, many a time, intensely loved each other in the deepest

realms of infinity. You don‟t know it but it‟s the cravings of your hearts which

have partly brought both of you to this train which seems to be going to said

sublime infinity. Now, what I want to tell you is that you can recover all of your

memories if you feel so inclines, you only need to get off at the next stop,

although I‟m sorry to say, dear friends, that if you make that choice I‟l be forced

to send someone to take your lives. Not everything‟s so lugubrious and dark,

though, for there‟s an alternative: underneath one of the chairs in this cavity

there‟s a considerable amount of money and some provisional documents with

fake identities which could be useful for you in the future. If you decide to take

that option and remain together and alive, al you‟d have to do is stay on the

train up until its last stop. That‟s it, dear friends. Loads of luck!

“What do you reckon?”, he asked her when he finished reading that note.

She turned around and gazed at the outer landscape which could be seen

through one of the windows of the train and said:

“I think it‟s quite beautiful and romantic to have a view like that from a train

going towards infinity.”

“Yes, you‟re right,” said our amnesiac friend after a brief and quiet moment of

meditation and while he brashly smiled.

Infinity, by its side, seemed to be turning into the enthralling aura that stems


from the deepest and most intense yearnings of drowning in a skin.

“I think,” he continued, “that only by being now and permanently next to you

could I ever know who I really am. I can always, for that reason, deduct myself

in your skin whenever I need to.”

“I say the same,” she claimed shortly before initiating a game of love with

incalculable passion, as incalculable as infinity itself.



That restaurant had it all: a mildly agitated sea and delicious background music.

She, a strong devotee of the ocean and its fickle invisible sparks – for some

reason which that beautiful girl has never actually understood – and he, fond of

the sounds of spirits and music in general, had both always had, since they met

each other on a train which swiftly travelled to infinity, the dream of making

whimsical love in the bathroom of a restaurant like that one, with its atmosphere

completely flooded with the embracing and overwhelming music produced by

admirable violins, and which was located right in front of an ocean of restless

waves in a warm beach declaring love from a moon which tends to often be

infatuated with any passion below its scrutinising view.

Shortly after he lifted her skirt and stripped her knickers, she started moaning

with pleasure from the top of her lungs, to the point that her squeals vastly

overpowered the inspired music produced by the outstanding violins at the

restaurant, bowed instruments which intended to defy the ancient mystique of

waves and bestow the moon with tears of joy. They were both following the

sweet pathway of shared debauchery, generating some shocking looks of moral

fright on some of the restaurant clients, prompting the place owner and one of

the security guards to go to the bathroom where they were making love and

fiercely knock on the door, which remained unopened and would stay like that


for the moment being, as they were making true one of their biggest dreams.

The groans from that ardent man were desperately searching for his beloved‟s

nipples while, from the other side of the door, the restaurant owner threatened

to phone the police unless they immediately stopped such so-called grotesque

act. They were, however, intertwined in their oceanic passion, and they didn‟t

hear anything but their souls‟ palpitations and the perennial juice of the

corporeal explorations they were undertaking.

That‟s how, feeling the unevenness of eternity and the likeness of their skins

with their beings‟ love, he told her:

“Moonlight pours over the dead of night and over your skin.”

“That is,” she said, “because the very night is oscillating over the sweetness of

stars and of our lips.‟

“Do you know, my dear, what I see deep within your eyes?”

“What is that?”

“It‟s an infinite time.”

When they left that bathroom and hastily dressed up with an air around them

that followed the mystical passion of the on-going violins, the restaurant owner

and the few remaining customers glared at them with acrimony. “How much do


we owe you?” asked the ardent lover who‟d just recently finished producing wild

groans on his beloved in that luxurious restaurant by the seaside. “Nothing,”

replied the owner. “But,‟ he then added, „leave now and next time, for the love of

God, get a room.”

They both left that restaurant more infatuated with each other than ever and

laughing out loud because of the scolding and the intense experience they‟d

just gone through. He was glad his beloved‟s caressing and the violins‟ music

had crawled under his skin. She was excited about the oceanic breezes she felt

around her and by knowing the waves‟ magnificence and her beloved‟s

affection were there for her.

After hours and hours sitting in front of the sea and giving each other kisses in

which all the energy of their bodies focused exclusively on the lips, they decided

to return to the hotel where they were staying.

They didn‟t know. They didn‟t know that an utterly mysterious and conspicuous

shadow was trailing them between the pace of the waves‟ steam and the built-in

outbreak of the night‟s passion. I‟d like to warn them that a shadow‟s watching

over them, analysing each of their actions.

