Un cuento de niña gringa

Ustedes perdonen el idioma, pero así va pasando. Va un cuento de niña gringa:

Claire caught a glimpse of her naked body reflected on the window across her unlit, purple bedroom. She approved of it, even if she was fifteen and wasn't missing an inch of the self deprecation that comes with such territory; but her breasts weren't too small and her thighs weren't too thick and she approved of the general effect. She stared at the lines she made on the glass, they seemed strangely long, like they belonged to someone else's legs, someone else's neck and waist. She lifted one of her arms and saw the reflection's lift too, it was definitely her. She heard Daniel laugh at her from the bed and was startled by it. She had almost forgotten he was there and felt suddenly embarrassed to be naked in front of him. For a second she wanted him to disappear and then she realized how silly that was: he was the one who had undressed her and now she felt it was somehow forward of him to be there.

They were precocious kids and she had happy-go-lucky, free-love exercising parents, so to Claire losing her virginity at fifteen, to a boy she loved felt almost conservative. The only thing that got to her was that seriousness in Daniel's attitude. He had a conscious -this is major- look in his eye that unnerved her. She took comfort in being the bold one, the one who cracked up when Daniel solemnly declared they were about to "make love". But now that she was standing alone in the middle of her room, exposed and cold, she began to think there might indeed be something momentous about what was happening. As Daniel sat on her bed, his clothes scattered all around him, laughing at her as if it was endearing; she felt glad to have realized it. She quickly moved to sit next to him on the bed and threw her arms around him; she had to cover her body with something, even if it was with his. Again he laughed at her and this time she laughed too. He came closer and kissed her with the strangest mix of eagerness and timidity. His hands were warm and a little sticky, but they moved with unexpected resolve.

-“I love you, Cee” - he said suddenly.

And although she knew he meant it, something in his tone and timing made it sound apologetic. Claire started to laugh but quickly shook her head and laid back staring up at the ceiling.

She felt him pull away for a second and out of the corner of her eye saw him look through his pant's pockets for something. He turned to her and spoke softly, grabbing her toes and leaning slightly on her leg.

- "Are you ok?"

She noded and smiled. She was a lot more than ok, she was a little fascinated.

She closed her eyes and ran her fingers down Daniel's back. Then she heard him begin to struggle with a plastic wrapper; it sounded exactly like when they were six and he struggled to open his bag of Oreos at lunch. Both rustles had the same eager ring to them. The thought of it made her laugh uncontrollably, she couldn't help herlself and couldn't stop, even though when she opened her eyes he looked for his and they looked anxious and miserable; but still she couldn't bring herself to help him. She felt she might die of embarrassment if she tried. She thought of her and Daniel fighting with a condom wrapper, sitting on the same bed she still sometimes dressed with Strawberry Shortcake sheets and felt ridiculous. They were kids in over their heads, no better equipped than two toddlers playing doctor. She was about to officially enter panic when the rustling stopped and Daniel burst out laughing. He leaned back to lay next to her and casually held it up.

-“You know what?” I’ll beat this thing, just apparently not right this second.

Claire laughed and leaned in to kiss him as he ran his hand across her waist. Amazing. She realized she would never be ill equipped to handle anything that felt like that. After a beat, something in the air shifted and it was just happening. It was less romantic and more natural than she could have ever expected. She had no idea what to make of it, in a strange way the only thing she felt unprepared for was its simplicity. If nothing else she was good with homework, so she had read all the books, asked all the questions and had all the talks, yet none of it had really prepared her for this feeling: no pain, no real pleasure, what she felt was the joy of pure novelty, absolute newness and surprise. She stared up at Daniel and brushed his hair away from his face, he smiled at her, almost politely, which she found hilarious. She scanned his face for what he was feeling and thought it looked more intense but also more familiar. He looked interesting, vulnerable and interesting. It was funny how at the same moment she felt he was the only thing that existed, but knew a lot of what she was feeling had nothing to do with him.

Her room had grown darker and warmer. Daniel was far from her, holding her hand across the bed. She was amazed to feel nothing was irremediably different. They got dressed in silence, stepping awkwardly on their clothes and each other. Claire took his hand and walked ahead of him.

They crossed the darkened hall toward the stairs, they passed her brother Tim's room and heard the muffled clicks and rings of frantic Nintendo action, then they passed her sister Abby's and got The killers blasting through the space under the door. Claire walked a few steps ahead of Daniel, but holding on tight to his hand like she needed to make sure he was still there. They walked downstairs.

The house was dark and silent, except for the flickering light of the TV her parents were watching in the living room. Their steps were invetably loud.

- "Is Dan leaving, Cee?" - her mother called out.

- "Yes, he is"

And she kept walking, holding Daniel's hand and leading him slowly towards the door. Behind her she could feel her mom smile and her dad cringe. Daniel pulled her back and peaked into the living room to give her parents the smallest, quietest, most guilty goodbye of their lives, but he got quite the normal response: enthusiastic farewells from her mom; silent head nod from her dad.

He kissed her under the door frame and walked away. Claire watched him go towards his car: he had the bouncy, determined footsteps of a little kid; his hair fell across his face in a light mess; his green stripped t-shirt had a stain shaped like the sole of his sneakers. Claire felt a rush of giddiness come over her - he was flat out adorable, that boy that was leaving her house.

-"Dan!" - she yelled happily across the street at him.

Daniel looked up, his serious demeanor changing into a bright smile with the sound of her voice. She had called him for the sake of it and had nothing real to say so she just shrugged and waved goodbye. He beamed at her, waving back.

