Presentation of “La Cuesta de Moyano”

Tales from the streets of Madrid - Part I*

The small white Seat parks in front of my stand. Right behind the driver’s door there is a round sticker from the NASA, towards the rear a gigantic dent. Out comes Patxi, a tall and almost bald, middle-aged guy, wearing shirt and a thin black tie with a small tight knot. With a few energetic steps he approaches my board loaded with second hand books, greeting me with his usual broad smile. While his hands and eyes are actively searching, I receive a kind of verbal raid, a heavy monologue built like practically one long sentence without full stops.
“No no, this Pope is definitely not ordained by God; Lefebvre is right, yes he is; the Second Vatican Council eliminated the spirit of the Church; terrible, terrible and look around, nobody is aware of it. But thanks to the providence I have found the place, here in Madrid, where Mass is still celebrated in Latin.”
After entering in more symptoms for the decadence of the Roman Catholic Church, Patxi wish to pay the three books he has chosen; he is bargaining a bit, but only for the game, it is obvious that today he has money and comes to have the mayor kick of most bibliophiles; the activity superior to reading: buying books.

My client continues screening our present offer, while the Spanish word stream with the characteristic singing Basque accent continues: “...no more honor and dignity in the army, well not even in the Legion any more. I offered my services but they did not take me because I only obey orders in line with my own principles. Yes, yes my friend, I am a man of firm values. Nowadays soldiers are only mercenaries without principles... so in these conditions I can not be a soldier, but I am life-guard.” Quickly he shows me the card documenting it. Whether it is in the local swimming pool or in some more exotic sense, I did not catch it because the “life-guard” subject was immediately swallowed by the following one.

Again he wants me to charge him the 10-15 euros for the next few books, and the show goes on: “Two meteors will come, two; destroying this sick civilization; we will return to the Stone Age, the only knowledge remaining is the one in the printed books. I am choosing selected books that contain the secret knowledge, then I will leave my personal library in a bunker; this will be my legacy to those dark ages to come...”

We are at “La Cuesta de Moyano” in Madrid, the biggest year-round daily market of second hand books in Europe; the summer like weather is typical for September in the Spanish capital. It is eleven thirty in the morning on a normal Wednesday.

Working on the street, expose you to a broad range of different characters both from the city itself, and in the case of Metropolises from all over the world. This is true independently of your occupation, but in high degree if you are selling something on exactly the same site every day of the year, and the panorama gets even heavier when the products sold are second hand books.

In spite of his suspicious opinions and the fact of being so open with them, Patxi is a nice fellow; I would say he is only slightly more nuts than the average. He is always extremely polite, never stays too long, and he even buys books from time. But still, I never gave him my personal mobile number when he repeatedly was asking for it, and it is very little probable that I will read a book inspired by his recommendations.

Only by varying the few parameters regarded in my last paragraph, we get a bunch of different characters, and as you, my dear reader, probably already has guessed, you will have rich occasion to meat them all in the chapters that will follow in the Tales from the streets of Madrid.

To respect the personal space, I have changed all the names, except the name of the King and of the Heroes. For me a King is not necessary one with a crown, and his power might be fairly limited, but he posses a doubtless authority; respected or hated but everybody knowing him are aware of the weight of his actions.
A King is a public character; no need to hide his name.

Finally, regarding the identity of a Hero: It might not be obvious for everyone knowing him**, but his authority is transcendental. When the time comes, I would like to discuss in more details what these words signify for me.

footnotes:
* All the Tales from the streets of Madrid are dedicated to JM, close friend of mine.
The tales have been maturing in my mind for almost six years by now, but it is mainly thanks to him that I finally begun to write them down.

** Most Indo-European languages require specification of the gender when using pronouns in third person singular . Every time I write "he" I mean “he/she”, and the reason is not to be politically correct: Several of the few heroes I have met personally in my life were women. I refuse to write "he/she" because of the clumsy visual aspect.