My father-in-law and I were on break and suspended from work in the Cagancho Valley, a valley next to the Moradillo de Roa wineries in the Ribera del Duero region: very famous wineries in Aranda de Duero, San Sebastián, and Madrid for the awards that the people have received for having them and beautifying them.
Cagancho is a “wolf chest” because he walks through the cellars bare-chested. He is young and handsome, but has never been seen with a female. It is something fierce, because he has a convulsive rage as if he were a spoiled child.
One day, he got pissed off because of some mattresses that had been put out in the sun. He was fucked by friends from the young people’s cellar that looks towards La Sequera full of COVID-19, sentimental straws and piss, blaming the in-laws because he saw them give of kicking the mattresses, because, as children, they thought that they would kick the virus out of them.
Cagancho confronted them:
“What do you do with the mattresses throwing them into the valley? Why don’t you take them to the clean point?”
“Hey majete, nice,” the in-laws answered in unison, “grab them with your teeth and take them to the clean point. These mattresses belong to the young people who fuck friends in town.”
Also, I added:
“These mattresses will fall in this part at such and such an hour. Segovia falls to the north of Cotarro; Corpus Christi always falls on a Thursday, and today is Thursday.”
Cagancho, who they say is an engineer from the Cagada del Lagarto, lizard shit, didn’t know what to say. He slowed down.
My in-law told him:
“Look, Cagancho, that dog shit looks very bad in that corner. And you do nothing.”
He did not know how to ponder the intensity of our feelings and manifestations, falling the sticks of the shade; him losing the illusion of being able to defeat us in the dialogue, marching to the town square, and seeing us how the wings of his heart fell, and the feathers of his head.
On the outside of the road, with our feet, we took out the mattresses, which we saw fall and stay on a hillside, not greatly harming the view of the town’s church from below, but rather giving it a surreal touch.
“There they go. They stay there,” said my in-law.
Cagancho did not look back. I think he realized that we did not arouse any sympathy. We saw his back roasted and pulverized in the sun like the seed of the coffee tree.
“Ale, come on,” my in-law told me. “To weed chives! Or to see if Uncle Julio’s almond trees bear fruit.”
Some cagaceites, certain birds similar to the thrush, flew over our heads going to the walls of the cemetery next to the church to look for the chicken crap, a flower of a kind of curujey.
I told my in-law:
“Wait for me here. I’m going to give free rein to my shitty gut.”
Between shit and mushrooms, I released my excrement in the style of a shithead, state or municipal office worker, in a bend next to the cemetery wall that looks towards the town of Aza.
Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, painter and photographer. He’s a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of the Blake Society, and others. Daniel is the director of Gallo Tricolor Review and Robespierre Review. He participated in many festivals of poetry and theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover, and Genève.
