Portico of Galician Literature

The sun reflected itself too, as if it were not enough to lash from up above and wanted to make use of the ocean to confuse him. Oh dear! Was it possible that she and he as well… he meant… that both of them… at the same time…? He allowed his eyes to run back once more along the path up to the dunes and stealthily raised his collar so that he could look more directly. Let’s see, he ruminated: a woman at the wheel of a car, most likely a sports car, somewhere around twenty or thirty years old, although before being suggested by that machine of which hardly a bit of chassis can be discerned, the dates are given by that face with big, painted lips, emerging out of an evanescent combination of shawl, scarf, and hat. No, there was no mistaking it. She and he, both of them, had in their hands a book which displayed a cover with the same illustration, ultimately the extremely well-known Tamara in the Green Bugatti, by the no less well-known Tamara de Lempicka. The coincidence would already have been enough in itself to start up a fascinating reflection about chance and even fate, were it not for the fact that the book, effectively the same, was for him not the more or less fortunate selection for an afternoon read, but an object upon which relapsed (in equal parts) enormous quantities of vanity and fatigue. It was his most recent novel, which had just come hot out of the oven as they say, and because of that little impulse to not detach himself from it during its first days of life (a compulsion which he repeated tirelessly volume after volume, without the possibility of knowing if that yielded any type of benefit in the slightest), there he was in the midst of his first reading with a number-two pencil searching for the errors which the printers had overlooked.

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