Claire went inside and closed the door. Leaning on the frame, she thought of Daniel and felt her entire body react. This she hadn't felt before. At first being able to summon such a powerful physical reaction with a memory was quite unsettling, but it quickly grew on her. She stood there trying it again and again, every time a rush, every time a strange warmth ran from her head to her toes. She smiled blissfully: she had acquired the coolest power.

She looked around at her house, everything felt completely still, except from the flickering light in the living room. She thought of her parents sitting there together and moved instinctively towards them, like a seven year old who had woken up scared in the middle of the night. There was something strange and disturbing about the process of growing up. How had she gone, in just a few minutes, from craving Daniel like a self aware adult to craving her parents like a fragile little girl?

She walked into the living room slowly and sat on the couch between them. They were watching the ending of a black and white movie she didn't recognize. She leaned on her mom's shoulder and her mom put her arm around her, stroking her back lazily, in silence.

Her mom's hands were wrinkled and long, and there was always something minty in the air around her. Leaning against her body Claire thought it really was suiting that her mother was a woman. She thought of herself, her body, her skin - no. It wasn't the same. She would never be as good as her mom at being a girl. She thought nobody would. Everything in her, even her flaws, were exactly what they were meant to be. She suspected it had always been this way, maybe that's why her grandparents had named her Eve; perhaps even as a baby there was something about her that felt like she was the ultimate woman. Not the prettiest nor the kindest, certainly not the softest - but the most accurate; that's what it was: her mom was the most accurate woman in the world.

She felt her dad reach over and take her mom's hand. She stared as they interlocked fingers on top of her knees. She was certain that her parents loved each other and was suddenly aware of how strange that certainty was.

She looked at her dad's heavy hands, his enormous dark eyes. Everything about him was Daniel's polar opposite. She wondered if that was a good or a bad thing and didn't understand why the question made her blush violently. And there it was, she felt it now: something was irremediably different.

- "Daniel said he loved me today" - she stated, very matter- of-factly.

Her dad's eyes pierced her so hard that for a second she thought he might have preferred to hear about what else Daniel had done that day.

-"And what did you say, kid?"

There was something disarmingly sad in the question. Claire took his arm and wrapped it around her, close.

-"I didn't say anything. But I do too."

Claire could feel her mom grinning over her shoulder. She buried her face under her dad's arm and held on to his hand. They stayed there for a long while, curled up in a ball: the two parents who loved each other and their grown up kid who loved someone else.

Ana y Miguel

Va esta historia coqueta, que quiero dejar aquí aunque esté en inglés y sea muy larga y no le haya gustado a Javier (Javier todo lo sabe así que si la odian siéntanse en excelente compañía).

Y bueno, suficiente de disclaimers, va:

ANNA AND MICHAEL

She wasn’t immediately attracted to Michael. He was sloppy and short and suspiciously quiet for someone so popular. She wasn’t interested until she heard someone else was, some girl with long messy hair, split ends, loose cargo pants and super tight Ramones t-shirts. Anna despised and envied her in equal measure. She came to her and confessed in the sweetest fashion that Michael was haunting her nights, so Anna giggled in girlish agreement and decided to want him for herself. That’s just the way some women are, and that’s the way Anna was then, before him. The next week she saw him and once opened to the possibility, gave in for real. He was tapping his long fingers on the seat in front of him; his hands looked moist and strong, like a clammy teenager’s. One look and she could feel them on her. She was sold.

Michael had never seen her before that day she came up to him. I mean he had seen her... everyone had seen her, but the thing is - long before Anna - Michael had learned to scan her type and forget it in the same glance. She just reeked of unfulfillable requirements. But then she had inexplicably invited him to a party and he had felt an inexplicable urge to attend. Then she had inexplicably come up to him and drank with him and held his hand. Then he had talked about music and she had talked about writers and they had been both - inexplicably - enthralled. Then she had leaned over and kissed him, and she tasted like whisky and mint; and she had taken him back home with her, and he had let her.

The next day when he woke up she was taking a shower so he left. An hour later, against all his better judgement, he called to apologize for leaving and to invite her out the next day. She accepted his apology casually, like she hadn’t even noticed he was gone and rejected his invitation just as casually, like he hadn’t spent the night all over her. She didn’t sound surprised that he was calling, which pissed him off enormously; he was sure he wasn’t the first complete stranger she had fucked in a drunken stupor and yet he just knew Anna would never have the displeasure of feeling cheap or easy or used. They would all call the next day, exactly like he had, because it could not be helped. He had conquered the pink cardigan and the thin perfect, skin. He was perpetually hooked, officially in deep shit.

He called every day that month and she chose to ignore it. Then out of nowhere, one night he opened the door and she was there. She smiled peacefully and kissed him like they had been married a long time, they went to a movie she had chosen and a restaurant she paid for. Then she took him back to his place and didn’t leave for a week.

Anna couldn’t remember when the whole thing turned romantic. She couldn’t place the moment she had fallen in love with the slob; the boy her parents would do their very best to approve of and fail; the boy who was a boy and would stay a boy for good. He said he wanted to be a musician but his definition of practice was jamming with strangers in after hours bars; and his definition of training was following every indie band who would ever play anywhere and learning the lyrics to every song ever sang by anyone. But he challenged her and mocked her and turned her into everything she felt she had always wanted to be. In his world she wasn’t a journalist, she was a rock and roll reporter. In his world she wasn’t a princess, she was a bohemian with high standards. In his world she was her own definition of wonderful: fun and relaxed and easily beautiful. She could eat cold pasta with her hands and walk around the living room wearing snoopy boy briefs and t-shirts.

