Tag: Cuentos

Patricia Suárez — Dramaturga y cuentista judío-argentina — “Misery”– Un cuento de las dificultades del amor/A short-story about the difficulties of love

Patricia Suárez

_____________________________________________

Patrica Suárez es una escritora argentina. Hija de un padre católica y una madre judía, cursó las carreras de Psicología y Antropología en la Universidad Nacional de Rosario, pero abandonó los estudios para dedicarse de lleno a literatura. Su inclinación a la escritura dramática proviene de afición literaria y no de formación escénica. Ha cultivado todos los géneros: es dramaturga, narradora, ensayista y poeta. En 1994 publicó el primer cuento El señor y la señora Schwarz. Fue alumna de la escritora Hebe Uhart. En 1997, recibió el Premio Haroldo Conti para jóvenes narradores de la Provincia de Buenos Aires por el cuento el aniversario de la muerte del Sr. Rojo. Publicó numerosos cuentos para niños por los cuales recibió premios. Hacia 1999, se interesó en la dramaturgia y tomó clases con el maestro Mauricio Kartú. Escribió alrededor de cuarenta obras. En 2012, participó como jurado en el Premio Cuento Digital. En 2021 el sello Vera de la VR editora la convoca a ser del primer certamen Lidia María Riba. Y en 2022 publicó su primera novela Segunda chance.

_____________________________________

Patricia Suárez is an Argentine writer. Her father was Catholic and her mother Jewish, she studied Psychology and Anthropology at the National University of Rosario but left her studies to devote herself fully to literature. Her inclination toward dramatic writing stems from a love of literature rather than formal training in theater. She has worked across all genres: she is a playwright, fiction writer, essayist, and poet. In 1994, she published her first short story, “El señor y la señora Schwarz.” She was a student of the writer Hebe Uhart. In 1997, she received the Haroldo Conti Prize for young fiction writers from the Province of Buenos Aires for the story “El aniversario de la muerte del Sr. Rojo”. She published numerous children’s stories, for which she received awards. Around 1999, she became interested in playwriting and took classes with the master Mauricio Kartún. She has written around forty works. In 2012, she served as a juror for the Digital Short Story Prize. In 2021, the Vera imprint of VR Editora invited her to participate as a judge in the inaugural Lidia María Riba contest. In 2022, she published her first novel, Segunda Chance

________________________________________

Misery

Oh crazy for thinking that my love could

hold you.

—DIANA KRALL

Cuando llega a mí deja entrever que estaba enamorado desde antes de conocerme. Me toma desprevenida. Leyó cosas que escribío fue al teatro y me vio, no lo sé. Tal vez se hayaprendado por una foto, un gesto, quién sabe. No le pregunto demasiado, tengo pudor. No puede creer, dice,que una mujer tan sabia pueda ser tan bella. Yo mepongo a reír, porque si me pongo a llorar ahí mismo esun bochorno. Quisiera esconderme y que no me vea. Endos segundos me pinchó, me atravesó con el alfilercomo el entomólogo a la mariposa. Bato las alas, suspiro, estoy inmóvil. Estoy loca, le digo. Sentir tanta soledad me volvió loca. Esto último se lo digo una o dosemanas después. Cuando siento que yo tenía el almaen la Oficina de Objetos Perdidos y él fue con el tickety reclamó mi alma y la suya. Esto último, nunca se lo digo.Estoy siempre delante de él mordiéndome los labios;

es como me veo.

     Así empieza:

     Está sentado en la barra Está sentado en la barra de un pub, solo, viendo teatro. Mi amiga L. se acerca, le pregunta quién es, qué hace. Me lo presentan; sigo mi camino. Ese día peleé con E.; fue una escena de celos tan infantil que terminó por hacerme gracia. Tiene a otra persona, vive con ella, pero me hace escenas. En el pub estoy haciendo el relato de los celos de E. cuando aparece él y me dicen quién es.

      A la semana siguiente lo veo dos veces. Una es por casualidad y la otra porque va al teatro. Salimos con el grupo a comer a un bodegón; la gente comienza a irse, él y yo pasamos cuatro horas conversando. Cuando vuelvo es entrada la madrugada. Por la mañana le envío un e-mail: “Perdón si te abrumé, me la pasé hablando todo el encuentro”.

       Él contesta que quedó obnubilado, fascinado o una palabra por el estilo, conmigo. Arreglamos vernos el domingo por la noche, no sé bien para qué. Pero yo no puedo quedarme hasta muy tarde; tengo apenas un par de horas, porque regresa mi hija. Él hace preguntas, sobre mi familia, mi infancia. Los amores. Él habla poco de sí mismo y me seduce con el juego de espejos, haciéndome hablar a mí. Esto lo comprendí mucho después, al final. Sobre mi hermana, me pide que le cuente de ella. Hay cosas muy tristes que sucedieron con mi hermana; no quiero hablar de eso. Le pregunto por qué quiere saber estos hechos; estoy cómoda hablando con él, pero estos hechos son muy dolorosos, me parten el corazón. ¿Qué sentido tiene…? Él se pone de pie, me besa pasando por encima de la mesa. Jaque a la reina.

     Nos vemos unos días después, un día convenido.

     Yo no sé nada sobre él, me doy cuenta.

      Está en el cono de sombra.

      Pero me atrae tanto que de pronto tengo miedo de preguntar alguna cosa y saber su respuesta. No quiero decepcionarme. Me ha enloquecido tanta decepción últimamente. Puede ser que él viva con otra mujer, su Me quiere, agrega. Así que pasan los días y yo me enamoro. Casi como una decisión consciente. Me duele el pecho, tengo taquicardia, no duermo hasta las dos de la mañana. Tengo encima una dosis extra de energía.           Suspendo las relaciones con otros hombres, los hago a un lado. A E. le explico que me enamoré de otro, que es el efecto de la flecha de oro en el corazón y aquel rollo de los griegos. E. dice primero que se alegra por mí, en el teléfono. Pero cuando lo veo para que me devuelva un libro y un cd se le llenan los ojos de lágrimas. Trato de no ver eso; cuido mi alegría como a una orquídea en el Polo Norte.

      Te adoro, me dice, me escribe este hombre. Te adoro.      

     Me llama bella y egomaníaca.

     Nunca antes había oído la palabra.

      Sufro, no cabe duda: no puedo evitarlo.

     Gozo, probablemente.

     Aumento las sesiones de terapia: voy dos veces a la semana.

      Pero él tiene muchos problemas de horarios y yo también.

     Un día viene a verme y me dice que no se puede quedar a dormir.

    O el fin de semana se va afuera.

      O en el trabajo le ponen horas extras. Nos cuesta vernos. No es un problema, pienso.

Somos uno la víctima de la agenda del otro.

      No me quejo, pasan dos semanas así, tal vez tres. Me tiene envuelta en su amor, o lo que parece su amor. Las citas siguen suspendiéndose y yo sigo sin enojarme. Nada más pienso: “He estado tan triste, que ahora que hay alegría en mi vida, no quiero perder este sentimiento”.

       Conservar el calor, ese es todo mi objetivo; lo conservo con desesperación de avaro.

      Me escribe dos o tres cartas de amor. En la última pone frases como que soy la luz de su existencia, soy el mar, la lluvia, un ser líquido que lo puede y lo vence. Es jueves.

     Nos vemos al otro día, el viernes. Critica mi forma de ser, de manejarme con el dinero. La plata no me dura lo suficiente, por un lado tengo muchos gastos y por otro no es un tema de importancia. Si me importara más, tendría más. No es la filosofía que él cultiva, noto. Hablamos de plata, de economía. ¿Por qué? Para mí él habla en chino esa tarde, quiero que me bese, que me meta en sus auto cosas bonitas, lo del mar, la lluvia, el ser líquido. Pero no lo hace. Habla de que tengo que pedir un crédito en el banco. Que no puedo seguir viviendo en este estado de caos.

      Hace tres semanas que estamos juntos y de pronto me pregunta a cuánto ascienden mis ahorros en el banco. Cuáles son mis ingresos mensuales. Si poseo tarjeta de crédito y cuál es. Dudo entre decirle los montos o no. Tiene más plata que yo, no va a secuestrarme. En ese instante calculo: “Me hace estas observaciones porque será él quién me prestará la plata para…”. Pero mi cálculo falla y él permanece en silencio, hosco, pidiéndome cuentas. Me angustio, ¿qué es esto?, ¿qué tiene que ver esto con…? Algo no funciona. Como sea, estoy herida por sus palabras; él ordena: “Andáte, andáte del bar. No quiero verte llorar”.

     Así que me voy.

     Cuando llego, E. está esperándome.

     Viene a traerme un libro y dinero prestado que le pedí días atrás.

     Me ve alterada, me pregunta qué me pasa.

     Me echo en sus brazos.

     Soy un desastre, le digo, hago todo mal.

     De modo que entre E. y yo sucede todo de nuevo.

     No le cuento nada de lo que ocurre con el otro hombre, lo que falla.

       No quiero que se haga ilusiones conmigo.

      Varios días después, veo al otro hombre. Da algunas vueltas y al fin me dice que por características personales suyas no quiere seguir viéndome de esta manera. Esas son exactamente las palabras que usa. Me desconcierta, pero no me duele. Le respondo e que sí y me da una lección de arte moderno. No es una metáfora: empieza a hablarme de arte moderno como si yo fuera su hija o su alumna. Le digo: “Cuidate”; luego salgo del bar.

      Al cabo de unos días, comienza a llamarme de nuevo. Está mal, me extraña. Quiere verme, pero a cada intento de cita pasa algo horrible a su alrededor: las hijas se enferman, se le muere un pariente, en el trabajo lo presionan, el dentista lo daña, tiene mal el estómago, los intestinos, los ojos, lo que sea: esto dura semanas enteras.

      Me encuentro alentándolo a salir adelante. Uso la voz de ir a la verdulería cuando hablo con él.

      Esa última semana E. me envía mensajes en las noches, tarde. Dice que quiere verme; tiene necesidad de verme; lo llamo. Estoy tentada de la risa cuando hablo con él. Me hace gracia cuando pronuncia frases de bolero, le tengo mucho afecto, me gusta enormemente: es un vicio y una debilidad.

     A veces es el hombre que quiero a mi lado por el resto de mi vida, aunque nunca vaya a pedírselo. Tengo miedo de mudar de opinión llegado el momento. Estoy loca, podría decirle alguna vez, loca por intentar una y otra vez, loca de tanto lamentar su ausencia las tardes de domingo. Oculto la risa en un acceso de tos y comento que estoy pasando por el final de una gripe. Le digo que venga a verme cuando tengas ganas, que estoy sola otra vez. Viene a los pocos días, pone cara de compungido porque se me terminó el amor. Es mal actor; veo cómo está de feliz. Me dice: “Contáme qué pasó”. Hago el relato pormenorizado eludiendo las escenas de sexo, para no provocar sus celos.

