It’s Monday morning and I can see from afar that the Joan Miró Library is closed. The blind covers the entrance like a black cloak. The backpack with the computer and the books weighs heavily on my back. I’m getting closer. There’s someone at the door. A man with white hair and a long beard. He has a bag in his hand. I know it. We both look at the sign with the timetables. Too bad, girl, he says. I better go home And then he says goodbye and sits down on one of the benches in the park surrounding the library. Take something out of the bag and eat it. I go to the coffee shop across the street. I’ve been there for a few hours but I can’t concentrate. I think of this man. I must have seen it before. I take another walk in the park and now discover him lying under one of the roofs of the building, in one of the corners where he is setting up his shelter with other people from the street.
A few months ago, in an interview with the Ecuadorian writer Natalia García Freire, we talked about how her first book, Nuestra piel muerta, came about. He mentioned the master’s degree he obtained in Madrid, where he lived for two years, but above all he highlighted the public libraries. He said they were a darling not in his country. That they ask for a book and let them look for it and borrow it for a month, two months, three.
I emigrated with few books. About twenty. Much less than I would have liked. Once in Barcelona, I rented a room that had no light. Neither bed. No privacy. I spent my days in bars, parks, but mainly in libraries. Following García Freire’s advice, the first thing I did was to find the nearest public library and become a member.
Every morning I waited at the door and watched the librarian walk past, then went in first while the light was still on. He knew the routine schedules well. I figured they could hire me to repeat the dance step. In the mornings they taught Catalan or technical classes. The younger ones studied upstairs, with more privacy. On the ground floor those who, like me, prefer to have the sun on their face. And they don’t mind sharing the study table. The funniest thing: the music started at noon. Almost always a record by Fito Páez. The volume gradually increased until at half past twelve it was almost impossible to read or write and we had to get out. Then he would have lunch at the bar on the corner and come back two hours later. I repeated the routine for a month. And the faces began to become familiar.
One morning a man asked to sit next to me. I picked up my bag from the chair and said yes. And he sat down. After a while I started to feel something strange. An intense smell. Strong, like saved. I looked at him again and then realized: pants full of dirt, jacket with holes; dry and gray hair. And a plastic bag that was on the table right next to the newspaper he was reading. I haven’t read one, I’ve read three at once. From start to finish, not a single page was skipped. As if it were a book.
Over time I was able to find a better place to live. I have a desk. One board. A small library. Nevertheless, he kept thinking about this man. I tossed and turned with the thought of finding him again. Sometimes I would go back to the library to look for books, but I preferred to read them at home. I was tired of wandering the streets for so many days: I preferred the shelter of a home. Until one day I decided to go back.
It’s December and I’m going to the librarian. I’m asking if you have a record of how many street people come to the library. He says no. There are many, but most are unregistered. She knows at least three men who come to read every day. describes her. I know every one of them. I interrupt them: And what are they reading? I do not know. They reach out and grab whatever is at hand on the shelves.
I’m sitting at a table and I’m determined to write this column. I think: I hope he comes. A place is not a sanctuary unless there is some permanence. An hour passes. Two hours. I focus on the page. Sorry someone says, and it is him. He sits at the table to read. He carries three newspapers in his hands. I’m thinking about talking to him, but I don’t want to dwell on it. His beard is even longer. A warm sweater under the jacket. Read the newspapers in order from the first to the last page. Things don’t change. Or when. At one point he stops and puts the newspapers back, then pauses over one of the bookshelves. Above that is narrative, poetry and theatre. Arms behind his back, hands clasped behind his back, he walks up the rows. He stops and watches. Choose a. return poems. read long. When it’s time to leave, she returns the book, packs her bag, and walks out. Hello, girl, he says. I hope to see you soon.
Belen Lopez Peiro she is an author. His latest book is Where I Don’t Stand (Lumen).
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