Of course she ate the pasta with perfect manicured nails and her t-shirts were vintage Channel, but Michael fell for it all and fell for her. He was in love like he had only read people could be in love, but loved her because of things he couldn’t imagine anyone else understanding. He also felt loved back; admired by the perfect woman for all his imperfect habits; adored for everything he hated about himself. He felt needed but disregarded, completely powerless but never diminished. He loved the life she had led, although he didn’t completely fit in it, and dreaded every time he was dragged into it. He loved the life they led together because it was like a joke only the two of them got. He loved that he took her for granted and yet gasped for breath anytime she wasn’t around.

The moment whatever they were doing had become important was a mystery for both of them, but the moment it had become familiar and easy and spectacular, they could both recognize exactly: it was the night Anna came home with the projector. She had stolen it from her dad, who used it occasionally for case presentations, because she wanted to watch movies on saturday nights but she despised the crowds with the same passion she despised their tiny TV. They didn’t have a screen so they projected on the ceiling because it was the only white space big enough to act as one in their tiny apartment. They watched “The big Lebowsky” which she knew by heart and he had never seen. When it was over their room was dark and warm. She turn to look at him and realized she was looking at her family. He looked at her and simply knew that girl and him were in it (whatever it might be) together for good. They had spent their short lives expecting to find such thoughts terrifying, and were both silently and pleasantly surprised to find them comforting instead.

Anna began to buy movies like it was her purpose in life, which Michael loved because it made gift shopping easy. She accepted anything from old screwball hollywood comedies to experimental German new wave. Eventually her collection became so omnipresent Michael feared she would kick him out to make room for it. But then he hooked up the projector and held it pointing in the right direction which made him feel quite indispensable.

They spent their summers in New York with her parents, where the plan was basically to wear white without spilling on it, a feat which Michael slowly but eventually mastered. And sundays they spent visiting his father, being heavily overfed and listening to old boisterous music. Anna loved everything about those visits. She loved his huge dark arms and the way he hugged her like he could have made her disappear. She loved to bring him records and listen to him and Michael discuss them; they somehow managed to argue all afternoon despite agreeing on practically everything. He always drank two glasses of wine and by the start of the second he began to sing loudly. Anna adored the sound of his huge, accented voice bouncing off the walls, so low she could feel it hit her body.

After three years they moved to LA so she could go to grad school and - as she liked to put it - postpone growing up. Anna had given Michael a copy of “Burn to run” that Springsteen had signed for her during an interview. The night before they left for LA they brought it over to his dad’s house and spent the night listening to him sing “She’s the one” along with Bruce. For hours Anna stared at him, drinking big salty tears that fell down her cheeks and into her mouth. Years later Michael still couldn’t see his dad without thinking of Anna’s face. Anna could never think of Springsteen without missing Michael’s dad.

They had been in LA for about a year when Michael realized he wasn’t a musician; he simply had great ears and loved hanging out with them which is how he eventually fell ass backwards into managing. Not surprisingly he was great at it, he kind of enjoyed it and it also gave Anna a new wonderful answer to the question - “What does your boyfriend do?” - which (he could tell, though she would never admit) gave her enormous peace of mind. She stopped covering rock and roll nightlife and got a job at the LA times. By the time she graduated she was making the front page at least once a month. She also befriended her boss and went from intern to editor in like, a week.

Michael could see that for all her talk about not wanting to grow up, she was actually remarkable at being an adult. She enjoyed it all: paying bills and talking to the gardener and buying flower vases and meeting deadlines. They began to hardly see each other during the day and after a while they could both tell they were slowly getting attached to things the other did not care for or even understood. Once Anna sat crying in her office for forty minutes over a story she was covering; after a week she realized Michael had lied about even reading it. A few months later Michael lost one of his best clients because he was a famous family man and Anna had forgotten to show up for dinner twice. They fought a lot, or worst, lost the energy to fight, but when it got bad they had nights and movies and their ceiling and their bed. When it got bad they had this thing that was only theirs; a habit where they got each other back; a pause where they were both exactly where they wanted to be.

Then Anna got pregnant and after two days of wanting to jump off a cliff she realized she was actually ecstatic. She wanted a boy with Michael’s nose and sweaty hands. She wanted a girl who cried watching her grandpa sing. She wanted it, period. And that it had just happened seemed not only not tragic but almost precise. She was happy, and Michael seemed happy and her family was fine. Two months later she lost the baby and she realized Michael was actually relieved. By the next three weeks she was living with a stranger she disliked intensely. Within six weeks the stranger had moved out.

Ok so Michael shouldn’t have pretended he really wanted the kid. But if you think of it, come on, did he really have a choice? He was twenty nine, had an ok job and the woman he loved came to him wearing a blissful smile and announced she was pregnant. He dared anyone to be the asshole who acts crestfallen. Of course he was sad about the miscarriage; seeing Anna’s face... nothing had made him that miserable before or since. But it had ended, and that was that. Afterwards she just wanted to keep trying, just like that; like an accident had replaced a conversation. He knew there was no coming back from that. By the next week she had lost her too and he was sleeping on his sister Lynn’s couch. After a month he rented the apartment above her and left it unfurnished for as long as he was there. Anna had kept everything: the movies, the music, all their life. He refused to replace any of it.

