Love and promises don’t mix/ Anne-Gaëlle Huon
A simple black and white postcard. Above, a sheep, mountains, and the sky. On the back, a few lines in clumsy handwriting. Five words. Five warm, reassuring, luminous words. Five words like an invisible thread stretched across the ocean.
Be brave.
I’ll be back,
Pascual
My heart started pounding. He hadn’t forgotten me! I wanted to scream, to dance, to kiss Colette on the mouth. My room was filled with flowers, cherubs descended from the sky playing the lyre, a rainbow lit up my bed. I had just been bitten by a romantic fly.
To the rhythm of the trumpets
Once the procession approached Santa Maria Chapel, its destination, a crowd blocked the last hundred yards of the official itinerary. The faithful scrambled to postpone the end of the religious parade for fear of their upcoming apprehension—as strong as the unholy withdrawal from a potent drug—which would overtake them as soon as the float carrying the Nazarene crossed the threshold of the main chapel door amidst the cadence of the Spanish national anthem. It would mean the end of that year and the beginning of a drawn-out countdown until the next Holy Week. They were not about to allow it, not yet. Other volunteers replaced the worn-out cargadores underneath the float and, ignoring diocesan regulations, turned it around, swinging and moving it along the road with such grace that the figure of the Nazarene seemed to be walking. They carried it back to meet that of Our Lady. The latter had trailed behind and was before the Royal Prison, about two hundred yards away.
From “The Silver Teacup.”
These events occurred when I was a child. Now the crowds have changed. Some people show devotion and pray. Some admire the extraordinary beauty of their images and the way they are paraded. Many enjoy the processions as a religious festival: smoking, eating, and chatting as the portable altars pass. One expects these reactions in a country no longer Catholic, for the state has no official religion.