       “¿Tiene 45 años y se enamoró de vos antes de conocerte?”. Sí, digo. Parece que sí. “¿A vos eso no te dio desconfianza? ¿Tantas películas norteamericanas que viste y no te dio desconfianza? ¿No pensaste en Misery?   

      Después, vamos al dormitorio.

Pienso que quiero hacerlo durar lo más posible.

      Doy a E. la llavecita de abajo y la de arriba.

      Sonríe, las guarda en el bolsillo de su pantalón.    

      Hablamos de libros, lo que él lee, lo que él escribe.

      Cierra con su propia llave cuando se va.

________________________________________________________________

Misery

Oh crazy for thinking that my love could

hold you.

DIANA KROLL

When he approaches me, he hints that he had been in love with me even before we met. It catches me off guard. He read things I wrote, or went to the theater and saw me—I don’t know. Perhaps he was captivated by a photo, a gesture—who knows? I don’t ask too much; I’m too shy. He can’t believe, he says, that a woman so wise can be so beautiful. I start to laugh, because if I were to cry right then and there, it would be mortifying. I want to hide so he doesn’t see me. In two seconds, he pinned me, pierced me with a needle just as an entomologist does a butterfly. I flutter my wings, I sigh, I am motionless. I’m crazy, I tell him. Feeling such loneliness drove me crazy. I tell him this last part a week or twolater. When I feel as though my soul had beenat the Lost and Found, and he went with the claim ticket and reclaimed both my soul and his own. That last part—I never tell him that. I am always standing before him, biting my lips; that is how I see myself.

     It begins like this:

     He is sitting at a pub bar, alone, watching a play. My friend L. approaches him, asks who he is and what he does. I’m introduced to him; I go on my way. That day, I’d had a fight with E.; it was such a childish scene of jealousy that I eventually found it funny. He has someone else, lives with her, yet he makes scenes with me. At the pub, I’m recounting E.’s jealousy when he appears and I’m told who he is.

    The following week, I see him twice. Once by chance, and the other time because he goes to the theater. We go out with the group to eat at a casual tavern; people start to leave, but he and I spend four hours talking. When I return, it is the early hours of the morning. In the morning, I send him an email: “Sorry if I overwhelmed you; I spent the whole time talking.”

He replies that he was dazzled—fascinated, or some word to that effect—by me. We arrange to meet on Sunday night—I’m not quite sure for what purpose. But I can’t stay out too late; I have only a couple of hours, because my daughter is coming back. He asks questions—about my family, my childhood, my past loves. He speaks little about himself and seduces me with a game of mirrors, drawing me out to talk instead. I only understood this much later—at the very end. He asks me to tell him about my sister. Very sad things happened involving my sister; I don’t want to talk about it. I ask him why he wants to know these details; I feel at ease talking to him, but these events are deeply painful—they break my heart. What is the point…? He stands up and kisses me, leaning across the table. Check to the queen.

     We meet again a few days later, on an agreed-upon day.

      I realize I know nothing about him.

     He is in the cone of shadow.

     But he draws me in so powerfully that I’m suddenly afraid to ask anything and learn the answer. I don’t want to be disappointed. I’ve been driven mad by so much disappointment lately. It’s possible he lives with another woman—or that he loves me, he adds. So the days go by, and I fall in love. Almost as a conscious decision. My chest aches, my heart races, I stay awake until two in the morning. I’m charged with an extra dose of energy. I put a stop to my relationships with other men; I cast them aside. I explain to E. that I’ve fallen for someone else—that it’s the effect of the golden arrow in the heart, that whole Greek myth thing. E. says—over the phone—that he’s happy for me at first. But when I see him to get back a book and a CD, his eyes fill with tears. I try not to look at that; I guard my joy like an orchid at the North Pole.

“I adore you,” this man tells me, writes to me. “I adore you.”

      He calls me beautiful and an egomaniac.

      I’d never heard the word before.

      I suffer; there’s no doubt about it; I can’t help it.

      I revel in it, too, probably.

      I increase my therapy sessions: I go twice a week.

     But he has scheduling conflicts, and so do I.

    One day he comes to see me and says he can’t stay the night.

     Or he goes out of town for the weekend.

Or he gets assigned overtime at work. It’s hard for us to see each other. It’s not a problem, I tell myself.

     We are each the victim of the other’s schedule.

     I don’t complain; two weeks go by like this, maybe three. He has me wrapped up in his love—or what seems to be his love. Dates keep getting cancelled, yet I don’t get angry. I simply think: “I’ve been so sad that now, with joy in my life, I don’t want to lose this feeling.”

     Holding onto the warmth—that is my sole objective; I cling to it with a miser’s desperation.

     He writes me two or three love letters. In the last one, he writes things like how I am the light of his existence—how I am the sea, the rain, a fluid being that can overcome and conquer him. It’s Thursday.

     We see each other the next day, Friday. He criticizes the way I am, the way I handle money. My cash doesn’t last long enough; on one hand, I have high expenses, and on the other, it’s not a priority for me. If I cared more about it, I’d have more. It’s not the philosophy he cultivates, I notice. We talk about money, about the economy. Why? To me, he’s speaking a foreign language that afternoon; I want him to kiss me, to whisper sweet things—that stuff about the sea, the rain, the fluid being. But he doesn’t. He talks about how I need to take out a bank loan. How I can’t go on living in this state of chaos.

      We’ve been together for three weeks, and suddenly he asks how much I have in savings. What my monthly income is. Whether I have credit card, and which one it is. I hesitate over whether to tell him the amounts. He has more money than I do; he’s not going to kidnap me. In that moment, I reason: “He’s making these remarks because he’s the one who’s going to lend me the money for…” But my calculation is off; he remains silent, sullen, demanding an accounting. I feel distressed—what is this? What does this have to do with…? Something isn’t right. In any case, I’m hurt by his words; he orders: “Go—get out of the bar. I don’t want to see you cry.”

     So, I leave.

    When I arrive, E. is waiting for me.

He’s come to bring me a book and the money I’d asked to borrow days earlier.

    He sees I’m upset and asks what’s wrong.

    I fall into his arms.

I’m a disaster, I tell him; I do everything wrong.

And so, things happen between E. and me all over again.

I don’t tell him anything about what’s going on with the other man—about what’s going wrong.

     I don’t want him getting the wrong idea about us.

     Several days later, I see the other man. He hems and haws a bit, then finally tells me that, due to his own personal nature, he doesn’t want to keep seeing me this way. Those are the exact words he uses. It leaves me bewildered, but it doesn’t hurt. I agree, and he proceeds to give me a lesson on modern art. It’s not a metaphor: he starts talking to me about modern art as if I were his daughter or his student. I tell him, “Take care of yourself,” and then I leave the bar.

      A few days later, he starts calling me again. He’s in a bad way; he misses me. He wants to see me, but every time we try to arrange a meeting, something horrible happens in his life: his daughters get sick, a relative dies, he’s under pressure at work, the dentist botches a procedure, he has stomach trouble, intestinal issues, eye problems—you name it. This goes on for weeks.

      I find myself encouraging him to pull through. When I speak to him, I use the same tone of voice I’d use at the greengrocers.

     That last week, E. sends me messages late at night. He says he wants to see me—he *needs* to see me—so I call him. I feel like laughing when I talk to him. I find it amusing when he comes out with lines straight out of a romantic ballad; I’m very fond of him, I like him immensely—he’s a vice and a weakness.

      Sometimes he’s the man I want by my side for the rest of my life, even though I’ll never ask him for that. I’m afraid I might change my mind when the moment comes. I’m crazy—I might tell him that someday—crazy for trying again and again, crazy from missing him so much on Sunday afternoons. I hide my laughter behind a fit of coughing and mention that I’m getting over the flu. I tell him to come see me whenever he feels like it, that I’m alone again. He comes over a few days later, putting on a look of contrition because my relationship has ended. He’s a bad actor; I can see how happy he is. He says, “Tell me what happened.” I give him a detailed account, skipping the sex scenes so as not to make him jealous.

     “He’s forty-five and he fell in love with you before he even met you?” Yes, I say. It seems so. “Didn’t that make you suspicious? After all those American movies you’ve watched, didn’t it make you suspicious? Didn’t you think of “Misery?

     Afterwards, we go to the bedroom.

     I think about how I want to make it last as long as possible.

     I give E. the small key for the bottom lock and the one for the top.

     He smiles and slips them into his trouser pocket.

     We talk about books—what he reads, what he writes.

      He locks up with his own key when he leaves.

__________________________________________________________

Libros y dramas de Patricia Suárez/Books and Plays by Patricia Suárez

______________________________________________________

Cintia Moscovich–escritora, jornalista judeu-brasileira/Brasilian Jewish Writer and Journalist–“Um gênio”/”A Genius”

Cíntia Moscovich

_____________________________

Nascida em 1958 na Porto Alegre, no Brasil, Cíntia Moscovich é escritora, jornalista e mestre em Teoria Literária, tendo exercido atividades de professora, tradutora, consultora literária, revisora e assessora de imprensa. Dentre vários prêmios literários conquistados, destaca-se o primeiro lugar no Concurso de Contos Guimarães Rosa, instituído em Paris. Em 1996, publicou sua primeira obra individual, “O reino das cebolas”. Um dos contos que integram a coletânea foi traduzido para o inglês e faz parte de uma antologia que reúne escritores judeus de língua portuguesa. Em 1998, ela lançou a novela “Duas iguais – Manual de amores e equívocos assemelhados”, que recebeu o Prêmio Açorianos de Literatura em 1999. Em 2000, também pela lançou o livro de contos “Anotações durante o incêndio, que reúne onze textos de temáticas diversas, com destaque ao judaísmo e à condição feminina, merecendo outra vez o Prêmio Açorianos de Literatura. Em 2004, publicou a coletânea de contos “Arquitetura do arco-íris”, livro que lhe valeu o terceiro lugar em contos no prêmio Jabuti. Em 2006, lançou o romance “Por que sou gorda, mamãe?”,. Em 2007, lançou seu sexto livro individual, o romance infanto-juvenil “Mais ou menos normal”. Em 1998, lançou a novela “Duas iguais – Manual de amores e equívocos assemelhados”, que recebeu o Prêmio Açorianos de Literatura. Em 2000, também lançou o livro de contos “Anotações durante o incêndio”, que reúne textos de temáticas diversas, com destaque ao judaísmo e à condição feminina. Em 2013, “Essa coisa brilhante que é a chuva” foi a vencedora do Prêmo Clarice Lispector, concedido pela Fundação Bilbioteca Nacional.
___________________________