Almost two years had passed since they met each other on a train where they

found themselves without any memory whatsoever. Almost two years since they

decided to stay together permanently, loving each other while they travelled

around the world. Two years of a sound wandering love in which they were both


getting to know horizons and cultures and crossing any borders they bumped

into and during which they‟d repeatedly changed their names and jobs despite

al the money they‟d found on the aforementioned train.

They haven‟t stopped travelling and their names have been altered several

times in order to confuse those strange unknown people who put them both on

a train and assigned them singular tasks enabling them to meet each other.

They‟ve been in oceans, jungles and deserts, breathed light airs from islands,

run across green and vast prairies, met all kinds of exotic birds, woken up

underneath paradisiac tropical suns and made love in several delicate corners

of the planet, just to mention some of their many experiences.

They‟ve been here, there and everywhere and that, by the way, is the very

reason why they‟ve decided not to have kids. They certainly cannot afford to do

it given the conditions in which they have to escape their past in order to love

each other infinitely, because the warning given by those strange people was

crystal clear: should they decide to recover their memories, someone would

slay them.

Because of that, such beautiful hardened lover of the ocean and its fugitive

invisible sparks, and such passionate lover of spiritual and musical sounds,

haven‟t stopped travelling and, according to them, haven‟t stopped running

away from their past either. What they haven‟t stopped to think about ,though, is

that their journeys are precisely the only means for their infatuated and

confused souls to try to find their respective pasts.


Four shots.

Yes, four terrible strident bullet impacts are heard from the next-door room.

Someone has died, there‟s no doubt about it.

The strange shadow that was following and stealthily monitoring them has been

gunned down in one of the rooms of that bucolic hotel. Lest fate decide, neither

in its obdurate secrets nor in the minutiae it‟s left hiding in the breeze, that

they‟re the next ones to perish.

Both of them, after a while, once realising reception wouldn‟t take their constant

cal s, go to the room next door, where they find a man who‟s been shot to death

and, next to him, a note claiming he‟s been murdered because he‟d been

watching them closely for a while.

They leave that hotel immediately in order to keep travelling with the only

company they‟ve both had since they first met almost two years prior: an oil

painting of a small boat sailing the impetuous waters with a symphonic

orchestra on its stern. They‟d found that painting in the third wagon of the train

where they‟d both had their first mutual love experience – in her case, in fact, it

was the first of her entire life.

Let‟s recap: the only goal they have is to love each other and keep on travelling


everywhere. What they don‟t know, such beautiful hardened lover of the ocean

and its fugitive invisible sparks, and such passionate lover of spiritual and

musical sounds, is that the seed of life and hope is growing inside her.

Yes, that young, beautiful and inexperienced woman who used to be called

Susana and used to live near the mysteries of the sea, got pregnant from her

passionate encounter with her beloved in the restaurant which they were thrown

out from.

She‟s not going to be able to recklessly claim she wants to find the voice of




Here‟s the story so far: a beautiful hardened lover of the ocean and its fugitive

invisible sparks and a passionate lover of spiritual and musical sounds have

been forced to leave their nomadic lives and settle down, needing to establish a

home and a routine to raise their only child.

It‟s been four years and Vicente, their little boy aged three, has become, with

his curious eyes and his cheeky smiles, a world of love and joy for his parents.

But we‟ve stated that the parents of such happy child have been forced to

establish a home and a routine, thus assigning themselves names: Luis Alonso

Romero and Hanna Lissete Tovar.

That‟s how, one Thursday evening, when Luis was returning from work, he was

walking by a lonely boulevard under a subtle mild sidereal vertigo rain, he was

suddenly called by a man wearing an overcoat. „Hey, you,‟ he said before

approaching Luis.

“Yes, what can I do for you?,” Said Luis.

“Listen, my friend, I also found myself one day in an unknown place without any


memories and with a note directing me to do something.”

I can see the surprise in your face, my dear friend lover of spiritual and musical

sounds. Those words have left you truly speechless.

“I don‟t mean to confuse you. I know this topic is difficult to deal with, not to

mention we could both be killed should we evade the rules. All I can say is that

I‟m part of an organisation seeking to murder who took the past from us.”

“And who‟s that who, according to you, has taken the past from us?”

“What? You don‟t have any suspicions?”

“No, I don‟t.”

“God, my dear friend, God Himself.”

“Let me get this straight: you‟re planning … YOU‟RE PLANNING TO KILL


“Yes, we do, but as I said, it‟s not an easy topic to deal with. That‟s why at the

moment all I want to give you is my card and the offer to join our organisation. If

you and your wife are ever interested, just give us a ring at the number I‟ve just

given you.”


After such strange person on an overcoat blended into darkness, Luis went to

an old pub instead of returning home. It was Thursday evening, of course, so

Luis Alonso Romero went to a downtown venue as he was hungry for nightlife

just like felines wooing perpetuity with their crackling eyes. He was a regular

there for nearly three years, as that‟s where he sought a smal dose of sad

melancholic music to soothe his heart‟s ceaseless flame.

