Taking a stroll without deciding on a goal or precise path seemed like a good way to fill in that planless time. The streets were crowded and the park was sprinkled with colors: An euphoric girl eating a popsicle, laughter, street vendors selling different kinds of trinkets. His shirt was sticking to the skin in no time. He envied the easy-going fellows that had the audacity to tie their shirts around their heads and enjoy the heat while sipping something cold. In his case, allowing himself a few moments of inactivity under a willow tree by the side of the lake, enveloped by the faint green tone he knew so well from his childhood, was eccentric enough.

The setting was an invitation to start reading. Among the books available―Harlequin novels, philosophy, Cervantes, Drummond―he selected an old edition of The Autumn of The Patriarch as company. At the edge of the park, there were some spots on the grass under the shade that were away enough from the agitated children and dogs. There he found some comfortable seats and got close to silence. Still, the movement of restless people under the sun in all its exuberance was incessant.
He went through quite a few pages, but the narrative tone conflicted with the temperature that surrounded him, like a creeper sprightly growing during the raining season.