Born in 1958 in Porto Alegre, Brazil, Cíntia Moscovich is a writer, journalist, and holds a master’s degree in Literary Theory. She has worked as a teacher, translator, literary consultant, proofreader, and press officer. Among her numerous literary awards, she won first place in the Guimarães Rosa Short Story Competition, held in Paris. In 1996, she published her first solo work, “The Kingdom of Onions.” One of the short stories in the collection was translated into English and is part of an anthology featuring Portuguese-speaking Jewish writers. In 1998, she published the novel “Duas iguales – Manual de amores e equívocos similares,” which received the Açorianos Literature Prize. in 1999. In 2000, she also released the short story collection “Notes During the Fire,” which brings together eleven texts on diverse themes, highlighting Judaism and the female condition, and which again earned her the Açorianos Literature Prize. In 2004, she published the short story collection “Architecture of the Rainbow,”. which earned her third place in the Jabuti Prize for short stories. In 2006, she released the novel “Why Am I Fat, Mom?”. In 2007, she released her sixth solo book, the children’s novel “More or Less Normal.” In 1998, she published the novel “Duas iguales – Manual de amores e equívocos similares,” which received the Açorianos Literature Prize. In 2000, she also released the short story collection “Notes During the Fire,” which brings together texts on diverse themes, highlighting Judaism and the female condition. In 2004, she published the short story collection “Architecture of the Rainbow.” In 2006, she released the novel “Why Am I Fat, Mommy?” In 2013, “This Bright Thing That Is the Rain” won the Clarice Lispector Prize, awarded by the National Library Foundation.

_________________________________

Um gênio.

 Aos dez anos de idade, única filha de um casal descendente de imigrantes judeus, nascida depois de muitas e várias tentativas — portanto cheia de mimos, denguices, babados e brinquedos e tudo quanto me desse na telha —, logo de mim, a unigênita, o pai queria que eu fosse nada mais nada menos do que isso — uma criança genial.

Assim: tinha de saber de cor as estrofes iniciais d’Os Lusíadas (“Cesse tudo o que a Musa antiga canta,/ Que outro valor mais alto se alevanta”), ouvir calada e atenta — e ainda por cima gostar — a todas as árias de todas as óperas que tínhamos em casa — principalmente Una furtiva lacrima, no vozeirão de Enrico Caruso, e a Casta Diva, gravada por Maria Callas —, espremer os pés em sapatilhas nas classes de balé, assistir às terríveis aulas de piano e de inglês de dona Vivi, além das lições de francês com madame Vichy.

***

—Shein vi di levone.

Bomita como lua, título de uma antiga canção que imigrara junto com a família de Bessarábia. Música que, segundo ele, fora composto para mim, filha linda. E mesmo os anos passando, nunca esqueci daqueles abraços que tinham o perfume almiscarado úmido da espuma de barba.

           Coisa boa da vida.

**********

           De tudo que eu cumpria como rutina diária, o que me propiciava mais divertimento, além de brincar, eram coisas de fazer de conta: na escola, tinha adoração pelas aulas de português e pelas peças de teatro, e, em casa passava horas deitada de barriga para baixo, as pernas dobradas, os pés se balançando, queixo apoiado nas mãos.  Eu adorava ler. Piano, balé, inglês, francês—coisas porque pai dizia, a gente tinha de ser cultivada—tudo isso eram pedágios caríssimos para aquelas horas em a vida, pero, preto no branco, era puro desfrute. Meus país nunca fixarem nenhum esforção, nenhuma ameaça, nada: eu era naturalmente l, fato que, imagino, também me dava munição suficiente para engendrar situações para as aulas de teatro.

          Passei a nutrir dois secretos desejos: eu queria escrever e trabalhar como atriz—Quimeras que a ninguém revelei talvez porque, no fundo, achava que que aquilo ainda ia acabar mal.

          O erro máximo se deu quando um dia, na mesa do almoço, se conversava sobre escolher ima profissão—num futuro remoto, portanto. Se eu me tivesse calado, teriam me incluído no rol dos sábios. Mas eu falei:

         – -Quando eu crescer, quero ser escritora e atriz.

O rosto do pai ficou vermelho—depois quase verde. A mãe acho melhor tirar os pratos da mesa, quase se esquecia do cafezinho, tinha deixado para coar: saiu de fininho tilintando louças e talheres.

O patriarca rimbombou:

         –Atriz? Escritora? Tanto dinheiro em estudos e livros para ser atriz e escritora?

         Tentei dizer a ele que eu gostava de teatro e gostava de contar histórias: queria a carreira de uma grande atriz dramática e escrever como Monteiro Lobato.

         —Atriz dramática? Escritora? –o pai ia ter um troço. Encheu um copo com água e tomou dois pequemos goles: acalmava-se o algo parecido.  

         A mãe, agora trazendo o bule de café e as xícaras para a mesa, ousou intrometer-se:

      –Mas não é você quer que ela recite poemas de cor e que goste de ópera? Porque ela não pode ser artista.

        Bingo, mãe. O pai  fez um movimento afirmativa, que tanto podia significar que ele aceitava o cafezinho recém passado quanto a culpa no cartório que realmente tinha. Deu sequência a conversa, num tom até ameno:

         –Entendo que você goste de teatro é de literatura, todos nós gostamos. Mas como é que você pretende sobrevivir com teatro ou literatura?

         É, eu sabia que queria um futuro para mim bom—que incluía não ter de passar forme como elas tinham passado quando eles tinham passado quando as famílias chegaram ao Brasil. Tentei amenizar era tão bonito ser uma personagem, que nem aquelas que nem aquelas que ele e a mãe viam no Teatro São Pedro; além do mais eu achava que tinha nascida para ser escritora e não me importava em não ser rica. Ele fez “ach” de desprezo com a mãe. Eu desafiei: e quem sabe eu fosse que nem Scholem Aleichem, de quem ele gostava tanto? Como Erico Verisssimo? E eu se fosse uma Bibi Ferreira ou uma Julie Andrews?

          –Tudo muito bonito, mas não crio filha para ser atriz, dessas que bebem e fumam outras coisas que nem é bom falar. –O caldo m tinha engrossado. –Além do mais, você não nasceu para ser escritora, ao menos até que prove o contrário. —E lembrou que ele não era nenhum Procópio Ferreira para ter filha atriz.

—Você vai ter um dê e um erre antes do nome “doutora”. Depois do diploma na minha mão, decide-se o resto—decretou, cravando-me uma um olhar impositivo. E sem medir a raiva, já siando da mesa: —Se você está pensando em ser isso ai –e havia uma intenção satânica no isso ai—então tenho que vai a vai viver de nariz quebrado (um perdedor) …

         Passai a considerar a possibilidade de ser médica. Além de, claro, seguir as carreiras de atriz é escritora.

********

Nossa família tinha uns pequenos de roupas para senhoras e gestantes. Nada demais, nenhum empregado, apenas um negócio que nos mantinha num bom patamar de vida, fato que possibilitava o monte de aulas para sem ser uma pessoa cultivada.

********

 MUITO DESPOIS, EM A ESCOLA 

          Perto das dez da manhã, o exiliar de disciplina bateu na nossa sala de aula, chamavam-me na direção. Engoli em seco e, bravamente, trilhe se o caminho pelo corredor silencioso.

          Os dois já se reuniam lá com dona Malvina. O pai de terno gravata, e a mãe tinha feito um coque no cabelo, vestido um tailleur é o color de pérolas com fecho de brilhantes; senti que ela havia colocado Cabochard, preciosa reservada para os dias de festa. A cerimónia do momento era tão grande eu a loja estava fechada—que, então estaria atendendo? E a loja só era ocasiões muitíssimo especais.

          Foi a diretora a iniciar a conversa:

          –Chamei-os aqui porque tenho algo importante a dizer.

          O pai mexeu-se cadeira, odiava obviedades. A diretora continuou:

          A filha de vocês es mui criativa.

          O pai adorava que me elogiassem. Dona Malvina prosseguiu:

          –Tenho aqui comigo uma redação feita por ela sobre a amizade. Desculpem-me, mas tenho de saber se algum de vocês ajudou a escrevê-la.

          O pai e a mãe se entreolharam. Responderam que não: quando ela precisava de ajuda, era em matemática, nunca para escrever. A diretora ficou feliz com a reposta:

          –Foi o que imagine—abriu uma pasta e, de dentro de ela retirou minha relação—É impressionante.

          O pai deu um salto, arrancando o papel da diretora; a mãe se pendurou para lero que estava escrito. Dona Malvina foi didática:

         Faz menções a O Pequeno Principe de Saint Exupéry, mas também demonstra que aluna tem ideias próprias. Muito singulares e profundas.

          A mãe es distraiu por um momento:

          –Já sei por sumiu um pacote de açúcar da dispensa—logo depois se corrigiu:–Ah, mas não tem importância.

           O peito do pai se encheu, estufado. A diretora lançou a minha sorte:

          –Talvez seja precipitado—refletiu. E daí salvou a pátria:–Pelo que ela tem ela tem demonstrado nos trabalhos anteriores e principalmente nesse, acho que tem vocação para ser escritora.

          Ima chuva de estrelas dentro de mim. Dona Malvina arrematou:

          –At onde eu soube, ela quer se formar em medicina. E também atriz e escritora Parabéns. O futuro depende de incentivo. Parabéns.

        O pai não sabia mais o que fazer. E ali, na sala da diretora, em meio á cerimonia do momento, ele me abraçou muito forte, tão forte que me levantou do chão. E ouvi ele sendo a pai mais feliz do mundo:

          Shein a di levone  

         A bonito-do pai tinha uma futura pela frente.

         Saímos os três abraçados.

         Naquela noite, o pai abriu um vinho português que estava guardado fazia tempo. Serviu-me num cálice um tantinho com água e açúcar.

          —Lechaim—levantou em saudação a taça no ar.

          Foi a primeira que pude fazer um brinde com os adultos. Eu era feliz ali mesmo, nem precisava de um futuro….

_____________________________

A genius

At ten years old, the only child of a couple descended from Jewish immigrants, born after many, many attempts—and therefore showered with pampering, indulgences, frills, toys, and everything else I could imagine—my father, an only child, wanted me to be nothing more, nothing less than that—a genius.

Therefore: I had to know by heart the first stanzas of The Lusiadas (“Cease all that the ancient Muse sings, / For another, higher value, arises”), listen silently and attentively—and even appreciate—every aria from every opera we had at home—especially “Una furtiva Lacrima” sung by Enrico Caruso, and La Casta Diva, recorded by Maria Callas—put my feet in ballet slippers, attend Dona Vivi’s terrible piano and English lessons, and take French lessons from Madame Vichy.

