It hasn't rained yet. It's only been a bit. I would have liked a good, long, persistent downpour that would have saved me from watering for a couple of days. After about half an hour, there was a glimpse of sunshine. Then, the sky became gray again. A strange stillness settled in the afternoon. It will soon be dark, and today it will be earlier because it's overcast. I turn on a light and try to write these things. What will happen, I think, is that it will cool down. The sticky heat of these past few nights may fade and be permeated by a bit of fresh air. We'll see. Josep Maria Joan, whom I knew as a child in Figueres, has died. He owned a dry cleaner's shop. He never wanted to be a dyer. He trained as a quantity surveyor. But what he did was accumulate toys. So many that he could have built a museum, which is now a landmark. More than once I wondered what toy he had that might interest him. But he didn't have one. I've never been much interested in toys. Then, over the years, I saw him a few times. Then never again. And now he's dead. He was about my age.
Xavier Torra has also died. He was older than me. At least ten years older. He was a countertenor at a time when countertenors weren't yet fashionable. He had been an altar boy at Montserrat, where he received excellent musical training. He sang very well. Every year, around Christmas, he sang the Song of the Sibyl at Santa Maria del Mar. I never went to hear him, and I'm sorry. He always told me this. But I was never in Barcelona at Christmas. I had met him in Vidosa, at the top of Balmes Street. Vidosa was an important store in my youth. They sold household appliances, but above all records and stereos. Xavier Torra was the man who knew about these things and gave you advice. Whenever I went, we talked. Especially about music. And now he's dead. I haven't seen him for ages, as they say. Vidosa no longer exists. Two dead in just a few days at the beginning of this turbulent July, a time when the wars in Ukraine and Gaza continue. In Spain, the two hegemonic parties continue to wage war. How will all this end? Putin doesn't want to give in. Ukraine is Russia, great Russia, and he wants to govern it all again. Trump wants the war to end, he says, so he can claim the medal of peace and, I suppose, so he can make a huge amount of money from reconstruction. Meanwhile, Netanyahu continues his killing spree in Gaza. He wants to exterminate the Palestinians. He wants the entire Gaza Strip to be Israel. The Palestinians want their own state. Netanyahu doesn't want to hear about it. I believe the conflict has no solution.
The deep roots of this story come from Abraham, as you know, as everyone should know. Or rather, they come from Yahweh's strange sense of humor. If you read the Bible, you'll see that Abraham was getting old, and his wife Sarah was already as old as he was. And they had no heirs. Abraham was rich. One day, Sarah said to her husband, "Why don't you go to bed with Hagar, the slave, and bear her a child? That way you'll have the heir you so desire." And Abraham did. I suppose the slave was young and attractive, but that's beside the point. The child was born and they named him Ishmael. But—and here comes Yahweh's humor—Sarah became pregnant. And she bore a son, whom they named Isaac. Yes, it's the one about to be sacrificed. Yahweh asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. And Abraham was about to do it, but an angel stopped his hand as he was about to slaughter the boy. A wrapped lamb took his place. Abraham returned home with the boy. Ishmael, the son of the slave woman, and Isaac, Sarah's son, were growing up, and one day, when Sarah saw the two boys playing together, she went to find her husband and said, "I don't want the slave woman's son to have the same rights as my son. I don't want them to have to share the inheritance." The next morning, Abraham called the slave woman and her son, gave them bread and water, and sent them on their way. I suppose Sarah was very pleased. Well, the Palestinians are the descendants of the slave woman's son. The Jews, of Sarah's son. Resentment and hatred incubated over the centuries. Clearly, this has no solution.
Now it thunders, on this turbulent July night. And it begins to rain. It is thunder that rumble in the cloudy night sky. It is not drones. For the moment, the houses are not collapsing. No deaths.
