I never imagined it would be so hard for me to write this article, even though I could imagine it published, with letters, periods, and commas, at the very moment I concluded a memorable visit.
But it seems, one thing is the way and scope dictated by desire and another is the way talent transcribes it, and when the former is abundant and the latter scarce, things can get complicated.
And that's what happened, because I intended to tell everything, mixing what was absorbed by the senses, which emotion had transformed into more than five.
I understood - ignorance is daring - that I could do it, but no, I stumbled, once, twice, three times, modifying, discarding, starting again until I realized that, if I intended to reach a point that deserved to be considered the beginning, I would have to start at the end.
And in the end, you can see a group devoted to emotion, admiring a beautiful library, with shelves full of read books, cataloged and ordered by their author and the people who succeeded him.
There we were, six people, around a young woman named Maite, who accompanied us on the visit to a house that held us captive from the very moment we crossed the wide, generous door that allowed us access.
She is the one who explains: "We have concluded the visit, and before saying goodbye, I would like to do so with a reflection by the Portuguese writer Almeida Garret, which appears in his book "Viagens na Minha Terra".
We found it on the first page of the book "Levantado del suelo" by José Saramago, which narrates the poverty, living conditions, and struggles of peasants in Portugal."
When she concluded her speech, Maite offered the volume, open, to anyone willing to read it.
"And I ask political economists, moralists, if they have calculated the number of individuals it is necessary to condemn to misery, to disproportionate work, to demoralization, to childhood, to crapulous ignorance, to invincible disgrace, to absolute penury, to produce a rich man."
Our guide's participation deserved gratitude, and she received it in the form of heartfelt applause and some teary eyes, which certified the end of the tour through all the rooms of a home that holds the best adjectives: "A Casa" by José Saramago.
Don José lived there the last years of his life, and there we arrived, with the sadness of knowing him absent. In other times, being the Nobel Prize winner and myself a perfect stranger, he granted us an unforgettable interview.
That time I needed to ring the bell, this time it was not necessary, an attentive person gave us a device that with each pulse would give us descriptions, anecdotes, stories, thanks to a precious script, inspired by the person who knew each room, each corner, each work of art: Pilar del Río.
We shared moments with hosts and guests, with diners and visitors, with the soul and things of the poet, with what he felt, the way he lived, his rests, his worries, all treated as what it was, something unique.
As we advanced towards the books, crossing a garden with olive trees and pomegranate trees and palm trees, we continued in the same inhabited spaces, because after the recordings Maite incorporated details, about Don José, his opinions, suggestions, criticisms, warnings.
White walls on one side, lava and nature on the other, art and much life, because "A casa", the only property that the writer treasured, continues to beat thanks to family members.
They are the ones who make the museum possible, that everything remains suitable to be enjoyed, so that it seems what it is, what it was, without noticing the effort required by what should continue to be: kitchen, dining room, bedroom, desk, computer, gardens, environment where a human being out of the ordinary created a work out of the ordinary, surrounded by people who were not common either.
The work of José Saramago is in the libraries of the world, translated into many languages of the world and anyone interested can access the intimacies of his house, because its managers have opened it to official guides, giving away photos and sayings, in encyclopedias and the Internet, and you can visit it, practically, in exchange for nothing, not even a simple thank you.
A Casa, we finally arrived, is in Tías, Lanzarote, and stands on La Tegala street, a short road that is interrupted shortly after starting, and which is reached through "Los Topes", a road that runs with a surprising design, the same that nature imposes when the villages try to domesticate it. Curves and counter-curves, which conclude in a roundabout, which the municipal authorities have baptized - I do not want to think that only on the maps - as the José Saramago roundabout.
In the center of that transited accident someone planted a precious olive tree of wrought iron, with trunk and branches made of initials, which symbolize names of loved people and those of the author himself.
It has no roots, it is supported on a white concrete support, with resounding words that bear the signature of José Saramago himself: "Lanzarote is not my land, but it is my land"
I thought that decades later I would not find the generous man who gave me two hours of his life and made me feel like a fortunate interviewer. I approached again, with sadness for his absence, without knowing that he is as alive as ever. Pilar del Río, María del Río, Erika, Leti, Maite, and I forget someone, continue to be dedicated to demonstrating it, you can feel their presence!
And having said that, not everything is said. I promise a new installment to tell the "efforts" of the politicians of Lanzarote to promote culture, I do not want to mix them today with good people.
