Tag: Love Story

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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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

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Giselda Leirner — Contista e artista judaica brasileira/Brazilian Jewish Short-story writer and Artist–“Eugenio, Mi Amor”/”Eugenio, My Love” — história romântica/romantic short-story

Giselda Leirner

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Giselda Leirner é uma artista e acadêmica brasileira nascida em uma família judea profundamente enraizada nas artes. Filha de Isai e Felícia Leirner e irmã de Nelson Leirner, ela foi educada por mestres das artes, como Emiliano Di Cavalcanti, Yolanda Mohalyi e Poty Lazzarotto. Giselda também estudou na Art Students League e na Parson School of Design, em Nova Iorque. Suas obras fazem parte de coleções importantes, como o Museu de Arte de São Paulo (Masp) e o Museu de Jerusalém. Paralelamente à sua carreira artística, Giselda se formou em Filosofia pela Universidade de São Paulo, especializando-se em filosofia da religião. Ela publicou quatro livros no Brasil, sendo o primeiro também editado na França em 2005, demonstrando sua relevância nos campos da arte e da filosofia.
Biombô

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Giselda Leirner is a Brazilian artist and scholar born into a Jewish family deeply rooted in the arts. The daughter of Isai and Felícia Leirner and sister of Nelson Leirner, she was mentored by masters such as Emiliano Di Cavalcanti, Yolanda Mohalyi, and Poty Lazzarotto. Giselda also studied at the Art Students League and the Parsons School of Design in New York. Her works are held in major collections, including those of the São Paulo Museum of Art (MASP) and the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. Alongside her artistic career, Giselda earned a degree in Philosophy from the University of São Paulo, specializing in the philosophy of religion. She has published four books in Brazil—with the first also released in France in 2005—demonstrating her significance in the fields of art and philosophy. Biombô

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Naufrágos: Ela como que se descasca e despe diante do leitor, revelando a escritura como um processo e como um modo de sobrevida, meio de trançar vida e morte e de passar de um polo a outro. Ela se despe na medida mesmo em que afirma que a escritura é sua roupagem: “Escrevo. Não faço outra coisa que descrever, este sucedâneo literário que encobre minha carência, minha incapacidade. Desespero”. Medium

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Castaways: She seems to peel away and undress before the reader, revealing writing as a process and a mode of survival—a means of intertwining life and death and of passing from one pole to the other. She strips herself bare at the very moment she asserts that writing is her attire: “I write. I do nothing but describe—this literary substitute that cloaks my lack, my incapacity. Despair.” Medium

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Giselda Leirner, Naufrágios (Castaways). Kindle Edition.

“Eugenio, um amor”

Eugenio, um amor Eu o conheci três vezes e nas três vezes o amei com o mesmo profundo amor. Uma na juventude, outra na meia-idade e a terceira na velhice.

     A primeira foi quando o vi entrando no quarto de meu pai, que já estava com a doença fatal adiantada. Entrou junto ao sol, que o acompanhou sempre. Mesmo nos dias nebulosos, o quarto em que entrava resplandecia e a doença se apagava na luz irradiada.

     De uma coisa eu tinha certeza, ele iria curar meu pai. Era belo, a cabeça, com poucos cabelos loiros, e os olhos castanhos transmitiam uma tal inteligência, que eliminava qualquer dúvida quanto a sua capacidade de cura.

     Tendo já seus trinta anos, ainda tinha a certeza que trazem em si os meninos prodígios. Era assim considerado por todos, que se maravilhavam com sua capacidade de, aos sete anos, declamar versos inteiros da Divina Comédia, que lhe eram lidos pelo pai, dr. Guido, famoso e erudito médico italiano, que viera ao Brasil para dirigir um hospital.

     Assim que o vi, soube que seria ele o homem que me acompanharia até o fim de minha vida, mais longa que a dele, em todas as intermináveis três vezes em que o amei. Era sedutor e sabia usar esse dom. Não havia nada nele que não fosse verdadeiro. Não havia afetação na sua vontade de agradar.

     O gesto de amor lhe era natural. Estava a isto acostumado, filho caçula sempre perto da mãe, e mimado pelo pai, que era rigoroso com os outros filhos. Menino, gostava de sentar-se à grande mesa do consultório, balançando as pernas curtas, enquanto enchia folhas de receituário com garatujas.

      Ao morrer o pai, a primeira coisa que fez foi sentar-se à mesa, dizendo: “esta mesa é minha, aqui ninguém senta”. E assim foi.

     Quando o conheci, médico famoso, já tinha sido casado com uma mulher extremamente feia, porém rica, de família tradicional, que morreu de uma encefalite aguda assim que chegaram da viagem de núpcias. Como era muito jovem, Eugenio, sem pais, ficou morando na casa de seus sogros, que o adotaram como filho.

     Foi brilhante cirurgião, e dava aulas na Clínica Cirúrgica da Faculdade de Medicina, como chefe de disciplina. Sempre admirado, não só por colegas e por alunos, mas especialmente pelas mulheres, dava suas aulas com graça especial. Sendo exímio desenhista, desenhava com um giz em cada mão, em gestos contínuos, qualquer órgão do corpo humano, não necessitando de quadros ilustrativos. Era um artista. Sua distração aos domingos consistia em pintar belos quadros, que nunca pendurava. Deixava-os encostados ao rés do chão, sempre voltados para a parede, para que não fossem vistos. Não os mostrava a ninguém. Fui a única a vê-los.

      Grande estudioso, publicou vários artigos sobre a anatomia e as artes. A respeito do pintor El Greco, dizia que o alongamento dos corpos pintados pelo artista devia-se ao seu astigmatismo. Deu várias palestras como crítico de arte, especialmente sobre o Surrealismo e os elementos de sua iconografia na pintura. Suas cirurgias eram conduzidas com a elegância de um artista, sem manobras cirúrgicas desnecessárias.

     Tenho ainda comigo uma publicação em que ele analisa a obra do Aleijadinho, sempre unindo a estética à medicina, onde afirma ter sido Aleijadinho um doente de lepra. Tudo isso não me interessava pois, para mim, a obra do artista e seus problemas físicos eram coisas independentes. Geralmente eram essas as nossas discussões. Nunca duvidei, porém, de sua extraordinária capacidade cirúrgica que, no entanto, não conseguiu salvar meu pai.

     Era nietzschiano, ao pé da letra, sem o saber, pois acreditava que as diferentes civilizações refletem certos climas intelectuais, cada um, particularmente prejudicial ou salutar a um ou outro órgão. Via a história como a ciência dos remédios, mas não a própria terapêutica. Seria por isso necessário um médico que utilizasse esta ciência dos remédios para enviar cada um ao clima que lhe é particularmente salutar — por um período, ou para sempre. “Ao lado da cura do espírito”, dizia, “é necessário que, no tocante às coisas corporais, a humanidade apreenda, por meio de uma geografia médica, quais são as doenças que cada região da terra provoca, quais os fatores de cura que ela apresenta.” Eu não entendia muito bem suas teorias, elas me eram estranhas, às vezes pareciam alucinações. Considerava a terra como uma estação de cura, onde os indivíduos deveriam ser transplantados sem cessar até serem dominadores de sua própria hereditariedade. Esta maldição, dizia eu, não me permitia o acesso ao livre arbítrio, e para a qual, segundo meu ponto de vista, não havia cura.

     Nossas conversas não giravam somente em torno de assuntos relacionados à filosofia ou à arte. Brincávamos e ríamos muito, como crianças. Adorávamos viajar, passear de barco. Velejar era seu esporte favorito, do qual eu não participava, pelo medo que tinha do mar.

     Ficávamos o dia todo na praia e, sendo ele muito claro de pele, eu o encharcava de óleo Nívea para bebê.  Eu o adorava nestes momentos em que ele, brilhante de óleo, sob a luz do sol, entrava no mar. Era para mim um deus naquele instante, apesar da fragilidade de seu corpo, pois não era um homem grande nem forte ou musculoso. E era justamente esta fragilidade de um corpo com a força de uma cabeça que me fazia amá-lo tanto.    

     Quando voltávamos da praia, exaustos, tomávamos banho e, perfumados, com os corpos ainda sedosos do óleo, nos deitávamos e fazíamos amor, um amor louco às vezes; outras, um amor suave e delicado, vagaroso, até adormecermos enlaçados, esquecendo até de jantar. São estes dias e noites que ficaram em minha memória como os mais belos de nossa relação. Que nunca mudou.

     Ao chegar do serviço, muito cansado, eu lhe preparava um uísque com gelo. Tinha já as velinhas acesas na lareira e a música que ele amava no toca-discos. A casa toda, à espera do amado, perfumava-se com o cheiro delicioso do jantar. Depois do banho, que tomávamos juntos em nossa jacuzzi, vestíamos belos e coloridos quimonos, amarrados na cintura com largos cinturões. Descíamos as escadas de madeira de nossa casa para o jantar e, depois de a baiana gorda e preta, que nos serviu durante longos anos, sair, ainda ficávamos a conversar durante algum tempo.

