Piercing Apprenticeship Birmingham

Saer, Juan José: Sheltered

A furniture dealer had just bought a second hand chair once discovered a hole in the back of their former owners had hidden his diary. For some reason, death, oblivion, hurried flight, however, the paper had been there, and the trader, an expert in furniture construction, had chanced to touch the back to test its strength. That day he stayed until late in the crowded business of beds, chairs, tables and wardrobes, behind the scenes by reading the diary in the light of the lamp, bent over the desk. The newspaper revealed day by day, the emotional problems of the author and Furniture, that was a wise and discreet man, he understood immediately that the woman had lived to hide his true personality and who by chance inconceivable, he knew better than people who had lived with her and that was mentioned in the diary. The Upholstery was thoughtful. For a while, the idea that someone might have in your house, sheltered from the world, something hidden, a journal, or whatever, "it seemed strange, almost impossible, until a few minutes later, at the time he got up and began to tidy up your desk before you leave home, realized, not without amazement, that he had, somewhere, hidden things of the world knew the existence. At home, for example, in the attic, in a tin box hidden from old magazines and clutter the Upholstery had kept a roll of bills, which got bigger from time to time, and whose existence until his wife and children unknown, the Upholstery could not say precisely how an object kept those notes, but it was gradually gaining the unpleasant certainty that his entire life is defined not by their daily activities exercised in the light of day, but by that roll of bills that are eating away in the attic. And all the acts, was fundamental, no doubt, adding occasionally a ticket to roll eaten.
While the sign lit up brighter than violet light filled the black air above the sidewalk, the Upholstery was assaulted by another memory looking for a sharpener in the room of his eldest son, had come across a series of pornographic photographs his son hid in the dresser drawer. The Upholstery had iced to leave quickly in place, less modesty than by the fear that your child will think that he used to rummage through his things. During dinner, Upholstery began to watch his wife for the first time after thirty years came into his head the idea of she also had to keep something hidden, something peculiar and so deeply sunk that although she herself wanted, even torture could make him confess. The Upholstery felt a kind of vertigo. It was banal fear to be betrayed or cheated that made him the head spinning like a wine that goes, but the certainty that, just when I was in um argument against the elderly, would perhaps be required to change the most fundamental notions that were his life. Or what he called his life because his life, his real life, according to new insight, passed somewhere in the black, sheltered from the events, and seemed more elusive than the outskirts of the universe.

Juan José Saer