Vozdevieja

She's nine years old. Her name is Marina, but at school they call her Old Lady. This summer in Seville, the first since Expo '92, is so long and so dry that she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Whether she wants everything to change or stay the same. Because she still plays with Chabel dolls but already looks at adult magazines. Because her mother is sick and she already imagines herself in a convent surrounded by orphans. Because everyone, including her father, insists on disappearing. Because her best friend is her grandmother, who cooks for her, combs her hair, lets her cut those scorpion-like nails, tells her about her love for Felipe González, speaks to her calmly, teaches her new swear words, sews her flowery dresses. Then she goes out and those dresses bother her as much as sandpaper. And even so, Marina is always hungry: for life, and for breaded cutlets.