     Nunca me falava sobre suas experiências no hospital ou consultório, nem assistia à tevê. Dormíamos sempre abraçados. Ao acordar, se sobrasse algum tempo ainda, me acariciava até chegarmos ao ato de amor, com o qual iniciávamos nosso dia. Ele saía para o hospital, enquanto eu entrava em meu Fusca verde em direção à faculdade, onde fazia o curso de pós-graduação em literatura. Meu trabalho intitulava-se Crime e santidade. Sempre comecei tudo o que escrevi pelo título, e foi este que me levou a Dostoiévski. Nunca consegui um retrato exato — nem era minha intenção escrever uma biografia.

     Jamais me considerei especialista em qualquer assunto, mesmo que tivesse lido toda a obra do autor russo. Sobre mim, é a única coisa que direi. É dos três homens de minha vida que desejo falar.

     Aos poucos, percebi que Eugenio voltava do hospital cansado demais para conversarmos. Apenas bebíamos. Esperava o entorpecimento para deitar-se. Não mais fazíamos amor. Durante a noite, acordava várias vezes. Irritado, passou a tomar comprimidos para dormir. Começou com um, trocou por outros mais fortes. Daí em diante, o inferno abriu suas portas para nos esperar. As garrafas de bebida multiplicaram-se pela casa até chegarem ao nosso quarto de dormir. Passei a beber também — eu, que tinha pouca resistência ao álcool, bebia menos que ele. Da euforia inicial, passávamos à depressão. Piores eram as manhãs. Eu ficava deitada, enquanto ele se arrastava com má vontade em direção ao hospital.

     Deixou de ser cirurgião, pois suas mãos tremiam. Sentia-se inseguro.

     Chegava em casa mais cedo, deixando com a secretária do consultório recados de que teria viajado para congressos.

     Os filhos, já adultos, diminuíram as visitas à nossa casa, pois não suportavam, entre outras coisas, o cheiro de álcool que permeava o ambiente. Mesmo ao nos beijar, eu sentia que o faziam com um certo desgosto. Falavam com a baiana em voz baixa antes de partir, e tinham sempre um ar preocupado. Um dia nos visitou dr. Rosário, melhor amigo de meu marido, que, alertado pelos meninos, e preocupado com a ausência de Eugenio, veio nos ver. Saiu cabisbaixo e silencioso.

     As persianas e as cortinas fechadas já não permitiam diferenciar o dia da noite. A vida era outra. Não deixava de ser vida, mas se parecia cada vez mais com a morte — ou com aquilo que achamos ser a morte, porque não a conhecemos e acreditamos ser um sono sem sonhos.

     Tínhamos nos tornados puros, brancos e cristalinos, como a vodca que tomávamos. Um o espelho do outro.

     Foi um dia-noite. Eugenio rolou pelas escadas. Bateu a cabeça. Depois de algum tempo, cresceu-lhe um tumor. Foi do golpe? Não saberia dizer. Dr. Rosário o internou numa clínica fora da cidade. Lá ficou, sentado numa cadeira de rodas. Deixou de falar, não me reconhecia mais.

    Ali morreu. Eu fiquei.

    Voltei à liberdade, dominada por uma profunda tristeza.

    Nas outras duas vezes em que o encontrei, não era mais o mesmo homem, nem o mesmo amor.

     Para ter compaixão é necessário um espaço de separação. Eu e o outro nos encontramos em um espaço não meu nem dele, mas num espaço único. Só aí o encontro pode se dar, o verdadeiro, o do amor reencontrado, porém diverso.

      Vivi com a sombra do primeiro amor duas vezes mais. O tempo de uma vida. Vivi a perplexidade diante do mundo, de mim mesma e daqueles que me cercaram. Estava enlouquecendo? Ou era uma espécie de consciência diferente da usual? Tudo me parecia destituído de verdade, de cor, de sentido.

      Voltei à vida, mas não era mais a mesma. Não havia evolução. O prazer perdido ficou assim para sempre. Impossível substituí-lo. O primeiro Eugenio foi sempre o mesmo. Os substitutos vieram. Outros prazeres surgiram, outras experiências vividas, porém nenhum progresso, só mudanças. Um elemento a mais na construção do desconhecido.

      Agora que me torno mais velha, me aproximo do mesmo amor de maneira mais profunda. Ao contrário do que deveria ser,para aprender a me afastar, deixar o caminho livre, mais chego perto deste terceiro e último amor que é e sempre será o primeiro Eugenio.

“Mudo de vida como se passa da sombra

ao sol, ou do sol à sombra, em um instante concreto,

que instaura uma diferença

física, à flor da pele, uma tênue diferença,

porém radical, entre o antes e o depois,

entre o passado e o porvir.”

Jorge Semprún

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“Eugenio, a Love”

Eugenio—a love. I loved him three times, and each time with the same profound affection: once in my youth, once in middle age, and a third time in old age.

The first time was when I saw him enter my father’s room; my father was already in the advanced stages of a fatal illness. He entered alongside the sunlight—a companion that always stayed with him. Even on cloudy days, the room would glow when he walked in, and the sickness seemed to fade away in the light he radiated.

Of one thing I was certain: he would cure my father. He was handsome; his head held sparse blond hair, and his brown eyes conveyed such intelligence that any doubt regarding his healing abilities vanished.

     Though already in his thirties, he still possessed that air of certainty found in child prodigies. Everyone regarded him as such, marveling at how, at the age of seven, he could recite entire verses of the *Divine Comedy*—lines read to him by his father, Dr. Guido, a renowned and learned Italian physician who had come to Brazil to run a hospital.

     The moment I saw him, I knew he was the man who would walk with me until the end of my life—a life longer than his—throughout those three interminable times I loved him. He was captivating, and he knew how to use that gift. There was nothing about him that wasn’t genuine; there was no affectation in his desire to please.

     That gesture of affection came naturally to him. He was used to it—the youngest son, always close to his mother and spoiled by a father who was otherwise strict with his other children. As a boy, he loved sitting at the large desk in the consulting room, swinging his short legs while filling prescription pads with scribbles.

     When his father died, the first thing he did was sit at that desk and declare, “This desk is mine; no one else sits here.” And so it remained.

     By the time I met him—already a renowned physician—he had been married to an extremely unattractive but wealthy woman from a traditional family; she had died of acute encephalitis shortly after they returned from their honeymoon. Being very young and without parents of his own, Eugenio continued living in his in-laws’ home, where they adopted him as a son.

     He was a brilliant surgeon and taught at the Medical School’s Department of Surgery, serving as the head of the discipline. Widely admired—not only by colleagues and students but especially by women—he conducted his classes with a unique grace. An accomplished draftsman, he could draw any organ of the human body using a piece of chalk in each hand simultaneously, moving in continuous strokes; he had no need for illustrative charts. He was an artist. His Sunday pastime was painting beautiful pictures, though he never hung them up. He would leave them leaning against the floor, always facing the wall so they wouldn’t be seen. He showed them to no one. I was the only person who ever saw them.

A dedicated scholar, he published several articles on the relationship between anatomy and the arts. Regarding the painter El Greco, he argued that the elongated figures in the artist’s work were the result of his astigmatism. He gave numerous lectures as an art critic, focusing particularly on Surrealism and the elements of its iconography in painting. He performed surgeries with the elegance of an artist, avoiding any unnecessary maneuvers. I still have a publication of his in which he analyzes the work of Aleijadinho—always linking aesthetics to medicine—and asserts that the artist suffered from leprosy. None of this interested me, as I viewed the artist’s work and his physical ailments as separate matters. Such were the usual topics of our discussions. Yet, I never doubted his extraordinary surgical skill—though, for all that, he could not save my father.

     He was a Nietzschean—quite literally, without even realizing it—believing that different civilizations reflect specific intellectual climates, each particularly harmful or beneficial to one organ or another. He viewed history as the science of remedies, though not as therapeutics itself. Thus, a physician was needed to apply this science of remedies by sending individuals to the climate most beneficial to them—whether for a time or forever. “Alongside the healing of the spirit,” he would say, “humanity must learn, through medical geography, which diseases each region of the earth provokes and what healing factors it offers.” I did not fully grasp his theories; they seemed alien to me, at times even like hallucinations. He regarded the earth as a health resort where individuals ought to be constantly transplanted until they had mastered their own heredity. That curse, I felt, denied me free will—and, in my view, there was no cure for it.

     Our conversations did not revolve solely around philosophy or art. We would joke and laugh a great deal, like children. We loved traveling and going out on the water. Sailing was his favorite sport—one I did not share in, owing to my fear of the sea.

We would spend the entire day at the beach; since he was very fair-skinned, I would douse him in Nivea baby oil. I adored him in those moments when, glistening with oil in the sunlight, he would step into the sea. To me, he was a god in that instant—despite the frailty of his body, for he was neither a large man nor strong or muscular. And it was precisely that frailty of body, paired with the strength of his mind, that made me love him so much.

     When we returned from the beach, exhausted, we would bathe; then, fragrant and with our bodies still silky from the oil, we would lie down and make love—sometimes wildly, at other times gently and delicately, taking our time—until we fell asleep in each other’s arms, forgetting even to have dinner. It is these days and nights that remain in my memory as the most beautiful of our relationship—a relationship that never changed.

     When he arrived home from work, very tired, I would prepare a whisky on the rocks for him. I would already have small candles lit in the fireplace and the music he loved playing on the record player. The whole house, awaiting my beloved, would be filled with the delicious aroma of dinner. After our bath—which we took together in our Jacuzzi—we would put on beautiful, colorful kimonos, tied at the waist with wide sashes. We would go down the wooden stairs for dinner, and after the stout Black woman from Bahia—who served us for so many years—had left, we would linger and talk for a while longer.

