Her name is Kóral, her tools a chisel and a hammer, her trade is nothing but carving hearts. She makes way crashing the ribs until she reaches the organ – that everybody so said it was made of flesh -, takes it out to the light and works on it until she finishes it, then she puts it back in its place. Then Karol, her assistant, takes over, he is in charge of fixing the broken ribs and is responsible of calling our attention, because what we pay attention to is the art of putting the little pieces of bone and skin together and leaving them exactly as they were before.
Of course, most of the town people were quite surprised by Kóral’s work, just like they are surprised when they see a stone heart. What happens later is also striking for them, as if they could not quite understand the supreme simplicity of causes and consequences, actions and reactions, facts for which we need tenths of notaries.
But, sooner or later, someone always notices Karol, who is also as silent as his master, and suddenly or little by little catches the true artist, through one of those leaps by which you can assume the size of he who is taking a whole out of the parts, a whole, that was precisely made like that, like a whole, having walked through time space of infinitesimal details of the most painful fragmentation, thus acquiring the experience of crossing its repair, where separation and back to unit are the work of a foreign hand, this time, or that time, whatever, namable, definable hands, subject to a proper name such as Kóral and Karol, and not from intangible hands that some call fate, luck, sense of life, and words like that, used to make navigation possible, the pilgrimage, the climbing, diving and all the world ikebana tournaments, at the time that the least experienced starts to understand – to the extent we allow him to – the thickness of any explanation through which the feeling of impact is rushed, and the idea of centuries is reduced to a mere blinking, extending only one of the steps of some biped into the idea of instant eternity, pouring out on your shoulders a feeling of spilling and containment in the entrance hall of ecstasy where only the work “opposites”, if not its concept, is left behind, like dry pine trees in the rear mirror of a Mercedes at 240 kilometers per hour on a road you have imagined, someone else built and someone else experiences, who maybe knows the phrase “all roads lead to Rome” and pretends it symbolizes that all rivers take to the sea, and all souls go to God, with the detail of forgetting the expenses invested by the Roman Empire on stable roads and the stage system, the place of arrivals and departures, in the activity of receiving something to pass it through, with the possession of a load that can be unloaded, as if it had to do simply with eyes tired of reading remembering that they can repeat what they have read at an age in which there comes a boy who is willing to listen, and at a time in which all the past had showed it would never happen, since that is what all past shows, a simple never, both convincing and laughable, since as soon as never is ready, always comes, like Kóral and Karol, who do not actually exist, just like there is not such a thing as a stone heart, nor a repair artist, nor anybody trying to explain how rude an explanation is, since what exists is nothing but a chisel and a hammer, the act of remembering them and compressing their idea between the streets we walk down laughing, under suffocating heat, or with such a cold weather that makes us fear the possibility of having skin not as hardened as ours.