Said music allows good Luis to breathe some sweet comforting nostalgia and is

performed, in fact, by the same woman of a delicate pleasant silhouette who‟s

been singing there for over ten years for a downcast shrivelled audience who

couldn‟t care less about the mild traces of melancholy being reflected on her

glance, which is slightly distracted in the past. They‟re only interested in

submerging themselves in her essential nocturnal music and understanding

some of the appealing fragrance emanating from her vibrant skin.

Luis, by his side, is a married man (with beautiful Hanna, hardened lover of the

ocean), but that hasn‟t stopped him from being there every single Thursday

evening for almost three years, opting to follow the fixations of his heart urging

him to listen to that music and yearn for the whispering of the lips producing it.

She‟s a woman who sings in a unique way which is charming and at the same

time outlines absences and traces certain sort of pain for an audience listening

to her in a place which is halfway between sensual and decadent.

That particular Thursday evening, however, besides his encounter with the

strange man on an overcoat, Luis was to face a quite extraordinary occurrence


in that pub: the woman finished her set a bit earlier than usual and approached

him, to his utter surprise, to sincerely thank him for camouflaging himself within

the shadows to listen to her. They both ordered a drink each and talked about

their abandoned dreams as well as the joys and loves that will always burden

their hearts. She told him they used to date many years prior and they used to

sing together in that pub and they used to be deeply in love with each other until

the day he suddenly disappeared. He told the woman, who claims to already be

married, that she‟s mistaken him for someone else, as there can be many

people in the world who look so alike that not even an identical twin could

recreate that similarity. That‟s at least what Luis said at the moment.

They said goodbye after talking a little bit and she t hen asked with an

incandescent brightness in her eyes if he was planning to return as he did every

Thursday evening. He said he couldn‟t ensure that and, before he left, she

kissed him on the lips with a slight brush of affection.

They‟l never speak again, but as long as Luis can keep listening to her singular

music, such sweet kiss coming from the past will be eternal for him.



There they are sitting on their double bed and with a lugubrious dismal worried

demeanour in their faces. As I‟m well aware of each one‟s feelings, I know

they‟re undergoing indescribable pain because they‟d both want to recover their

respective pasts but they wouldn‟t all of a sudden risk leaving their only child as

an orphan in case discovering their origins equalled death.

That night, neither Luis nor beautiful Hanna had been able to sleep, just like it‟d

been happening for a while, until one day, before Luis left for work, he stopped

right before the main entrance of his house. He called Rosita, the maid he‟d

hired for those happy and euphoric days when his child was born, and asked

her to bring him the papers which were on his desk. Hanna, who‟d be on shift

some hours later, when overhearing what Luis told their employee, even though

she knew the reason, decided not to do anything and to simply remain sitting

there in one of the chairs of the main dining room. She simply didn‟t want to

avoid the tragedy her husband could bring over her family.

He, by his side, upon receiving from his maid the papers which were on his

desk, quickly searched for the card the man wearing an overcoat had given to

him unexpectedly on a Thursday evening. In that moment, Luis felt a profound

and mysterious voice ardently calling his soul, a moment which was rightfully


fitted for the truth, a fresh wave drowning him within himself, a vain sky focusing

its avid glance on the seduction of an uncertain sea but, mostly, Luis felt the

brief and deep oscillations of existence itself, of passions occasionally tying

themselves to smiles, and all passions from those parts of the body where souls


A meeting. The man who picked up the phone summoned him and Hanna to a

meeting on a train.

If I could, I‟d tell Luis and Hanna, Andreu and Susana, or whatever they‟re

called, that what may seem to be the best solutions aren‟t always the best

remedy; in other words, I‟d tell them not to go and attend the meeting to join that

strange and sombre organisation.



“Who exactly are you and what do you want from us?,” asked Luis slightly

agitated while his wife kept one of her sweet and soft hands over his right leg,

while that train where they were was voraciously consuming the steps of the

way one by one.

“I told you the other day, Mr Romero, or should I call you Andreu? Well, your

name doesn‟t matter, does it? Anyway, I‟ll repeat I belong to an organisation

which intends to murder the culprit of taking lives and memories away from

several people all around the world.


“That sounds quite absurd.”

“How absurd, Mr Romero? As absurd as to think you and your wife happened to

wake up without a single recollection on a train, all of a sudden, one day. As

absurd as the fact both of you remain monitored most of the time by strangers.

As absurd as the fact both of you, to give you one more example which you


surely won‟t like a little bit, have been blood sibling in your past life.”