**********

—Shein saw di levone.

“Beautiful as the moon,” the title of an old song he had immigrated with his family from Bessarabia. A song he said he had composed for me, his beautiful daughter. And even as the years passed, I never forgot those hugs that carried the moist, musky scent of shaving foam.
A good thing in life. . .

Of all the daily routines I performed, what gave me the most fun, besides playing, were intended activities: at school, I adored Portuguese lessons and plays, and at home, I spent hours lying on my stomach, legs bent, feet dangling, chin resting on my hands. I loved reading. Piano, ballet, English, French—things because my father said we had to be cultivated—all of these were very expensive tolls for those hours in life, but, in black and white, it was pure enjoyment. My parents never made any effort, any threat, nothing: I was naturally like that, a fact that, I imagine, also gave me enough ammunition to concoct situations for drama classes.

I began to harbor two secret desires: I wanted to write and work as an actress—fantasies that I revealed to no one perhaps because, deep down, I thought it would still end badly.
The biggest mistake came when one day, at the lunch table, we were talking about choosing a profession—in the distant future, that is. If I had kept quiet, they would have included me among the wise. But I said:
“When I grow up, I want to be a writer and an actress.”
The father’s face turned red—then almost green. The mother, I think I’d better clear the dishes from the table; she’d almost forgotten the coffee, she’d left it brewing. She quietly left, clinking dishes and cutlery.
The patriarch boomed out: “Actress? Writer? So much money for studies and books to be an actress and a writer?” I tried to tell him that I liked theater and storytelling: I wanted a career as a great dramatic actress and to write like Monteiro Lobato.
The dramatic actress? A writer?” Her father was
going to have a fit. He filled a glass with water and
took two small sips: something like that calmed
him down. Her mother, now bringing the coffee pot and cups to the table, dared to interject:
“But don’t you want her to recite poems by heart and like opera? Because she can’t be an artist.”
Bingo, Mom. The father nodded, which could have meant either accepting the freshly brewed coffee or the guilt he truly felt. He continued the conversation, in a mild tone:
–“I understand that you like theater and literature, we all do. But how do you intend to survive with theater or literature?”
Yes, I knew I wanted a good future for myself—one that included not having to go hungry like they had, when their families arrived in Brazil. I tried to soften the blow: it was so beautiful to be a character, like the ones he and his mother saw at the São Pedro Theater; Besides, I thought I was born to be a writer and didn’t care about not being rich. He made a dismissive “ah” at his mother. I challenged: what if I were like Scholem Aleichem, whom he liked so much? Like Erico Verisssimo? What if I were a Bibi Ferreira or a Julie Andrews?
“It’s all very nice, but I’m not raising a daughter to be an actress, the kind who drinks and smokes other things that aren’t even worth talking about.” The situation had become more difficult. “Besides, you weren’t born to be a writer, at least not until you prove otherwise.” And he remembered her that he wasn’t Procópio Ferreira to have an actress daughter.

“You’ll have a d and an r before the name ‘doctor.’ After the diploma is in my hand, the rest will be decided,” he decreed, fixing me with an authoritative look. And without measuring his anger, he already left the table: “If you’re thinking of being that—and there was a satanic intention in that—then I’ll have to go and live with a broken nose (a loser)… Start considering the possibility of being a doctor. Besides, of course, pursuing careers as an actress and a writer.”

****************

Our family had a few small women’s and maternity clothing stores. Nothing special, no employees, just a business that kept us at a good level A fact that made it possible to take a lot of classes without being a cultured person.

****************

MUCH LATER ON AT SCHOOL

Around ten in the morning, the disciplinary officer knocked on our classroom; they called me to the principal. I swallowed hard and bravely made my way down the silent hallway.
The two of them were already there with Dona Malvina. The father wore a suit and tie, and the mother had tied her hair in a bun, wearing a pearl-colored suit with a diamond clasp; I sensed she had put on Cabochard, a precious jewel reserved for special occasions. The ceremony of the moment was so grand that the store was closed—so who would be open? And the store only closed for very special occasions.
It was the principal who initiated the conversation:
“I called you here because I have something important to say:
The father shifted in his chair; he hated to be obvious. The principal continued:
“Your daughter is very creative.” My father loved to be praised. Dona Malvina continued:
“I have here with me an essay she wrote about friendship. Excuse me, but I need to know if any of you helped her write it.”
Her father and mother looked at each other. They answered no: when she needed help, it was with math, never with writing. The principal was pleased with the answer.That’s what I imagined,” she opened a folder and took out my report. “It’s impressive.”
The father jumped, snatching the paper from the principal; the mother clung to it to read what was written. Dona Malvina was didactic: “It mentions Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, but it also shows that the student has her own ideas. Very unique and profound.”
The mother was distracted for a moment: “I already know why a packet of sugar is missing from the pantry,” she corrected herself immediately. “Ah, but it doesn’t matter.”
The father’s chest swelled, puffed out. The principal cast my lot:
“Maybe I’m being hasty,” she reflected. And then she saved the day: “From what she’s demonstrated in her previous works, and especially in this one, I think she has a vocation to be a writer.” “A shower of stars inside me.” Dona Malvina concluded:
–As far as I know, she wants to graduate in medicine. And also as an actress and writer. Congratulations. The future depends on encouragement. Congratulations.
My father didn’t know what else to do. And there, in the principal’s office, in the midst of the ceremony, he hugged me tightly, so tightly that he lifted me off the floor. And I heard him being the happiest father in the world:
Shein a di levone
My father’s beautiful daughter had a future ahead of her.
The three of us left, arms around each other.
That night, my father opened a bottle of Portuguese wine that had been stored for a long time. He poured me a small amount of water and sugar in a glass.
—Lechaim—he raised the glass in the air in greeting.
It was the first time I was able to make a toast with the adults. I was happy right there, I didn’t even need a future…

Paula Varsavsky — Cuentista judío-argentina/Argentine Jewish Short-story Writer — “La libertad de los huérfanos”/”The Orphan’s Freedom”//”Consejos”/”Advice” — Dos cuentos/Two stories

Paula Varsavsky

_________________________________

Paula Varsavsky es escritora de ficción, docente y periodista argentina. Vive en Buenos Aires. Sus obras de ficción son las novelas Nadie alzaba la voz (Emecé, 1994), publicada también en en Estados Unidos en traducción al inglés por Anne McLean No One Said a Word (edición de tapa dura Ontario Review Press, 2000; edición rústica y electrónica Wings Press, 2012), El resto de su vida (Mondadori, 2007) y la colección de cuentos La libertad de los huérfanos (La mariposa y la iguana, 2022 y Lastarria y de Mora, 2023). En cuanto a no-ficción publicó Las mil caras del autor (EDUVIM, 2015, RIL Editores Chile 2016, RIL Editores España, 2018 y L´HARMATTAN, 2023 traducida al francés por Luis Dapelo Les Mille visages de l´auteur) que es una compilación de conversaciones con británicos y estadounidenses. Ha entrevistado a a Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Ford, David Lodge, Hanif Kureishi, Edmund White, David Leavitt, Siri Hustvedt, Ali Smith, Esther Freud, William Boyd, Meir Shalev, Aharon Appelfeld, Nicole Brossard, Margaret Atwood, Graham Swift y E.L. Doctorow, entre muchos otros.

_________________________________________

Paula Varsavsky is an Argentine fiction writer, teacher and journalist. She lives in Buenos Aires. Her works are the novels Nadie alzaba la voz (Emecé, 1994), also published in the United States in English translation by Anne McLean No One Said a Word (Ontario Review Press, hardcover edition of 2000 and Wings Press, 2013 paperback and e-book edition). El resto de su vida (Mondadori, 2007) and the collection of stories La libertad de los huérfanos (La mariposa y la iguana, Argentina, 2022 and Lastarria y de Mora Spain, 2023). Her non-fiction work Las mil caras del autor  (EDUVIM, 2015, RIL Editores Chile 2016, RIL Editores España, 2018 y L´HARMATTAN, 2023 translated into French by Luis Dapelo Les Mille visages de l´auteur) is a collection of conversations with British and American writers. She has interviewed a Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Ford, David Lodge, Hanif Kureishi, Edmund White, David Leavitt, Siri Hustvedt, Ali Smith, Esther Freud, William Boyd, Meir Shalev, Aharon Appelfeld, Nicole Brossard, Margaret Atwood, Graham Swift y E.L. Doctorow, among many others.

_____________________________________________

“La libertad de los huérfanos“

Hay un sueño que tuve una gran cantidad de veces. Mi padre estaba vivo. Yo lo encontraba después de pasar dieciocho años sin verlo. Papá no se sorprendía ni se alegraba. Diría que hasta me evitaba. El hecho de encontrarse conmigo parecía un problema para él, no le generaba felicidad. Le reprochaba que no me hubiera buscado, que no se hubiera contactado conmigo durante tantos años. Papá apenas me escuchaba. Estaba con su mujer, ella me miraba esquiva. Yola odiaba más que nunca. Papá estaba delicado de salud. Ella lo había cuidado.

Pero a papá lo habían enterrado, yo lo había visto, argumentaba en mi sueño. Había observado cómo descendía el ataúd, lo habíamos cubierto con tierra. Ahí había quedado solamente unos días, me contestaban personas que, en el sueño, no lograba reconocer.

Una variante del sueño era que yo viajaba a Roma, donde mi padre había vivido los últimos nueve años de su vida y, de alguna forma extraña, mientras caminaba por la Piazza Navona, daba con su casa. Se trataba de un apartamento distinto del que él había tenido. El de mi sueño tenía los techos más bajos, se asemejaba a uno de Buenos Aires. Yo estaba furiosa porque no me habían invitado a hospedarme allí. ¡Cómo podía ser que estuviera en la misma ciudad y que a él no le importara!

Otra vez soñé que lo encontraba después de veinte años. Veinte años sin verlo. Lo había llamado por teléfono de­cenas de veces, no me atendía. Creía que quizás a través del e-mail hubiese podido ubicarlo. Sin tener en cuenta que, obviamente, en esos años pasados no existía el mail «Claro, si supiera su e-mail, si supiera su e-mail», pensaba en el sueño. Me despertaba agotada por los esfuerzos denodados que había hecho por encontrar a mi padre. Estaba cerca, varias veces había estado cerca, pero no lograba dar con él. Aquella vez, al levantarme, advertí que faltaban dos días para que se cumplieran veinte años de su muerte. Sentía la presión de mantener vivo su recuerdo. Sin embargo, me costaba más. Cada año se alejaba más.

