By Cristina Brambrilla
No todo el mundo se levanta una mañana y descubre que su padre no es un químico adicto al trabajo, sino un mago alquimista. Que a sus órdenes trabaja una gárgola gruñona con garras afiladas que no es lo que parece. Que l. a. ciudad a los angeles que se acaba de mudar, Venecia, es en realidad un gigantesco laberinto de agua y niebla donde se esconde l. a. llave más poderosa de l. a. historia de los angeles magia, aquella que desde hace siglos buscan todos los grandes magos del mundo. Con esta emocionante historia Cristina Brambilla logra que nos preguntemos qué hay detrás de lo que vemos y quiénes son realmente aquellos que nos rodean.
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No todo el mundo se levanta una mañana y descubre que su padre no es un químico adicto al trabajo, sino un mago alquimista. Que a sus órdenes trabaja una gárgola gruñona con garras afiladas que no es lo que parece. Que l. a. ciudad a los angeles que se acaba de mudar, Venecia, es en realidad un gigantesco laberinto de agua y niebla donde se esconde l. a. llave más poderosa de los angeles historia de l. a. magia, aquella que desde hace siglos buscan todos los grandes magos del mundo.
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She used to keep her in the back. Once she nearly sent her to the butcher. It’s autumn now and there’s a crispness in the evenings and the swallows are gathered by day and all the sounds are set apart from one another by night. It would be great if you 41 came to America. The places you mention are each wonderful and there are also other things that are wonderful too. I work in a drug rehabilitation centre. It’s very nice here, quiet. Northern California greatly resembles Ireland – the land is green and there are many trees and rivers.
34 ‘I’ll be watching to see if you go to the altar tomorrow,’ his mother admonished him on the Saturday he was drowned, urging him to go to confession. He was laid out in a brown habit. At his funeral a phalanx of liquorice-haired girl-cousins had carried wreaths of purple-carmine roses. Years later, his father, a widower, put a memorial in the Connaught Tribune, where the photograph looked tragically fashionable and the handsomeness savagely unrequited. ’ At night there were the cafés, the one with the lady in the ginger wig, the one by the river, the same repertoire of songs over and over again.
Stashes of Wagner and Beethoven records and glossy magazines in their assigned corner of the room. I had held a woman who gave French lessons that spring. A woman who used to go to mass in a harlequin hat. Why did she talk about abortion so much? She’d been having an affair with another teacher in town. A man who played rugby every Sunday afternoon in the asylum grounds. One Sunday, when she felt he had kept her waiting too long, she went looking for him and saw them showering in their brute, grey place, the rugby players of town.