      I never considered myself an expert on any subject, even though I had read the Russian author’s entire body of work. That is the only thing I will say about myself. It is the three men in my life I wish to speak about.

     Gradually, I noticed that Eugenio would return from the hospital too exhausted for us to talk. We would simply drink. He would wait for the numbness to set in before going to bed. We no longer made love. He would wake up several times during the night. Irritated, he began taking sleeping pills. He started with one, then switched to stronger ones. From then on, hell opened its doors to await us. Bottles of liquor multiplied throughout the house until they reached our bedroom. I started drinking too—though, having little tolerance for alcohol, I drank less than he did. We would swing from initial euphoria to depression. The mornings were the worst. I would lie in bed while he dragged himself, reluctantly, toward the hospital.

       He stopped being a surgeon because his hands shook. He felt insecure.

      He would come home early, leaving messages with his office secretary claiming he had traveled to attend medical conferences.

       Our adult children visited less often; they couldn’t stand, among other things, the smell of alcohol that permeated the air. Even when they kissed us, I sensed a certain distaste. They would speak in hushed tones to our housekeeper before leaving, always looking worried. One day, Dr. Rosário—my husband’s best friend—came to visit; alerted by the children and concerned about Eugenio’s absence, he had come to check on us. He left with his head down, in silence.

     The closed blinds and curtains made it impossible to distinguish day from night. Life was different. It was still life, yet it increasingly resembled death—or rather, what we imagine death to be, since we do not know it and believe it to be a dreamless sleep. We had become pure, white, and crystal-clear, like the vodka we drank. Mirrors of each other.

      It was a day-night. Eugenio tumbled down the stairs. He hit his head. Sometime later, a tumor developed. Was it from the blow? I couldn’t say. Dr. Rosário had him admitted to a clinic outside the city. There he remained, sitting in a wheelchair. He stopped speaking; he no longer recognized me.

     He died there. I remained.

     I returned to freedom, overcome by a profound sadness.

     The other two times I encountered him, he was no longer the same man, nor was the love the same.

     To feel compassion, a space of separation is necessary. The other and I meet in a space that belongs to neither of us—a unique space. Only there can the encounter take place—the true encounter, that of a love rediscovered yet transformed.

I lived with the shadow of that first love for twice as long. A lifetime. I lived in a state of bewilderment regarding the world, myself, and those around me. Was I going mad? Or was this a form of consciousness different from the usual? Everything seemed devoid of truth, color, and meaning.

     I returned to life, but I was no longer the same. There was no evolution. The lost pleasure remained lost forever; it was impossible to replace. The first Eugenio remained always the same. Substitutes came along. Other pleasures arose, other experiences were lived, yet there was no progress—only change. Just one more element in the construction of the unknown.

       Now, as I grow older, I draw closer to that same love in a deeper way. Contrary to what one might expect—learning to step away and clear the path—I find myself moving ever closer to this third and final love, which is and will always be the first Eugenio.

“I change my life as one moves from shadow

to sun, or from sun to shadow, in a concrete instant

that establishes a difference—

physical, felt on the skin, a subtle difference,

yet a radical one—between the before and the after,

between the past and the future.”

Jorge Semprún

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________________________________________________

Liliana Blum — Narradora mexicana/ Mexican Fiction Writer– “Tocaré el piano vestida de novia”/“I Will Play the Piano, Dressed as a Bride”-un cuento de amor judío-no judía/a love story between a Jewish man and a non-Jewish woman

Liliana V. Blum

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Liliana Blum (Durango, Durango, México,1974) ha  publicado las novelas El extraño caso de Lenny Goleman (Planeta Joven, 2022), Cara de liebre (Seix Barral, 2020),  El monstruo pentápodo (Bordes, 2019; Tusquets, 2017), Pandora (Tusquets, 2015; MaxiTusquets 2020), Residuos de espanto (Ficticia Editorial, 2011) y los libros de cuentos Tristeza de los cítricos (Páginas de Espuma, 2019), Todas hemos perdido algo (Tusquets, 2020), No me pases de largo (Literal Publishing, 2013), Yo sé cuando expira la leche (IMAC Durango, 2011), The Curse of Eve and Other Stories (Host Publications, 2008), Vidas de catálogo (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2007), ¿En qué se nos fue la mañana? (ITCA, 2007) y  (Ediciones de Barlovento, 2002). Sus escritos son parte de las antologías El crimen como una de las bellas artes (2002), Atrapadas en la madre (Alfaguara, 2006), El espejo de Beatriz (Ficticia, 2009), Óyeme con los ojos: de Sor Juana al siglo XXI (UANL, 2010), Three Messages and a Warning: Contemporary Mexican Short Stories of the Fantastic (Small Beer Press, 2012), La renovada muerte : antología de noir mexicano (Grijalbo, 2019),  entre otras. Su nueva colección de relatos, Un descuido cósmico, saldrá este 2023 bajo el sello de Tusquets. Liliana Blum estudió Literatura Comparada en The University of Kansas y tiene una maestría en educación con especialidad en humanidades por el ITESM.

______________________________________________________________

Liliana Blum (Durango, Durango, Mexico, 1974) has published the novels: El extraño caso de Lenny Goleman (Planeta Joven, 2022), Cara de liebre (Seix Barral, 2020),  El monstruo pentápodo (Bordes, 2019; Tusquets, 2017), Pandora (Tusquets, 2015; MaxiTusquets 2020), Residuos de espanto (Ficticia Editorial, 2011) and the books of short-stories: Tristeza de los cítricos (Páginas de Espuma, 2019), Todas hemos perdido algo (Tusquets, 2020), No me pases de largo (Literal Publishing, 2013), Yo sé cuando expira la leche (IMAC Durango, 2011), The Curse of Eve and Other Stories (Host Publications, 2008), Vidas de catálogo (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2007), ¿En qué se nos fue la mañana? (ITCA, 2007) and (Ediciones de Barlovento, 2002). Her writing can be found in the anthologies: El crimen como una de las bellas artes (2002), Atrapadas en la madre (Alfaguara, 2006), El espejo de Beatriz (Ficticia, 2009), Óyeme con los ojos: de Sor Juana al siglo XXI (UANL, 2010), Three Messages and a Warning: Contemporary Mexican Short Stories of the Fantastic (Small Beer Press, 2012), La renovada muerte : antología de noir mexicano (Grijalbo, 2019),  among others. Her new short-story collection: Un descuido cósmico, will be out later in 2023 (Tusquets). Liliana Blum studied Comparative Literature at The University of Kansas and has a master’s degree in education with a specialty in humanities from ITESM.

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De://From: Liliana V. Blum. Vidas de catálogo. México, D. F.: Tierra Adentro, 2007, 71-76.

“Tocaré el piano vestida de novia”

A Paloma Bauer

           Un año más, que sumado a los otro veintinueve, daba treinta. Pero yo me siento justamente igual que ayer y el día antes de ayer. Andrei se fue a pasar el verano con su futura esposa, mi último papanicolao mostró algunas células anormales y tengo que sacar una cita con el ginecólogo. Salí de la universidad antes de la cinco de la tarde. Pasé al pequeño mercado orgánico y compré algunas cosas. Me he propuesto cambiar de hábitos, ser más saludable. Desde mañana comenzar a nadar antes de la clase de sociología. Dejaré de fumar y habrá más frutos y verduras en mi dieta. Los árboles a lo largo de la calle están cambiando sus hojas de verde a amarillo a rojo, y algunas ya cubren el suelo. Unas cigarras fuera de temporada se escuchan allí y allá.             

           Me detengo porque los hombros me duelen por tantos libros que llevo. Desde que Andrei se fue, leo de tres o cuatro libros por semana y consumo paquetes enteros de galletas con chispas de chocolate sumergidas en café con leche. Suspiro y me obligo a seguir. He llegado a los treinta, estoy viva y camino por una hermosa calle de un pequeño pueblo universitario. Conservo aún la beca para mi maestría y muy pronto terminaré la tesis. De repente la bolsa se rompe y un par de latas de sopa de tomate ruedan por la acera. Otro eslabón de tristeza que se une con todo lo demás.     

           Sé que sí me agacho para recoger las dos latas voy a llorar y no podré detenerme. Miro a los dos lados: no hay nadie más en la calle, salvo un gato anaranjado afilándose las garras en un tronco. Cuatro dólares bien valen mis lágrimas, o al revés, así que mejor la sopa de tomate. En la banqueta veo dibujos hechos con gises de color. Flores, catarinas, unos cuadros con números para brincar. Hace muchos años me hacía feliz dibujar, jugar con el resorte, la cuerda, las muñecas. Ahora estudio porque supuestamente es lo que quiero y soy independiente, pero me pongo a llorar a mitad de la cuadra. Los cuarenta o cincuenta metros que faltan para mi departamento me parecen una distancia infinita. ¿Cómo voy a llegar yo sola con mis células anormales y mi posible cáncer cervical?

