En San José de las Arenas el sol quemaba sin piedad y el viento era un habitante permanente, se la pasaba corriendo por las calles y por encima de los techos de las casas, los sacudía como tratando de arrancarlos, por eso los amarraban por encima y por debajo con varas de guafa.

La gente se refugiaba en sus casas o en la sombra de los árboles a esperar que el día le entregara el turno a la noche. aquel pueblo tenía una plaza donde un hombre valiente desafiaba el calor sofocante y al viento rugiendo entre las calles polvorientas, llevando el olor tentador de los churros recién hechos.

Le decían Don Pedro, el churrero, era un hombre alto y flaco, tenía una barba blanca y larga que se la amarraba con coletas y unos ojos azules que contrastaban con su piel morena, siempre salía en las mañanas con un carrito de metal donde cargaba todo lo que necesitaba para hacer sus churros.

—¡Churros! ¡Churros calientes para deleitar los dientes! — Así decía al paso y todos sabían que allí iba Don Pedro.

Él conocía a todos los habitantes del pueblo y ellos lo conocían a él. aprendió ese oficio desde muy pequeño con su abuela y su mamá que ya no estaban. Su abuela, le dejó otro secreto que él no compartía con nadie y era con la sopa de costilla, su abuela le transmitió aquel secreto, pero su origen se lo llevó a la tumba.

Don Pedro podía ver el futuro en la sopa de costillas, el día que su abuela murió, había visto como un largo cortejo llevaba un ataúd, su madre iba adelante, pero no vio a su abuela en el caldo humeante, también miró como una tormenta de arena los arrastró a todos, él salió corriendo para avisar lo que podía ocurrir, pero solo vio el sol ronroneando como un gato mientras calentaba la arena.

Cuando se despertó vio como la tormenta casi había desaparecido el pueblo. Llamó a su abuela y a su mamá, pero no obtuvo respuestas y él, así como a muchos de sus habitantes, les había disminuido la familia.

Ya casi nadie se acuerda de aquella tragedia, pero Don Pedro sigue mirando en la sopa de costillas cada semana para ver si va a ocurrir algo importante y así poder alertar a todos.

Cuando se casó, consultó para saber si sería feliz con su esposa y sí iban a tener muchos hijos. Quería saber si ambos iban a llegar hasta el final viejitos y disfrutando de los hijos y los nietos.

El humo caliente le dejó un vacío que no supo interpretar, no dijo nada y siguió con su vida normalmente. Pero un día todo cambió. Se levantó con una sensación extraña, sentía una opresión en el pecho y le bajaba un sudor frío por la frente.

Don Pedro intuía que algo malo iba a ocurrir, así que ese fin de semana decidió preparar sopa de costilla para saber cuáles eran los augurios. Don Pedro compró todo lo que necesitaba bien temprano y su esposa, como buena beata, iba a la iglesia, sin falta cada domingo.

El miraba como el caldo iba hirviendo y levantando el aroma con el humo que se esparcía por toda la casa y se paseaba por las calles de manera reconfortante.

—¡Don Pedro está cocinando sopa de costillas! — decía la gente cuando pasaba por los alrededores.

Don Pedro no podía creer lo que veía, aquello lo dejó helado, el ambiente se hizo pesado y una sensación extraña se apoderó de él, como si el viento mismo le estuviera advirtiendo de algo. Quería dejar todo como estaba y salir, pero aquellas volutas le mostraban algo que no quería ver.

Veía a su esposa besándose apasionadamente con otro hombre, observó cómo se retiraban juntos a una habitación del deteriorado del pueblo, riendo y burlándose a sus espaldas.

Don Pedro dejó caer la cuchara, paralizado por aquel acontecimiento. Aquello no tenía perdón, las lágrimas brotaron de sus ojos, pero su enojo y decepción predominaron sobre el dolor. Se limpió el rostro con la mano, sus ojos azules estaban nublados por la ira. Miró de nuevo entre el vapor caliente para ver el rostro de aquel hombre.

Era el sacerdote que venía cada domingo a dar la misa, a dar el responso a las almas que no terminaban de dejar el pueblo hasta no recibir la absolución y así poder partir a los servicios del purgatorio.

Sin pensarlo dos veces, se quitó las chancletas para ponerse los zapatos, sintió que tenían arena, pero no le importó, se puso la chaqueta y el pantalón de los domingos para asistir a los bautizos, peinó sus cabellos y su barba y salió erguido, para presentarse con dignidad. La arena se deslizaba por las lengüetas de sus zapatos, recordándole que el viento siempre había estado presente en su vida.

Cuando escuchó el tañido de las campanadas anunciando el comienzo de la misa ya el viento soplaba con fuerza, levantado la arena y creando nubes espesas que iban oscureciendo el pueblo y creando un ambiente brumoso que impedía ver las callejuelas del pueblo.