After he left Anna spent months trying to get his smell out of her bed. She bought every Tide mix she could find, but it wouldn’t budge. She bought new sheets and they just absorbed it. She bought a new mattress, bedspread and pillows but still every night she rolled over and there it was. She felt it on her, raw and sweet and lazy, halting the pit of her stomach. At some point she took to inviting other men to sleep on it and see if that would banish it. She took in as many as she could find, as smelly as she could find them: potheads, sweaty jocks, smoky rockers, superbly old men. About three months after the breakup she heard Michael had met someone else, Faye... the name alone made her want to crawl under a table and never come out. Months passed and she was sure they were still together or Lynn would have mentioned that they had broken up. She couldn’t help herself with those kinds of news. So much so that she was sure Michael was hearing all about the endless parade of seedy men that came and went from her room. Every time one of them climbed on top of her the first thing she could see was Lynn recounting it happily, a concerned “poor little Anna” expression on her face. And she wondered if Michael would know the reason for it, and thought he might, because for all his faults, he had truly known her that well. Then she thought about time passing and how long Faye had been around, perhaps by now Michael’s sheets smelled only of Faye and yet here she was fucking some guy to exorcise him from hers. Sometimes when it was good she felt she succeeded for a second, but still when she was left alone with her face pressed under her pillow, there was Michael.

His smell stayed for so long after he was gone that Anna began to suspect it was actually coming from her. Perhaps that was possible. Perhaps it was possible to become so attached to another body that the line that separates it from yours just blurs for good. She began to resign to the fact, stopped feeling it at night or caring about it, stopped noticing it all together, and then she met Tommy. Tommy who smelled like shiny bath salts and creamy soap, Tommy who smelled like her parents’ bed right after it was made; even while he slept, Tommy had a fresh, spray-on scent. She knew she would gladly sleep next to it for the rest of her life.

Michael rarely thought of Anna, specially since he had left LA. His biggest client had moved his office to New York, he was sick of the heat and Faye wanted to move so he just followed him. Once he had run into Anna’s mother and it felt like he had crashed into a past life. The New York he lived in was so terminally different from the one she had grown up in, it was really no wonder nothing there reminded him of her. Granted going to the movies was excruciating, but Faye had such bad taste in films that he was always successful in blaming the actual movie for the pain. And then when he felt even a hint of nostalgia he remembered she was living with Tommy. Tommy for fuck’s sake! Even when they were together and Lynn introduced them to him he was sure Annie had a thing for him. Clearly she did. Tommy the diligent med student who parted his hair like fucking Don Draper. For sure by now he was an actual doctor who parted his hair like fucking Don Draper. That must be nice for Annie - he thought - a cute doctor like her daddy walking around her bedroom. Surely he was also wealthy like her daddy, and well-read like her daddy and well-bred like her daddy; generous like her daddy; kind like her daddy; and - this is where he stopped, because who was he kidding? He had loved Annie’s father, admired him deeply, and Tommy was probably just as wonderful.

He did rarely think of Anna, except for that freak incident recently when Jack had given him the “Born to run” acetate. He had locked himself in the bathroom and cried over it like a teenage girl. Memories have a strange way of creeping up on you. He knew he had loved Annie, but it had been a long time since he’d actually felt he had loved her. But he had. "Annie" - he said it out loud. Just once; and left the word hang there for a bit. It is remarkable - he thought - the way some things never end.

Tommy had called her Annie just once since they met. They were standing at a gallery, staring at some painting when he casually leaned over and whispered it into her ear. She felt like time had stopped; she could feel Michael standing in front of her; and his dad singing; and Lebowsky flickering. She could feel her entire body aching for something her head had completely forgotten. She turned around and held Tommy close, stroking his hair gently. –“Don’t call me Annie” – she said soflty, and time went on again.

La banda se casa / envejecemos

Envejecemos, chingada madre. 

Tengo 24 años. Un bebé ¿no? No. Un bebé tiene 16. 

A la banda le ha dado por empezar a casarse. Se casan dos el mismo día: Mi prima la de la cara rosita y dulce, como el algodón de azúcar de las ferias viejas; y mi amigo Juanito al que le digo Uom, porque cuando éramos de veras niños, nos carcajeamos de más con un mal chiste sobre un marcianito. 

Se casan con gente padre que prometerá, en breve y frente a toda su parentela,  verlos envejecer y aguantarse. La de Juanito prometerá aguantarlo hasta el día que la lucidez de su mente ya no le dé para acordarse de quién es Uom; el de la prima (que es tipazo) lo mismo, aguantarla hasta que su carita fresca se ponga tan afilada y amarilla como la mía empezó a ponerse desde como los quince años.  (Prueba en la foto de abajo, sólo un inconsciente va a casarse con el futuro de estas ojeras).

Envejecemos, maldita sea. Cada segundo que pasa se gasta nuestra posibilidad de avasallar, de  sorprender, de pintarnos nada más la uña del dedo gordo. Se gasta nuestra ventana potencial de jóvenes prodigio (prodigiosos somos, claro, pero digo prodigio.  A la Doogie Howser, pues).

¡Envejecemos! Y la banda se casa imposibilitando que se nos olvide. No hay para dónde hacerse:  el acarcachamiento ineludible nos entra de a poco por las uñas de los pies. (Pies que se tienen que poner en tacones escotados para las famosas bodas, colocándolos casi de boca al piso... viendo de cerca la entrada del mal). 

Envejecemos todos, hasta los más padrísimos. Hace algunos meses tuve esta conversación con mi anciano, aunque todavía precioso, novio de la prepa:  

Yo  —"¿Casar? ¿Que estás loco? ¿Cómo te quieres casar tan chico? "

Él —"Catalina, tengo casi treinta años."

Uta... me dolió más que cumplirlos.

Escuincles fantásticos

Tengo dos sobrinos que desde hace dos años comparten padres, abuelos y fecha de nacimiento.  Distintos, inseparables y adictivos, como dos tazas de buen café. 

Él es largo y payaso. Tiene la cabeza gobernada por unos chinos tan suaves e histriónicos como el resto de su cuerpo. Platica y canta todo el tiempo en una lengua de su invención, cosa que no le inhibe el showmanship en lo más mínimo. 

