I have no hidden stories to take to my grave other than a few recipes
My grandmother handled state secrets. From a state of alarm (“You’ll see your mother find out you stained the couch with chocolate”), of a state of mind (“Don’t tell anyone, but he’s dead in his head”) and even of high hopes : “Don’t you know who’s getting married in a penalty shootout?” he whispered to me from his bed one night. I, having just turned six, didn’t understand the meaning of that sentence, but the way he enjoyed every word made me feel the bottom. Pedagogically in spite of herself, my grandmother gave me the first contacts with the things that were forbidden to me. And he entrusted me with that secret and a few more, all greedy and all alien, that he took to his grave himself. Like his age: he never told me. Not even when his skin turned to rice paper.
Ever since then I fantasized about having a secret. A secret that didn’t involve much guilt, not too heavy to bear, not too suffocating either, but discouraging; an armored secret, kept under seven keys, and that would leave my heirs transfixed when it finally came to light after my death. But no, not really: my life is boring, mundane, homey. I have no hidden stories to take to my grave other than a few recipes. Like the title of Enrique Menéndez Pelayo’s autobiography, mine could be called “Memories of someone with whom nothing happened.”
To bring joy to those spies, Macarena, I’d have to invent a life. An imagined, exaggerated, cosmopolitan and absurd life. In case there are any Moors on the coast, I pick up the phone and start saving names in the letter P. Pantoja, Isabel. Pope Francis. Pig, Peppa. Pitt, Brad. President, PS Girl, these Pegasus are going crazy.
Source: La Verdad
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