"Curled up against the wall of the bojio - and from the roof of leaves the rain slid fast on the large brims of the straw hat - the guajiro was waiting for him.
"A horse for Matanzas.' said Pietro. Then you remember to add: 'Por favor.'"
"'Si senor. A horse for Matanzas' said the guajiro."
I pulled the paper out of the typewriter. Reread. Yes, it seemed like a good story. Now I had to try to forget it and then be able to judge with detachment.
I suddenly felt tired. I had suffered a lot in writing A Horse for Matanzas. I had even found myself crying, even before I knew its end.
Two days stuck at the desk. I had to move. I opened a drawer to put the story away. In the drawer was Mary's last letter, written from the Stanley Hotel in Nairobi.
"Dearest Adriana, how can I say to you how very much, VERY VERY VERY much your letter means to me?" How can I tell how much your letter means to me? and so on and so on, how dear and affectionate she was in thanking me for what I had written to her after I had thought her dead.
Mary, petite and snappy, short blond hair, who squinted her blue ferret eyes when she laughed. Mary, understanding to the point, as Papa told me in one of his...
No comments:
Post a Comment