Ayer dio en cantar “Los pollitos dicen pío pío pío” mientras pegaba en un banco con dos batacas y un ritmo que el mismísimo John Bonham le hubiera envidiado. Yo nunca había escuchado la segunda estrofa de "Los pollitos dicen" pero mi hermana es una rocola que tararea de inmediato cualquier cosa, desde Timbiriche hasta Brahams, y se la sabe completa. La cantó con su niño, siguiendo el tempo subdividido y preciso de sus batacas.  Todo esto para decirles que la segunda estrofa de “los pollitos”  empieza diciendo “la gallina busca…bla bla ” – algo busca para que se callen los famosos pollitos. 

Mi sobrino escucha la canción una vez y decide llevar la voz. Va cantando muy coqueto:

 –“ Os pollitos icen ío ío ío, pando enen ame, ando enen ío” – y todos sus paleros lo aplaudimos como a Pavarotti. 

Mi sobrino se crece con la audiencia, decide arrojar un  poderoso falsete en el principio de la segunda estrofa y dice con toda claridad y decibel:

– “¡La gallina puta! ea í e ío” – y su tía Catalina suelta unas carcajadas indignas de su edad. 

Mi sobrino vive del público agradecido y vuelve a falsetear "la gallina puta" otras cuarenta veces en el transcurso de la tarde. Las cuarenta su tía Catalina enloquece de felicidad, mientras él echa unas sonrisas como de Paul Newman y levanta la mirada al cielo diciendo: ya que los tengo aquí ¿Qué será que hago con ustedes?

Mientras su hermana lo observa con condescendencia y devoción.

Ella tiene la cara cuadrada y los ojos rasgados como dos almendras. De repente mira al frente y me recuerda a mi novio de la infancia.  

Ayer dio en correr por el jardín y aventarse a mis brazos:

 - ¡Hace frío, frío! – decía con la dicción de una reina. Y entonces su tía Catalina la hacía bola entre sus piernas para recetarle un calorón.  

Levantó los ojos y se topó con la luna transparente de las seis de la tarde. La señaló aplaudiendo y su tía Catalina sintió adrenalina vieja en las puntas de los dedos. Cuando algo bueno sorprende a mi sobrina su carita destila una euforia que exige apropiación. 

Me enternece tocarla porque en su piel siento al mundo y a su madre y a  mí misma a esa edad limpia. En un acto de presunción supremo veo en mi edad y mis mañas de ahora, una versión (sin duda menos luminosa)  de su futuro.

Se entretiene sola, ocupada en las varias maravillas que deben caberle entre las coletas: a los dos años es dueña de sí misma. A veces cuando está sentada en su papá y su hermano corre a su alrededor y su mamá está cerca, ella mira a ninguna parte y suspira. Le toma el gesto una concentración de paz que parece decir: entiendo al universo.

Yo no le tengo culto a los niños. En general me parecen entes difíciles de tratar.  Pero estos dos podrían volver a Maléfica una idiota balbuceante.  

Estos dos van a conquistar al mundo.

Escuincles fantásticos. 

Un texto viejo sobre un hombre curvo

Ayer mientras caminaba por esta ciudad que parece estar custodiada por el diablo, sin perder la protección de una bondad  sin nombre, encontré que el mundo es una maravilla. Un señor literalmente curvo  caminaba hacia el metro. La forma de su espalda, insoportablemente vieja como toda su estampa, lo mantenía doblado sobre sí mismo como una hoja de papel. Solo y cargando dos bolsas que parecían pesar lo mismo que su cuerpo,  mantenía la vista a la altura de mis rodillas aunque era evidente que si hubiera podido enderezarse, hubiera sido más alto que yo. Solo en el metro de Nueva York a los ochenta años, o a los noventa y dos, o a los ciento cinco: cualquier edad era posible mientras fuera propia de un desvalido.

¿Dónde estaba la gente de ese hombre? ¿Lo esperaba en queens tejiendo sobre un sillón forrado de plástico? ¿Había en algún jardín dos niños sucios que lo llamaban abuelo entre carcajadas? ¿O una mujer curva que llevaba años doblándose junto a él? Quizá en el mejor de los casos. Sin embargo el hombre no parecía predestinado para el mejor de los casos.  Su falta de prisa no era la de un hombre que carga el mandado de alguien más. En las bolsas de wall mart el hombre  no cargaba chocolates para sus posibles nietos, sino leche en polvo para una despensa vacía: única cosa que lo esperaba en un departamento polvosito, tercer piso de un edificio de suburbio triste,  donde todas las vidas que pudo tener lo fueron dejando, como estaba entonces,  solo.

En Nueva York todo mundo anda solo. La única jerarquía que distingue esas soledades es la  cantidad de soledad a la que cada quien se dirige. No es lo mismo andar solo que estar solo. La ciudad termina por dividir a sus habitantes entre quien tiene alguien que lo espera y quien en su casa sigue igual de abandonado que entre sus calles. Quién es quien puede a veces adivinarse en la pupila iluminada de los acompañados. Pero en ese hombre que andaba solo, no había adivinanza posible. Solo y dando los pasos irónicos y cortos de la vejez, se subió al vagón plateado y obscuro que nos llevaba a todos juntos a lugares distintos. Soltó sus bolsas frente él y su mirada permaneció impávida a diez centímetros del suelo. Levantó unas manos blanquísimas y se aferró al tubo incrédulo que los demás pasajeros dejaron completo para él. Todo estuvo entonces en orden hasta que el tren arrancó con un jalón de mula que rompió de golpe el precario equilibrio que le había permitido al hombre llegar hasta donde estaba. Todavía tomado del tubo cayó de rodillas en el suelo. Su mirada llego todavía más abajo sin llegar a arrastrarse, cosa que yo hubiera calificado de imposible. En un instante que duró horas fue evidente que el viejo no podía levantarse solo. Todo el pasaje se disponía a ayudarlo cuando dos tipos gigantescos  y desafiantes tomaron la delantera. Vestidos diez tallas más grandes que sus cuerpos y colmados con la actitud rencorosa de todo hip hopero que se respete, se convirtieron de repente en los nietos del desconocido. La distancia de sus gestos cambió en un segundo por preocupación solícita. Tomaron al viejo de los brazos y lo levantaron con la gracia de una bailarina hasta que quedó acomodadito en la banca del rincón más cercano.  Los dos tipos se aseguraron de la propiedad del arreglo, pusieron las bolsas de Wall Mart cerca de las manos de su recién adoptado abuelo y palmearon orgullosos la  redondez de espalda que acaban de salvar.

