Hello, and today I'm going to tell you a story which is probably a good B2 level.
It's called The Fat One, and it's a story I wrote about the Spanish lottery, which in Spanish, is called El Gordo or The Fat One.
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My name is Mike Bilbre and these are podcasts for students of English at B1 or B2 levels.
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I've always been amazed, as a Brit living here in Spain, about the fascination for the Christmas lottery.
I've always been fascinated by the way the Spanish talk about the lottery ticket number.
If it's a pretty number, a beautiful number or an ugly number, as though having one number or another can make a difference to the result of the lottery.
If you have a pretty number, well then you have more chances of winning.
Another thing as well, Which I found, I suppose, a little bit annoying that you get involved in this buying of lottery tickets, especially at Christmas.
If you work in a company or with other people who also buy the lottery, because it's customary or traditional for everybody in the same company to buy lottery lottery ticket of the same number.
Now, I don't like the idea of buying a lottery ticket but, as everybody says, what if your colleagues win?
What if the number that they have is the winning number?
And so you go in on Monday morning and you were the only person who didn't buy a lottery ticket.
My goodness, how would you feel?
So every year I buy a lottery ticket so that I can have one the same as my colleagues.
This story then is rather an ironic story about the Christmas lottery.
In fact, we could perhaps put it in the genre of a horror story.
It's not really a very good Christmas story, is it?
I prefer not to call it a Christmas story.
I prefer to call it, the fat one.
It was only when he was standing there looking in through the window that Satowa knew a number could be his salvation.
El Gordo, they called it.
The Fat One.
The most lucrative prize of the Spanish Christmas lottery.
Everything else had failed in his life.
The process of discovering the number hadn't been a conscious one.
It had been a gradual realization over time and due to some very curious circumstances.
He had been sitting in a field on a bright morning in December.
He was eating bread and chorizo they'd given him at the restaurant he'd passed in the last village.
It wasn't rare to see butterflies in Andalusia at this time of year, but three together of three completely different species was a marvel.
A tortoise shell, a cabbage white and a spectacular swallowtail danced around a thistle in ever-decreasing circles.
They then settled one after the other on the exact same flower and froze into a timeless tranquility.
The message was clear and the message was the number three.
At the time, Sator hadn't known the significance of this number, but he noted it down with a broken pencil in a little notebook he kept in a plastic bag.
Something was changing in his destiny.
He felt it in the breeze that finally worried the butterflies into flight again.
The next number of the fat one could never be known by guessing or calculation.
It had to be revealed through a subtle sign from nature.
Indeed, the next number had been just that.
A few days later, Satur had been resting by a reservoir.
It had been a very dry year with little rainfall. and the water level had dropped considerably.
In the exact centre of the reservoir, a dead tree had been exposed.
Its naked blackened branches reached out in all directions, as though trying to find the land.
Strange dark shapes rested on each branch, standing upright and perfectly still.
Satur strained his aging eyes to see more clearly.
Each shape was a bird, a cormorant.
It wasn't difficult to count them, as they were perfectly motionless, as if made of wood.
25, exactly.
Then a slight breeze blew and one cormorant flew off, flying low across the water.
24.
But no, another immediately flew back and stood on the exact same perch.
25.
Sator noted the number in his notebook.
The last number was also created by a certain stillness in time.
One morning, Sator had been nearing a peaceful village in the Sierra Morena.
He wondered if perhaps he would find something to eat there.
He had not eaten since the night before, and it was probably now midday.
Suddenly, something bright in the grass by the roadside caught his eye.
He bent over with difficulty under the weight of the bags on his back and picked it up.
A wristwatch.
Sator wiped away the dirt that stuck to it with his thumb.
The watch had obviously been there for weeks.
It now gleamed in the sun with no rust at all.
Was it gold?
It had stopped, of course.
Satoru then felt a huge disappointment.
One of the hands was missing.
It was worthless.
But no, there were two hands.
The hour hand was hidden under the minute hand at exactly twelve o'clock.
Satoru smiled to himself.
He could get money for this watch.
A gentle breeze then blew towards him from the direction of the village, and he could distinctly hear the sound of the church clock.
Sator counted the chimes.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Twelve!
Sator looked again at the wristwatch.
Twelve o'clock.
He took out his notebook and wrote it down.
The village was remarkably lively despite its small size.
Christmas decorations had been put up along the main street and in the square stood a conical metal Christmas tree with fluttering Christmas cards drawn and coloured by the local primary school children.
Piped American Christmas carols drifted through the cold December air.
Satur had long ago learned to repress any sensation of excitement or nostalgia about Christmas, and the smells of candy, floss and hot bunuelos from the village street stalls just made him feel hungrier.
It was then he saw it.
Why he was looking in the first place must have been destiny.
There was no other reason.
Satur should have read the numbers of the Christmas lottery tickets in the local lottery administration window.
Three, two, five, one, two.
Satur stared hard at the number.
Then he took out his little notebook and checked the numbers he had written.
3, 25, 12.
3, 2, 5, 1, 2.
Then he knew he would be well again.
He had to buy this lottery ticket and, of course, he would win the fat one.
His life as a vagabond would be over and he could be happy once more.
He approached the lottery administration window and offered the gold watch he had found to a young man who frowned at him suspiciously through the glass.
Will you take this watch for one ticket?
Ticket number 32512? asked Satur timidly.
The man took the watch and turned it over in his hands, examining it carefully.
Then he looked up and nodded.
OK, said the man.
It's a deal.
The End ¶¶
The cemetery worker stamped out his cigarette.
Where does this one go then?
He was pointing to the coffin lying on the ground.
No idea, said the second cemetery worker.
He didn't even get a service.
It's just been left here.
He was a vagabond, I think.
Nobody knew him.
He didn't have a penny.
Died of malnutrition, they say.
The Sisters of the Cross paid for the burial.
So, he'll have to go into the cheap ones then, said the first worker.
Over there at the back.
He pulled out a little book from his pocket and consulted the list of burial niche numbers.
Um, let's put him in number 32512.
Come on then, said the second worker, rubbing his large round stomach.
Let's get it over with.
I'm starving.
And so, on the 22nd of December, the Spanish will be looking at the television screens again and watching intently to see which number is called for the fat one.
If you have bought a lottery ticket, I wish you lots of luck.
Goodbye for now.
