Divagating about Bahía, a damper draped in cloudiness and disappearance, Manning's dialogue with Fierro marched off over the bridge to San Vicente wedged between a centaur and a moto. No one will ever see it again. Or will they?

Quizzing through the three halls of an afternoon, I found Dorothea's olive carpet inside her trailer on Drake Road where in 1979 I learned to peel the paper from the chocolate of my popsicles, a poem on legal paper about the life of a little mouse that Barbara typed up illustrious before my birth and folded into rhyme without any eyes ever seeing it, and a 2011 message from Fierro about a poem handmade on Parra's paper with a dedication that follows him unforgettably. Dorothea left when she was seventy-seven and Barbara was fifty-eight. Fierro tells me Nicanor Parra is ninety-six, and still drives.

And now where? Where ire stagnates trembling, like remembering Ida alone remembering Bergamín; like Manning alone remembering Ida and Fierro, remembering me.

De vagabundo por la Cruz del Sur, entre el Centauro y la Mosca, Fierro se decide a reiniciar el diálogo con Manning. Nadie nunca sabrá por qué: ¿o sí?


Quizá por el inesperado triple hallazgo de esta tarde. En una carpeta olvidada entre sus papeles de la calle Ellauri ha encontrado un dibujo de Marco Maggi del año 1971, un poema de María Elena Walsh manuscrito e ilustrado por ella de 1969 ("Sapo Fierro") y un poema manuscrito de Nicanor Parra con esta dedicatoria: "Nicanor Parra a Ida Vitale y Enrique Fierro recuerdos inolvidables Montevideo setiembre mil novecientos ochenta y cinco". Un Marco de trece años, una María Elena de treinta y nueve y un Nicanor que acababa de cumplir sus setenta.


¿A dónde iré que no tiemble?, como recuerda Ida que solía recordar Bergamín.