Don Pedro vio como el sol se escondía para dejar pasar las nubes de arena. Ya no se veía nada, como si la noche se hubiera adelantado. En ese momento supo que algo malo se avecinaba. Figuras de arena emergieron de la neblina. Siluetas efímeras que parecían bailar al ritmo del viento. Entre ellas vio a su abuela que caminaba detrás de un cortejo fúnebre que llevaba dos ataúdes en silencio. Un escalofrío recorrió su espalda, la sensación de soledad volvió a invadirlo.

La arena era un testigo mudo de sus desgracias, ahora ella se dispersaba por las callejuelas del pueblo llevando consigo sus esperanzas y sueños rotos.
En ese momento Don Pedro supo que se había quedado solo nuevamente.

A storm of feelings

In San José de las Arenas the sun burned mercilessly, and the wind was a permanent inhabitant, running through the streets and over the roofs of the houses, shaking them as if trying to tear them off, that's why they were tied above and below with bamboo.

People took refuge in their houses or in the shade of the trees to wait for the day to give way to the night. That town had a square where a brave man defied the sweltering heat and the wind by roaring through the dusty streets, carrying the tantalizing smell of freshly made churros.

They called him Don Pedro, the churrero, he was a tall, skinny man with a long white beard tied in pigtails and blue eyes that contrasted with his brown skin, he always went out in the mornings with a metal cart where he carried everything he needed to make his churros.

—Churros! Hot churros to delight the teeth! —he would say as he passed by, and everyone knew that Don Pedro was going there.

He knew everyone in the village and they knew him. He learned this trade from a very young age with his grandmother and his mother, who were no longer with him. His grandmother left him another secret that he did not share with anyone and that was with the rib soup, his grandmother passed that secret on to him, but its origin was taken to the grave.

Don Pedro could see the future in the rib soup, the day his grandmother died, he had seen how a long procession, carrying a coffin, his mother was ahead, but he did not see his grandmother in the steaming broth, he also saw how a sandstorm swept them all away, he ran out to warn what could happen, but he only saw the sun purring like a cat as it warmed the sand.

When he woke up, he saw how the storm had almost wiped out the village. He called his grandmother and his mother, but got no answers and he, as well as many of the villagers, had lost their families.

Hardly anyone remembers that tragedy anymore, but Don Pedro still looks in the rib soup every week to see if something important is going to happen, so he can alert everyone.

When he got married, he consulted to see if he would be happy with his wife and if they would have many children. He wanted to know if they were both going to make it to the end, old and enjoying their children and grandchildren.

The hot smoke left him with an emptiness that he did not know how to interpret, he said nothing and went on with his life as normal. But one day everything changed. He woke up with a strange feeling, he felt a tightness in his chest and a cold sweat came down his forehead.

Don Pedro sensed that something bad was going to happen, so that weekend he decided to prepare rib soup to find out what the omens were. Don Pedro bought everything he needed very early in the morning, and his wife, like a good churchgoer, went to church every Sunday without fail.

He watched as the broth boiled, and the aroma rose with the smoke that spread throughout the house and wafted through the streets in a comforting way.

—Don Pedro is cooking rib soup! — people said as they passed by.

Don Pedro couldn't believe his eyes, it chilled him, the atmosphere became heavy, and a strange feeling came over him, as if the wind itself was warning him of something. He wanted to leave everything as it was and leave, but those wisps of wind showed him something he didn't want to see.

He watched his wife kissing passionately with another man, watched them retreat together to a room in the dilapidated village, laughing and mocking behind his back.

Don Pedro dropped the spoon, paralyzed by the event. This was unforgivable, tears welled up in his eyes, but his anger and disappointment predominated over pain. He wiped his face with his hand, his blue eyes clouded with anger. He looked again through the hot steam to see the man's face.

It was the priest who came every Sunday to say mass, to give the response to the souls who did not finish leaving the village until they had received absolution and could then leave for the services in purgatory.

Without thinking twice, he took off his flip-flops to put on his shoes, he felt they had sand in them, but he didn't care, he put on his Sunday jacket and trousers to attend the baptisms. He combed his hair, combed his beard and stood up straight, to present himself with dignity. The sand slid along the tongue of his shoes, reminding him that the wind had always been present in his life.

When he heard the chimes of the bells announcing the beginning of mass, the wind was already blowing strongly, lifting the sand and creating thick clouds that were darkening the village and creating a misty atmosphere that made it impossible to see the narrow streets of the village.

Don Pedro watched as the sun went down to let the clouds of sand pass. He could no longer see anything, as if night had come early. At that moment, he knew that something bad was coming. Sand figures emerged from the mist. Ephemeral silhouettes that seemed to dance to the rhythm of the wind. Among them, he saw his grandmother walking behind a funeral procession carrying two coffins in silence. A shiver ran down his spine, the feeling of loneliness came over him again.

The sand was a mute witness to her misfortunes, now she was scattered through the narrow streets of the village, carrying her broken hopes and dreams with her.
At that moment, Don Pedro knew he was alone again.

_{Imágenes creadas con la inteligencia artificial Dream.ai de Wombo y editads con PhotoScape.
Images created with Wombo's artificial intelligence Dream.ai and edited with PhotoScape.
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)}