marceline09

[marceline09]

Lorenzo et ses raisons de vivre.

Chapitre 1. Enfance

I lived in Spain with my father, a pure-blooded Spaniard, and my older half-brother, Damian. My father was entirely Spanish, as was Damian. I, however, was born to his second wife, a Frenchwoman, who eventually left him—just like Damian's mother did. So, I'm half Spanish and half French.

I don't remember my father well. I recall him as serious, tall, broad-shouldered, with a cigar in his mouth, and even stern—especially towards Damian. But he had a kind heart, as we all did. Damian was much closer to him, and if you want to know more about our father, I suggest asking Damian—he might have some stories to share. After all, Dad was a former officer...

But the one who truly was both father and mother to me was Damian. He was always my support, my protector, and often spoke on my behalf. I know he saw me writing letters to my mother, whom I had never even seen, but he never touched them, never looked, never mentioned them.

Since childhood, I wrote letters to my mother. Yes, I didn't know who she was and was afraid to ask Dad about her. Who knows, I might have poured salt on an old wound. But I wrote, imagining her in France, sitting by the kitchen window, sipping tea, and with her gentle, trembling hands, opening and reading my letters—the ones I hid under my pillow.

05.06.??.

"Hi Mom! How are you? I hope everything's good with you. I'm doing great! Today was a really good day! Dad wasn't home all day, so Damian took me with him to the city. His friends and I helped him stand beneath Susanna's window (the girl he's in love with) so he could play the guitar and sing to her. But Damian told me not to stand too close because his friends are clumsy and might drop him. In the end, Damian was right—they did drop him. Susanna lives on the second floor, and thankfully, after that, she invited both of us into her home. Her grandmother makes delicious empanadas! Later, we returned home and read Dad's newspapers, each taking turns. That's all, Mom. I'm really sleepy now. Good night, Mom! Love you!"

25.10.??.

"Hi Mom! How are you? I'm feeling a bit down. How to put it... Today, Damian and I were playing ball in the schoolyard, and when Damian threw the ball, it flew straight into our math teacher's window... Such a silly mistake! According to Damian, I turned pale at that moment:

'Who's going to tell Dad?' I asked.

'I will. It was me,' Damian said calmly. 'You're a kind soul, Lorenzo. People might take advantage of that. But I won't. I'm your older brother.'

That evening, Damian told me to go out into the yard while he stayed in the kitchen where Dad was sitting to tell him about the window. I listened to my brother, stood outside in the cool air wearing an oversized gray coat, and saw through the first-floor window how Damian's curly-haired head darted past the glass like a mouse, followed by Dad's slipper slapping against the window. Damian, trying to suppress a smile, ran out, grabbed my hand, and we ran to the yard of our neighbor, old Alejandro. He often let us in, and his daughter, who looked after him, would feed us. But it was evening, and we didn't want to disturb the family, so we decided: 'Let's go to the church.'

It was already dark, the warm yellow streetlights ahead flickered, and it felt like the Lord was guiding us through the gloom. The lamp at the church gate was blinking, as if afraid to go out. We entered quietly, like mice. At that moment, being in the Lord's temple, I felt warmth and true peace in my soul, Mom, as if I already knew what it was like to be in paradise. We sat on a bench in front of the icon of the Virgin Mary, and above us was the icon of Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker. Everything that was sacred—and everything was sacred—shone. On the ceiling of the church, there was a painting of the Almighty Lord with angels around Him and all the saints. I looked up and stared at that ceiling. Damian was silent for a while and then asked:

'Do you think everything will be okay?'

'Why should it be bad?' I asked, turning my head toward him.

...He fell silent again and looked ahead. I thought then that he was probably grown-up. After all, adults always dramatize everything. Even if he still laughs when he sees a slipper flying through the window. There was something serious in him... like in Dad's eyes when he wasn't joking. I quietly rested my head on Damian's shoulder to somehow calm his anxiety. I felt good. I didn't know what to say, and he was silent too. Just breathing beside me. We sat like that for a long time, probably, until our acquaintance—Father Esteban—appeared in the church. He recognized us but said nothing, just smiled, approached the candles, lit one, and prayed in a whisper. I didn't hear the words, but they made me feel even warmer. Mom, we returned home the next morning and went to school. Everything's fine. But now I'm going to sleep. Sweet dreams, Mom. Sleep peacefully."

12.05.??.

"Hi Mom! How are you? Any news? Are you taking care of your health? I am. Today, Damian and I walked around all day! It was such a day that I'm still smiling like a fool! We ran through the streets again, and guess what? He brought pastries. Still hot, fragrant, steam rising from the bag. Shouting, 'I stole them from life!'—he jumped out from around the corner, and of course, I ran after him. We hid in an alley between old houses, where dust always swirls in the air, and cat paw prints mark the walls. Damian always knows where to hide. We squatted, ate the pastries—mine was with potatoes, just how I like it—and laughed. The old baker woman, the one with the gray curl on her forehead, shouted after us but wasn't angry—just pretending, like she was playing with us. Damian says she gives him these pastries herself, just pretends to scold. I think he's right. She looked after him with that gaze... you'd understand, Mom. A kind reproach. Later, we returned home when it was already dark and watched the TV that we forgot to turn off. Damian fell asleep. Good night, Mom. Yours, Lorenzo."