Algunas veces, en mis sueños, aparecía mi hermana y me pasaba algún dato acerca de él. Ella sí había logrado contactarlo. Yo me enfurecía porque no me había pasado su teléfono con suficiente rapidez. Las respuestas de papá, si lograba que me contestara algo, eran vagas, confusas, se le notaba abatido, sin interés por verme.

En todos estos sueños, papá estaba mal de salud. Pero nunca me quedaba claro qué tenía. Era inasible.

Papá murió cuando yo tenía doce años. Luego de que pasaron más de veinte, ya no llevé la cuenta.

Hoy es el Día del Padre. De pronto advierto que hace mucho que no sueño con él, ni vivo ni muerto. Ya no me siento presionada por buscar un padre sustituto, ni lamento no poder festejarle. Probablemente descanse en paz mientras yo disfruto de la libertad de los huérfanos.

____________________________________

____________________________________

“An Orphan’s Freedom”

There’s a dream I used to have again and again. My father was alive. We hadn’t seen each other in eighteen years, and I’d found him. Dad wasn’t surprised. Nor was he glad to see me. It felt like he’d been avoiding me. The fact that we were together again seemed problematic to him—he wasn’t happy about it. I reproached him for not having looked for me, for not having contacted me all those years. Dad hardly listened to me. He was with his wife, who looked at me coldly. I hated her more than ever. Dad wasn’t in good health, and she’d been taking care of him.

But my father had been buried, I’d seen it with my own eyes. I’d watched the coffin lowered before we covered it with earth. He’d only been down there for a few days, they told me.

In another version of the dream I travelled to Rome, where my father had lived for the last nine years of his life. Strangely, as I walked around the Piazza Navona, I came upon his home, an apartment in Rome that was different from the one he’d actually lived in. The apartment in my dream had lower ceilings and looked like one you’d see in Buenos Aires. I was furious because they hadn’t asked me to stay with them. How could he not care I was in Rome?

In all these dreams Dad wasn’t doing well. But I never really understood what was wrong with him. It was hard to grasp.

Another time I dreamed I’d found him after twenty years. Twenty years and I hadn’t seen him. I’d called him dozens of times but he’d never answered. I wished email had existed back then. I figured it might have been a way to find him. “If only I had his email, if only I had his email,” I thought in the dream.

I’d wake exhausted after tirelessly searching for my father in my dreams. I was close, several times I was close, but I never got to him. In two days, twenty years would have passed since his death. I felt I had to keep his memory alive, but it was getting harder and harder. Each year he slipped further away.

Some nights when I had the dream my sister shared information about my father with me. She’d been able to reach him. I’d be furious with her because she hadn’t given me his phone number earlier. Dad’s replies, if I was able to get him to say anything, were vague, confusing. He seemed despondent, as though he wasn’t interested in seeing me.

Dad died when I was twelve years old. After more than twenty years had gone by I stopped keeping track. It’s been a while since I’ve dreamed of him, dead or alive.

  Today is Father’s Day. I don’t feel compelled to look for a surrogate father anymore, nor do I wish I could be with him today. He’s probably resting in peace, while I enjoy an orphan’s freedom.

Translated by Sarah Moses

_____________________________________________________

“Consejos”

Anahí estaba segura de que no le convenía volver a salir con Damián. Pero a pesar de habérselo dejado bien claro, él no hacía más que mandarle e-mails contándole lo desesperado que estaba por ella. Una madrugada, luego de una noche de tormenta en la que apenas logró conciliar el sueño, ella le respondió. A los quince minutos, Damián la llamó por teléfono; enseguida combinaron para salir esa noche. La separación que había impuesto Anahí un mes atrás había terminado en forma abrupta: a partir de entonces volvieron a verse en esa rutina de espacios de tiempo indefinidos en los que él lograba escaparse de su mujer.

   Hacía tres años, el marido de Anahí había muerto en un accidente de auto. Ella vivía sola con sus hijas, así como Damián convivía con su mujer y su hijo. Anahí trataba de quitarle peso al matrimonio de él: «No está casado legal­mente», pensaba intentado consolarse. Pero sabía que, en una pareja, los papeles no tenían ninguna importancia; él era un padre de familia.

   A ella le desesperaba corroborar que su cuerpo y su men­te iban por carriles paralelos que le parecían imposibles de compatibilizar. Por un lado, no quería seguir con él, sabía que la situación era peligrosa, como le había dicho una ami­ga: «¿Qué sabés cómo puede reaccionar la mujer? Vos sos la única responsable de tus hijas, te ponés en riesgo». Por otro lado, sentía una atracción tremenda por él; lo que más le gustaba de la relación era el sexo.

     En un intento renovado de comprender ese vínculo que la hacía sentir siempre desdichada, salvo en los momentos en que hacían el amor, creyó que compartir sus dilemas con más amigos la ayudaría.

Un mediodía de enero, mientras sus hijas estaban en el club, se encontró en un café cercano a su trabajo con su amigo Gastón, un hábil periodista político que sabía definir con rapidez el perfil de una persona.

    -Es raro eso de que salgan también los sábados -comentó con una leve sonrisa después de escucharla con atención. Ante el silencio de Anahí, continuó–. Evidentemente, él te ve a vos como una pareja. Pero no lo sos, porque está con la mina. El hecho de engancharse con una mina más chica, como hizo Damián con su mujer, tiene su atractivo. Durante un tiempo sos Dios. Ella te idealiza, es gratificante. El tema es que después se vuelve aburrido. En su momento le debe haber gustado sexualmente. Supongo que se fija mucho en la estética. En vos debe haber encontrado alguien que está a la par, con quien puede compartir otros temas, inclusive con quien salir. Pero es probable que, si hoy en día le decís que elija entre estar con vos o con ella, se quede con ella.

       Gastón hizo una pausa.

     -O sea, a ver si lo puedo explicar mejor: si le hacés el planteo de que terminen la relación, va a actuar haciéndose el que aquí no pasa nada, que está todo igual.

     Anahí le comentó que eso era exactamente lo que le había sucedido. Sonó el celular de ella y atendió. Sonrió. Gastón le guiñó un ojo para darle a entender que sabía de quién se trataba.

     Gastón le advirtió.

    -Volvé a planteárselo, pero con firmeza. –No transés nada intermedio. Que no te venga con promesas.

   Y después: -Buscáte un tipo que no esté casado -esto fue lo últi­mo que le dijo.

   El domingo siguiente, almorzó con una amiga en una can­tina de Almagro:

  -Sos su sostén, él puede conservar la relación con su mujer gracias a que vos estás ahí. Si no estuvieras, le se­ría mucho más difícil. Te lo digo porque lo viví de los dos lados. A veces, después de encamarme fantástico con un amante, volvía a mi casa y pensaba que, en realidad, estaba muy bien con mi marido. Al final, él me dejó por una mina fea y aburrida, no sé qué le vio.

  Anahí alternaba momentos en que lo amaba con otros en que lo detestaba.

   «Él vuelve a un drama», le aseguró otra amiga, casada y con cuatro hijos, alguien que sabía de qué podía tratarse un mal matrimonio. Anahí recordó el tiempo en que su marido y ella discutían por cualquier tema, pero su pareja nunca había llegado a convertirse en una pesadilla. Ya pasaron más de tres años de su muerte, ¡qué lejano parece!, pensó.

    -Vos no, vos estás bien en tu casa con tus hijas. Tenés una vida bastante placentera.

     ¿Creés que soy una estúpida? ¿Qué no me doy cuenta de que me cogés cuando querés? Ensayó las dos frases antes de encontrarse a cenar con Damián unos días más tarde. No le había dicho de ir a tomar un café para disimular que se trataba de una nueva ruptura.

     Pero aquella cena fue patética, comenzó con el planteo de ella, de que esta vez sí deberían poner fin a la relación.

     Entonces él le pidió explicaciones. Ella había pinchado un ravioli de verdura, que voló por el aire.

   -Una impresentable, eso es lo que soy para vos -le contestó a Damián mientras el raviol cayó sobre el mantel junto con la salsa blanca que tenía encima.

   A Damián empezó a sangrarle la nariz, la moza le alcanzó hielo. Tomó un cubito y lo sostuvo en una mano; con la otra, desplegó una servilleta blanca de algodón tipo sábana. Ella no atinó a ayudarlo, se mantuvo en silencio.

     Sabía que él jugaba con sus sentimientos. ¿Se hará otra vez el sorprendido?, se preguntó Anahí. La nariz había dejado de sangrarle cuando él intentó convencerle de que la quería. Que pensara lo que le estaba diciendo: así no podían seguir, le retrucó ella.    

     Volvió a sangrarle la nariz. Y fue entonces que él se puso a hablarle de su propio proceso. A Anahí le disgustó doblemente: por lo que había sucedido en el país y por el que él trataba de inventarle. Me pide que permanezca cerca de él en una situación que no tiene reglas, concluyó, pero prefirió no decírselo. Según Damián, eso que ella le proponía se contradecía con su proceso interno.

   De pronto ella vio que corría una lágrima por su mejilla. Se posó sobre la sangre que todavía le quedaba alrededor de la nariz, llegó al mentón color rosa. Al fin cayó sobre el mantel. Ya hablamos de que no podemos seguir siendo una pareja -dijo entonces Damián.

   Ella dedujo que se refería a él y a su mujer. La servilleta manchada seguía sobre la mesa hecha un bollo. ¡Qué roja es la sangre!, pensó Anahí.

   -¡Y nuestro hijo en el medio!-agregó.

    Las lágrimas que le cayeron lograron conmoverla. Le tomó una mano, le acarició lentamente una de sus mejillas húmedas.

     Él le preguntó cuándo se volverían a ver. Anahí dudó un instante y siguió uno de los tantos consejos que le habían dado sus amigos.

    -Si en marzo te separás, avísame.

     A principios de abril, cuando hacía un mes que sus hijas estaban encaminadas en primero y tercer grado y ella es­taba finalizando los detalles de una nueva producción que lanzarían por televisión, al mirar su celular, vio una llamada perdida: era de Damián. No quiso prestarle atención ni des­concentrarse. Cuando estaba por salir de la oficina, él volvió a llamar.

    -Me separé -fue loque dijo.

   Conmovida, atinó a preguntarle dónde estaba viviendo, él contestó que en su estudio de grabación. La invitó a cenar allí mismo disculpándose por no tener todavía una casa armada:

    -Duermo en un colchón en el piso.

   Anahí repasó mentalmente las personas que podrían cui­dar a sus hijas esa misma noche cuando fuera a verlo.

