Miguel

A family will eat for a house because the owner was a friend of the father. On the way a woman warned that the castle was delighted and children are enthusiastic about the idea of seeing a ghost. The owner tells the story of the first owner, and kills his wife and then he commits suicide. They stay in the castle for lunch and later decided to also spend the night. The next morning, when thefather wakes up and realizes quieter that there was blood in his bed, his wife did not answer and that was not his room.

We arrived at Arezzo a little before noon, and we lost more than two hours searching the Renaissance castle that the Venezuelan writer Miguel Otero Silva had bought at the idyllic bend in the Tuscan countryside. It was a Sunday in early August, hot and noisy, and it was not easyto find someone who knew anything on the streets crowded with tourists. After many futile attempts we returned the car, left town on a trail without driving directions, cypress, and an old woman tending geese showed us exactly where was the castle. Before leaving he asked if we were sleeping there, and we said, as we planned, we were only going to lunch.

Thankfully, she said it in that housefrightened.

My wife and I do not believe in ghosts noon, we laugh at his credulity. But our two children aged nine and seven, were happy with the idea of meeting a ghost body present.

Miguel Otero Silva, who besides being a good writer was a wonderful host and a refined dining room, with a lunch waiting for us to never forget. As we were late we did not have time to see inside the castle beforesitting down at the table, but its appearance from outside had nothing to dread, and any concerns dissipated with full view of the city from the terrace florida where were having lunch. It was hard to believe that on that hill of houses perched, which barely fit ninety thousand people, were born as many men of genius enduring. However, Miguel Otero Silva told us that none Caribbean mood of manywas the greatest of Arezzo.

-The largest-ruled, was Ludovico.

Thus, without surnames: Louis, the great master of the arts and war, who had built the castle of his misfortune, and Miguel who talked all through lunch. We spoke of his immense power, of love thwarted and his gruesome death. He told us how it was that in a moment of madness of the heart had stabbed his lady in the bed where theyhad just to love, and then himself incited against their fierce war dogs who tore with his teeth. We said, very seriously, that from midnight the spectrum of Ludovico wandered around the house in darkness trying to achieve peace in the purgatory of love.

The castle, in fact, was immense and gloomy. But in broad daylight, with a full stomach and a happy heart, the story of Miguel could not seem ajoke but like so many others to entertain his guests. Eighty-two rooms that we visited without surprise after a nap, had suffered all kinds of moving its successive owners. Michael had fully restored the ground floor and had built a modern bedroom with marble floors and facilities for sauna and physical culture, and brilliant flowers terrace where we had lunch. The second plant, which had beenthe most used in the course of centuries, was a succession of rooms without any character, with furniture from different times abandoned to their fate. But in the past was kept intact for a room where time had forgotten to pass. Ludovico was the bedroom.

It was a magical moment. There was the bed curtains embroidered with gold thread and trimmings bedspread wonders still stiff with dried blood ofthe sacrificial lover. Was the cold fireplace ashes and the last log turned to stone, the closet with their weapons well baited, and the oil portrait of thoughtful gentleman in a gold frame, painted by one of the Florentine masters who were not fortunate time survive. However, what impressed me most was the smell of strawberries remained stagnant recent unexplained possible within the bedroom....