Pleif Mapa

Capítulo 13

(where the events narrated in chapter 10 are explained — it is a cinch, a little lampooned)


In the allotted time, in order to avoid the blazing apocalypse, Tristotelas bade Reeta Li to go to the bottom of the sea, coordinates 24o6E e 24o7S, without any convoy, but in a chartered fast-attack submarine with regenerating bio-skin and casted by four propulsive drives aqua-return. It is said that it was able to burst to a velocity of 140 thousand knots while chasing.But when alighting at the somber zone, instead of following the chiming buzz of the clausineos ( Sesdentinceps Clupeoide), Reeta Li, fumbled andbefuddled, let himself to be bedraggled by the lava of Barbario’s crack, botching everything. Reeta Li, the envoy.It is not known if this was intentional or something of a blunder. He certainly was not airy, having no lack of craft. He was deft, having ingenuity and not being ingenuous. What was he originally commandeered to do?What did the fussy Tristotelas contrive?The theory divulged by the Bust recommended to barge following the fitful signs of the clausineos without digging or dipping in the crack.But probably Tristotelas’ hurry was indeed to arrive briskly — like an anchor, an anvil — to the much burnished flooring which we have actually bared as simply non-existent and barren, without cement, always caving in, checkered towards infinity, craggy inside its own crag, impossible for cross section, dejected, dim, dingy, doleful, an eternal drab drain, a drenching downpour, a perpetual flush, and through the gloom, a gory gorge of grim grime and grimy gravel grin. First a grunt then a guffaw!A gust gushing in all directions. Unfathomable eaves and edges, everywhere unfettered, folded and folded. Anyway, it was not known either that the clausineos were the only species capable of bobbing abreast in the somber zone, through all its broad breadth, never falling in the crack, as if always gliding on their own glistening and glittering glint — the crackwhich they merely chafe with their chilly chests, producing a creak, damping it. Or maybe the Bust kept abreast of the fact, since he blurted out some agreement concerning the use of thefast-attack submarine.He grappled with all kinds of machines, and might have had an inkling. But perhaps he didn’t really heed what was going on.