Todo en la escena tenía un aire redentor que daba ganas de absolver al vagón completo. Y cuando el hombre levantó la cabeza por primera vez, nos otorgó la bendición definitiva: sin dejar de estar doblado en dos, se iluminó de pronto con una sonrisa bonachona que estaba fuera de contexto con el  resto de su situación. Les propinó a sus rescatadores un thanks guys tan alegre como la mejor de las noticias. Bajó sus ojos brillantes sin dejar de sonreír, como si estuviera en la sala de su casa y no en el mugroso carro del metro en el que estaba. Para coronar la coquetería se acomodó la solapa del abrigo con el revés de la mano, se peinó la calva blanca que en los viejos es elegante y dejó que el tren lo llevara hasta quién sabe dónde, hacia quién sabe quien, hacia cualquier cosa que tal vez lo acompañara. 

Home

Se me acercó despacio. Lo sentí pegarse a mi espalda con tal cuidado, que me despertó todo el cuerpo.  Estábamos haciendo fila para entrar a clase y había tanta gente en el pasillo que quedamos todos cerca, irremediablemente. Di la vuelta para verlo y de golpe perdí la emoción. Era un tipo como cualquier otro, peor que cualquier otro, porque éste era chaparrito, poco agraciado y tenía los pies envueltos en unos tennis altos, negros,  circa 1996,  en los que ni Will Smith logró verse bien nunca.

Le sonreí, tratado de ser amable. Él separó su cara del pelo que me caía sobre la espalda y asintió a medias, reclamando espacio hacia atrás para alejarse de mí. Sus ojos me recorrieron un segundo, azules, brillantes y tristes como todo en él. Tenía canas a los 24 años. Y no pocas. El cuerpo robusto y vencido al mismo tiempo. Las manos cortas y apretadas. La sonrisa contenida. Para todo efecto práctico era un anciano infantil.

Entramos al salón  y lo vi caminar con fuerza hacia el rincón más lejano.  Yo me quedé cerca de la puerta. Era el primer día de clases y tocaba presentarse. Por la mitad, la fila de adolescentes diciendo su nombre y su vicio le cedió el turno:

 “I´m Yaron” – dijo en un inglés terso y sofisticado – “I´m from Israel and ah… ”- sonrió un sonrisa intranquila y no dijo más.

 La siguiente clase su computadora colapsó y el maestro lo sentó junto a mí. Le pareció que los dos extranjeros encontrarían algo de qué hablar. Yaron arrastró su silla hasta mi lado del salón,   había algo tan intrínsecamente incómodo en ese movimiento que el maestro decidió ayudar y hacerle plática mientras llegaba. Se acomodó junto a mí justo cuando terminaban de hablar del tiempo que Yaron había pasado en el ejército israelí. Me apenó pensar que a los 19 años yo no tenía muy claro lo que significaba semejante servicio.  Ayudó que el maestro tampoco,  y preguntó con toda tranquilidad cómo era aquello. Yaron sonrió con un atisbo de hartazgo.

 “Have you ever had an awful job you dreaded every morning?” –dijo.  El maestro asintió. -“You know how even that job´s made better because you know if you really can´t stand it anymore, you can just leave, anytime?”- El maestro soltó un desparpajado “yeah” –“Well…" -dijo Yaron -"The army is not like that” –  y se permitió una risa que el maestro compartió.

 Lo demás no lo contó entonces. No contó de sus amigos  muriéndose en Gaza; ni de cómo se rompió un dedo con el marco de una ventana para escapar de tres días de trabajo de guardia; ni de cuando amanecía viendo que su ejército había bombardeado territorios palestinos cuyas coordenadas era su trabajo fotografiar. Nada de eso contó hasta mucho tiempo después, cuando yo me había cansado de pronunciar mal su nombre y había decidido (de modo completamente arbitrario) decirle Jerónimo, como el indio y el grito de guerra, como todo lo que él no era. Nada de eso contó hasta mucho tiempo después, cuando me tuvo a mí en un cuarto, atenta y sola.  Ese día  no contó más. Sólo se sentó frente a mi teclado, lejos.

“What kind of films do you like?” –dijo de pronto, como quien hace la gran pregunta. 

Estudiábamos cine y éramos unos babosos. ¿Qué más iba a preguntar?

“Mostly romantic comedies” –dije yo, que con todo y que era babosa, ya había aprendido a decir la verdad.

 “Really? Like which one?” –dijo él, siendo tan condescendiente como mi respuesta lo obligaba a ser.

 “Annie Hall” –dije yo, agregándole un giro inesperado a mi frivolidad.

 “Annie Hall is not a romantic comedy. It is one of the most influential and successful explorations made  of men and women in american film history.” –dijo él. 

Entre otras muchas  cosas era un mamón siniestro, Jerónimo. 

