The clock in the Puerta del Sol struck twelve. It was a beautiful day.
The man climbed the stairs to the subway and went outside. He was wearing a suit and leather briefcase.
With briskly walked to the Plaza Mayor. There was a gap between the large group of artists and tourists who thronged to a stop at the monument to Philip III. He unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie knot. He left the briefcase on the floor, opened it and pulled inside a fountain pen.
Pen in hand, paid a courtesy bow and spread his arms in front with his eyes closed and your chin up, standing still as a statue.
Some passersby looked at him, but without giving too much attention.
After ten minutes, the hand holding the pen is moved in the air with dry taps were growing in strength and speed. The gesture of her face became a tight-lipped grin. Moved the other hand the same way. Instantly the sky was a wall of gray clouds that darkened the city.
Everyone looked to the sky in awe.
His hands made a living tempo that shook the clouds and a rosary Lightning suddenly broke. Then followed a deafening thunder. Then another and another, until heavy rain broke notes, a rhythm of four beats in a symphony merciless.
The square was empty among a crowd of Canson paper, charcoal and stands on its head. The arcades were full of people, deluded, watched the man under the water curtain. Each of his gestures was a perfect time full of emotions.
There was applause and cheers when, fifteen minutes later, the director of clouds improvised solemnly stood and waved to the audience. Despite this, he smiled at the sky and it opened in large clearings. He put his pen dipped in the bag, closed it, put the knot in his tie and recomposed the ruined American and steadily, as it had arrived, crossed the square, disappearing by the Arc of Cutlers.
Copyright: Luisa Fernandez
Picture taken from the Internet.
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