           El cielo comienza a cerrarse, y sé que con latas de sopa de tomate o sin ellas debo llegar pronto a donde sea que voy. Vuelvo a cargar la bolsa y camino rápidamente, hasta que la tensión de los músculos de mis piernas me obliga a parar. Para entonces la lluvia ha comenzado; abrazo lo que resta de la bolsa y alcanzo el camino de piedras que lleva a lo que es mi departamento, en el segundo piso de una casa antigua que no se distinguiría de cualquier otra de la calle si no fuera por la casera, que vive en el primer nivel, ha llenado de gnomos y ranas todo el jardín. Corro entre los figurines con cuidado de no tocarlos, porque está estipulado en el contrato de alquiler que, si llegamos a romper alguno de los gnomos, ella puede pedirnos dejar el piso en cualquier momento. Cuando termine la maestría y consiga un buen trabajo, lo primero que haré es cambiarme de casa.

           Debería de tomar el rastrillo de Andrei, todas sus cosas, y tirarlas en la basura. O cortarme las venas. Eventualmente él llegaría y me encontraría convertida en una forma de pasta sobre la alfombra e la salita de tele, putrefacta, y entonces vería que yo era una mujer, shiska o no, una mujer que se pudre si deja de vivir. Tomo el rastrillo y lo acerco mis ojos. Tiene algunas barbas de Andrei entre las hojas. No quiero llorar de nuevo así que los pongo en su lugar y salgo del baño. Tomo tres de las cervezas de Andrei, me siento frente al televisor y comienzo a beber.

           Adentro todo está oscuro y se percibe un ligero olor a humedad. Me gusta la casa así. Con poca luz. Andrei bromea siempre con que en el fondo yo debo tener algo de judía, porque dice que soy una tacaña con la energía eléctrica. Entonces puedes quedarte conmigo, contesto yo a sabiendas que él mirará el piso, me tomará de los hombros y dirá: sabes que te amo, pero no puedo casarme con una shiksa. No nos casemos entonces, digo yo, como siguiendo mi parte en el guion. Lo que hago para mortificarlo, para hacerle saber que yo sufro. Me debo a mis padres, y les prometí casarme con una judía y darle nietos, no dejar que muera el apellido, me explica pacientemente una y otra vez lo mismo. Tal vez tiene la esperanza de que en una de tantas repeticiones yo termine por entender y lo deje ir. ¿Pero porque sigue durmiendo aquí en mi casa? Entonces no me digas que me amas, Andrei, porque está claro que no me amas. Luego me encierro en el cuarto con un portazo, o salgo a caminar. En la noche, cuando regreso, lo encuentro sumido en cierta depresión, frente a la tele, viendo las noticias con una cerveza en la mano, las luces apagadas en mi honor. Se levanta para recibirme, no dice nada y comienza a besarme; hacemos el amor allí mismo, en el futón, con un anchorman de CNN dando las últimas noticias de sobre los conflictos en el Medio Oriente. Al terminar, Andrei hace comentarios de cuando en vez sobre lo que ve en la tele, y yo acaricio los rizos, hasta que nos quedamos dormidos.

           Pongo lo que queda de la bolsa y el mandado sobre la mesa de la cocina. Saco el paquete de jamón de pavo kosher y la pinta de leche descremada para acomodarlas en el refri. Entro el baño, orino y prendo la luz para verme de cerca en el espejo. Me parece que tengo más arrugas que la última vez. No me reconozco. Antes yo era otra, digo en voz alta, y pienso en Andrei con la novia judía que finalmente le pareció aceptable. ¿Estarán sentados en la sala, con los padres de allá interrogándolo para ver si es un buen prospectivo, o tal vez van juntos a la sinagoga, tomados de mano?

           Los últimos meses han sido insoportables para mí. O bien soy indestructible, o no tengo dignidad. Supongo que lo segundo. Vivimos en el mismo lugar, él me prepara el desayuno, yo lavo los trastes, Y de repente, alguien, una judía contesta su anuncio en el sitio de Jewish Singles y se pone de acuerdo con ella para conocerse. Entonces me dice: me voy a Seattle o cualquier parte, para conocer a Sarah o a quien sea. Se me salen las lágrimas y él me repite que no puede casarse conmigo, aunque me ame. Luego viene mi escena con gritos, tal vez una taza de café rota, y al final hacemos el amor hasta casi morirnos. A la mañana siguiente, mientras yo duermo, él prepara su maleta, me besa y lo escucho entre sueños decirme que volverá en un par de días. Yo me vuelvo de espaldas. Cuando escucho la puerta cerrarse, aprieto mi cara contra la almohada de él y aspiro su aroma. Sigo miserable hasta medio día, y si no hubiera trabajo que hacer, me quedaría en la cama hasta que Andrei volviera a aparecer. Porque siempre, al fin de cuentas, termina por volver y explica que Rachel o Abby no es interesante, que físicamente no le atrae o que no comparten el mismo nivel de religiosidad. Cualquier cosa. Es mi turno de ser indignada y el de Andrei para mimarme y buscar mi perdón, hasta que la normalidad se vuelve a establecer en la casa, al menos por algún tiempo. Más tarde yo diré: tal vez yo también deba subir mi perfil a un sitio de solteros católicos. Andrei fingirá no escucharme mientras me besa y me quita la ropa. No quiero quedarme de solterona, sobre todo si tú te vas a casar un día de estos. Cuando terminemos, todavía ebria con los efectos del orgasmo, seguiré: Me vas a volverme loca, Andrei. Él sólo guardará silencio, con la cara entre mis pechos. Siempre me deja hablar sin interrumpirme: un cachorro que sabe que hizo mal al destrozar la pantufla. Y cuando esté loca, voy a tocar el piano vestida de novia. Él me besará otra vez: No te vas a volver loca, tú vas a encontrar a alguien que te quiera mucho.       

           Termino la última cerveza y cambio el canal. Veo un especial de Seinfeld y pienso cómo río con Andrei. ¿Voy a encontrar a alguien quién sentirme así?  Porque cuando no está buscando esposa judía, es casi perfecto. Una vez, un poco ebrio, me dijo que, si se casaba pronto, a lo mejor podíamos seguir viéndonos. Eso no está bien, si te casas le va a ser fiel a tu mujer, le dije. Ser parte de un triángulo no entraba en mi plan de vida. Aunque tal vez ahora mismo haría lo que Andrei me dijera. Pero ¿cómo ser “la otra mujer’, si yo no tengo ningún aire de misterio, no uso negligés ni ligueros ni maquillaje? Pero en el fondo sé que ni siquiera tengo esa opción. Andrei estará el resto del verano con su novia, fijará una fecha para la boda y recibiré una postal del lugar a donde vayan de luna de miel. Luego se instalará en otra ciudad y nos escribiremos por correo electrónico, cada vez menos, hasta que finalmente termine por alejarse por completo de mi vida.

           Camino un poco vacilante al cuarto. Tengo que dejar de pensar en él. Lo mejor será tomar, como dicen los libros de autoayuda, un día a la vez. Me prometo no beber más hasta que encuentre una pareja estable, o si no voy a terminar como una patética depresiva alcohólica, y luego nadie, y con razón, va a quererme. Lo primero que haré por la mañana es llamar al ginecólogo y hacer la cita. Me desvisto en la oscuridad y dejo la ropa en el suelo. Mañana, también, comenzaré a limpiar. Ningún traste sucio pasará más de un día en el fregadero. Voy a poner un florero en medio de la mesa y voy a sacudir los libros.

           Me acuesto. Mis dedos tocan el cabello rizado de Andrei. Su cuerpo se mueve un poco, hasta que termina por despertar. Entré con mi llave, dice, abrazándome. Shhh, no quiero que me platiques de tu viaje. Vuelve a dormirse a los pocos minutos y escucho su respiración. Me quedo despierta con sus brazos rodeándome. Mientras no tenga vestido de novia, creo que no me volveré loca.

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“I Will Play the Piano, Dressed as a Bride”

A Paloma Bauer

           On year more, that added to the other twenty-nine, comes to thirty. But I feel exactly the same as I did yesterday and the day before yesterday. Andrei went to spend the summer with his future wife, my Pap test showed some abnormal cells, and I have to make an appointment with the gynecologist. I left the university before five in the afternoon. I passed the small market where I bought I a few things. I have made a plan to change my habits, to be healthier. From tomorrow on, to swim before sociology class. I will stop smoking, and there will be more fruits and vegetables in my diet. The trees along the street are changing their leaves from green to yellow to red, and some already cover the ground. Some cicadas out of season are heard here and there.

           I stop as my shoulders hurt me because I carry so many books. Since Andrei left, I read three or four books a week, and I consume entire boxes of chocolate chip cookies dipped into coffee with milk. I take a breath and force myself to go on. I have made it to thirty, I am alive, and I walk on a beautiful street in a small university town. I still have the scholarship for my masters and very soon, I will complete my thesis. Suddenly, the bag breaks and two cans of tomato soup roll down the sidewalk. Another kind of sadness that joins all the rest.

           I know that if I bend down to pick up the two cans, I’m going to cry, and I won’t be able to stop myself. I look both ways; there is nobody else on the street, except an orange cat sharpening its nails on a tree trunk. My tears are worth four dollars, or seen the other way around, it’s better that I pick up the tomato soup. On the pavement, I see pictures made with colored chalk. Flowers, ladybugs, some pictures with numbers to jump around. Many years ago, it made me happy to draw, to play with the elastic, the rope, the dolls. Now I study because supposedly that’s what I want and I am independent, but I begin to cry in the middle of the block. The forty or fifty meters left to my apartment seem to me to be an infinite distance. How will I arrive alone with my abnormal cells and a possible cervical cancer?