 “Is it not a comedy?”  -dije yo.  Él concedió la obviedad de que sí.

 “Is it not about people falling in and out of love?”  -seguí.  Él sonrió, anticipando su inminente derrota.

 “So there: a romantic comedy. The fact that it is also one of the greatest films ever made doesn´t speak to it´s lack of genre, it speaks only to my incredibly good taste in films.” – Eso dije.  No es broma.

 Había algo en Jerónimo y en sus labios y en sus terribles atuendos, que me hacía hablar como si  leyera líneas en un guión.  Nunca había derivado tanto placer de ganar una discusión idiota, menos habiéndola ganado con tanta facilidad. Pero Jerónimo me miró como un niño al que acababan de liberar del colegio; como si hubiera encontrado en mí  el aire limpio y la receta para la euforia.

De ahí, el mundo: caminamos por Brooklyn muertos de frío; vimos películas malas en el cine y películas  brillantes en su tele; hicimos siempre dos paradas por café, la mía en Starbucks, la suya en algún changarro sin denominación;  nos quedamos dormidos hablando de nada, cabeceando como títeres que no querían perderse del otro; y nos reímos todo el tiempo,  todo el tiempo, como si hubiera sido respirar.

Nos despedíamos en las noches, melancólicos y desprendidos: una mezcla incomprensible entre dos hermanos que se verían en el desayuno y dos amantes que se alejaban para siempre. Yo me recargaba en su hombro, como un perro de casa se recarga en un sillón. Y él me abrazaba temblando, como quien se atrevía a lo imposible.

 Después cambió el aire y comenzamos a reclamar cosas distintas. Pasé tanto tiempo tratando de enamorare de él, que para cuando lo conseguí ya no importaba.  Nos hicimos familia un segundo y quemamos la casa el siguiente.

Alguna vez me contó su versión del día que lo conocí en la fila – “They pushed me near you and my face fell into your hair.” –dijo, despacio – “It smelled like home. It made me wanna cry.”

-“Then what happened?” –dije yo, enterrando su cara en mis inmensos chinos mal peinados.

-“Then you became this royal pain in my ass” –dijo él, recorriéndolos con las palmas de las manos - "Still... like home."

Un cuento de niña grande (Parte 3 de 3)

Los vi caminar despacio. 

Ella le dió la mano con  desconfianza,  como  alguien que no quiere que se note por qué otras partes de ese cuerpo ha pasado. Él la recibió con una falta de ansiedad que hizo evidente que, en efecto, se conocían cada rincón.  Juntos no medían tres metros.  Eran dos cuerpecitos perfectos, como novios en la punta de un pastel rancio, pero precioso. Ella tenía una peluquita cuadrada y negra, que se doblaba igual  de un lado y otro sobre su cara.  Su cara que era casi un dibujo:  la serie mejor lograda de esferas y rectas. Eran una pareja de ficción mediocre;  como una idea de lo que todo el mundo debería ser. Ella se movía como su pelo,  de manera absoluta pero controlada, sin abrumar ni perder la perfección. Él se movía con una libertad hipnótica, cuyo éxito venía de una estructura pensada y ligera. Sus cuerpos eran una contradicción  de mediocridad y alcance. Pero juntos eran una armonía con algún rasgo divino. Juntos eran un motivo para que el agua corriente se detuviera a contemplar.  

Los ví alejarse y fue como si nunca los hubiera visto. Parados junto a mí eran dos enanos.  No tenían más gracia que su esfuerzo constante por no mirarse, aunque todos supiéramos que cuando estaban solos, se miraban, sin duda.  Parados junto a mí, daban ansia de tan poco interesantes. Parados juntos, lléndose a ser quienes eran, daban ganas de guardarlos y llevarlos a todos lados. Daban ganas de ser ellos.  De ser su tipo de gente: aburrida, simple y remilgosa. 

Dieron la vuelta y desaparecieron.  Como rastro, ella dejó el sonido rítmico de sus zapatos; él la luz de un suéter verde que hacía juego con su cinturón.  

Ya nos daba la edad para ser quien seríamos. Y yo (me quedó más claro que nunca)  no sería así. 

Un cuento de niña mediana (Parte 2 de 3)

Estábamos sentadas en unas bancas incomodísimas,  todas en hilera horizontal.  Los niños se sentaban atrás y así yo platicaba con Bambi, Lorena con Javi y Jesús con la tanga que se asomaba del pantalón sobre las perfectas caderas de Lumi. 

Julieta se hincó frente a mí con una sonrisa de conspirador, sus chinos sueltos sobre la espalda y el olor a bebé que mantienen las adolescentes guapas - ´Dice Jorge que le gustas a Rodrigo´ - me dijo, con emoción de feria. No estoy segura de lo que contesté, pero debe haber sido alentador porque en cuanto sonó la campana del primer recreo (teníamos tres, mi prepa era lo máximo) Jorge apareció en la puerta  para custodiarme hacia Rodrigo. 

-´Tus zapatos son feos como los de Manolito, el de Mafalda´- fue lo primero que le dije. 

Me habían aventado junto al desconocido en mitad de la cafetería. No tuve nada inteligente que decir, así que apelé al insulto. 

- ´No sé quién es´- contestó él. 

Sentí sus ojos sobre los horrendos tenis de platafora que yo no me había quitado en meses.  Pero era educado Rodrigo. Y no dijo nada más. 

Dos meses después le desapareció una parte crucial de la educación. Si me concentro suficiente vuelvo a sentir sus dedos fríos en mi cintura, los primeros que llegaron. 

