DANIEL MOYANO
421
be alive and that I am thankful for having been able to live in this
form and in this world .
That night I had wanted to go rapidly over the events of your
childhood to bring to light other, more recent and painful events and
master them as quickly as possible, but my glance into time lingered
too long and I had to consider others, as if the comet itself had il–
luminated them.
If
I had not remembered the comet, perhaps those
other tangential events would have remained in forgetfulness . And
seeking some blame, some act which had hurt my son, I remem–
bered that twenty-fifth of May, the parade in which my son was
standard-bearer and suffered because I didn't want to go see him in
the parade . Your mother and you reproached me severely the next
day. I was silent. And all that I kept silent within me, I said to myself
then before the memory of the stern face of the lead drummer's wife,
as if she demanded it of me . I remembered then that before that
twenty-fifth of May there was another. The square was full of people
and soldiers. The military mass had ended and the white rows of
students converged on the flag to render their homage. Your mother
and I tried to locate the place your school would occupy. We were on
the corner by the cathedral. In those years I was afraid of time ; I
mean , I was afraid that time would pass. La Rioja is surrounded by
mountains, it is small and there everybody knows everybody else.
The familiar and identical faces and the near mountains always gave
me the sensation of confinement. I was brought up on the plains,
where one is always free. There, among the mountains and the
repetitive faces, I felt time go by quickly, I felt it hurt us day after
day. I had begun to discover I don't know what horrible adult form
in your young face. The schools had begun the procession and I was
looking at those thousands of faces among which yours would later
appear. Hundreds of faces passed before me, dark, red, white, and
all of them, the order of march from youngest to oldest, indicated
that time had passed and went on passing. When it was your school's
turn, you went by without looking at us . No doubt any least distrac–
tion would break the solemnity of the event. We respected the im–
portance you gave to such things as parades and patriotic emblems.
For us they had no importance but we accepted them because they
had our son's reverence . You were the flag escort. Your mother and
I noticed, besides the solemnity of your action, that your face
seemed tormented . That morning, while you were dressing , you
said something which made us understand you were disgusted
because you'd have liked being the standard-bearer but were only
