The quiet parade
I watched the quiet parade with Gabriel García Márquez yesterday.
It was to start during the ghostly hour of the afternoon, when the people in his village go inside their homes for their siesta. The street was a desert of sighs; we were the only ones awake, sitting in the shade of the almond and chestnut trees surrounding the porch of the house we were at, with its doors and windows left wide open.
I was sitting on the front steps, in my white short dress which allowed for a breeze to skim between my legs, while G sat on a wicker chair in his shirt; his grey-white curly hair wet with sweat and his thick moustache moving to the rhythm of the wrinkles on his face...