“What? Us? Siblings?” Said a truly shaken Luis while his wife, as terrified as

him or even more, hugged him with outmost concern.

“Don‟t you worry, Mr Romero. I‟m not saying you two are siblings. In fact, you‟re

not, but there lies the matter: how can you know I‟m telling the truth?”

“I don‟t know,” said Luis. “You tell us.”

“We, the organisation that I‟m affiliated to, have a priestess, who could readily

help you to recover your memories; only, of course, if you want to.”

“We‟d first need to think about it careful y,” said Luis. “What I‟d like to know at

the moment, if it‟s possible, is how you, the organisation you belo ng to, plan to

murder God.”

“That, dear Mr Romero, will only be revealed when you and your wife agree to

form part of our organisation.”

“But we know nothing about said organisation. In fact, we don‟t even know your

name, mate.

“As I‟ve already told you, names are irrelevant at this point, although if it makes

you feel better, mate, my name is Diogenes Copegui.”


That night, the different inconsistencies of time left their mark on the soul of a

passionate lover of music and a hardened admirer of ocean. That night, clear

but with dormant stars, Luis and Hanna started questioning how important

recollections could be for someone. A breeze was very close to whispering a

secret in their ears, a secret that could have soothed them a little bit, but it

didn‟t. They were thinking about memories and likened them to the different

landscapes that can be seen from a moving train, as they are arranged in

succession, but human mind is fast enough to retain some of them. That way, if

anyone asks, one could claim to have seen a landscape with certain features,

and if said landscape was utterly unknown to us, the brain might have acted

even quicker than usual in order to record all the possible features of it.

Of course, for the two of them, recollections may be like fugacious landscapes,

which would largely explain why during their first two years together, Luis and

Hanna devoted themselves to travelling without any other guidance than


Yes, I know: memories are for them both like a landscape. Now, what happens

when we‟re all immerse in the same landscape day after day, soaked in our

souls with that view‟s subjective meaning? What happens when a landscape,

after becoming massively familiar, becomes an imperceptible silence? What

happens when it loses all the stakes of its presence and sets up everything our


routine means to us?

At least to Luis Romero and Hanna Lissette the answer was rather clear:

In those conditions, the soul‟s palpitations slowly fade away and our existence

loses one of its biggest treasures which make us distinctive as human beings. A

treasure, a curious invaluable gift we‟ve all got somehow to ask ourselves who

we really are.

In which glance will memories remain? In how many skins have lustful fingers

drawn our existences‟ silhouettes? How many times have those fingers done

that sinful and joyful act and under the influence of which liqueurs?

Oh, dear memories, tell us, how many pupils have seen reality vanish over a

sweet petal of light?



After several days with a rebellious bee in their bonnet, with the seed of doubt,

concern and anxiety in their hearts, after having meditated over this and that,

and after having realised Diogenes Copegui knew how to be really, really

persuasive, Luis and Hanna ended up accepting the offer and one day joined

the ALFH, the mysterious organisation that intended to kill God.

The first thing Luis did once he saw himself as part of the organisation and once

he was invited to a secret meeting in a secret meeting place, was asking

against who he‟d have to fight and how he could help to murder God, as well as

the meaning of ALFH.

“You see, Orestes…”

“Orestes? – inquired Luis.”

“Yes, Orestes, that‟s your alias.”

“What? You said you didn‟t give names any relevance…”

“No essential relevance, my friend, but we live in a concrete and material



“In that case, which one‟s my wife‟s name?”


“I like it, although mine, I don‟t know … I think I‟d prefer Chopin, Strauss or

Liszt, something related to music practised as a sublime and perennial art.”

“Wel , it is what it is,” replied Diogenes. “Now, about what our name means,

ALFH stands for Astrolabe of the Last Flourished Horizon. As for who are

enemies are going to be, it‟s simple: first of all, God; and second of all, al the

angels forming His celestial army.”

“Does that make us fallen angels or something like that?” asked Luis.

“No, it just means we fight against God.”

- Well, and why do you want to kill God?

“The answer to that question is also very easy: He took away our memories and

our past lives and left us one day on a train or plane or abandoned house or

somewhere else, with a note containing a test for us, and some of them

contained a threat to dissuade us from tracking ourselves back. In this place, for

that reason, there‟s many of us who used to have friends, family or lovers,


whom we can‟t see any more because we‟re under a death threat.”

“That‟s why you want to murder God and his angels, but how do you plan to do


“We‟ve found a way. Listen careful y, in this world there are many objects which

people have become excessively keen on or to which they‟ve destined too

much vital energy through their obsessions or ideas or desires in such a way

that said objects have repressed the soul of energies led through them. For

instance: we‟ve been able to murder many angels destroying the images that

represent them, as they also stand for their energy. The problem, as you can

probably imagine already, is that not all of the angels have paintings or images

on the face of the earth, and some of them have thousands of varied icons

spread globally, and in order to get rid of them we would first have to eliminate

all of those images or at least the most important ones, a task which may

sometimes become titanic, not to say impossible.”

