“Memories, like finger-prints, are slowly erasing”. This is a city that was. It was a long time ago when we came here for the first time. We placed our bones in the then called Hotel Madrid. I remember the first days, lots of people in the street, lots of noise, lots of laughter but, at the end, a terrible feeling of solitude. When the doors of the room were closed and we faced our ghosts. Those that were left behind. You never knew what to say, I remember you staring at the cealing in the warm light of the spring, in silence, you made no noise but the one made by lighting those cigarretes. I felt unconfortable with those silences, I allways told you that. But now I miss them.
Do you remember that book of the argentinan writter? Do you remember the park where he waits for her every evening? Do you remember that she never turned up? That park is full of statues. I did not recognize any of them but I felt at home surrounded by those people made of stone. Will they stay forever in the same position? When does the stone break? I hope they last at least the time I am in this world, I don´t want to see how they break. If the statues break, How come, we humans, don´t break?
I want the walls of this hotel to be my armour, want to be protected in the loneliness of this hotel. Hotel Madrid. There is no elevator in this hotel. If you want to climb you have to sweat. That is the rule I was told at the reception desk. There is also a door, a green wooden door, that I was told never to cross. And I swear that now that is the only thing I want to do now. I want to know the secret that lies at the other side. I accepted when I came here. The hotel is very cheap, but they told me that if I cross that door I would not have enough to pay the price.
– “Is is about money?” I asked.
– “No, Its about time.”