           The sky begins to darken, and I know that with the cans of tomato soup or without them, I’d better quickly get wherever I’m going. I carry the bag again and walk rapidly, until the tension in the muscles in my legs makes me stop. By then the rain has begun, I hug what is left of the bag, and I reach the stone walk that leads to what is my apartment, on the second floor of an old house that would be indistinguishable from any other on the street, if it wasn’t for the fact that the landlady, who lives on the first floor, has filled the entire garden with gnomes and frogs. I run among the figurines, carefully not to touch them, because it is stipulated in the lease that, if we break one of the gnomes, she can ask us to leave the place at any time. When I complete the Masters and I get a good job, the first thing I will do is change my abode.

           Inside, everything was dark, and a vague humid smell was perceivable. I like the house like that. With little light. Andrei always jokes that down deep I ought to have some Jewishness, because he says that I am a cheapskate with electricity. Then you can stay with me, I answer deliberately that he will look at the floor, take me by the shoulders and will say: you know that I love you, but I can’t marry a shiska. Then we won’t get married, I say, as is continuing my part in the script. I do that to mortify him, to make him know that I suffer. I owe it to my parents, and I promised to marry a Jew and give them grandchildren, not let our name die out, he patiently explains to me the same way, again and again. Perhaps he has the hope that from one of so many repetitions, I will finally understand and let him go. But why does he keep sleeping here in my home? Then don’t tell me that you love me, Andrei, because it’s clear that you don’t love me. Then with a door slam, I shut myself into my room, or I leave to take a walk. That night, when I return, I find him sunken into in a kind of depression, in front of the TV, watching the news with a beer in his hand, the lights turned off in my honor. He gets up to meet me, doesn’t say anything and begins to kiss me, we make love there right there, on the futon, with a CNN anchorman telling the latest news about the conflicts in the Middle East. When we’re done, Andrei sometimes makes comments about what he sees on TV, and I caress his curls, until we fall asleep.

           I put what is left of the bag and the bill on the kitchen table. I take out the packet of Kosher turkey ham and the pint of skim milk to put them in the fridge. I enter the bathroom, I urinate, and I turn on the light in order to see myself up close to the mirror. It seems that I have more wrinkles than the last time. I don’t recognize myself. Before, I was different, I say out loud, and I think about Andrei with the Jewish girlfriend who finally seems acceptable. Will they be in the living room, with her parents, interrogating him to see if he is a good prospect, or perhaps they attend synagogue together, holding hands?

           I ought to take Andrei’s razor, all his things, and throw them in the garbage. Or cut my wrists. Eventually, he would arrive and would find me converted into a form of pasta on the rug in the little TV room, purified, and then he would see that I was a woman, shiska or not, a woman who rots if she is allowed to live. I take the razor, and I bring it close to my eyes. It has a few of Andrei’s beard hairs among the blades. I don’t want to cry again, so I put it back in its place, and I leave the bathroom. I take out three of Andrei’s beers, I sit in front of the television and a begin to drink.

           The last few months have been unbearable for me. Or I’m quite indestructible, or I have no dignity. I guess the second. We live in the same place, He makes breakfast for me, I wash the dishes. And suddenly, someone, a Jewish woman answers his ad in the Jewish Singles site, and he arranges for them to meet each other. Then he says to me: I’m going to Seattle or somewhere, to meet Sarah or whoever. I begin to cry, and he repeats to me that he can’t marry me, even though he loves me. Then comes the scene with shouting, perhaps a broken coffee cup, and finally we make love until we die. The next morning, while I sleep, he packs his suitcase, kisses me and half-asleep, I hear him tell me that he will be back in a couple of days. I turn onto my back. When I hear the door close, I press my face against his pillow, and I breath in his smell. I continue to be miserable until about noon, and if I didn’t have work to do, I would stay in bed until Andrei appears again. Because always, at the end of the day, he returns again, and explains that Rachel or Abby isn’t interesting, that she doesn’t attract him physically or they don’t share the same level of religiosity. Whatever. it is my turn to be indignant and Andrei’s to pamper me and ask my forgiveness, until normality is established at home again, at least for a time. Later on, I will say: perhaps I too ought to put my profile in a site for unmarried Catholics. Andrei will pretend not to hear me while he kisses me and takes off my clothes. I don’t want to stay unmarried, especially if one day you’re to marry one of them. When we finish, still drunk from the effects of the orgasm, I will continue: you are not going to make my crazy, Andrei. He will simply remain silent, with his face between my breasts. He always lets me speak without interrupting me, a puppy that knows that he was bad destroying the slipper. And when I’m crazy, I’m going to play the piano, dressed as a bride. He will kiss me again. You won’t go crazy; you will find someone who will love you a lot.

           I finish the last beer, and I change the channel. I watch a Seinfeld special, and I think of how much I laugh with Andrei. Will I find someone who will feel for me so? Why, when he is not looking for a Jewish woman, it’s almost perfect. Once, a bit drunk, he said that if he gets married soon, at least we could continue seeing each other. That’s no good. if you marry, you will be faithful to your wife, I told him. But now perhaps right now I would do what Andrei said. Being part of a triangle is not in my life plan. But how can I be “the other woman”, if I don’t have any air of mystery, I don’t use negligees or garter belts or makeup? But down deep, I know that I don’t even have that option. Andrei will be with his girlfriend for the rest of the summer, they will set a date for the wedding, and I will receive a postcard from the place where they go for their honeymoon. Then he will settle in another city, and we will write each other by email, less and less, until finally he ends up completely out of my life.

           I walk a bit shaky to the bedroom. I have to stop thinking about him. The best thing would be to take, like the self-help books say, one day at a time. I promise myself not to drink any more until I find a steady boyfriend, or, if I’m not going to end up like a pathetic depressive alcoholic, and then nobody, and with reason, will love me. The first thing I will do in the morning is call the gynecologist and make an appointment. I get undressed in the darkness, and I leave the clothes on the floor. Tomorrow, also, I will begin to clean up. No dirty dish will stay in the refrigerator for more than a day. I’m going to put a vase in the middle of the table, and I’m going to dust the books.

           I go to bed. My fingers touch Andrei’s curly hair. His body moves a bit, until he wakes up. I got in with my key, he said, hugging me, Shhh, I don’t want you to talk to me about your trip. He fell asleep again in a few minutes and I hear his breathing. I remain awake with his arms surrounding me. While I don’t have a wedding dress, I won’t go crazy.

Translation by Stephen A. Sadow

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Algunos libros de Liliana Blum/Some of Liliana Blum’s Books

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Andriana Armony — Romancista brasileña-judaica/Brazilian Jewish Novelist –“Judite no País do Futuro/”Judith in the Country of the Future” — de história e amor/of history and love

Adriana Armony

Adriana Armony nasceu no Rio de Janeiro. É escritora, professora do Colégio Pedro II e doutora em Literatura Comparada pela UFRJ, com a tese “Nelson Rodrigues, leitor de Dostoiévski”. Publicou, pela Editora Record, os romances Estranhos no aquário (2012), Judite no país do futuro (2008) e A fome de Nelson (2005),  e organizou, com Tatiana Salem Levy, a coletânea Primos (2010), da qual também participou com um conto. O romance Estranhos no aquário foi contemplado com a Bolsa de Criação Literária da Petrobras.

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Adriana Armony was born in Rio de Janeiro City. She has three novels published by Editora Record: Strangers in the Aquarium (2012), Judith in the Future Land (2008), and Nelson’s Hunger (2005).  In 2010, she received an award in Creative Writing by Petrobras, a Brazilian Company renowned for their support to the Brazilian arts and culture.  Adriana also co-edited Cousins: stories of Jewish and Arab heritage (2010), a collection of fictional short stories by Brazilian writers about their Jewish and Arab background.  Besides her life as a writer (and passionate reader), Adriana teaches Brazilian Literature at Colégio Pedro II, a prestigious State school in Rio de Janeiro.  She has a PhD in Comparative Literature, and is a member of the Centre for Jewish Studies of Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ)

https://adriarmony.wordpress.com/

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Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.

Dois corpos enlaçados, pálios e rígidos. Ele compôs-se solenemente para a morte; calça marrom-escura, camisa marrom-clara, gravata preta. Deitada de lado, envolta num penhoar estampado com ramagens, ela encosta-se no seu ombro, segura carinhosamente as mãos entrelaçadas. Suicídio, não havia dúvida. Mas seria possível?

         No caminho para a casa de Judite, João costumava comprar os jornais vespertinos, que lia enquanto esperava Salomão chegar. Ultimamente longos períodos de silêncio pesavam entre ele e Judite, e o jornal fornecia uma proteção íntima e reconfortante para os dois. João relé as manchetes daquela terça feira, 24 de fevereiro: dois navios nacionais foram bombardeados por submarinos alemães; Stefan Zweig, o escritor de Brasil, país de futuro, matou-se, com sua esposa Lotte, em Petrópolis, onde será sepultado. O nazi-fascismo estava fazendo suas primeiras vítimas no Brasil; mais cedo o mais tarde, a declaração de guerra seria inevitável.

