"Emily había despertado con cierta inesperada
placidez ese día, un buen día de invierno de ese invierno de julio de 1892. Era
jueves y no un jueves cualquiera. Sus amigos franceses festejaban su “toma de la Bastilla”, pero a ella poco
le importaba, pues era británica, nacida en Kent, en 1869. La amplia sala que
era su dormitorio, daba al Río de la Plata, ese mismo río que la arrullaba en esas
noches de insomnio sin té de tilo. El dormitorio sobresalía de la construcción
general de la casona, como una punta de lanza que desafiaba al manso estuario,
como la torre de un castillo perdido en su Inglaterra natal. Una casona en las
barrancas de San Isidro, que su esposo había comprado a una familia de
aristócratas venidos a menos, luego de la grave crisis económica de 1890..."
"Emily had woken up with some unexpected placidity that day, a good winter day, that winter of July of 1892. It was Thursday and not a Thursday either. Her French friends were celebrating their "Prise de la Bastille", but it mattered little, because she was born British in Kent, in 1869. The large hall that was his bedroom, overlooking the Rio de la Plata, was the same river that lulled her, in those sleepless nights without linden tea. The bedroom protruded from the general construction of the house, as a spearhead that defied the meek estuary, like the tower of a lost castle in her native England. A house in the canyons of San Isidro, which her husband had bought from a family of broken aristocrats, after the severe economic crisis of 1890..."
"Emily"
Jorge Vai © 2016
