Boy dog ​​medal

What do you not know of Casa-Pinar? Well, if you don’t see anything else out there! She is the swallow that does make summer.

As soon as August appears, Agripina Pinillos, daughter of the widowed marchioness, and pontifical, of Casa-Pinar, appears.

It is a swallow that does not come from Africa, unless Africa begins in Pajares. It comes from the land of Campos or something like that: it is high life … from land , and, at all costs, from Toro .

Every summer he appears with a protest that does not fall from his lips, namely: that by a miracle of God he is not in San Sebastián or Ostend or Corls … that, in short, where Mrs. Canovas.

He still shakes hands as he did in the eighties, that is, like someone who kicks with the front oars. If it were not for fashion, that idol that the Greeks did not know, Casa-Pinar’s would be a perfect beauty. It is not the Venus Urania, it is the Venus … snobbish .

Yes; represents snobbery … cabotage.

Because it does not leave our shores.

He wants to be more figurine than statue. Between Phidias and the best couturier in Paris, she would not hesitate: she would put herself in the hands of the couturier .

When she looks naked, she despises herself. And he is once again the peacock, satisfied with his feathers, when he puts on the ridiculous bathing suit and puts on the hat that turns it into a full sail, or the ignominious cap that makes it look like a bottle of essences. Do you want the one from Casa-Pinar to greet you, since you have the honor of treating her and being a creditor of her mother, for example?

Well, in vain do you aspire to such a privilege … if you wear a vest to the spa.

It is necessary, for Agrippina to honor you with something more than an imperceptible bow of the head, that you present yourself with white shoes, made of cloth and with patent leather semicircles, with a garish sash and a churrigueresque shirt finished by the white collar of those who give a club when return.

Agripina Pinillos comes to the beach to heal I don’t know what humors, which seem more like smoke; but the life she does is not to get old. As the other said: my cure of waters , she can say … my cure of winds . And it is not because of what the air gives it, but because it sacrifices everything to the hurricanes of vanity.

He gets up at twelve, because he’s late at night, and he goes very far to Las Carolinas at the precise moment when he cannot take a step through the corridors.

On some days, when there are many spectators without vests, there is a bath of sand and malice. He wears a bathing suit, as he does not have a vest, he does not deserve his contempt.

At dusk you will see her in the Thermopylae on Corrida street, giving “the elbows that Mesalina gave” in the narrowness of the sidewalk, in front of Colón .

At night, you know, in the Catacombs of Dindurra, that is, in the Comic Theater, there is no air to Lara’s because there is no air there, not even for that. Total, that Pinillos does not breathe all day. It lives on the air in its head.

Love? Yes, according to his gender (cotton) he loves a young man, also a brunette, who has a suit for every hour of the day. What do I say every hour? The clothing of this seven-month-old can replace a sundial, because it changes as the sun rises and falls through space. Take a good look and you will see that Juanito Pinabete y Conífera’s hat is not absolutely the same at eleven o’clock as at eleven fifteen.

But alas! Pinabete is called to disappear from Agrippina’s rag heart. Because a lieutenant armed with all weapons has just arrived, who has as many suits as Juanito, plus the uniform that he dresses at the last minute to dazzle Agripina with all those cords, embroidery and tops …

And Pinabete doesn’t have a uniform; which makes him sigh exclaiming:

If I were … even a firefighter!

To end:

Said either in honor, or in dishonor, depending on how you look at it, of Agripina la de Casa-Pinar.

Since there is nothing spiritually human in this woman, let us confess that there is something human, depending on the matter.

Because Xuaco , the handsome man who bathes her, has a lot of attachment to this parishioner, and he knows that those from Casa-Pinar don’t tip.

Paca Blanco is also from Castilla, from the same town as Pinillos. He bathes there, towards the last booths of the Sultana . When he reaches the water’s edge, he looks like a Dantesque figure, with his long, dark coat, with grave and precious folds. It is tall, slender, made of alabaster; he does not bathe with a hat, or cap, or papalina; the sun polishes the black knob, the doorknob, the radiant helmet of Villager Minerva. His eyes, ripe blackberries, can be seen from afar; and up close, the few times that they look slowly and with fright, they are all a satiety of delicacies, Camacho’s weddings of sweets of the soul. La Paca is the daughter of a rich harvester who lives, not poor, but modest. La Paca is not a lady, nor does she win. Its sovereign beauty is prior to the division of classes.

He bathes when the sun rises. No bathing suit. He doesn’t go up to the spas, he doesn’t go to the theater. A lot of beach, walks along Santa Catalina, and when there is a lot of waves or big boats leave, a moment of contemplation, leaning on the high wall of the pier. Paca’s eyes, serious and dreamy, are filled with the poetry of the horizonte, as if he expected something that from far away will bring him a fortune.

He hardly ever laughs; But if a wave jumps over the wall and refreshes her face with salty little needles, which are like a caress, she wipes her cheeks with pink, a little smiling.

At night, with his father, to take in the fresh air, to listen to the music of Begoña, from afar, from the dark.

She does not have a boyfriend; he has no loves. But it has something better: it awaits you.

Anyone would say that he gets bored in the bathrooms. And there is no such thing: when he is there in his Castile, contemplating the plain of earth, he remembers with sad love the plain of water; of what it felt and sounded on its shore. It is true that now, on the shores of the ocean, he remembers with vague saudade his beloved plains of Castile.