“I can‟t believe what you‟re tel ing me. Are you sure about that theory?”

“Look, Orestes, why do you think some millenary religions such as Judaism

forbid any pictorial representation of God?”

“I don‟t know.”

“Very easy: so that there won‟t be any images containing a representation of


God‟s symbolic energy.”

“Well, assuming such a hypothesis is true, there are many images of God

nowadays, and it‟d be impossible to destroy al of them to exterminate His soul.”

“Yes, that‟s true, and even destroying al currently existing images of God we‟d

still have Bibles and other sacred books in the world.”


“Don‟t worry: the ALFH has discovered a neuralgic point containing a sizeable

part of God‟s soul and we‟re sure we‟l weaken It by destroying said point.”

“Which point is that?”

“His most important symbolic representation.”

“I can‟t imagine what it is. Tell me!”

“The most important image God has in the world, the one that is located at the

Sistine Chapel since the Italian Renaissance: the famous representation of God

that Michelangelo Buonarroti decided to design one day. He even thought all

images of saints to be naked, with the intention of hinting at a sacrilegious

character of his oeuvre, as the Catholic Church of the middle ages didn‟t al ow

for nakedness in the arts.”


“I see. That‟s undoubtedly an interesting theory, although I‟ve stil got some

queries: how do you plan to destroy that image? And how are you going to get

my wife and myself to recover all of our memories?”

“As for how to destroy God‟s image, we‟ll tel you in due time. As for how you

two will recover your memories, let me remind you, first of all, that the other time

I mentioned a somewhat special priestess who‟s on our side, you know? It‟s

imperative that you both see her as soon as possible.”

Soon, the unstoppable blues of memories is going to don the outfit of the most

irrepressible weighed down impulses of the flesh. An unsuspected pile of

incendiary desires will then sublimate within those prime and uplifting chants

performed in the spring of skin and between the different perfumes that are

found in the threshold of delusion. And that way, in the stopped syntax of an

ethereal time and a hurricane force of a thousand desires of liquid intensity, a

lover of sounds of spirit and music and a hardened lover of ocean and its

fugitive and invisible sparks will enter a strange house to find a priestess, a

muse, a sibyl who will return their memories to them.



If he wants to find all his past memories, first he‟s got to take that key that

opens a door entangled in multiple delusions and different layers of dreams of

devotion and bravery; he then must cross that door and enter a house

completely filled with gob-smacked mirrors, where the silent ballad of the moon

is felt and a singular requiem of animas is strained through the magical syrup of

the eyes and the overwhelming whirlwinds of being. A house drowning in the

waters of a cold apathetic lake where air invites all of its guests to paint it with

that thirst of space that light has, or with the colour of a tear that remains on the

periphery of time while it drops, or with the melody of a horizon that is

expressed in the certainty of a dazzling kiss.



They‟re two lovers running after the mystical secrets of the spores of charm.

He‟s a magical whispering manufacturer and she, by her side, is a maker of

passion and a skilful conjurer of sensuality.

They‟ve both loved each other for a good couple of years with some strokes

which have livened up their bodies and which have wriggled a thousand

different personal delusions, and which have nailed their pulsing glance in each

and every one of the corners of nakedness. Theirs is a love that has left them a

small son called Vicente.

But now they chase a new experience and, besides, they want to recover their

past memories. That‟s why, under a virginal moon, the time that revolves

around flowers has whispered to them about the existence of a muse that, a

long, long time ago, was slain by a couple of lovers like them. No, we stand

corrected, not a muse, more precisely a priestess or sibyl of encompassing

sexuality, who can well revive, as long as both lovers agree to pierce the

sweetest solitudes and the most bitter tenderness of the vaguest days, in order

to reach the last glimmers of passion.

Of course, it won‟t be so easy to revive such a muse. It won‟t be easy at al

since those two lovers, first of all, will have to find her lifeless body, and to do


that they need to follow the clues left by an organisation formed by people

calling themselves ALFH and intending to murder God. Said clues, by the way,

mention a red moon and the different heartbeats that belong to the dream


Then, when they both already know where that house is, they‟ll find the lustful

everlasting body of said sibyl of encompassing sexuality who‟d been cruel y

murdered, they shall take a pathway on which each night certain petals of

turquoise blue tend to fall, randomly crowding round its mystical surroundings.

Now, this story goes on like this: those two lovers we‟ve been talking about get

to that portentous mystical house which is far too close to a lake, close enough

for its ground floor to be completely flooded with its hermetic and silently

scrutinising waters.

