He could never start the day without his hat. Virsel Vincél was the construction of many things, which in short formed something, but fragmented only sustained the form of a simple human being. He was more than that: he had his old Wyatt that combined with his imposing moustache of ash colour, young and robust at the beginning but light and deteriorated in recent years. To decorate his neck he had a wine-coloured scarf, as used as his years of life, and to support his body he had a cane that was already part of his anatomy, with a silver handle followed by a wooden body, so rustic in comparison, with the base decorated with a design of cracks that slowly blurred the glory and elegance that the piece once had.
You could say that Virsel Vincél was “someone”; and on that day he held only one intention: to visit Santa Margarita de Los Pinos. No one could imagine why he frequented that place so much. One would think that so much death frightens anyone, but not in this case.
It was usual to see him go through the colossal copper fence, with some of his bars absent when being a victim of such crimes as theft, which gave way to these dying lands. Once inside, you could see a layer of thriving grass and the modest chapel made with exposed bricks and decorated only with a medium-large bronze cross, indicating to every person where the house of God was, located at the left of the enclosure. To the right, it was possible to distinguish two vaults, recognizable at a distance by their admirable dimensions and their style similar to Greek architecture, and a maze of tombstones, some a little more elaborate and others only with a plaque that treasured a forgettable name, although eternally present there.
For three years now Virsel visited, with ceremonial spirit, that cemetery; always gravitating in it but never with the security of settling in that place. That day Virsel was suffering from intense loneliness, so to face it he approached the flower shop to get a bouquet that presented an explosion of colours: tulips were friendly bordering the multiple gardenias that followed him, and beyond these two layers, Virsel’s eye was seduced by the orchids, magnolias and roses that seized him with his exquisite smell. All this surrounded a handful of sunflowers, constituting the heart of the flowered hurricane. Faced with such natural beauty, Virsel, with determination, pointed out what he wanted to the young man in charge of the flower shop. Once in his hands, the flowers hugged him with his fresh scent, captivating him. A few minutes passed when a figure, as tall as the lanterns that bordered the entrance to the cemetery, left Virsel covered in shadow. His eyes traced the figure of the stranger: from the lustrous bluchers with the white cañete to the beige check and, finally, a face marked by the sharp bones of his bone structure, with hostile features, although with beautiful symmetry.
– Excuse me, sir, have you finally decided to stay? -Tired of the bony’s subtle pressure, Virsel looked away and tried to redirect the conversation.
-Heavens! And I was afraid not to see you again … Excuse my memory, sir, but what was your name?
-Míkeril Lirkel, gentleman interested in knowing if you are willing to stay.
-I don’t know, this place still doesn’t convince me. I have very bad memories… -Virsel reflected. After a short silence, he continued- I think that one has not suffered in life until he puts foot in this place. The miseries that have brought me! There have been a few times that I have recognized relatives, friends, acquaintances, strangers … and do not talk to me about the debts that I have earned! So much it has worn me out and conquered me.
-There outside is exhausting, the looks are overwhelming. But here there is more silence and, also, there are enough flowers for you to be accompanied for the rest of eternity -Míkeril assured him.
-Do you promise? -asked Virsel, resigned to accepting his destiny. Lirkel nodded, smiling for having succeeded in capturing one more soul. Mr Vincél walked to his family’s vault to join his loved ones. Since then, he never left his grave again.
Author: Daniela Minotti