         Apesar de tudo, era difícil entender. Um escritor de sucesso, que conseguira escapar das garras do nazismo, tinha o direito de se matar? Por que ele se suicidara? Por que arrastara a mulher com ele? Era aquilo o verdadeiro amor? “Parece que ele morreu antes dela… foi necessário forçar aquele corpinho para coloca-lo no ataúde… O rosto da mulher estava deformado” –foram as palavras da poeta Gabriela Mistral, que um repórter registrara. E havia detalhes que impressionavam. A mobília era quase indigente: duas camas de solteiro, encostadas uma na outra; dois criados-mudos com abajures baratos, um pão mordiscado, uma caixa de fósforos vazia, uma garrafa de água mineral.

         Uma vez ouvira que é bela a morte voluntária. Que a vida escolhe por nós, más a morte nós somos nós que escolhemos. Em Os irmãos Karamazov, Kirilov se mata para competir com Deus. Lembrou dos versos de Manuel Bandeira: “Muitas palmeiras se suicidaram porque não viviam num píncaro azulado.” João não queria morrer. Ah, se fosse um escritor famoso, si tivesse uma mulher que o amasse… ou se as mulheres o cercassem de mimos, disputassem o seu autógrafo (havia tantas mulheres bonitas), soltassem suas risadinhas excitadas, então seria feliz! Estava sendo fútil, pensou envergonhado, mas não podia evitar que o grito se erguesse dento de ele:  estava vivo! E, para apaziguar sua excitação, forcou-se a pensar nos corpos amarelos e gelados.

         Iria até Petrópolis. Quem sabe se voltaria? Prestaria a última homenagem a Zweig, y depois iria para o Rio. Estava perdendo tempo ali, na barra da saia de uma mulher casada. Coisas graves aconteciam, histórias de amor e morte. Era por acaso um adolescente? Apalpou o bolso, retirou uma folha amarrotada. Há dias levava aquele poema que escrevera pensando em Judite. Escrevera-o como que possuído, depois de ler o Cântico dos Cânticos, e não tinha sequer coragem de relê-lo, quanto mais de mostra-lo a Judite. Como ia partir, já podia fazê-lo. Mas era impossível que ela o lesse na sua presença, de modo que era preciso rabiscar algumas palavras com algumas instruções técnicos para ser cortejada sem se sujar”, pensou, como raiva. Mas também ele não era um cobarde? Temia ou admirava Salomão, o justo? Ou será que era ela dela que tinha.

         Ali estava um restaurante que costumava frequentar. Certamente poderia sentar-se por alguns instantes e escrever, enquanto bebericava alguma coisa. Pegou um guardanapo. “Judite, deixo-te este poema como doce lembrança dos nossos dias.” Era ridículo aquele tom nostálgico. Riscou tudo, escreveu: “Por favor, leia, mas não ria de mim.” Aquela ambiguidade era servil demais. Seria melhor fingir um interesse puramente literário: “Espero que goste deste poema.” Numa súbita inspiração, acrescentou, ressentido: “Junto com Zweig, alguma coisa também morreu entre nós.” Meu Deus, nada tinha acontecido entre eles! Certamente, devia a ser tudo uma fantasia… Rabiscou a última frase e escreveu diretamente no verso do envelope onde enfiara o poema: “Sigo hoje para a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-lhe este poema como lembrança e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Nenhuma acusação, uma ambiguidade viril: o tom estava correto. E, embora fosse improvável que Judite fosse procurá-lo, lá estava a indicação do local onde ele poderia ser encontrado. Si ela quisesse, não seria difícil descobrir onde ficava a casa a dos Ramalho, bastante conhecidos na cidade.

              João bate na porta, ele atendo. Percebe imediatamente que houve algo extraordinário. Ele não deixa espaço para dúvidas.

          — Stefan Zweig se matou!

         –O que você está dizendo! –Judite, com a mão diante da boca.

              –Ele e a mulher fizeram um pacto de morte. Ingeriam veneno e morrerem abraçados. Vão ser enterrados amanhã em Petrópolis.

              –Mas por quê?

              “Ele não tinha direito”, Judite está pensado. “Tantos queriam viver e morreram.” E depois: “Só os mortos não morrerão.”        

–Ninguém sabe.

–Todos aqueles homes e mulheres torturados, veraneando solitários naqueles hotéis… Talvez ele fosse assim. Mesmo não sendo pego pelos nazis, mesmo morando aqui no Brasil, continuou sofrendo.

–Lá em Petrópolis ele podia continuar escrevendo, podia esperar a paz…  Mas até aqui em Brasil!

        — Todo aquele mundo abafado… Ele não podia suportar o calor. A gente vê isso nos livros dele.

         –Esqueci de dizer: mais dois navios brasileiros foram torpedeados

         –Ah, meu Deus, a guerra está chegando perto de nós! Será que agora finalmente vai ficar contra os alemães? Salomão precisa saber disso.

          –Já deve saber, as notícias já devem ter chegado ao armazém. – Faz uma pausa, olha sério para Judite, — Escuta—ele nunca tinha falado nesse tom com ela–, você muitas vezes me criticou porque nunca mostrei nada que tinha escrito. Dessa vez eu trouxe um poema, mas, por favor, só você pode ler. –Ele Ile estende um envelope onde se pode ler algo escrito numa letra miúda e vai recuado até a porta. O seu rosto parece emitir uma luz estranha.

         –Não vai esperar Salomão?

         –Não, hoje não. Estou com pressa.

         Quando a porta se fecha, Judite percorre com o olhar o dorso do envelope: “Sigo hoje a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-Ihe este poema como lembrança a e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Rasga o envelope e lê, de pé, aproveitando que Salomão não chegou e as crianças estão com Dorinha. . .

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Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. [judite in the country of the future.] Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.

Two bodies fit together, pallid, and rigid. He was solemnly positioned for death; dark-brown pants, light-brown shirt, black tie. Lying beside him, wrapped in dressing gown printed with boughs and trees, she reclined on his shoulder, lovingly secure, the hands inter-laced. Suicide, the was no doubt. But could it be possible?

            On the way toward Judite’s house, João customarily bought the evening’s newspapers, that he read as waited for Salomão to arrive. Lately, long periods of silence weighted on him and Judite, and the newspaper furnished a and intimate and comforting protection for the two of them. João reread the headlines of that Tuesday, February 24: two Brazilian ships were bombed by German submarines; Stefan Zweig, the author of Brazil, the Country of the Future, killed himself, with his wife Lotte, in Petrópolis, where they would be buried. The Nazi-fascism was taking its first victims in Brazil; but sooner or later, a declaration of war would be inevitable.

         Despite everything, it was difficult to understand. A successful author, who had been able to escape the claws of Nazism, had the right to kill himself? Why did he commit suicide? Why did he drag his wife with him? Was that true love? “It appears that he died before she did… It was necessary to force that bodice to fit it into the casket… The face of the woman was deformed,”were the words of the poet Gabriela Mistral, that a reporter noted. And there were details that were touching. The furniture was almost indigent: two single beds, set one next to the other; two night tables with cheap lamps, bread that had been partially eaten, an empty box of matches, a bottle of mineral water.

          Once, he had heard that a voluntary death is beautiful. That life chooses for us, but for our death we are the ones who choose. In The Brothers Karamazov, Kirlov kills himself to compete with God. He remembered the verses of Manuel Bandeira: “Many palm trees commit suicide because they don’t live on a sunny hill.” João didn’t want to die. Ah, he would become a famous writer, if he had a woman who loved him… or if the women would surround him with delight, fight over his autograph (there were so many pretty women), let out excited laughter, then he would be happy! He was being shallow, he thought, embarrassed, but he couldn’t keep back a shout that was rising inside of him: he was alive. And to quiet his excitement, he forced himself to think about yellow and frozen bodies.

            All those tortured men and women spending the summer alone in those hotels… Perhaps he was like that. Just like not being caught by the Nazis, just like dying here in Brazil, he continued suffering.

         “There in Petrópolis he could continue writing, he could wait for the peace… But until it is here in Brazil!

         “All that sweltering world…He couldn’t tolerate the heat. People see this in his books.

         “I forgot to say that two Brazilian ships were torpedoed.”

         “Oh, my God, the war is coming close to us! Will it be that here finally they are going to concentrate on the Nazis? Salomao needed to know of this.

He would go to Petrópolis. Who knows if he would return? He would make his last respects to Zweig, and then her would go toward Rio. He was wasting time here, tied to the skirts of a married woman. Serious things happen, stories of life and death. Was he by any chance an adolescent. For days he had been perfecting that poem that he was writing for Judite. He wrote like someone possessed, after reading the Song of Songs, and he hadn’t had the courage to reread it, much less show it to Judite. As he was leaving, he could still do it.

t would be impossible to do so. But it was impossible that she read it in his presence, so that he must scribble some words with some technical instructions that would court her without embarrassing himself, he thought angrily. But wasn’t he a coward as well?  Did he fear or admire Solomão, the just? Or would it be that she was the one who was afraid?

João knocked on the door, he waited. He

  Immediately perceived that something extraordinary was going on. That was without a doubt.

          “Stefan Zweig killed himself!”

          “Oh, what are you saying?”, reacted Judite, with her hand in front of her mouth.

           He and his wife made a death pact. They ingested poison, and they died, embracing each other. They will be buried tomorrow in Petrópolis.

             “But, why?”

             ” He had no right to do it.” Judite was thinking. “So many want to live, and they die. And later: “Only the dead don’t die.”

              “Nobody knows.”