Then, when those two love rs find the delicious and appetising lifeless body of

the sibyl of encompassing sexuality in one of the first floor bedrooms of that

portentous mystical house where they are, they both realise they‟re meant to

perform a classic ancient life ritual: they must make love in an intense lustful

way in order to revive that priestess who‟d been murdered one dark cloudy day

by two lovers who let themselves be guided by the disorientated compass of


Yes, that classic and ancient life ritual which is to make love, both of them

should perform regardless of the intense cold and in the hermetic and silently


scrutinising waters of that lake which has crippled the ground floor of that

portentous mystical house we‟ve briefly mentioned.

When that first task, so similar to the action of drinking from the moon‟s

sexuality, has been fulfilled with diligence and without any rush, the magical

fertility of tenderness and the outbursts provoked by the different spasms of

pleasure will be the ones who, at the end of the da y, will revive that priestess

who had been cruelly slain.

Then those two lovers won‟t have anything else but enjoying the sweetness

from the skin of that sibyl of encompassing sexuality, there, in that house,

before the different brightness of a cold lake, or in any other mystical and

seductive part of the world. The three of them will make love then with sublime

dedication, so long as destructive jealousy may not get in the way, while he

slowly remembers why he‟s such a good lover of spiritual and musical sounds,

and why she‟s the same for ocean and its fugitive invisible sparks.

And perhaps if those two lovers, astonished by the various faculties offered by

the purest passion, decide to ask their beautiful sensual sibyl why she‟s offering

them so many gifts and so many past memories in exchange for some intense

occasional acts of love, she‟s quite likely to reply this way:

“Those acts of love that you deem „occasional‟ aren‟t like that at all, since

amongst the sensual scents of an intravenous eternity, a beautiful

incomprehensive muse or a mystical priestess will always share her most


mystical secrets and will always be enormously faithful as long as the lovers,

and everyone receiving any inspiration from her, are always faithful to her and

share their most intimate and passionate secrets with her.”



Susana told Luis about the house next to the sea where she used to live as a

child and also about her father, that man she admired and cared about so


Andreu, by his side, told Hanna about that pub where he used to work as a

musician and how well he managed to make a thousand and one feelings of

different calibres sail between a thousand and one different sonatas of various


“You know, my love, what is said about that small and uncertain drop of water of

an unknown river?” Luis asked his wife when he saw her so distressed and

worried about suddenly having lost her infancy.

“No, Luis, I don‟t know. What is it?”

“That said drop didn‟t want to be part of that unkno wn river, but the sea instead,

living in within its walls of liquid eternity. Do you know, my love, which drop it


“No, I don‟t.”


“It was a naughty drop, as it wasn‟t the kind of drop which goes with the flow of

its river and allows to be led, but the kind of drop that softly adheres itself to

your skin and then stays with you once you‟ve bathed yourself in the river.”

“Is that what it means?”

“Yes, my dear. If you want to return to your hometown, I won‟t oppose it. You

know that already, I‟ve told you when we met on that train: I‟d go with you to the

last and deepest of all boundless places.”

For a week Hanna Lissette and her husband Luis visited the birth town of a little

girl cal ed Susana who one day disappeared in the sea and who‟d been living

for many years in an uncertain confuse limbo outside any geographical location

and any timeline. During that week, Hanna visited many of her acquaintances

from another life, without telling any of them that she‟d been the little girl cal ed

Susana who‟d disappeared years earlier in the same place. She asked her

husband to please ask Rodrigo Buenaventura (her father) and he happily

agreed, although the information he received after inquiring about him, claiming

he was an old friend of the man, wasn‟t at al calming for Hanna Lisette and her

grieving nostalgic heart. For instance, one of the gossipy neighbours Rodrigo

Buenaventura had had whilst still alive said he‟d taken his own life a long time

after he‟d raped and murdered his smal beautiful child of bewildering dazzling

eyes. Overhearing that, Hanna snapped and grabbed her hair, and she

would‟ve surely pul ed it out from the root, hadn‟t Luis been able to keep her


apart from that gossipy old lady.

