Fluirflowing toward fluencyCan You Read This B2 Spanish Short Story?
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Fluir
La noche de las hogueras
5 min read · B2
Cuando era niña, mi abuela me explicaba que la fiesta de San Juan tenía algo terapéutico: quemar lo viejo para empezar de nuevo. Cada año, en el vecindario donde crecí, los vecinos se reunían en la plaza para preparar la hoguera veraniega más grande que pudieran imaginar. Los hombres cargaban troncos y muebles rotos, las mujeres cocinaban durante horas, y los niños, enanos entre tanta gente, corríamos alrededor sin entender del todo el significado del ritual.
Aquel año, sin embargo, algo había cambiado. Mi abuela, que siempre había sido la encargada de encender el fuego con un mechero de hierro que había pertenecido a su padre, estaba enferma. El médico decía que su hígado ya no funcionaba como antes, que había entrado en una fase delicada. Ella, terca como siempre, insistía en que iría a la plaza aunque tuviera que ir en silla de ruedas.
—No me vas a describir cómo fue la fiesta este año —me dijo una tarde, mientras yo cocinaba a su lado—. Yo misma la voy a ver.
Mi madre y yo cooperamos para llevarla. Fue un pequeño operativo familiar: sillas plegables, mantas, y el termo de manzanilla que ella insistía en llevar aunque hiciera calor. El camino hasta la plaza, contado en pasos, no era largo, pero para ella, con las piernas cansadas, se convirtió en una pequeña aventura.
Cuando llegamos, la hoguera ya estaba montada, alta como una torre, con muñecos de paja que representaban, según la tradición local, todo lo malo del año: el pecador imaginario que cada vecino quería dejar atrás. Había un ambiente casi cinematográfico, con las llamas anaranjadas reflejándose en las caras de la gente y el humo subiendo hacia un cielo todavía claro por la hora veraniega.
—Antes esto era distinto —me dijo mi abuela, mientras yo la ayudaba a sentarse—. Había menos gente, pero más fe. La fiesta ha evolucionado, como todo. Ya no es lo mismo, pero tampoco es peor. Solo es diferente.
Le pregunté qué quería decir, y ella, con esa voz ronca característica de quien ha fumado y reído demasiado en la vida, empezó a contarme una historia que yo nunca había escuchado. Me habló de un antiguo culto politeísta que, mucho antes de que llegara el cristianismo a estas tierras, ya celebraba el solsticio con fuego. Decía que el catolicismo, y más tarde ciertas ramas del protestantismo en otras regiones de Europa, habían adaptado esas costumbres antiguas a sus propios calendarios religiosos, mezclando lo pagano con lo sagrado sin que nadie se diera cuenta del todo.
—Es curioso —añadió—, cómo las tradiciones se enredan unas con otras, como raíces bajo la tierra. Nadie sabe ya qué parte es de quién. Y no importa. Lo que importa es el fuego, y estar aquí, juntos.
Mientras hablaba, un grupo de jóvenes se acercó cargando un turno más de leña para alimentar la hoguera. Alguien había traído una guitarra, y pronto empezaron a sonar canciones que todos conocíamos de memoria, de esas que se cantan sin pensar, por pura costumbre familiar. Mi abuela cerró los ojos y sonrió, como si aquel calor le devolviera algo de energía.
De pronto empezó a llover. No fue una casualidad meteorológica cualquiera, sino esa lluvia repentina de verano que llega sin avisar y se va igual de rápido. La gente corrió a buscar refugio bajo los toldos cercanos, riendo, empapada hasta los huesos, mientras la hoguera seguía ardiendo, indiferente al agua, como si el fuego tuviera su propia voluntad.
—¡Qué reacción tan española! —bromeó mi madre, viendo cómo nadie parecía realmente molesto por la lluvia—. Nos mojamos y seguimos bailando.
Mi abuela, en cambio, no se movió de su silla. Se quedó mirando las llamas, con gotas de agua resbalando por su cara arrugada, y me dijo algo que nunca olvidaré:
—Retirar lo viejo no significa que no vaya a doler. Solo significa que hay que dejarlo ir de todas formas.
No supe entonces si hablaba de la fiesta, de su enfermedad, o de los años que ya no volverían. Quizá hablaba de las tres cosas a la vez. Pensé en el budismo, del que había leído algo en la universidad, cuando aún soñaba con doctorarme en antropología: esa idea de que todo es impermanente, que hay que aceptar el cambio como parte natural de la vida. Mi abuela nunca había leído sobre budismo, pero había llegado, a su manera, a la misma conclusión, después de setenta y tantos años de hogueras.
Murió cuatro meses después, en otoño, cuando ya no quedaba rastro del malestar veraniego ni de la lluvia de junio. Pero cada año, cuando llega San Juan, sigo yendo a la plaza con el mechero de hierro que ahora es mío, y enciendo la hoguera pensando en ella, en su voz ronca, en su manera tranquila de aceptar que todo, tarde o temprano, se transforma en otra cosa.
B2 fiction is where authorial voice starts to matter - sentence rhythm, tone, the kind of storytelling detail a graded textbook never bothers with. The stories on this page are written for readers who've cleared the intermediate plateau and want reading that's genuinely engaging, not just comprehensible.
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At B2 the aim shifts from "can I follow this" to "am I actually being stretched" - these stories sit close enough to your edge that new vocabulary keeps arriving without every sentence becoming a decoding exercise.
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