         -You should now, then news ought to have arrived in the mailbox. He pauses, he looked intensely for Judite, Listen. He had never spoken in that tone with hers. Many times, you have criticized me because I never showed anything I had written. This time I found a poem. But, please, only you can read it.” He reached out to her an envelope where someone could read something written in a child’s script, and he walked backwards toward the door. His face seemed to emit a strange light.

         “No, not today. I’m in a hurry.”

       When the door closed, Judite looked the back of the envelope: “I’m leaving today for my relatives house in Petrlis, and I leave you this poem as a memory and tribute to our love of literature.”  She opened the letter and read, standing, taking advantage of the fact that Salomão hadn’t arrived, and the kids were with Dorina…

Translated by Stephen A. Sadow

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Livros da Adriana Armony/Books by Adriana Armony

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Yanina Rovinski — Escritora judío-costarricense/Costa Rican Jewish Writer — “Paz y Amor”/”Peace and Love”

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Yanina Rovinski

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Nací en Costa Rica en 1960, empecé en una escuela judía (Instituto dr. Jaim Weisman) pero terminé en el liceo franco costarricense después de 3 años en París en el lycée Montaigne. Fui a la universidad de Costa Rica donde me gradué en química y después de unos años como química textil me fui a Estados Unidos a hacer una maestría en periodismo con énfasis en ciencias.

A mi regreso a Costa Rica empecé a trabajar para un organismo internacional, la UICN (Unión Internacional para la Conservación de la Naturaleza), creando su departamento de comunicaciones para Centroamérica. Posteriormente trabajé para el Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores en la embajada de Costa Rica en Francia y en la Unesco. Desde que regresé vivo en la costa Pacífica, en Punta Leona, y me dedico a la traducción y a dar clases de temas ambientales en ICDS (International Center for Development Studies) in San José,

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I was born in Costa Rica in 1960, I began in a Jewish School (Chaim Weitzman Institute,) but I finished in the Franco-Costa Rican High School, after three years in the Lycée Montaigne in Paris. I attended the University of Costa Rica where I graduated in Chemistry, and after a few years as a textile chemist, I went to the United States to do a Masters in Journalism with an emphasis on the sciences.

On my return to Costa Rica, I began to work for an International Organization, the IUCN (International Union for the Conservation of Nature), creating its department of communications in Central America. Later, I worked for the Foreign Relations Ministry in the Embassy of Costa Rica in France and for UNESCO. Since I returned, I live on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica, in Punta Leona, and I dedicate myself to doing translation and to giving classes on environmental themes at the ICDS (International Center for Development Studies) in San José,

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Antes de este capítulo de Una montaña de aserrín, el testimonio trata de la vida de Sarita Giberstein, una niña judía que pasó su infancia de 5 a 10 años de edad durante la ocupación de Polonia de los Nazis por la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Vivía con un miedo constante. Con sus padres, Sarita sobrevivió el horror del Gueto de Varsovia, el levantamiento judía y la destrucción completa de la zona por los nazis. Luego, separada de sus padres, la trasladaban de un escondite ofrecido por polacos comprensivos a otros lugares “más seguros” hasta que llegara en los bosques. Una vez se escondió de un patrol nazi porque estaba cubierta de “un montón de aserrín”.

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Coming before this chapter of Una montaña de asserin, a heap of sawdust, this              testament presents the life of Sarita Giberstein, a Jewish girl who spent her childhood, from five to ten years old, during the occupation of Poland by the Nazis durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial. She lived in constant fear. With her parents, Sarita survived the horror of the Warsaw Ghetto, the Jewish Uprising and the complete destruction of the zone by the Nazis, Then, separated from her parents, she was moved from one hiding place to another “safer place” by supportive Poles, until she reached the edge of the forest. On one occasion, covered by a heap of sawdust. Sarita successfully hid from a Nazi patrol.

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“Paz y amor” celebra no solamente la sobrevivencia de Sarita y su familia, sino la recepción que recibieron de los judío costarricenses y la solidaridad de esa comunidad. Trata de la adaptación de Sarita a su vida nueva en Costa Rica. También, es una historia de amor entre Samuel Rovinski que llegará a ser un escritor importante y su querida Sarita.

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“Paz y amor”

Deslumbrado por las luces de Nueva York, los Giberstein intentaron quedarse a vivir en Estados Unidos, pero no obtuvieron los permisos necesarios, así que finalmente regresaron a Costa Rica.

La de Costa Rica era una comunidad muy solidaria. Cuando llegaron judíos que habían sobrevivido la guerra y exterminación nazi, iban delegaciones a recibirlos y les ayudaron en sus primeros pasos. Los Giberstein pasaron los primeros días donde los Yankelewicz, que tenían una casa grande situada en el Paseo Colón, hasta que consiguieron mudarse justo al lado de los Rovinski, tal y como habían vivido en el pasado. Eran dos casas gemelas, con patios separados por las latas de zinc, que los jóvenes quitaron durante la revolución del 48 para poder verse sin salir a la calle. El destino parecía decidido a volverlos a juntar.

El en relato autobiográfico “Cuarto Creciente”, mi padre describe la llegada de la adolescente que le robó el corazón:

      “No era preciso que nadie me la señalara: la había identificado, aun sin conocerla. Sus largas trenzas le caían por delante, bastante más debajo de la cintura, enmarcado sus cara ovalada, de finos rasgos, que parecía esculpida por un meticuloso artista; boca no muy ancha, algo sensual, dejaba entrever una sonrisa amable y franca. . .”

     “Con Samuel el enamoramiento fue inmediato,” cuenta por su lado Sarita, su primer recuerdo realmente placentera. “No teníamos idioma para comunicarnos. Samuel trataba de hablar Yiddish y era desastroso, nos hacía reír por que decía cosas sin sentido, usaba palabras que se parecían a lo que quería decir, pero significaban totalmente otra cosa.”

De estos primeros intentos de comunicación salió el nombre cariñoso con que mi padre siempre se dirigía a mi madre el futuro: Shura, un nombre que representa su amor por ella. Apenas se instalaron en su casa junto a los Rovinski, los Giberstein consiguieron una maestra para que los niños aprendieran español, y pudieron entrar a la escuela y el colegio.

      “Yo tuve que hacer un examen en la escuela República de Chile para que me dieran el certificado del sexto grado. A los seis meses de haber llegado, lo hice y entré al Colegio de Señoritas, a primer año.”

Rosita y Jerzyck entraron también a la escuela y posteriormente, mi tía estudiaría también en el Colegio de Señoritas, Jerzyck en el Liceo de Costa Rica.

Excelente alumna, Sarita no tuvo ninguna dificultad en convertirse en una de las mejores estudiantes del colegio. Cuando le anunciaron, en su primer año de estudios, que le había otorgado el Cuadro de Honor, ella no sabía de qué se trataba, pero aun así mantuvo durante los cinco años que  pasó el colegio, en los que fue la favorita de las maestras y compañeras, y presidente de su clase por varios años. Por tener el mejor promedio durante toda la historia académica, el último año le entregaron el estandarte del colegio, que llevaba con dignidad en todos los desfiles y actividades estudiantiles.

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Samuel hervía de orgullo por su hermosa e inteligente novia. Él, por su lado, asistía al Liceo de Costa Rica y había pasado los años por la idea del sufrimiento de aquellos judíos víctimas de la barbarie nazi. Su propia experiencia con el antisemitismo había empezado en el primer grado de la escuela, cuando una pandilla de matoncillos lo había molido a golpes por su apellido. Enfrentado a la injusticia y la cobardía del grupo, Samuel había retado individualmente a cada miembro de la pandilla, hasta después del quinto contrincante vapuleado, lo había aceptado plenamente o al menos nunca lo volvieron a atacar. El levantamiento del Gueto de Varsovia lo había inspirado a escribir una novela infantil, que expresaba su admiración de aquellos valientes que, en medio de la barbarie, habían luchado por su libertad. La novela quedó sin terminar, y su admiración se volcó sobre la joven brillante, hermosa y valiente que acababa de reencontrar

Para la familia Giberstein, la vida por fin empezó a normalizarse. León y Dora montaron una pequeña fábrica de camisas, La Mercury, que les permitió ganarse la vida y sacar adelante a sus hijos. Al tiempo, también Zoñek, el hermano de Dora y su esposa Regina se vinieron a vivir en Costa Rica. Zoñek se reunió con su hermana y su cuñado en la fábrica, y los tres trabajaron ahí hasta sus últimos días. Zoñek y Regina tuvieron dos hijos Gilbert y José Félix, que les darían muchas alegrías y varios nietos.

Para Sarita, el polaco fue rápidamente olvidado, porque en la comunidad judía costarricense había un gran odio hacia los polacos, que en su mayoría habían colaborado de buena gana con los nazis, a pesar de raras excepciones de gente solidaria. “En Costa Rica me sentía mal hablando polaco, y eso ayudó a que aprendiera rapidísimo el español.”

Samuel no quiso perder un minuto, y apenas empezaban a entenderse en español, invitó al cine a la hermosa adolescente de trece años. “Mi mamá estaba con el pelo parado, pero Dinche la convenció, y así fuimos. Para mí era toda una aventura, porque solo una vez había ido al cine en Varsovia.”

