i recalled dad translating the sentence as we sat outside that cafe last summer , in the plaza de la universidad in santiago : the sentence that borrallo had spoken , that cunqueiro had written down , that dad had translated , that cicely had appropriated and that had now been pronounced by paula : they are people who grow sad , weak , tired , lose interest in food and lie dying in a corner , silent and scorned , their skin the colour of wax , complaining from time to time of a cold spot which roams around their body , sometimes in the chest , other times in the spine .