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The Mute Narrator

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He lived his life as he pleases, as he always liked: telling people what was happening around them, but he said it sometimes bitterly, sometimes humorously, satirizing characters talking about, or branding their facts, only on some he spoke tenderly. Impressed by his grace, people listened him and soon, no one holding special this habit, every day when the sun is approaching its zenith, people gathered in the Great Square to listen him.

Laughter did not cease until late, alternating with lifting punches with threats of mayors and corrupt politicians, and it began to bother …

One day, a politician went to vegetables market to make a bath crowd, and awoke covered with rotten tomatoes and scrap cucumbers, eggplant and zucchini. People are shouting all sorts of things that they had heard the night before from the Narrator… Since then the ordeal began …

In a large but unkempt building, on one side of the Great Square, right in front of the place where the narrator telling people his stories, a matron (a woman who had passed their prime, but it was still beautiful, with blond hair and skin fallen well hidden under the loose folds of garments) opened an expensive brothel, whose clients were just corrupt politicians, plus the many beneficiaries of their corruption. When the narrator began his number at the end of each day, Matron sat on a rocking chair on the balcony, listening with great interest the story. Soon, fear of the crowd that began to hate and even foals their walls of houses with dog feces, customers no longer came to the brothel, and her employee herd began to fade; knew that soon there will be no search … So she decided to take action!

One evening, when the Narrator returned home, he was waylaid by some gadabouts. He fell under the rain of blows and was totally unconscious when they cut his tongue …

People learned what had happened, but they continued to come every evening in the Great Square at the same time and same place. In her balcony, Matron stood smiling and looking at the crowd who had lost narrator. She expect customers to resume in a few days to attend brothel and prostitute livestock that she gathered, to no more lie off and fade in vain. But, a week after the incident, the Narrator come to the Great Square, accompanied by a smiling, lively eyes child, which led him by the hand. Curious, Matron looked at the Narrator, thinking the way he will tell the stories… What if gadabout paid by her, with the money of the loyal customers, not had the job properly? From this point of view, her fears vanished when he saw that, in front of the crowd, the Narrator began to play a kind of pantomime, and his hands were fast gestures that child’s voice beside him transform them into words, and people waiting blown end of story. It was mute, but it was not silenced! At the end of the story, people roar, wearing him on their arms, together the interpreting child, to his home. The crowd threatens again corrupt and rogue politicians, the mayor and magistrates …

But, in one of the nights, Matron pay killers, they entered the house the Narrator, and snapped his arms in several places, and they killed the child.

Alarmed that, at the right time, he didn’t come to the Great Square, people walked to his house and they they discovered the whole horror. They make for the child funeral pomp due a glorious ruler, and cared the Storyteller as they could better, but his arms remained inert, and his hair and beard completely bleach.

Matron’s brothel began to attend again, but she had retained the habit of going out on the balcony every evening to watch the place and people. Until one night, dry and warm, the narrator came back… Helpless hands hanging beside his body, no sound from his mouth, only his eyes seemed to burn with an unearthly light. The crowd watched him feverishly, as well as Matron, and their eyes meeting. The Narrator no longer peel flame eyes of flesh wrapped in loose robes, and his steps slow, shuffling, wearing it just below the balcony. The crowd understood, and her anger could not stop anything. The riot that followed was savage, it gave vent to all passions, and find the morning sun shine, instead of building where the Matron opened  the most expensive and fancy brothel, an eerie landscape. The walls had turned into a pile of debris, including debris seeing the bodies torn wild herd of those poor prostitutes. Above the pile of debris, distant feet, to fit a yellow, tumorous pumpkin, the largest pumpkins, a body clad in loose fabrics, which, instead of the head, had a ram’s head horns sawed …

From that day, the Narrator never been seen. By no one …

(Translated from aMorale, by Marius Cilibia)

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