La comunidad judía costarricense organizaba actividades para los jóvenes durante los fines de semana. Ahí bailaron y se divertían, y Sarita, que apenas estaba redescubriendo la alegría, disfrutaba mucho de esas actividades. Samuel, por su lado, era un adolescente serio que prefería quedarse en su cuarto oyendo la música clásica, pero aprendió a bailar para pasar más tiempo con su novia. Su ardiente pasión reclamaba la atención absoluta y exclusiva de la joven, la que generó entre ellos inesperadas tensiones. Para Sarita, todo era nuevo e intrigante: la retreta en el Parque Central, la tanda de siete los domingos, las excursiones al campo con grupos de jóvenes. Le atraía esa alegría hasta ahora desconocida. Samuel que era mucho más reservado, quería pasar con ella todo el tiempo podía, y hacía lo que podía por complacerla participando en esas actividades. Sarita era una joven inteligente, con una fuerte personalidad, que después de haber vivido toda su infancia no iba a aceptar que la privaran de su libertad, y le hizo entender a su enamorado que quería vivir una juventud tranquila, alegre y normal. A él le interesaban la lectura y el cine. Aprendía tocar el violín y jugaba al básquet, era un estudiante destacado, interesado en el bienestar de sus compañeros, y se convirtió  muy pronto en líder estudiantil y presidente del Liceo. A pesar de las diferencias de carácter y preferencias, ambos jóvenes se fueron acoplando hasta hacerse inseparables.

El cortejo duró siete años. Mientras terminaban el colegio y empezaban sus estudios universitarios. Samuel se fue a México para estudiar ingeniería cuando Sarita aún estaba en el cuarto año del colegio. A pesar de sus inclinaciones literarias, él había elegido una carrera que le permitiera ganarse la vida y mantener una familia. Desde México, le escribía cartas de amor a su Shura, en las que vertía su naciente talento literario. A partir de ese momento, empezó entre ellos la etapa de amores epistolares. Durante cuatro años, intercambian cartas donde se contaban sus vidas y compartían sus sueños. Ambos conservaron celosamente esas cartas, testigo  de su amor ejemplar.

Al terminar el colegio, Sarita ingresó a la Universidad de Costa Rica para estudiar filosofía y letras. Mientras tanto, Samuel seguía estudiando con dedicación y pasaba su tiempo libre jugando al básquet, aunque había abandonado el estudio del violín después de dejarlo perdido en un taxi. En realidad, reconocía que, a pesar de su amor por la música, nunca sería un virtuoso, y prefería escuchar a los grandes maestros antes que reproducir a duras penas los sonidos en su violín. Cuando estaba a graduarse de ingeniero, en el penúltimo año, Samuel no pudo esperar más y pidió la mano de su amada novia.

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Sarita y Samuel en el Teatro Nacional, muchos años después

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Samuel Rovinski – Post

Un montón

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“Peace and Love’”celebrates not only the survival of Sarita and her family, but also the reception they received by the Costa Rican Jews and the solidarity of that community. It deals with Sarita’s adaptation to her new life en Costa Rica. Also, it is adolescent love story between Samuel Rovinski, who would become an important writer, and his beloved Sarita.

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“Peace and Love”

Dazzled by the lights of New York, the Gibersteins intended to stay and live in the United States, but they couldn’t obtain the necessary permits, so they finally returned to Costa Rica.

     “We came in a plane that landed at La Sabana airport, and there an entire delegation of people was waiting for us, including Samuel, who was a very tall and very handsome boy.”

The Jewish community of Costa Rica was very caring. When Jews arrived, who had survived the war and the Nazi extermination, delegations went to welcome them and help them in their first steps. The Gibersteins spent their first days with the Yankelewicz family, who had a large house, located on the Paseo Colón, until they were able to move right next to the Rovinskis, just as they had lived in the past. They were two twin houses, with patios separated by zinc plates, that the young people took away during the revolution of ’48 so they could see each other without going out on the street. Destiny seemed to have decided to bring the two families together again.

In the autobiographical story “First Crescent,” my father described the arrival of the adolescent that stole his heart:

“It wasn’t necessary for anyone to point her out: I had identified her, even without knowing her. Her long braids fell forward, well beyond her waist, framing her oval facce, of fine features, that seemed to be sculpted by a meticulous artist, no so wide a mouth, a bit sensual, let show a kind and frank smile. . .

With Samuel, it was love at first sight,” For her part, Sarita tells of her first really pleasant memory. “We didn’t have a language in which we could communicate. Samuel tried to speak Yiddish, and it was disastrous , it made us laugh because he said senseless things, he used words that were close to what he wanted to say, but they meant something completely different.”

From these first attempts at communication, came out the affectionate that my father always called my mother in the future: Shura, a name that showed his love for her.

They had had barely moved into their house next to the Rovinskis, the Gibersteins  hired a teacher so that the children would learn Spanish and enter school and high school.

     “I had to take an exam at the Republic of Chile School so that they give me a sixth-grade certificate. Six months after having arrived, I took it and I entered the first year at the Colegio de Señoritas.”

Rosita and Jerzyck also went to school, and later on, my aunt would also study in the Colegio de Señoritas, Jerzyk in the Liceo de Costa Rica.

An excellent student, Sarita had no difficulty in becoming one of the best students in the high school. When the announced to her, in her first year of study, that they had awarded her the Honor Award; she didn’t what it meant, but even so, she kept up in that way during the five years she spent at the high school, during which she was the favorite of the teachers and students and was president of her class for several years. For having the highest average in the history of the school, they entrusted her with the school banner, that she carried with dignity in all the parades and student activities.

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Samuel was so proud of his beautiful and intelligent girlfriend, He attended the Liceo de Costa Rica and he had spent the years thinking about the suffering of those Jews who were victims of the Nazi barbarity. His own experience with anti-Semitism had begun in the first grade of school, when a band of young punk had beaten him up because of his last name. Confronting the injustice and the cowardliness of the group, Samuel had challenged individually each member of the group, until after the fifth beat up opponent, they had fully accepted him or at least they never attacked him again. The Uprising in the Warsaw Ghetto had inspired him to write a children’s book , that expressed his admiration for those valiant people, who, in the midst of the barbarity, had fought for their liberty. The novel was never finished, and his admiration turned toward the brilliant, beautiful and brave young woman that he had just come to meet again.

For the Giberstein family, life finally began to normalize. León and Dora set up a small shirt factory, The Mercury, that allowed them to earn a living and provide for their children ahead. At the same time, Zoñek, Dora’s brother and his wife Regina joined his sister and brother-in-law, and the three of the worked there for the rest of their lives. Zoñek and Regina had two sons, Gilbert and José Félix, who would give them much happiness and several grandchildren.

For Sarita, Polish was rapidly forgotten, because the Jewish community of Costa Rica had an intense hatred for the Poles, the majority of whom had enthusiastically  collaborated with the Nazis, with only the rare exceptions of people who supported the Jews.

Samuel didn’t want to lose a minute, and when they had hardly begun to communicate in Spanish, he invited the beautiful thirteen-year-old to go to the movies. “It was hair-raising for my mother was  but Dinche convinced her, and so we went. For me, it was quite an adventure, because only once had I gone to the movies in Warsaw.”

The Costa Rican Jewish community organized activities for the young people during the weekends; There they danced and had fun, and Sarita who was just beginning rediscover happiness, greatly enjoyed these activities. Samuel, on the other hand, was a serious adolescent who preferred to stay in his room listening to classical music, but he learned to dance so that he could spend more time with his girlfriend. His ardent passion demanded the absolute and exclusive attention of the girl, which generated unexpected tensions between them. For Sarita, everything was new and fascinating: the public concert in the Parque Central, the seven o’clock show at the movies on Sundays, the excursions to the countryside with groups of young people. This happiness, until now unknown, attracted her.

Samuel was much more reserved, wanted to spend as much time with her as he could, and he did what he could to please her, by participating in those activities. Sarita was an intelligent girl, with a strong personality, who, after having lived hidden all of her childhood, wasn’t going to allow that she be deprived of her freedom, and she made it clear to her boyfriend that she wanted to live a tranquil, happy and normal youth.

He was interested in reading and the movies. He learned to play the violin and play basketball, was an outstanding student, interested in the well-being of his companions, and soon he became a student leader and president of the Liceo. In spite of their differences in character, both young people became closer until they became inseparable.

The courtship lasted seven years. While they were finishing high school and commencing their university studies, Samuel went to Mexico to study engineering, when Sarita was still in her fourth year of high school. Despite his literary inclinations, he had chosen a career that would allow him to earn a living and support a family.

From Mexico, he wrote love letters to his Shura, into which he poured his nescient literary talent. From that moment, there began between them the stage of epistolary love. During four years, they interchanged letters in which the told of their lives  and shared their dreams. Each of them kept those letters jealously, a testament to their exemplary love.

On completing high school, Sarita enrolled in the Universidad of Costa Rica to study liberal arts. Meanwhile, Samuel continued studying with dedication and spent his free time playing basketball, although he had abandoned the study of the violin, after leaving it in a taxi. In reality, he recognized that, in spite of his love for music, he would never be a virtuoso, and he preferred to listen to the great masters, rather than reproducing with great difficulty the sounds on his violin. When he was about to graduate as an engineer, in the next to last year, Samuel could wait no longer, and asked for the hand of his beloved girlfriend.

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 Sarita and Samuel in the National Theater, many years later

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Samuel Rovinski – Post

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