They counted the indiscreet languages by the 1900 coffees, that an Italian marquesa, of ostentatious last name and noble gestures, took refuge in Seville hide-and-seek, in the shade of the Giralda, its unexpected pregnancy. Pregnant without looking for it, wanting it and accepting it, it was forced to leave his small palace of princess and its native Florence, to lock in itself in a house cradles where, to the care of always you ask for nuns, would hide its shames and their mistakes, impropias of an adolescent of blue blood.

The exiled marquesita, that took a walk of incognito by the streets of Seville and that abanicaba of orange blossoms next to the Guadalquivir, gave to light a weeping girl who never would appear in her genealogical tree. It, without suitcases and pregnancy, returned to her small palace from princess and its native Florence with the wide smile and the intact reputation. Her daughter, of whom she did not separate without leaving a reminder him of his Italian origins - she called Dark brown it, found a new family, of working blood and strong loves, in Viso of the Alcor, a small and warm town of the province of Seville. Thus she picks up the legend…

Angels of the Saints lived more than one decade with a secret that also burned the entrails to him and the lips. To the fifteen years, he discovered what all insisted on silencing with the hope of which it filled of forgetfulness. It left it to the news without past or, rather, changed it. She remembers that day with a clear clarity, pleased of details, “as if outside yesterday�.

It happened during a stroll of Sunday by the avenue of Miraflores, with the spring already exhibiting itself with all the colors and in all the gardens. “My Pink friend, who worked for a well related wealthy family and, told me that in the bourgeois circles of Seville she made sure that Dark brown, my grandmother, was the daughter of an Italian marquesa�. Angels of the Saints introduce a long silence, bend the eyebrows and are on the awares until putting them round. That one must of being the face that it had left that one day when listening the news.

“Is not strong my history? �, she fixedly asks watching to me and agreeing with the head. “I remained astonished so that I took years in confessing it to my brothers. You imagine to be the biznieta of a marquesa�. Again, it introduces another silence, equal of length, equal of thick, in which it is useful to give I suck to its coffee with much milk. “Sight, the end hairs are put to me�, says placing on the table their naked arm, under which blue blood perhaps runs.

Angels speak with estusiasmo and indisimulado pride of that suspicion that places her and to theirs like direct descendants of a Tuscan noble lineage of the Italian. The Dark brown grandmother is - still today, half century after her death the pillar of the family, the vertex in which all the glances come together, the hinge with a past almost magician where there are satately castles and nobiliary titles, the lost link of an ancestry ancestry.

Everything is praises - and nothing else that praises for the Dark brown grandmother, who married with Pedro, a señorito Andalusian with good eye for the businesses, next to which Iron was changed to enormous cortijo in the Kitchen garden, in one of the most famous districts of Seville. Although the Dark brown candy was given with care to the tasks of the field: it gave to eat the pigs, cleaned of dung the stables, it gathered eggs of the hens, milked cows and it catched rabbits for the rice, never lost his satately bearing, in which Angels see an irrefutable test of their origins.

“It was fine, finísima, and was conceited of a natural elegance left that us to all embobados. My grandmother was an aristocrat even gathering tomatos�. And she adds with the seriousness of a sentence for which retort does not fit: “She is that to be daughter of a marquesa one takes in the genes�.

That one news, that he was silenced, buried, gaged and contained during two generations - neither own Dark brown nor the their children wanted, while still alive, to face her, still resounds in the ears of Angels, who have been almost sixty years trying to put order to a confused past and thousand times imagined. “I found out the news in 1950 and we are in 2009. He throws the accounts of the time that I take wanting to know the truth�. He drops another silence, this sad and heavy time: “Still I do not have results�.

Everything has considered it, until going to the television: “I thought to go to the program of Lobatón, but it gives shame me because I do not want that people think that I go to by the money or something thus�. So far, already it has initiated, next to his sister Mercedes, the inquiries in the registry of Viso of the Alcor. “There it must have some news of my grandmother, some data that takes to us until that unknown marquesa�, it indicates.
The history of Dark brown not only seems a film script, but it has terrible errors, also of film. Just as a boy who confesses a prank, Angels lower the voice and reveal: “An uncle mine left me, before his death, a paper written with some tracks on the marquesa. Perhaps he said where to find it or from where he came. You know the worse thing? I lost that it�.

Angels feel a vocational adoration by their Dark brown grandmother, to whom homenajeó putting its name to him to one of its four children. She trusts solving the mystery and clarifying, finally, her past. “All we must right to know our origins, no�. It knows that the task is pending and that, if not revuelve soon, will inherit the next generation, like a curse that happens of parents to children and children to grandsons.

“All that already had information on the marquesa have died. I only request a little luck to open the truth before it spends more time. You think that this interview will serve as something? �, it asks waiting for an affirmative answer to me. “Yes… It can… Perhaps… It is never known�, I respond. �It does not seem to you strong? Biznieta of a marquesa! “.