Se presentaba todos los días con una carta de amor eterno, depositada en los soportes técnicos más variados: modelos de paletas pica piña; inmensas cartulinas pegadas por el patio; envolturas de todo tipo de chicles, dulces y chocolates. Escribía con una ortografía de su invención;  con una entrega simple, fácil, digna de la falta de miedo que sólo puede tener un niño de 16 años. Tenía una sonrisa de amplitud envidiable, que brillaba en verde por las ligas de sus brackets. Me tocaba como si fuera lo último que iba a tener entre las manos. Yo me daba el lujo de sentirme agobiada. 

Cortamos. Él se hizo el interesante. Yo me hice la víctima. Fuimos tan crueles como nos lo exigía nuestra cortísima edad. Volvimos. Vimos Mary Poppins besuqueando en un sillón. Visitamos a mi abuelita. Nos regalamos juguetes. Me cargó por toda mi casa. Le enderezaron los dientes. Nos mojamos en el patio.  Cortamos. Él me dejó de hablar. Yo lo perseguí como si hubiera sido su casera. Volvimos.  Empezó a vestirse como un príncipe. Yo me hice de otros tenis feos. Dejó de escribir cartas. Dejé de pensar en él.  Nos aburrimos. Y así. Un tiempo.

Hasta un día.

- ´Hola Tiri´- me dijo, con la naturalidad de la casi infancia.

- ´Hola Urro´ - dije yo, con la sonrisa contenida. 

-´Hay que hacer algo ¿no?´- dijo él.

Hicimos algo. 

  

Un cuento de niña chica (Parte 1 de 3)

La cocina de mi abuela es enorme y dorada. El sol entra por la ventana dibujando rayos de polvo que cortan todo el cuarto, hasta parar en el moñito rojo del delantal que mi abuela enredó solemnemente sobre su espalda antes de pararse frente a la estufa. Junto a mí hay cuatro repisas de madera inmensas en las que conviven aparatos de cocina y cacharros de todo tipo: desde un blanquísimo horno de microondas hasta una báscula pastelera con platos de bronce y pesas. Me paro sobre las puntas de los piés para alcanzar un molinito de café que descansa en la primera repisa. Pero justo cuando lo tengo entre los dedos, mi abuela me inhibe (sin soltar el aceite que cae sobre su sartén) con un -  “¿para qué quieres eso?”. Para nada, en efecto, así que lo dejo en paz. En la mesa redonda que mira hacia el jardín mi hermano desayuna pan francés en piyama; exprime un bote de miel sobre su plato con una concentración de vicio. Me mira y se ríe- “el tuyo todavía no está” – me dice mientras su lengua mueve el diente frontal que está a punto de perder.

Mi mamá acaba de irse, no sé a dónde, ni con qué urgencia. Sólo sé que hice un berrinche monumental y justificado, responsable de mis ojos rojos y la saña de mi hermano. Se fue temprano y yo sigo en el camisón de ositos que me rehúso a quitárme desde hace tantas noches, que ha ido quedando transparente a fuerza de lavadas y jalones entre mi abuela, el basurero y yo. Nada como que tu mamá te deje de manera miserable y por tanto tiempo (una semana, por lo menos) en manos del ánimo disciplinario de tu abuela  y el idiota de tu hermano. La vida es terrible y no planea mejorar. El chimuelo no para de sentirse superior porque él no lloró nada y como recompensa disfruta de un auge de consentimiento - “todos me quieren más que a tí”- me dice bajito y muerto de risa, sacando otra vez la lengua sobre su encía medio desnuda. No es el ataque más mordaz de sus días pero es suficiente para mandarnos a mí y a mis seis años al borde del abismo. Respondo con un grito incomprensible al que, por supuesto,  mi abuela reacciona desde la estufa con un regaño menor. ¡Maldita sea madre! ¿Dónde carajos estás que más valgas? Bajo la cabeza y camino hacia una gigantesca jarra de agua de jamaica que (ya lo sé) no puedo cargar sola. Pero no estoy en humor de pedirle ayuda a ninguna de mis dos  opciones, así que levanto la jarra y la empino sobre mi vaso con un éxito sorprendente. La última gota  cae y yo sonrío, triunfal por un segundo, segundo que se termina en el instante en que mi manita se dobla y una cascada de agua roja cae, primero sobre mi  camisón y después sobre el resto de la limpísima cocina de mi abuela. El chimuelo idiota se dobla en carcajadas. Yo suelto dos lágrimas gordas: una por el coraje y otra por el frío; y el golpe de gracia lo da mi abuela- “Ay Cati… No importa, nada más no vayas a llorar”.

“¡MAMÁ!” – grito entre sollozos dignos de un deudo. Corro al cuarto de mi abuela para que el chimuelo no me vea. Nadie me sigue. Lo único que puedo hacer es gritar y separame el cuerpo del camisón mojado con las puntas de los dedos. “¡MAMÁ! ¡MAMÁ! ¡MAMÁ!”- mi grado de desconsuelo tiene un sólo remedio y está para este momento en la mitad de la carretera. Ingrata, abandonadora, insoluta. No he vuelto a tener tanta pasión concentrada en un deseo tan concreto. Giro hacia la ventana (necesito aire nuevo para el grito nuevo) y aparece entre el marco, doblada hasta ser de mi tamaño, sonriendo como si tuviera mi edad y con el poder de alegría que mantiene hasta muchos años después: mamá. Me extiende los brazos sin bajarse de la ventana, cortando la luz que marca su silueta y cuando la alcanzo pinto toda su ropa de rojo. “¿Qué te hicieron mi amor?”- dice sin soltarme. Exacto madre ¿qué me hicieron? Al diablo la idiotez del chimuelo y la disciplina de la abuela. Dan tristeza: no conocen la paz de ver cumplido un deseo tan serio.