Adrián's Saturdays
Adrián is sixteen years old, lives in Trujillo, and has started showing up at the workshop on Saturday mornings. Fernando hasn't told him he can come or that he can't. He lets him in, lets him watch. Sometimes he hands him the bellows. He doesn't explain what he's doing while he does it, because that's how he was taught: by watching, not by listening.
Adrián has dropped out of school. In that he resembles Fernando at fifteen. Fernando knows this, because Trujillo has nine thousand people and things get known without anyone telling you. He hasn't asked him why he dropped out. He hasn't suggested he go back. He hasn't told him that life without qualifications is harder — that would be hypocritical coming from someone who did exactly the same thing.
What Fernando doesn't know is whether he's seeing a reflection of himself or projecting something he doesn't dare name. His grandfather Eustaquio taught him without asking anything in return: he put the tools in front of him and let the iron speak. Fernando does the same with Adrián, without having consciously decided to. He lets him watch. He lets him touch a cold piece. If the kid asks a question, he answers in three words and keeps working.







