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Camilo Jose 2nd Look For the Wolf Seafarers

Camilo Jose 2nd long does a wanderer’s soul last before turning into something else? It is not known. Sometimes it lasts as long as the expeditions of the ships that, centuries ago, went in search of new continents sniffing through the waters of the Pacific Ocean as long as the life of the seafarers lasted.

Other times the vagabond hangs up his beret, shaves, puts away his cane and closes his eyes while his ideas are composed in a different way. But, even with a beard and hat and gloves, he remains the same as always because the light that illuminated the rocks still burns in his eyes.

The light of the gaze is everything: support for the difficult path, keen pulse when writing down what happens, memory of the names of places and people, an example of what a book to be serve as a testimony. There is a tramp underneath any of the garments until the look fades.

Over the years, the beard, the beret and the crook of man – no longer so young, nor so lonely – disappear. Some of the trips from before would be made again one last time in life but on board, now, a car, a ‘rolls royce’ driven by a tall, beautiful black driver whom the former tramp baptizes as Oteliña for obvious reasons.

The homeless man was never very into driving but he did have dazzling cars. A ‘jaguar’, a ‘morgan’, a ‘rolls royce’, something that is not within the reach of any traveler. In such a car, he hampers the equipment necessary to walk along the Areu fork and, consequently, remains on the ground. But is that all? Can we consider the signs of the tramp already liquidated and go through the chapter.

What happens to the penetrating eyes, to the flash capable of understanding in a single blow the soul of the little dog that barks at the homeless man as he enters a remote hamlet on the edge of the Wolverine in Camilo Jose 2nd book.

Now it is no longer possible to say; the eyes are gone forever. What happened to that traveler who knew how to pick up a Spain in a state of bankruptcy must be taken from other sources: from photographs, from books. From the letters.

In the Val d’Aran the vagabond lost his friend Don Felipe , an artilleryman by trade, and he was shouting for him until he became hoarse as he crowned the port of Bonaigua. The tramp’s friend also wore a beret and a crook; it is known that either the terrain demands it or the hobbies give it.

Let us try to shout for the vagabond in front of Aneto, in the Garona de Ruda alfajía, before the Lying Woman, in Jauja or Jajua, in the Devil’s Window. The same appears again, beret, beard, cane and penetrating gaze. We can also look into his eyes to convince ourselves that we have not dreamed, that he existed once and, therefore, will exist forever, that his books are as they are because he was as he was and no one will ever be able to kidnap his memory. then.

Literature treatises say that the first travel book that the vagabond wrote spoke of the roads of the Alcarria, from Guadalajara to Zorita; but maybe they are wrong. Three years before that happened the budding tramp published a sheaf of stories dedicated to the clouds that pass over the city, haughty at times, he says, gray and taciturn.

On the cover of the book a schooner, or a graceful frigate, or perhaps a barque – let’s leave it at that – is leaving the port with all the sails in the air. The tiles of the houses say goodbye in silence, which is the only dignified way there is to say goodbye to a sailing ship when it moorings.

Thus begins a journey, or perhaps continues a journey that was to end 57 years later in the same city, during a dark winter, eaten by mists, in which the taciturn, gray and haughty clouds had to stop. To shed a tear

The barges, after they set sail, disappear. Nobody knows when they will return.

Among his stories about the city’s clouds, the vagabond casts a dedicated one, take a good look at Camila Trulock de Cela , who was the name of her mother. It is a story about the girl Catalinita, who played the piano while she waited for the barque ‘La Joven Marcela’ to return to port, and she died of consumption and despair.

Camila Trulock de Cela played the piano but did not want to die waiting for the return of any sailboat, not even a barque with three thick and tall masts. Perhaps that is why he admitted a last surname and had a vagabond son among many others. Of the books of her son the vagabond, Camila Trulock, of Cela at last, especially liked the travel books.

The barque ‘La Joven Marcela’ – says the writer – looks like a cloud that the sea breeze pushed towards the land.

A trip is like any other episode in life; it is, in reality, life itself lined up so that one can carefully watch one’s steps.

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