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Buscar dentro del documento. Monik Val. La Gaceta. I went through the corridor until I faced the half closed oak door, I turned around the corner that led to the kitchen when I heard something in the dining room or the library.
The sound came, imprecise and quiet, like a knocking over of a chair onto the rug or a muffled whisper of conversation. I heard it also, at the same time or a second later, at the end of the corridor that led from that part to the door.
I threw myself against the door before it was too late, I closed it suddenly leaning my body into it; fortunately the key was placed on our side and moreover I moved the huge bolt into place for more security. I brewed the mate very carefully, but she took a while to start her work again. I remember that she knit a gray vest; I really liked that vest. The first few days seemed distressing to us because both of us had left many things in the other part of the house that we wanted.
My books of French literature, for example, were all in the library. Irene missed some table covers, a pair of slippers that kept her warm so much in the winter. I missed my juniper pipe and I believe Irene thought about a bottle of medicinal tonic that she had had for years. Often but this only happened the first few days we would close some dresser drawer and we would look at each other with sadness.
And it was one more than anything that we had lost the other side of the house. But also we had advantages. The cleaning was simplified so much so that we got up much later, at for example, and by 11 we were with nothing to do. Irene became accustomed to being with me in the kitchen and helping me prepare lunch. We thought about it well, and she decided this: while I prepared lunch, Irene would cook dishes to eat cold at night.
We were happy because it is always bothersome to have to leave the bedrooms at sunset and start to cook. Irene was content because it left her more time to knit. Sometimes Irene would say:. We were well, and little by little we began to not think. One can live without thinking.
When Irene talked in her sleep I was immediately unable to sleep. I could never get used to this voice of a statue or parrot, a voice that came from dreams and not the throat. Irene said that my dreams contained large brusque movements that sometimes made the blanket fall off. Our bedrooms had the living room in the between them, but at night one could hear any thing in the house.
We heard each other breath, cough, we foresaw the gesture that leads to the bedside lamp switch key, the mutual and frequent insomnia. Apart from this all was quiet in the house. During the day were the domestic noises, the metalic clicking of the knitting needles, the creaking of the turning pages of the stamp album. The oak door, I believe has been said, was solid. In the kitchen and the bathroom, that touched the taken part, we would talk very loudly or Irene sang cradle songs.
In a kitchen there is too much noise from dishes and glasses that other sounds are broken and unheard. Very few times we allowed silence there, but when we would return to our rooms and the living room, then the house became quiet and dimly lit, we would even step quietly so as not to bother each other.
I think that was why at night, when Irene began to sleep talk, I was immediately unable to sleep. It is almost to repeat the same thing except for the consequences.
One night I am thirsty, and before going to bed I told Irene to go to the kitchen and get me a glass of water. From the door of the bedroom she knit I heard a noise in the kitchen; maybe in the kitchen or maybe in the bathroom because the bend of the corridor muffled the sound.
Irene was called to attention by my sudden stop, and she came to my side without a saying a word. We remained, listening to the sounds, noting clearly that they were from this side of the oak door, in the kitchen and the bathroom, or in the same corridor where the bend began almost at our side.
We did not even look at each other.
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