    El lunes siguiente, Anahí le comentó a una compañera de trabajo, que conocía su relación con Damián, el último giro que había dado su vínculo, lo bien que lo habían pasado juntos ese fin de semana.

     -Bueno, se podría decir que ustedes la hicieron como corresponde. Es cierto que antes eras su refugio secreto, pero ahora te usa para separarse. Además, no se sabe cuánto puede durar eso, digo, muchas vuelven, viene la gran reconciliación y otro hijo. Eso es un embole (1) ,yo lo pasé, no te lo recomiendo -le dijo, dio media vuelta y empezó a caminar hacia el pasillo.

Anahí supuso que aquellas no eran más que pavadas, pre­firió olvidar la advertencia. Solamente recordó el chicle que tenía su compañera en la boca mientras le habló.

_______________________

(1) Frustración, hastío, mal rollo.

_______________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

“Advice”

By Paula Varsavsky

Anahí was sure that it wasn’t a good idea to go out again with Damián. But despite her having made that very clear, he persisted in sending her emails telling her how desperately he needed her. One morning at dawn, after a night of torment in which she could barely get to sleep, she responded to his emails. Fifteen minutes later, Damián called her; immediately they made plans to go out that night. The separation that Anahi had imposed a month earlier had ended abruptly: from then on, they once again saw each other in a routine of indefinite time between when he was able to get away from his wife.

Three years earlier, Anahí’s husband had died in an automobile accident. She lived alone with her daughters. Just to downplay his marriage: “He isn’t legally married,” she thought, trying to console herself. But she knew that, for a couple, the papers didn’t matter at all; he was the father of a family.

    She tried desperately to make sure that her body and her mind were on parallel tracks which seemed impossible to reconcile. On the one hand, she didn’t want to go on with him; she knew that the situation was dangerous, as a friend had told her: “How do you know how the woman will react? You are the only one responsible for your daughters, you are putting yourself at risk.” On the other hand, she felt a tremendous attraction for him; what she most liked in the relationship was the sex.

  In a renewed attempt to understand that connection that always made her feel wretched, except in the moments when they made love, she believed that sharing her dilemma with more friends would help her.

  On a January noontime, while her daughters were at the club, she found herself in a café near her work with her friend Gastón, a shrewd journalist who knew how to rapidly define someone’s profile.

  “It’s odd that you also go out on Saturdays,” he commented with a slight smile after listening to her attentively. With Anahí’s silence, he continued. “Evidently, he sees the two of you as a couple.“But you aren’t, because he is with her”. The fact of hooking up with this younger gal, as Damián did with his wife, has its attraction. For a time, you are God. She idealizes you, it’s gratifying. What happens is that later, you get bored. At the time, he must have liked the sex. I suppose he pays a lot of attention to aesthetics. In you, Anahí, he ought to have found someone who is on par with him, with whom he can share other topics, including who to go out with. But it is probable that, if these days you tell him to choose between being with you or her, he will stay with her.”

  Gastón paused.

  “Well, let’s see if I can explain it better: if you propose to him that you both end the relationship, he will act as if nothing had happened to him, that everything is just the same.”

  Anahí commented that that was exactly what had happened to her. The cell phone rang, and she answered it Gastón winked an eye to let her understand that he knew who the subject was.

  Gastón warned her:

  “Propose it to him again, but firmly. Don’t compromise to anything in between. Be sure that he doesn’t come to you with promises.”

  And then:

“Look for a guy who isn’t married”—that was the last thing he said to her.

 The following Sunday, she had lunch with a friend in a cantina in Almagro:

   “You are his support; he can keep the relationship with his wife, thanks to the fact that you are there. If you weren’t in the picture, it would be much more difficult for him. I’m telling you this because I have lived both sides. At times, after having had fantastic sex with a lover, I returned home and I thought that, really, I was doing very well with my husband. Finally, he left me for an ugly and boring gal. I don’t know what he saw in her.”

    Anahí went back and forth between moments in which she loved him with others in which she detested him.

    “He returns to a drama,” a friend assured, who was married and had four children, someone who knew what a bad marriage could be like. Anahí remembered the time when she and her husband argued about anything, but her relationship never became a nightmare. It had already been three years since his death, how far away it seemed, she thought.

  “You are not, you are doing well in your home with your daughters. You have a rather pleasant life.”

Do you think I’m stupid?” That I don’t understand you fuck me when you want to?  She tried out the two phrases before meeting Damián for supper a few days later. She hadn’t suggested they have coffee to hide that the topic was a new breakup.

    But that dinner was pathetic. It began with her proposal, that this time, yes, they ought to put an end to the relationship. Then he asked her for explanations. She had poked a piece of vegetable ravioli that flew through the air.

    “A liability, that is what I am for you.”  She answered to Damián, while the ravioli fell onto the tablecloth together with the white sauce on it.

    Damián’s nose began to bleed and the waitress brought him some ice. He took a small cube and held it in one hand; with the other, he unfolded a white napkin made of bedsheet cotton. She managed not to help him; she kept silent. 

     She knew that he was playing with her feelings. “Will he once again act as if he were surprised.” Anahí wondered. His nose had stopped bleeding, when he tried to convince her that  he loved her.

    What did he think he was telling her; they can’t go on like this, she retorted. His nose began to bleed again. And it was then that he began to speak to her about his own proceso, his inner struggle. Anahí was doubly irritated by him: for what had happened in the country and for what he was trying to concoct for her. He asks me to stay close to him in a situation that doesn’t have rules, she concluded, but she preferred not to tell him that. According to Damián, what she proposed contradicted his own internal struggle. All of a sudden, she saw a tear on his cheek. It settled on the blood that still remained around his nose; it reached his chin in rose color. Finally, it fell on the tablecloth.

    “We’ve already talked about how we can’t continue being a couple,” Damián then said.

    She deduced that he was referring to him and his wife. The stained napkin, made into a ball, remained on the table. How red blood is! Anahí thought.

      “And our son in the middle of it!” he added.

    The tears that fell from him succeeded in moving her. She took his hand; she caressed slowly one of his damp cheeks.

    He asked when they would see each other again. Anahí was doubtful for an instant and continued with one of so many pieces of advice that her friends had given her.

  “In March, if you separate, let me know.”     

      At the beginning of April, when her daughters were a month into their first and third grades, and she was finalizing a new project that they would launch on television, looking at her cell phone, she saw a missed call: it was from Damián. She didn’t want to pay attention or lose her concentration. When she was about to leave the office, he called again.

     “I have separated,” is what he said.     

      Moved, she decided to ask him where he was living. He answered that he was in his recording studio. He invited her to have supper right there, apologizing for not yet having a full-fledged home:

  “I sleep on a mattress on the floor.”

    Anahí thought over the people who could take care of her daughters that night, when she went to see him.

  The following Monday, Anahí commented to a coworker, who knew about her relationship with Damián, the latest turn that her linkup had taken, how well they had spent that weekend together.

  “Well, you could say that you two did what was called for. It’s certain that beforehand you were his secret refuge, but now he’s using you in his separation. Also, you don’t know how long that can last, I mean, many return, the great reconciliation comes and another child. That is a bummer. I went through it, I don’t recommend it to you,” she said, made a half turn and began to walk toward the hallway.

  Anahí supposed that those were nothing more than bits of nonsense. She preferred to forget the warning. She only remembered the chewing gum that her coworker had in her mouth while she was talking to her.

Translated by Stephen A. Sadow, with the help of the author

_________________________________________________________

Libros de Paula Varsavsky/Books by Paula Varsavsky

____________________________________________________

Isaac Goldemberg — Escritor y poeta judío-peruano, radicado en EEUU./ Peruvian Jewish Writer and Poet, living in the US. “Filosofía y otras fábulas”/ “Philosophy and other Fables”

download
Isaac Goldemberg

____________________________

Poesía de Isaac Goldemberg

ISAAC GOLDEMBERG nació en Chepén, Perú, en 1945 y reside en Nueva York desde 1964. Ha publicado cuatro novelas, dos libros de relatos, trece de poesía y tres obras de teatro. Sus publicaciones más recientes son Libro de reclamaciones (2018), Philosophy and Other Fables (2016), Diálogos conmigo y mis otros (2013), La vida breve (2012), Acuérdate del escorpión (2010), Monos azules en Times Square (2008) y Libro de las transformaciones (2007).  Su obra ha sido sido traducida a varios idiomas e incluida en numerosas antologías de América Latina, Europa y los Estados Unidos. En 1995 su novela La vida a plazos de don Jacobo Lerner fue considerada en una encuesta de la revista Debate como una de las mejores novelas peruanas de todos los tiempos; y en el 2001 fue seleccionada por un Jurado Internacional de críticos literarios convocado por el Yiddish Book Center de Estados Unidos como una de las 100 obras más importantes de la literatura judía mundial de los últimos 150 años.  Goldemberg fue catedrático de New York University (1973-1986) y Profesor Distinguido de The City University of New York (1992-2019), donde dirigió el Instituto de Escritores Latinoamericanos y la revista internacional de cultura Hostos Review. Es Miembro Numerario de la Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua.  Es Miembro Numerario de la Academia Norteamericana de la Lengua Española y profesor honorario de la Universidad Ricardo Palma.

_________________________________________

ISAAC GOLDEMBERG was born in Chepén, Peru, in 1945 and has resided in New York since 1964. He has published four novels, two story books, thirteen poetry and three plays. His most recent publications are Libro de reclamaciones (2018), Philosophy and Other Fables (2016), Diálogos conmigo y mis otros (2013), La vida breve (2012), Acuérdate del escorpión (2010), Monos azules en Times Square (2008) and Libro de las transformaciones (2007). His work has been translated into several languages ​​and included in numerous anthologies of Latin America, Europe and the United States. In 1995 his novel Libro de reclamaciones (2018), Philosophy and Other Fables (2016), Diálogos conmigo y mis otros (2013), La vida breve (2012), Acuérdate del escorpión (2010), Monos azules en Times Square (2008) y Libro de las transformaciones (2007). was considered in a survey by the Debate magazine as one of the best Peruvian novels of all time; and in 2001 it was selected by an International Jury of literary critics convened by the Yiddish Book Center of the United States as one of the 100 most important works of world Jewish literature of the last 150 years. Goldemberg was a professor at New York University (1973-1986) and Distinguished Professor at The City University of New York (1992-2019), where he directed the Institute of Latin American Writers and the international culture magazine Hostos Review. He is a Full Member of the North American Academy of Language. He is a Full Member of the American Academy of the Spanish Language and an honorary professor at the Ricardo Palma University.
___________________________________________________

Introducción a las fábulas/Introduction to the Fables

Desde la época de los griegos antiguos, las fábulas han sido importante a la cultura popular. Fabulistas desde Asopo y Jean de la Fontaine hast Ambrose Bierce, George Orwell and James Thurber han expuesto sus pensamientos por las bocas de animales y han insistido en un moral muy claro y indisputable, ¡Uvas ácidas son siempre uvas ácidas!

