Gabo cremated in a private ceremony in Mexico

In the 144th Street Fire, south of Mexico City, a girl with jeans and black sweatshirt 1530 left a bouquet of daisies. Monica Hernandez had read One Hundred Years of Solitude bya teacher with their own unwillingness of orders. Years later fell into his hands a rematch of the Royal Academy of the Spanish Language and devoured with the fanaticism of the converts. Being the first reader to get to the house where he had died a while ago the Colombian Gabriel García Márquez at age 87 was a way to apologize for that youthful outrage and pay homage to one of the greatest writers in Spanish.

Since three days ago was known that García Márquez was receiving palliative care at home, a beautiful colonial residence with a vine of bougainvillea climbing the facade, a dozen reporters stood guard on the sidewalk. Occasionally a reader asking about the health of his idol and went to meet with disgruntled gesture bad news was coming. At 14.56 this sunny day, Maundy Thursday with city half empty for the holidays, was presented at the doorstep Mexican journalist Fernanda Familiar, a close friend of the writer and his wife Mercedes Barcha. He came crying and wordlessly agreed into. It was the first outward sign that the Nobel laureate had died.

Five minutes later, a taxi aboard the Colombian writer Guillermo Angulo appeared. Carrying a suitcase, a white bag and a deerstalker hat. He also went without saying a word. Staff assistant García Márquez, Genevevo Quiroz, left to instruct the first two policemen guard the street began. A neighbor, Maria del Carmen Estrada, poked his head in the door next to the Nobel and remembered the day he gave a big hug to topárselo. ” I had not read any of his books, but people loved him, and took him fondly. He was an exemplary neighbor. “

The writer will be cremated in a private ceremony, he told the family on behalf of and at the door of the apartment, the director of the National Institute of Fine Arts, Maria Garcia Cepeda. He made the announcement alongside Jaime Abello Banfi, friend of García Márquez, of those who have every right to call him Gabo, and CEO of the New Iberoamerican Journalism Foundation.

Earlier, about 1635, when it began to cloud over in the afternoon and in the Mexican capital, gray hearse had come to the house to move his remains to a funeral home nearby. The van had covered the logos of the company but the role was transparent, exposing the company name García López. Although there were no funeral services held. How Big Mexican characters, as in his day Mario Moreno Cantinflas, García Márquez will be honored Monday evening at the Palace of Fine Arts. The highest honor for a deceased in these lands.

Gradually the street was filled with people. A young man with pink shirt open, giving a glimpse of chest hair, white pants and shoes tipped beak. It seemed just out of vallenatos she loved so much the novelist. A Colombian Juan Pablo Castro and Rosana Vergara, a couple with a child, the news caught them visiting the City and knew immediately that the coincidence coerced into doing this pilgrimage to the house. They stopped at the entrance of a sandwich, a typical Colombian sweet made ??from guava. A friend, Valeria Hurtada, had torn one bougainvillea in the garden of a neighbor and threw it on the hearse that was carrying the body of the writer. The flower remained on the roof of the vehicle until it accelerated and was lost after the first corner of the cobbled street.

Cantellano Police officer was responsible for deploying a contingent of officers on the street Fuego. Cantellano cut with fences and vehicle traffic in front of the gate of the writer ordered to train with his martial harangues. Implemented a security perimeter around the front door and the garage. “This is a very important mission,” the official said on low. His men, trying to keep the type, formed endured for hours at the number 144. Occasionally a break and helped granted a follower of Gabo to leave flowers, books and candles at the entrance. Garcia police did not know the writer (” or it sounds “) but given the deployment and the severity with which conveyed orders Cantellano understood the importance of the moment: ” No sir, but I knew the start to read it right now.”

Bruno Uribe appeared there with a candle and a long lighter, the kind that are used in the kitchens of industrial kitchens. Garcia, whose name flashed on the plate wearing the right uniform pocket, let it go and light the candle. The left three feet of the door, along with a copy of Memories of My Melancholy Whores. “It’s the little tribute to my family and I do,” she managed to say and left. Neck hung a rosary.

Monica Hernandez, having left that bunch of daisies in wooden gate, wandered a bit confused by the district. He went to a neighbor who was crying and both seemed to find comfort in mutual embrace. They were about to five in the afternoon. Began to sparkle, to break to rain.

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Posted by Naveed A Bari on Apr 22 2014. Filed under World. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.