About the late Rodrigo‟s house, the building was still erect next to the dizzy

mood swings of the ocean, although, it has to be said, in any moment that

uninhabited dwelling, so full of memories and sorrows, could collapse. Hanna

was rummaging through it for days, without any neighbour minding, until she

finally found what she didn‟t even know she‟d been looking for: a note written by

her father, which said „Kid, if you‟re reading this, it means you‟ve returned from

your extended captivity and I‟ve gone to another world. Yes, I always suspected

you‟d come back. I‟ve always been, in fact, sure of it. That‟s why I want you to

know I love you more than anything, and that also makes me want to tell you

not to worry about me or about people may be saying about me. Child, even

when we‟ve got plenty of time to live and plenty of things to do, that time is

much more important than the past.‟

That last night in her hometown, Susana decided to leave all her nostalgias

behind and, with her beloved, went into the ocean that had long ago devoured

her and made her disappear, in order to ride an insatiable love right there within

the waves. They both loved each other, then, between affectionate gestures of

timeless heartbeats and between the soft swaying of the sea waves. He rode

her and she, meanwhile, felt she wasn‟t just charged by her beloved husband

but also by hundreds and hundreds of passionate waves and ecstatic

harmonies. Luis‟ sex was like a sublime fish within the magical inner ocean of

beautiful Hanna Lissete. Their kisses contained all the breezes that dared not to

enter the sea. Yes, they both knew perfectly well how to ride live within the



The next day, while they were waiting for two o‟clock in the afternoon to take the

plane that would return them to the city where they‟d made a family and where

Luis had had a previous life as a musician and singer, and while they awaited at

a café for a simple order for a late breakfast, a beautiful and sensual woman of

extremely short vermillion hair and embracing abyssal blue eyes nonchalantly

sat on their table.

“Hi, my dear friends. How are the breeze and waves treating you? ”

“Very well, thanks. But who are you?” said Hanna.

“I‟m one of those strange people sent to tell you the scars of the horizon live in

our own glances, and to reveal the karmic writings of a storm y sky.”

“Are you from ALFH?” asked Luis.

“No, no, no, no. I, in fact, belong to the opposite side. That means, my dear

friends, I‟m an angel of God. My name, in this world, is Belina.”

“And what do you want from us?”

“To inform you that in heaven we already know you‟ve found that undetermined

gap that exists between memories.”


“Oh, I see. You already know we‟ve recovered our vilely stolen past.”

“Yes, we do. Something that, if you remember correctly, is forbidden under

penalty of death. But don‟t you worry, as I‟m also here to inform you about some

other things.”

“What things?”

“Well, observe this newspaper.”

Hanna and Luis read some news about a failed terrorist attack in Vatican City. It

was undoubtedly the one directed at the Sistine Chapel.



Both Luis and his wife promptly left that restaurant towards their home, but

when they arrived, they found their maid full of tears and sorrow. She told them

a woman with the same depiction as the sibyl of encompassing sexuality who‟d

returned them their memories some days earlier had been in the house some

hours prior, completely armed, and had forcefully taken Vicente, Luis‟ and

Hanna‟s son.

Now, if they wanted to see their son again, the sibyl had said, they should take

with them the painting that appeared before them when they met on the train

going to infinite to the portentous mystical house next to the lake. She also said

that, should they inform the police, the sibyl would provide the authorities with

all the necessary information to tie them to the terrorist attacks intending to blow

up the Sistine Chapel and to the ALFH organisation.

After Luis and his beautiful wife with aura of boisterous impetuous waves took

that work of art showing a small boat sailing waters of agitated ill usions with a

symphonic orchestra on its stern, they swiftly went to the singular mystical

residence of the sibyl that returns memories. (The painting, by the way, was in a

safe embedded quite tightly in one of the wal s of the Romeros‟ house).

When Luis and his wife Hanna arrived to the house next to the lake, after

having crossed the pathway of turquoise petals, they found Diogenes Copegui

and a beautiful woman (although not quite as gorgeous as Hanna, of course),

next to the splendorous and desirable body of the sibyl of encompassing


Diogenes had a gun. As soon as he greeted the arrivals used the gun to point at

Luis and his beautiful wife lover of the waves and its twirling feverish languages.

The woman next to Diogenes approached the Romeros and took the painting

they‟d brought.

It was then that Diogenes, immersed in a sinister semi-darkness with palpable

deadly aspects, so clear you can almost kiss it, had his say:

“This painting, dear friends, contains your life. I don‟t know if you‟d noticed that.

Now let me tell you that with this priestess‟ help I can extract said life to quickly

transfer it to my beloved and myself. I see by the look on your faces that you

can‟t understand me wel , so I‟l elaborate: my wife and I are almost nine

centuries old, and we‟ve reached this age by taking the life in these paintings

God and His angels have left everywhere.”

Marianne, Diogenes‟ wife, approached the sorcerer and started to kiss her. the

vapours of the first cosmic seductions covered the naked lustful body of the

sibyl while a strange orgasmic infusion rushed out through that skin the


Romeros knew far too well.

“It‟s time for you to perish” said Diogenes all of a sudden while his wife and the

sibyl loved each other without any hesitation and as if they were completely on

their own.

The bullets took off with a fury of titanic proportions from the gun Diogenes was

carrying towards the bodies of Luis and his wife Hanna.