Las fábulas de Isaac Goldemberg son muy diferentes. Atacan al lector, quien no puede leerlos literalmente, pero tiene que descifrar su significado o significados. Estas fábulas son plantillas que se pueden aplicarse a muchas situaciones de la historia y a la vida contemporáneas. Hay un humor, a veces negro, que puede sorprender o confundir al lector. Los morales también son ambiguos.

_____________________________________________

Since the times of the ancient Greeks, fables have been important to popular culture. Fabulists like Aesop and Jean de La Fontaine to Ambrose Bierce, George Orwell and James Thurber have expressed their thoughts through the mouths of  animals and have insisted on a moral that is very clear and  indisputable. Sour grapes are always sour grapes!

Isaac Goldemberg’s fables are very different. They attack the reader, who can’t read them literally, but must decipher their meaning or meanings. These fables are templates that can be applied to many historical and contemporary situations. There is humor, often black, that can surprise and confuse the reader. The morals of the stories are ambiguous too.

_______________________________________________________

Irene Chelnitz

Isaac Goldemberg  Philosophy and Other Fables. New York : DíazGrey Editores, 2006.

_________________________________________________________

Fábulas/Fables 

Fábula de la Filosofía

La filosofía se instaló en los jardines de un monasterio donde los monjes leían cuentos de hadas a los niños. Eran momentos de verdadera felicidad porque la lectura iba acompañada de bofetadas en sus tiernas mejillas.

Aconteció entonces la segunda iluminación: si la filosofía pudiera hablar no podríamos entenderla. Así eran los juegos del lenguaje y ya no sería posible alcanzar la esencia de las palabras. Entonces la filosofía se sentó en una butaca y se dedicó a ver películas de cowboys mientras comía popcorn y los indios caían como moscas.

Philosophy’s Fable

Philosophy settled down in the gardens of a monastery where the monks were reading fairy tales to the children. These were moments of of true happiness because the readings were accompanied by slaps on their tender cheeks.

The second illumination then took place : if philosophy could speak, we couldn’t hear it. The games played by language were such, and it was no longer possible to reach the essence of the works. Then philosophy sat down in a theater seat and devoted itself to watching cowboy movies while eating popcorn and the Indians were falling like flies.

________________________________________ 

Fábula del libro

Antes del libro existieron numerosos signos cuya lectura no era segura, por lo que no había manera de distinguir lo verdadero de lo falso. Entonces, ante la multitud agolpada al pie del cerro, el libro abrió la boca y dijo que era un regalo de los dioses. Nadie pudo imaginarse en ese instante su progresiva evolución. Primero su voz resonó en los templos: transmitió al humano el origen, las acciones y las cualidades de sus Creadores, pronunciando ritos, conjuros y plegarias. Fue el reflejo de la humanidad del humano, pero en un espejo distinto. Su voz —libresca desde un comienzo— reemplazó a la memoria del humano, perfeccionada durante milenios para recordar. Hablaron a través del libro y para la posteridad, políticos y gobernantes, sacerdotes y soldados. Fue un gesto de vanidad, cultivada y favorecida por sus páginas. Luego el libro transcribió cantos y poemas para la lectura individual, poniendo sólo al alcance de unos pocos y en privado lo que en su forma oral fue disfrutado por todos y en grupo.

_____________________________

The Book’s Fable

Before the existence of the book, many signs whose meaning wasn’t clear, so that there was no way to distinguish the true from the falso. Then, the multitud crowded together at the foot of a hill, the book opened its mouth and said that it was a gift of the gods. In that instant, nobody was able to imagine its progressive evolution. First, its voice resonated in the temples: it transmitted to the humans the origin, the actions of its Creators, pronouncing rites, incantations and prayers. It was the reflection of the humanity of the human but through a  different mirror. Its voice –bookish from the start—replaced human memory, perfected during millenia of remembering. They spoke through the book and for posterity, politicians, and governors, priests and soldiers. It was a gesture of vanity, cultivated and preferred by its pages, Later the book transcribed songs and poems for individual reading, putting it within reach of only a few and in private what was in its oral form enjoyed by all and in groups

____________________________________ 

 Fábula del mar y del río

El pueblo no tenía mar. Su mar eran las vías del tren. Río sí tenía: la infancia. Los viejos se sentaban  a su orilla a pescar recuerdos.

_________________________________________

El pueblo no tenía río. Su río eran las vías del tren. Mar sí tenía: el recuerdo. Los viejos se sentaban a su orilla a pescar infancias.

__________________________

The Sea and River’s Fable

The people didn’t have a sea. Their sea was the train rails. A river they did have: infancy. The old people sat at its banks to fish for memories.

 ____________________________

The people didn’t have a river. Their river was the train rails. A sea they did have: memory. The old people sat at its shore to fish for memories.

__________________________________

Fábula de la ley del retorno

Fue propuesta la creación de una ruta de la lengua para recuperar el camino que recorrieron los expulsados.

_____________________________________

Fable of the Law of Return

They proposed the creation of a way for language to bring back of the road the traveled by the expelled.

_____________________________________

Fábula del fútbol

Pocos segundos antes de terminarse la final de la Copa del Mundo, el Rabino Mayor de Jerusalén, arquero del equipo de Israel, que iba perdiendo 1 a 0, lanzó un tiro desde su arco al arco del Vaticano —resguardado por el Papa—, con la esperanza de lograr el empate. La pelota sobrevoló todo el largo de la cancha y fue a incrustarse en el arco contrario. Entonces el Rabino se arrodilló sobre la grama, elevando los ojos al cielo en agradecimiento a Dios. El Altísimo, que había estado viendo el partido, esbozó una sonrisa y, rascándose la cabeza, se dijo que ese gol había sido un verdadero milagro.

_________________________________

Fútbol’s Fable

A few seconds before the end of the World Cup final, The Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem, the  goalie of the Israeli team, which was losing 1 to 0, launched a shot from his goal toward the Vatican’s goal—shielded by the Pope—, with the hope of making it a tie game. The ball flew over the entire length of the field y was embedded in the opposing goal. Then the Rabbi fell to his knees onto the grass, raising his eyes in thankfulness to God. The Most High who had been watching the game, smiled slightly, and scratching his head, said to himself that that goal had been a true miracle.

_____________________________

 Fábula del muro

Solo, el muro que separaba al humano del humano no sabía cómo derrumbarse. No sabía cómo. No sabía. No.

_____________________________

The Wall’s Fable

Alone, the wall that separated human from human didn’t know how to fall down. It didn’t know how. It didn’t know. It didn’t.

___________________________________

Fábula de la poesía

La poesía sufrió la mayor devastación. Fue expulsada de nación en nación. ¿Dónde estaba la justicia en esto? Al examinar lo ocurrido, la poesía llegó al corazón del asunto: podía ser que hubiese sido la víctima por haberse dedicado a  servir sus propios propósitos. Cierto, tuvo una visión y una perspectiva del Universo, pero permaneció oculta al humano. Su perspectiva fue nada más que una proyección de sí misma y quedó bastante satisfecha de su conclusión: no se encontraba a disposición de los humanos, y no era sensible a sus términos. La poesía era la poesía y el humano era el humano y ocurrió que ya casi nunca se encontraban la una con el otro. Esto puso al humano en su lugar, golpeó en la raíz de su error, de su concepción de la realidad misma.

¿Pero por qué se dio en el humano esa aversión tan profunda? El humano dijo que su mismísima presencia lo había puesto en peligro y tenía que hacerla perecer para no ser su amenaza. Luego rehusó voltear a mirarla.

______________________________

Poetry’s Fable

Poetry suffered the greatest devastation. It was expelled from one nation after another. Where is the justice in this? Upon examining what had happened, poetry arrived at the heart of the matter. It could be that it was the victim of having devoted itself to serving its own purposes. Surely it had a vision and perspective on the Universe, but it remained hidden from humans. Its perspective was nothing more than a projection of itself. And it was quite satisfied with its conclusion. It was not at the disposal of humans and wasn’t sensitive to their terms; poetry was poetry and humans were humans, and it happened that they rarely met each other. This put humans in their place, stuck to the root of the error of their conception of reality itself.

But what caused humans to have such a profound aversion to poetry? Humans said that it’s very presence had put them in danger, and they had to put it to death, so that it would not become a threat. Then, they refused to turn and look at it.

____________________________________ 

Fábula del humano

Destruyó para crear, y tanto se ocultó dentro de sí que no existió sino exteriormente. Fue la escena viva por la que pasaron varios actores representando varios personajes. Pretendiendo ser exterior aun en lo más íntimo, simulando observar lo que acontecía fuera de ellos, el humano sólo pudo ver una cosa: el incesante desprenderse de esa carne con la que los unos intentaban configurar la silueta de los otros y el lento emerger de ese esqueleto que se desmoronaba sin llegar a encontrar ese vocablo misterioso que lo haría auténticamente soberano.

La búsqueda no fue sino el reflejo de esa desesperada ansia de unicidad que el humano no consiguió atrapar nunca. Porque la más pequeña cualidad que pudiera permitirle diferenciarse del caos que lo amenazaba con devorarlo, se transformó en impersonal y gris ceniza que le mostraba esa vida que intuía, pero a la que no le era posible acceder más que desapareciendo.

Pero el problema fue que todo el resto, incluso la paciente obra creada, no fueron sino rastros de la penosa ascensión. Ni más allá ni más acá existía nada. Todo el resto fue mentira. Sólo fue real el abismo de la derrota. Y esto fue evidente en el intento de disfrazarse una y otra vez con la piel del contrario para, en definitiva, no conseguir otra cosa que ese agujero insondable del que manaba sin cesar una lava arrolladora que fue transformándolo en la efigie de esa figura humana que cualquier transeúnte no advertido confundiría con la imagen de no importa qué melancólico oficinista.

Evidentemente, ese disfraz debió observarlo en un espejo que invertía totalmente las imágenes ya que el humano no hizo otra cosa durante toda su vida que intentar acceder a ese paraíso al que fue a parar su silueta como bronce y muerta estatua, de pie en una plaza y para consumo fotográfico de turistas apresurados, siempre auscultando el misterio de lo hondo, ese misterio tan verdadero como el sueño de la superficie, con la duda de esto u otra cosa, o de ni una cosa ni otra.

