The sun outlines its rusted profile, always imposing and determined. From its defiant height, it seems to be pointing at him. Not as the chosen one, finally saved, but incriminatorily, telling him that he is doing something wrong with that blanket he carries on his back and that he should be careful, almost kicking him out of wherever he is trying to sell something. He looks at it from time to time, when he can rest between the tourists who want to haggle with him and the furtive glances he casts in case the police come. He imagines that he is the one at the top, able to point at that Barcelona of football shirts and bags, that Barcelona that sells sangrias and paellas at any time of the year, that plastic Barcelona, that increasingly embarrassing Barcelona. When he detects how a seagull lands on its pointing arm towards that new world of riches and even sees it pecking at him, who knows if hungry or angry as he is, he hears a whistle and knows he has to start running again.
INFORMATION
Author: Marina Saéz
Text: Cristina Martín Valbuena
Title: "The Creation of Columbus"
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