Translated by Francisco Goldman
José Borgini decided to arrive before the others. And he also decided to come by boat instead of by car or plane. He took advantage of the voyage to scribble some notes in his black leather notebook for the text he would be working on during his stay in M., and which he would read before an audience in just a few days, as an invited guest to the New New Writers Congress (NNWC).
Disembarking in the lonely industrial outskirts of M., Borgini remembered the arrival of his Italian ancestors, armed with the Parmigiano cheese upon which they would erect their immigrant future, to this same port that today wasn't a shadow of its past, which—because of his youth, or his nostalgia for a longing aunt's fastidious recounting of that past—appeared to have been glorious, even if it never was. Beneath the purple dawn mist, in the muddy and blackly glittering water, rusting ships that hadn't sailed in months or years floated listlessly. The windows of the buildings remained shut, and the streets were mute, except for the hissing of the wind. The sun wouldn't rise for another hour, and Borgini set out walking down M.'s only avenue.
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