do not believe in my novel, that's the truth. I say no hint of victimization, masochism or vile hope that the audience care to make me think otherwise. I say this because I think, really think about it, but the express wish of two good friends of mine, blog publish the chapter in which the player becomes part of the now defunct literary workshop hosted not too long ago that the great University of Deusto in Bilbao. There you go read it for himself. Is that I always try to fulfill my word ...
When school ended and it was time to leave Santa Clara to go with Henry there, did not fit into joy, I was blissfully guilty, as if it was not good enough to deserve such a privilege. The Raven I waited in the classroom door (again, he picked up his junk before me) staring at his shoes, and when I got to him, as if about to climb in wagon of darkness, he asked, arching an eyebrow
- Are you ready?
I can not describe the tingling sensation caused me to walk beside Henry on a Thursday (a Thursday with Henry!), Heading to the University of Deusto. He would be hoping that I will ask for the workshop, which will show some nervousness, doubt, before my imminent entry into that group, according to the brochure that Silvia had given me, was to "awaken the wealth that is carried inside through the pen. "
But I was not afraid, if Henry could be there, me too.
- You know how the thing will go? - Finally Henry had to be the question posed to me because my mouth was sealed.
- For what I sense, more or less. Talk about books and authors, right?
- Claro, Ana, that's obvious, when she addressed me by my name was that he wanted to emphasize something or because I scolded with almost paternal instinct, which made him seem very funny. But surely you do not know that today we will talk about Truman Capote.
This was too much, how could I be so lucky?
- Well, one of my favorites - I said as if everything he knew about Capote, which I had read the literature complete, I knew about many authors. I think I will enjoy much of today's meeting ...
impostada And thanks to my arrogance got what I had not even dreamed without me being asked, Henry I was doing a profile of each member of the workshop before reaching University of Deusto, so that when I was there, facing the glorious building, housing its enviable academic and adult lives, I knew better what to expect. University of Deusto
stood under the mountain Artxanda in the neighborhood that gave its name, and was directly opposite the Guggenheim Museum. It was brutal striking contrast between the two structures, University and the museum, each bearer of an architectural style opposite to that of other witnesses both times and two different meanings. The past and future, classicism and modernism more rabid, the imposing sobriety and titanic masterpiece of a genius of universal architecture.
Among those universities with which we passed, who walked with resolute attitude, confident and well armed with lots of notes and folders overflowing, Henry and I could not avoid the note with our green uniforms. How could he have been so careless?, I thought. There should be carried in a separate bag clothing "undercover" to change the school before out. But my companion's attitude was reassuring. Henry seemed so serene, carefree look for those parts as the youngest son of The Munsters, who promptly forgot the inconvenient detail, although some students we look with curiosity, and few people were not exchanged comments with their peers at us.
College was even more fascinating inside than outside. The cold stone cloisters and corridors, ceiling unfathomable, causing a feel of a movie full of intrigue and teachers crazy with abundant gray hair and beards.
The workshop was on the first floor. To access it was necessary to enter a kind of office where there was a couple of young fellows wearing all sorts of cultural and social issues, were part of Gaurgiro called the circle of the university today. The girl, a little more than twenty years, Henry greeted with a smile as we entered the door and looked at me curiously.
- Hello, Henry and company ... You must be Ana, right?
nodded without saying a word. I felt intimidated by all, for being there, being questioned. But let me continue with this attitude. Threw my shoulders back, lift the chin, and decided that from then on would smile and answer with words. Instead, Henry seemed to be at home, even bother to ask the fellow for his exams and maintain a brief but pleasant conversation with her. A conversation "normal." After that, he said goodbye with a broad smile of the girl, and invited me to follow him with a gesture. We crossed a door that led to another hall where a large group of young people discussing international politics gracefully, but with well-structured arguments and respecting the right to speak, like one of those talk shows on current issues that I had long not seen.
Still talking, we were greeted with a wave and followed us with his eyes until we reached the last door. Henry tapped and a friendly female voice from inside asked us to pass. Obeyed. He went first, me behind, as if innocently hide his thin body.
The room was very small square, two of its four walls were hidden behind a huge removable shelves overflowing with boxes, files, books, posters and endless paperwork. The rectangular table was occupied by the center as the school, and had many chairs around it.
There were four people seated, three girls and one boy. All Henry greeted with great sympathy and looked at me expectantly, waiting him or me present myself.
was I who did it, looking at each and every one of these to the face and all the sympathy it was capable. And they did so.
The girl in charge of coordinating the workshop was pure sweetness and kindness. Charlotte was called (it was the first time I heard that name off the books or movies), had a friendly and large hazel eyes, and studied philology. The other girls were Emily and Patricia, law students and History respectively. They also seemed very nice. I could not help asking if they were sisters, rather than the physical resemblance that I found in them (both dressed similarly, had long hair piercing dark eyes almost black), their gestures, mannerisms and way of expression, as had similarities that only siblings or close friends come to share. But it turned out to be nothing more than friends.
The only boy was Jose Luis, a student of Philosophy, at the time was telling everyone that I had read somewhere that his admired Jorge Luis Borges, as he hated the pigeons.
They seemed very few, but I explained that there was still people coming, and that until they were all, would not begin the meeting, only babble, although the workshop had officially begun a while ago.
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