Vicente, their young son, was there, powerlessly looking at the bullets sudde nly

disappearing and being consumed by Nothingness, as if they‟d never been shot

to begin with.

It was then that a fiddle started playing. It was Belinda.

She played the violin for a few seconds. Then, at the end of her enchanting

fugacious musical act, she said:

“I‟ve been ordered to come by who tends to arrange the stars to direct dreams

and who possesses the framework of all of human‟s memories as well as

having been responsible for the creation of each and every one of yesterday‟s,

today‟s and tomorrow‟s sections.”

“Yes, I already knew you‟d show up in this house” said Diogenes, enormously



He then took out from his jacket a small photo frame with the image of a saint

very similar to Belinda and then abruptly smashed it on the floor with all hi s


It was then that, as if someone had robbed fate out of one of its foundations

making it crumble apart. The moon, who didn‟t stop prying at any point, started

to shake while her skin and nerves were frightened, as everything around her,

even the very fibres of reality, were dizzily falling apart.

Belinda fell into the lake. She was dead. The violin she‟d been carrying, by its

side, was also thrown to those cold unfathomable waters.

Luis, as fast as he could, went upstairs and towards Diogenes. Everything

happened in a split second. Luis tried to approach Diogenes. He didn‟t give him

time and shot. The gun, fortunately, had run out of bullets. They both struggled

and then knocked down some candle holders surrounding the bed where

Marianne and the sibyl of encompassing sexuality were frantically making love.

Hanna went upstairs as well. When they all realised, a severe devouring fire

had taken over the majority of the house.

There‟s no escape. Even the smoke has entered the lungs of everyone who ‟s

there, and in a matter of minutes they‟ll all expire to their last breaths. The night

is turning more and more tearful and sombre.


While that house is burning down and everyone there is leaving this world, Luis

and Hanna realise they should have died a long time ago, but someone

somewhere gave them another chance. Now they must die, no way around that,

but they don‟t want the same fate awaiting them to be passed on to their dear

son Vicente. No, he cannot die; he‟s stil too young for that. What can his

parents do then? Pray? Well, strange as it may seem in two people who used to

belong to an organisation trying to murder God, yes: they fervently pray and

implore God to save their dear son regardless of what happens to them. Some

seconds later there‟s a painting with a small kid and a woman taking him by the

hand. The little boy in the painting is Vicente, even though they don‟t look alike;

the woman is Luis‟ and Hanna‟s maid.

It‟s then that they realise it wasn‟t necessary to pray for God, or whoever had

been responsible for the disappearance of people and the sudden placement of

mysterious mystical paintings, to save their son. It wasn‟t necessary as His plan

included saving him, although for that to happen, He was going to take his

memory from both the child and the maid, while at the same time curing her

from a serious illness that would‟ve otherwise made her succumb a few months


What comes next is easy to guess for Luis and his wife Hanna Lissette. He will

put them (the boy and the woman) on a train or another means of transport and

wil make them believe they‟re mother and son, something not even the best

DNA test will be able to deny afterwards.


Once they were certain that their son wouldn‟t perish, Luis and Hanna, or

should we say, Andreu and Susana, hugged each other within the flames

consuming them and kissed each other while they realised the last years of

their life were but a gift from Providence over another gift. They realised they

don‟t own the universe‟s paintings; they don‟t own their own illusions, for that


They hugged and kissed with an infinite caress in that house with a small

remnant of a lake inside and in some naked mirrors reflecting the air‟s feelings.

That house that burns down. A house that sinks in their pupils, pupils with the

most jubilant pulses of love‟s eternity.



„When a painting has the same outlines of a dream and the same horizons worn

by the souls, it is a work of art in which you can undoubtedly celebrate life,‟

that‟s how I‟d call the epilogue with which this story ends:

It‟s been said that a little boy and his mother showed up near a riverbank next to

a painting that depicted them both. It‟s been said they were both lit by a star, the

kind of star that tends to rise above the invisible water where all of life‟s

uncertainties tend to incessantly float.

That painting they were carrying was, by the way, like a poem, holding

everything there is to be known about the soul, as it possesses some peculiar

unperceived nuances which speak of improbable subjects and absolute

reflexions; it could easily grant all access to the most restricted area of

remembrance. A painting which seems to lack any colour limitations and in

which the kind of breeze that agitates the flowers to make them flirty seems to

lustfully float and all the stars in the sky seem to be knotted or tied.

From the beyond, whatever that is, Luis and Hanna, or Andreu and Susana,

infatuated with loving gestures from the skies and the true beauty of infinite

emotions, will be like two angels, always reminding their son, in this world, that


he‟ll never have just his dreams, because when you have dreams you also have



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