At the south of Argentina, in Patagonia, you can find, in the province called Chubut, an important Welsh community: "we came running away from the abuses of the Anglo" they said; they are "the Welsh ones of Patagonia" as they say in Buenos Aires, with affection...strange story? But absolutely true: Welsh blood was shed on those cold and windy landscapes, they made Patagonia in part what it is, too; those distant and strange landscapes, even for me.
Especially for me.
The Williams family had a modest farm: some sheep, some pigs, apple trees. mom Anne used to cook cakes to sell, the "torta galesa" (Welsh cake), that the grand ladies of Buenos Aires eat, with studied negligence, with their tea. Pa David has rough hands, talks Spanish with a pretty accent, but hardly knows how to write, he's a carpenter, he's Welsh. He tries to teach the rudiments of these handicrafts to his son, Roberto, he was born in Patagonia, Robbie, the retarded, the shame of the family. He has a faded, strange brilliance in his eyes, he's 14 years old and hardly can talk; he's strong and tall. Robbie watches the dad's handsaw working, day after day, sunset to sunset; Roberto, the imbecile one...
The lazy summer of Patagonia brought good grass for the sheep, good grass; Robbie already built some deformed chair, he likes the carpentry and laughs with an immense, horrible mouth, Robbie, the idiot; he laughs. Dad had to go to Dolavon, then to Trelew: these are towns of Patagonia; afterwards, back to home, back to home... ...Is summer, is January, is 1936, is Roberto sitting down at the door, is dad going through that door, he's back, it's a scream of horror? Is mom Anne crucified, headless, nailed to the wooden wall.
Or maybe was a dream I had.
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