The images that remained from clausineos show not only the perfection of the whole, but a heap of details still to be clipped: mowed ankles, writhed wrists but no scab, a jumble of antlers, babblings uttered from jowls, badgers eating junket outside the rampart, slanting ballasts wrapped in linen, slapped balloons tied with hoses, loathed ramshackle banners, rash banters from an invisible perch, three tree barks for a lintel, housewives locked and jangling in a barn, cock-eyed baying dogs with horns, keen ravishing beams, the outline of a raving bean, the hue of rioted beetles under a skirt, ogled belfries, limping bidders, reaped windows blinds, clammy blotting papers, boar’ clutches on a roof of a kennel, unmated boatswains standing up in a mat ready for a skittle, the bolts of a stifling lodging, a parcel in a parlor with stiletto bonfires, telephone booths rigged up into a ridge, offal from slackened boroughs, mattresses made with boulders felt from the rim of a sill, swooning on roaring bowling greens, keepsakes of a stockbroker without stockings in a brewery, briars in a meadow, an ousted slammed brig, mellow brogues for a perjury, a trowel and pails and buckets and scuttles over a pew, pared budgets, bugles to pant, bumptious toppled tramps, a papered butler with a torch, pricking the ears to open buttresses, stricken and stray buzzards in a lighthouse, humming or howling cabbages all tossed, a cabin and a cage huddled together, stitched calves strewn with straws, cannons firing kettles, caps with lightning conductors, the stonemason creeping pulmonary carps, nurses nudging inside a cart with a nugget, cases of nursery, caskets at loggerheads but stuck beyond struggle, trampling slipper with chains for trail, a wiped streak of colored chalks sloping down, a hoarse hobbling chaplain — slovenly and slob in manners, chargers plodding over a plaid, sluggish chatters of a tycoon, smitten with clenched cheeks, smutty chilies in a nag’s nose, smothering chokers smoldering, jettisoned chops of venison, sly claps for a knob, crumbled crumpled clerks inside a vessel, the mustiness of all cloaks, clothes lines snare, the whirr of coaches snatching snuff in kilt, sauntering towards a cobbler, inlaid uprooted cobbles, inordinately coiled coils, serrated combs lost deep in a marsh, a wry ploy of compasses, plucking plums with coronets, couches bumping in yew, plush plies over a counter, poachers striding unwittingly on the courtyard, mustered curs plummeting from the unfathomable stars, looted cupboards, three dames of spade on a roost, decks over shoals over shingle, derrick’s stroll, rumble of does, a mantle of drapes in a mantelpiece, drawers filled with marrow and a shrill shriek through a shroud, strumming dragonflies loops, a dump of rusted salvers, a dung inside a hut under a quilt, a leash wiggled in a dungeon, lean earls with whiskers stumbling, hurled shuddering eels to stew, lousy stunning enamel, whispered nimble endearments, estates no squire just a stammering starling, fawns in your lot you quivering, a luncheon of lumps over a fence, the whim of sleek ferns, ferries moping around, welter of impeded fingers slinking away, flagons of wholesome slime, flaws in a maiden maid, flicks molded into fleets, roped flocks, mountainous foolscaps, licked feet, frailly framed fowls, freight cars, freight trains immediately rent, lured frigates, fringes of all sorts but no sliced ribbon, Venus in furs and a hood and furnishings, garlands, garish garments for a riddle, griped garters, gingerly gilded gilt girths, prancing grouses, thread among groves, gull’s gullets, haberdasheries, a hag with a minion, hails to mince in a mill, mending shabby halts, hare hashes, hawks jabbering in hawthorn, scorched haystacks, a scanned haze, one sentry for a secured headdress, hedge heaving through the garden, an idle flower of heather in a scroll, scuffle between hilts and hips, hoists lifting hogs with hooks, humps climbed with hunch, relishing scoured icicles, lost insteps of a thrush, ivy thriving over sleds and sledges and sleighs, a retinue of jaded jackasses, jerkins for jerked jerks, jostled jugs in a tangle, lackeys following a moth, a mound of tawny laps closed in wardrobe, a rocket aimed at a lark, lasses to sheared muses, lawns, and tarnished latches, a squeaking medallion of stag, the mist of a mob, a posse of moles, a posy of muck and lots of tickle, mud following a respite on tiptoe, a muffler in a mug and no muddle, spliced nettle, plight in newsreel, the tint of spongy nooks, sprawled orchards, sheer paltry pallor, pans on a pantry, pecked and then patched paws all to peddle, pickaxes scramble, pikes in a pipe in a pitcher in a pit, rogue but shy porpoises with spout, pouting lips after a prank, puce puckered prunes inside a puddle on a prow, spurring quaint quails, sunken suffused quills, rafters, seedy rags, sulky sullen rakes, reeking reeds, sedate rhapsodies in a rod, a sagged saddle, scaffold and swarm, scalpels, screams from a scourge in a screen, the scurrilous seamstress, shades of sewer, shawls, shrubbery, shuffled sickles, to sip on the sink, sparkling spat, speckled spear, spires to the swollen eye, a sprightly squad of squatted splits, stuff, a surge of surly swallows, tankards, tapers, tethering a thaw, toads and toddlers toiling together, tress, wool, witticism, wasps, lingering liners, and eyebrows to boot . They are all very appealing. They fetched all kinds of prices. It’s not a matter of gullibility . People say that the Bust had bred one of them as a pet, in Rome, at least for a fortnight.This cozy periodblithely remembered by him as one of the most happy in his life, demarked, however, the fall of his popularity:bashed and clouted by foes, cajoled by hypocrites, menaced with derision, dubbed. He was a grudge, nobody hired him. People were bewildered by how the clausineos could cause such mutations in the other species, as in the case of the petit chien transformed in an English stallion. It looked like it was some sort of crippling cripple croaking, always touching. Famished. Shouldn’t it be debarred?There was also the case of the dowager turned into a down-and-out with some down growing smoothly upon her clasped bosoms. Was that droll? What was the fare? She used to drone and something drooped from her nose. The Bust was her escort. He was festooned with fillets. He was languished. She flung under his shadow. She was extremely fond of him. A child in frock frolicked among their legs. Perhaps it was just a moving gown. All was such a folly. People got goaded. They were truly flabbergasted and gape. They felt it as foreboding. An imminent foreclosure. They felt hapless. In the opinion of the Bust, all that was indelible, and besides, this was the path of the spirit, to suspend the moist nature of reality.An apparently old boring, dull and dumb path, out of which there was no boon to be exploited, repeated or said. Out of which there would be only flops. But in it, there was a hoard. Even Voltaire could be acquitted, even if he was impertinent.Voltaire with all his gaits and galling gales, who one would rather have sent all gagged to the gallows. But the Bust would herald: what matters is magnanimity,as it always befitted Lord Byron, even in a dive, in a heath, with hideous hiccoughs but always lavish.

As it was the case with the Bust, Lord Byron forestalled that, independently of explaining them, there would always be a backsliding of the cluttering powerful mutations. That was in earnest.It would go far beyond any simple allowance and alms.No need to bribe or forfeit. Mutations are always attending upon, they brood. They avenge and bestowed. Nothing could hamper them. They digest any hurdle. That was true in what concerns both crystals and philosophers. This is proved from the fact that everything is always in a boom, budging, and there is plenty of dirty booty, and bounty, and flutter, and gibberish . Blustering, garrulous and boasting people, by passion and feelings; the elite, by reason. Every mistake in the application of the code would come from a lack of purity of the disciple. It would be caused by conceit.Nature itself will always be opened. But in what is alive, and this is why crackologyis an impossible, appalling science, a doom. Lord Byron would have cackled that to an appareled Tristotelas in case he had recognized him in that dusk of May, 1979,while both were ambling in Zurich with their crooked crooks. While they were dallying, dawdling. He would have curtseyed. He would have flattered him crony. But the astonishment only occurred to him after they had passed each other by, and then he could not stop Tristotelas. No matter how high he bawled, Tristotelas brazenly stood aloof, somewhat fraught, and ghastly as ever.Tristotelas didn’t hear him andsignalized askew with the hand behind,so that Lord Byron would coo more quietly. Was that hedging? Did he feign? Did he glower a little? Did he gnash and then gnawed a gnat? Tristotelas was very embroiled, almost irksome, jaundiced.Perhaps he had some insight into the predicament. The sky boding ill with floating astir demons. People drinking ale under the awnings, holding their assets and prepared to brawl. Some busted-up. The wind started to buffet. There would be no time to dash before getting drown in the festering of waters.