'Pablucas', he said Claudio López Lamadrid Or cousin. I once lent him a family tree that linked to those of La Madrid de Colima with the López de Lamadrid of Cantabria. Claudio gave this document to his father and in turn joked that some children were sent to war to defend the family coat of arms, others to the church to win the kingdom of heaven and the smallest to the new continent to get rid of them. I told him that the American branch came from Potes and not from Comillas and that no ancestor united us as much as Orhan Pamuk, because it was thanks to a conference about the future that the Turkish writer gave Barcelona, that I met who would become soon after in my editor, as it was of many who owe him so much on both sides of the Atlantic.
At the head I get a scarf like The Lopez who gave me a birthday, a book autographed by James Ellroy who forgot in Manzanillo, the technique of traveling without a suitcase for those who lived on horseback between Madrid and Barcelona, the mythical interview that Quimera made him Enrique Díaz, a fantastic wedding in Puerto Escondido, the laughter that Juan Antonio Montiel took from him, the terrace where we closed the edition of Clipperton and the long hours that he dedicated to me to talk about literature as a way of thinking. It also appears in the nooks and crannies of the head seafood restaurant very close to the Hotel de las Letras where I made salads of people and so many times I ate with him and friends today like Patricio Pron and Diego Celorio. In these hours I think of Miguel Aguilar, Ricardo Cayuela, Carlota del Amo and Melca Pérez, in Teresa, in Fer and Paz, in Paula, María and Emiliano and thus the list grows as endless as the people who wanted it and today it broke. I see the pictures of your children and their summers. I hear that hoarse voice, short phrases and questions like shooting and I barely believe that that sound will not happen anymore. Nor the hugs to his inseparables like Ignacio Echevarría and Cristóbal Pera. Neither the photos he loved to take, nor the detail with which he cared for writers as different as Rodrigo Fresán or Jordi Soler. Nor will there be any way to continue honoring those who chiseled him as editor: Toni López Lamadrid and Beatríz de Moura.
Just a month ago I looked for it in the FIL of Guadalajara and, in the middle of the vortex, there was space for a long coffee because we had interrupted the gestation of a book that will no longer read. Brief destruction. In a world where publishers are increasingly more marketing managers, Claudio understood that literature is a form of resistance whose achievement is in slowness. And there was time for her, like a Jedi on Earth, against the current.
Even yesterday I had time to call him and I did not do it when I wanted to tell him how much I had been moved by an open message that I had posted on Instagram hours earlier: Today my favorite poet is Raúl Zurita. The poet of love to heaven, to the infinite sea, the deserts of Chile and the cliffs. From love to all creatures.
Nobody would say that that poem entitled Keep me in you and the additional words that Claudio wrote, were also a farewell that the great Zurita thanked with damp eyes: Then keep me in you / in the most secret torrents that your rivers raise / and when we already have only something like a shore in you / keep me in you as the interrogation of the waters that leave / And then, when the great birds collapse and the clouds tell us that our lives ran out in our fingers / keep me in you / have me in you / in the blade that still occupies your clear and remote voice / like the glacial channels that the Spring descends.
I can not stop thinking about Angeles and the day I presented her that morning with coffee, newspaper, bread and orange juice. That is happiness and that was a Barcelona Sunday that drew the Claudio that I will always keep, disheveled and elegant. Bright.