The morning dawned cloudy. It seemed that it was going to rain but still rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom to pour cold water which made it is cleared completely. The time had not passed in vain and noted in his bald hair that is reflected in the mirror, passed a hand as if he were recalling those times in which a rich layer of dark and smooth hair covering it. Took his usual cup of coffee with a slice of bread with oil, this Andalusian when it takes it let you a slight spicy aftertaste. Then sat in his large armchair, opposite his favorite picture, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, as every morning, opened his book of dark brown top quite impaired for years, pulled out a white cigarette in the package that was on the table to his right and, after switching on, immersed himself in reading.
He saw through the window of the living room, a large dark cloud had settled on his Street, covering it a long shadow that gave a sinister look, even so, took his black beret, he placed it on the smooth head, put his shirt in white and Navy Blue style stripes sailor, a thick black color and a dark jacket knit scarf; right pants pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, picked one and put it between his lips so that it hung from them as if it were to fall from one moment to another and ignited it before leaving.
When he fell to the portal opened the door, a blast of cold air frosted him bones, kept the cigar between his lips, this time with more force, is well wrapped the scarf around the neck, almost covering the face and was introduced on the go and come from people passing on the street while rubbed his bony and old hands one another to warm.
It was a cold Saturday afternoon, a 25 October 2013, the time fair in which everyone took advantage to reach the Centre of Malaga to take a walk, go to the movies or buy in the shops. Despite the damp cold that froze the bones to press on, bustle that had in the streets had come into heat to passersby who came and went. He introduced in the tide of people as if he had a reserved place, without colliding with anyone nor cutting his step who passed by his side. He followed that endless river to Calle Larios, where diverged in different directions. It continued straight, across main street to the large central square where the most advantage for a drink in the cafe that had for years. The smoky coffees differed from the hands that clung to them vigorously to warm, lively talk of those who were there sitting, some that another street musician playing for them with his accordion known songs that older humming without thinking. It followed up the street leaving the hustle and bustle of the bars, he was introduced in a small alley and there was his favorite site, had not moved since the previous day. He entered and the waiters greeted him with a lively “Good afternoon, Sir” with some familiarity. Since it was memory, every Saturday he was there to take his usual coffee with a glass of anise and more that afternoon’s cold, that glass was going to sit very well to warm.
After his usual coffee, he returned to take to the streets in a fine rain that had decided to begin to fall. He looked towards the sky having to squint when the droplets fell on his face. He returned to take a cigarette, he recessed the hand on it to be able to turn it in the rain, put his beret to the ears, rolled scarf up to above and, with hands in pockets, he was down the street.
He came to his favorite site, the Picasso Museum. That weekend was special, celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Picasso Museum and the thickness of the Picassian October and as expected, there were a large number of people at the gates of the Museum waiting for their pass to enter and see the new temporary exhibitions which had brought. He noted under the visor of his beret, between the rain, how families and especially foreigners, entered through the door in a hurry, perhaps to guard somewhere in the rain or by real interest in painting. He waited his turn in line and when it came to the counter, removed the soaked pad, the girl who had back greeted him with a broad and friendly smile, and without charging he anything, gave him his entry always reserved to him. With a nod, moved away from there to get inside the Museum and start his visit; but he did not stop in any room, followed the long corridor through spectacular pictures and photos without paying them any attention. He climbed a ladder and crossed numerous halls without pausing. He was only allowed to stop once it had come to the top floor, passed long down a wide hallway until he reach the end and stopped at a photo in black and white, framed with black wood protected by a thick glass. Whenever it was before that photographic portrait could not avoid the heart pumped him with strength and breathing increase speed. He saw his reflection in the glass and moved a little so that his face fit with the photo. He opened his eyes wide, as he always did, and out of breath, I watched the man who watched him from the other side; wore the same dark blue and white stripes shirt-style sailor, a bald head and large eyes. It seemed to be before a mirror. With the blood pumping him with force at the temples, watching his own portrait hung on a white wall.