__________________________________________

The Human’s Fable

He destroyed in order to create, and he hid so much inside of himself that he existed only externally. It was a living scene through which passed several actors representing several characters. Pretending to be distant even with in most intimate, simulating the observation of that what happened around him, the human could only see one thing: the incessant casting off of that flesh with which the some intended to configure the silhouette of the others and the slow emergence of that skeleton which collapses without finding that mysterious word that would make it authentically sovereign.

The search was nothing but the reflection of that desperate anxiety of uniqueness that the human was never able to trap. Because the smallest quality that might permit him to differentiate from the chaos that threatened to devour him, was transformed into  impersonal and gray ash that showed him that life that he was intuiting but that wasn’t possible for to access without disappearing.

But the problem was that everything else, even the patiently created objects, were only traces of the terrible assent. Nor beyond nor her nothing existed. All the rest was lie. The only real thing was the abysm of the defeat. And this was evident in the intent to disguise itself again and again with the skin of the other, and definitely not acquire anything else than that unfathomable hole from which incessantly flowed a rolling lava that was transforming it into the efigie of that human figure that any uninformed passerby would confuse with the image of–it doesn’t matter which—melancholy office worker.

Evidently, that disguise ought to observe itself in a mirror that totally inverts the images, since the human did nothing else during all his life than try to ascend to that paradise where his silhouette would end up as a bronze and dead statue, standing in a plaza for photographic consumption by hurried tourists, and always assessing the mystery of the deep, that mystery as true as the dream of the surface, with the double of this or another thing, or of not one thing or the other.

 ___________________________________________ 

Fábula de la vida nueva

Los árboles daban sombra y ricos y pobres eran iguales debajo de la tierra. Niños y adultos estaban conectados a la red celestial del Internet y se encendían cirios recordatorios desde cualquier rincón del planeta. Nacionales como extranjeros estaban protegidos por una compañía de seguros y el precio del pasaje estaba incluido. Además,  se aseguraba el transporte del difunto y de familiares y amigos que deseasen acompañarlo. Se ofrecían también servicios de jardinería.

__________________________________

 The New Life’s Fable

The trees gave shade and rich and poor were equal under the earth. Children and adults were connected to the celestial web of the Internet, and commemorative candles were burning from every corner of the planet. Natives as well as strangers were protected by an insurance company and the cost of travel was included. Moreover, the assured the transport of the dead one and relatives and friends who desired to accompany him. They also offered gardening services.

________________________________________ 

Fábula de la religión     

Al rehusar interpretar correctamente la situación, la religión puso en movimiento la catástrofe final. Tal fue la trágica continuación de la historia. Sabía que nadie podía decir más del humano como el humano. Existían muchas cosas que se podían decir pero las más profundas, las más reveladoras, las más extremas se hallaban en la concepción de sí mismo.

Entonces la religión decidió hacer y decir algo. Deseó ser reconocida por el humano y que éste se definiera por sus preceptos. No quiso ser fruto de su imaginación. Luego se sentó sobre un trono alto y sublime y desde ahí dio voces, cubriéndose el rostro. Le advirtió al humano que su casa quedaría destruida y cualquier cosa demoníaca tendría libre derecho para atacarlo. Suplicó y lloró sobre el humano pero el humano ya no quiso.

____________________

Religion’s Fable 

Refusing to correctly interpret the situation, religion put the final catastrophe in motion. It knew that nobody could saw more about the human than the human himself. Many things existed that could not be said, but the most profound, the most revelatory, the most extremes were found in the conception of one’s self.

Then, religion decided to do and to say something. She decided to be recognized by the human and that the human be defined by her precepts. She didn’t what to be the product of his imagination. Then, she sat on a high and sublime throne, and from there cried out, covering her face. She warned the human that his house would be destroyed and anything demonic would have the right to attack him. She supplicated and cried over the human, but the human still refused.

________________________________

Texto en Español por Isaac Goldemberg

Translation from the Spanish by Stephen A, Sadow

———————————————–

Libros de Isaac Goldemberg/                Books by Isaac Goldemberg

md33274343269780826320742-es-3009782747546669-es-300md30063313929780892550920-es-3009780893042707-es-3009781944407186-es-3009781939419194-es-3009788866442592-es-3009780977028764-es-3009788866442295-es-3009789972847141-es-300md302553863189788494759307-es-300

Gran Libro

Alicia Steimberg (1933 -2012) Escritora judío-argentina/ Argentine-Jewish Writer — Cuento/Short-story: “Su espíritu inocente”/”Her Innocent Soul”

download
Alicia Steimberg

______________________________________________________

SU ESPÍRITU INOCENTE

(FRAGMENTO DE NOVELA)

Alguien se casa y estamos invitados a la fiesta. Es un casamiento judío, pero no importa; basta con no contarlo en el colegio. Después de la ceremonia nupcial nos hallamos sentados ante largas mesas esperando la comida. A mí me han ubicado junto a grupo de señoritas muy vestidas y maquilladas. Tengo mis alusiones de que más tarde alguien me invite a bailar, cosa que no sucede. Como es de noche de primavera he venido sin medias (sin los infamantes zoquetes). Mis vecinas de mesa hablan de muchachos, de si los muchachos las han llamado por teléfono o no.

–Che—le dice una boca pintada de rojo coral a una oreja con caro de fantasía—Che, ¿sabes?, me llamó.

–¿Quién?

–Moishe.

Me quedo estupefacta. No comprendo que una chica se entusiasma por alguien que se llama Moishe. Pero ellas no prestan atención. Parece que Moishe se hace el interesante y no ha llamado a esa chica en los últimos ocho días. Ella tampoco lo llama para que él no se crea importante, y la táctica da buen resultado y finalmente Moishe llama y le invita a salir. Siguen hablando de acontecimientos parecidos entre otras chicas y otros muchachos. Parece que es que es gente que pasa la mitad del tiempo durmiendo y la otra mitad llamándose o no llamándose por teléfono.

Al principio, escucho disimuladamente con la mirada fija en mi plato o en alguna botella, pero sin darme cuenta, me voy acercando, y a medida que me intereso directamente en la que hablan, volviendo los ojos de aquí para allá como en un partido de tenis.

–¿Y entonces? – pregunta los labios de color coral.

Un par de ojos grises se clavan en los míos, los correspondientes a la boca color bermellón que debía contestar. Pero en cambio, dirigiéndose a mí, la boca dice en tono desagradable:

–Acercáte nena, así oías mejor.

Me toma tan de sorpresa que estoy a punto de decir:

–Bueno, gracias—Un segundo después su intención burlona llega a mi conciencia. Me arden las mejillas, me saltan las lagrimas. Quiero desaparecer. O estallar como una bomba debajo de la mesa y todas las horribles señoritas salgan volando por el aire.

Después de un rato las espío de reojo. Siguen hablando animadamente; se han olvidado de una mosca que ha espantado unos segundos antes.

Cuando termina la cena, me levanto de la mesa y no me acerco a nadie más, no siento en las sillas que rodean el espacio para bailar. Me quedo parada mirando algún objeto como si me interesara mucho, y al rato me traslado a otro lugar, y me pongo a pensar en otro objeto, por ejemplo, la torta de bodas, que es de cartón, o la gran estrella de David formada por lamparitas eléctricas que cuelgan del techo.

El lunes siguiente cuento en el Colegio que he ido a un casamiento, y me preguntan en qué iglesia fue la ceremonia religiosa.

–No se casaron por la iglesia—contesto–. Son agnósticos.

_________________________________________________________

 

download-1

__________________________________________________________

HER INNOCENT SOUL

(A SECTION FROM A NOVEL)

Someone is getting married, and we are invited to the party. It’s a Jewish wedding, but that doesn’t matter, it’s enough no not to talk about it at hit high school. After the marriage ceremony, we found ourselves facing a long table waiting for dinner. They have placed me next to a group of very well dress and well-made-up young ladies I have my hopes that later on someone would ask me to dance, something that didn’t happen. As it is a Spring evening, I have come without stockings, without shameful socks.) My table mates speak about boys, of whether the boys have called them by telephone or not.

–Che—a coral-red mouth says to an ear with expensive costume jewelry—Che—Che, did you know? He called me.

–Who?

–Moishe.

I am stupefied. I don’t understand how a girl gets excited about someone named Moishe. But they don’t pay attention. It seems that Moishe has tried to attract attention, and he hasn’t called that girl in the last eight days. She doesn’t call him either, so that he won’t consider himself important, and the tactic worked well, and finally Moishe calls and asks her out. The continue talking about similar happenings with other girls and other boys. It seems that these people spend half of their time sleeping and the other half calling each other or not calling each other on the phone.

At first, I pretend to listen with my gaze fixed on my plate or some bottle, but without realizing it, I am drawing near, as I become directly interested what they say, moving my eyes from here to there, like a tennis match.

“And then?” asks the coral colored lips.

A pair of gray eyes fix on mine, the others to the vermillion colored mouth who ought to answer. However, directing itself to me, the mouth says in a disagreeable tone:

“Come closer, little girl, that way, you hear better.

She took me so by surprise that I was about to say “Well, thanks.” A second later, her sarcastic intention reached my consciousness. My cheeks burn, tears come out. I want to disappear. Or explode like a bomb under the table, and all the horrible young ladies leave flying through the air.

After a while, I spy on them through the corner of my eye. They continue speaking animatedly; they have forgotten a fly that had frightened them a few seconds before.

When dinner ends, i get up from the table, and I don’t go near anyone else; I don’t sit on the chairs that surround the dance floor. I remain standing looking at some object or other as if it interested me.

Then I begin to think about another object, for example the wedding cake, which is made of cardboard, or the huge Star of David formed by small electric lamps that hang from the ceiling.

The next Monday, I mention at the high school that I have gone to a wedding, and they asked in which church the religious ceremony took place.

“They weren’t married by the church,” I answer. “They are agnostics.”

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

__________________________________________________

download

Alicia Steimberg, escritora y traductora argentina, combinó su pasión por la literatura con su trabajo como profesora de inglés y, posteriormente, directora de la Sección de Libros en la Secretaría de Cultura Argentina.

Steimberg publicó quince novelas y fue traducida a más de cinco idiomas. A lo largo de su carrera recibió premios como el Konex de Platino en Traducción, el Planeta del Sur y la Beca Fulbright.

_________________________________________

Alicia Steimberg, Argentine Jewish writer and translator, combined her passion for literature with her work as a professor of English, and, later on, Director of the Book Section of the Argentine Ministry of Culture.

Steimberg published fifteen novels, and her work was translated to five languages. Throughout her career, she received prizes such a Konex Platinum Prize for Translation, The Planeta del Sur Prize and a Fulbright Fellowship.

____________________________________________

Algunos libros de Alicia Steimberg/Some Books by Alicia Steimberg