The Mozo (Or the author’s 62nd Birthday Party)

Written: 10/9/2009

(October 7, 2009) It was the last of the Navarro Correa Wine (Merlot, aged in a wood vat, very strong, very expensive). I drank my second glass of wine, perhaps no more than an ounce, the prior glass was three-quarters filled, perhaps three ounces and the waiter filled the other glasses of the five persons at the birthday party, and he held it so as to pour it as the guests held their glasses, he was a young man, the Mozo (waiter) well mannered, thin in the face, and looked at the bottle steadily as he poured. We watched him disappear beyond the archway of the room, into the adjacent room—perhaps to get another white cloth to wrap around the bottle, as if to guard against a spill, a drop or two of wine, thus, it would catch it.
Apolinario took a mouthful, then the mozo poured nearly the rest of the wine out into Alex’s glass, sitting on the side of Apolinario. The last ounce was poured into my glass; it splattered on the tablecloth, fading into it.
“Salud,” I said, returning the glass to my mouth (I thought at the moment I’d have to have someone carry me out of the private guest room, on my sixty-second birthday, I hadn’t drank anything in twenty-five years, had I had anymore of that in my system, I’d would have gotten sick on the spot, and had to be bed rested immediately, I do believe.)
“Don’t drink too much,” my wife Rosa said. (But I felt somehow I just had to drink the second drink, that ounce of wine; Marissa, the other female in our little birthday party, had only drank an ounce out of the first of two pouring, she was still in everyone’s shadow as far as drinking went.)
The air was fresh, the sun shinning though the windows, which had an eminence of pure light and heat, and inside this antique room, one could glance, from a distance away, the impeding public.
(I told myself, I can’t drink, and I can’t throw the wine away, it cost an arm and a leg, per near; God knows I’ll be sick by evening.)
Apolinario’s back was to the windows, the sun on it, as was the sun to Alex’s back, it was a sun-filled room, the blue and the sunny outside was inside. Apolinario was looking to the quiet mark of my profile (the side view of my face), I smiled at him, not sure why he was staring, I assumed the wine had hit him.
“Señor, Dennis,” said Marissa (still after seven-years of knowing her, still calling her Melissa, not realizing the ‘e’ and the ‘l’ doesn’t belong in her name, until my wife pointed it out during the writing of this story…)
“Yes, Señorita,” I acknowledged; she looked at me, she had deep brown eyes with softened irises, as if they had been soaked in warm water, for the moment, and she explained how she appreciated our friendship.
“Señor, Dennis,” said Alex, a wee fatigued from the wine, the sun slanted upon his shoulder, upon this serene moment, and he gave his appreciation for our many years of friendship, also.
Near motionless, with a rigid quality of unacquainted idleness, Apolinario had rested his eyes—quite spent, almost dead upon me. He looked for a moment, a tad intoxicated, like an artificial statue, attached to a chair, as if he had put on a new face (façade). The man looked at me. “Are you alright?” I asked him, he said in his soft un-rhythmic voice, “Si.” Then the man turned his head in a slight deprecatory gesture (or so it seemed); as Marissa received her desert, a large portion of a rounded pancake, with the trimmings.
“It’s delicious,” the woman said, to those at the table; as her fork rippled briefly through its layers.
Papa Augusto was at the other end of the table (my father-in-law), he was starting to get into religion, carefully between thumb and fingers, and I had to ask him to please refrain from talking on both politics and religion (knowing this could get into a debate).
“Whoosh (or go-ahead), let him speak his mind…” said Apolinario, but I insisted, and Papa Augusto looked at us quietly, and gave his happiness for his friendship with me.


And when I had gotten home, trying to rest, lying upon my bed, to take a nap, the jerking of my heart (unbelievable rapidity) took place, along with numbness in my face, a sour stomach—in consequence, I was sick for three days, because of drinking three and a half ounces of wine—evidently not my forte. The wine was sharp and potent, harsh; it was as if a mule kicked me in the head, stomach, and chest.

And so, this is the story of my 62nd Birthday, and what I left out was that the steak and the food in general, was great, as was the two waiters, and especially the wine pourer, just the aftereffects of the wine, and thus, if the good Lord is willing, it will be another twenty-five years before I drink another glass of wine!

No: 489 (10-9-2009)

A Fear and a Dream (In English and Spanish)

English Version

A Fear and a Dream
A Story of Inspiration and Determination

((Regional Swimming Champion) (in five parts))

A Story based on actual events, using the persons real name…

Part One
The Post Office

(The Winter of 2002)


(Winter of 2002, St. Paul, Minnesota, USA) Those who saw her descend from the large U. S. Mail Truck off 4th Street, in the inner-city down by the Mississippi River, on the chilly morning of December 22, saw a short woman (four-foot eleven inches tall), a little stiff from the cold, with a bronze Peruvian face, and a cute smile that stretch from each corner of her mouth, and almost pure dark-brown hair, that looked to be more black, than dark-brown.
“A determined little driver,” someone said, out of the group standing outside the post office, eating their lunch, smoking cigarettes. They were remarking about her size and determination to drive a big truck, that usually only men drove, she was a post office carrier, only having learned how to drive a year earlier, at the ripe old age of forty-three years old. The men that had never saw her before—this being her first month driving—thought there was something inaccurate with their eyes; because of so many people, men and women too, in the state of Minnesota driving mail trucks. So they watched her go on about her business, with a grunt, strained eyes, yet purposeful as she vanished into the large front seat of her truck, with one big pillow behind her to support her back, and push her forward a half foot, and another big pillow under her to bring her up to the steering wheel, and arranged the seat to allow her short feet to reach the gas pedal. And then they left to do their work, and perhaps thought about it little more, knowing they’d see her around. And that was all of that.
And those who saw this little beauty, in the post office a year after she drove those big trucks, saw her as one of the main tellers, a job that required six-years working at the post office—not one, plus, sharp skills in math and social skills dealing with the public, a job that needed a person to know two languages, but not a requirement (because she was one of the few, very few that filled that needed-prerequisite), and she’d move big bags of mail, dragging them here and there when not working as a teller, and in time a very short time, promoted, and receiving for reply, the workers glare she didn’t expect, but envy and jealousy, penetrates deep, especially in the indolent, but to those doing the glaring and complaining—the superiors put it to rest very quickly, put them into a second-class status, saying, her skills were far above theirs. That made things all right; victory had been accomplished twice, for this non American, in the breadbasket of America, who was working with a working permit, married to an American, had all her requirements fulfilled to be an American, and who (in the year of 2004) at the age of forty-five years old started a sport that would change her life—(that would take fear and replace it with a dream), she would be called secretly by many—during those days, “A late bloomer!”


Part Two
A Journey to Minnesota

(January, 1998, to October, 2009)


For a good many years Rosa Peñaloza (her second last name would be added onto that, in 2000, making it Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk) had worked in Lima, Peru, at a telephone company—fifteen-years—to be exact, was a degreed accountant, and with all her spare time, was a devoted Catholic, working for her parish Church, free. Never married, taking care of five families ((at times her mother and father along with her sisters and brother-in-laws and their children, plus a maid with two kids, all living in her house, living under her roof, for several years, as she was the most steadily employed) (coming from a family of eight children)).
Her mother had told her—she was approaching middle-age and unmarried—something to ponder. The local parish priest wanted her to be a nun, something else to ponder. Outside her business and church hours, she made time for her nieces and nephews (who were potential under a hardship, and would have been under more of a hardship had she not taken them in under her wing)—she made their time a continual and lively childhood for each and everyone.
These are little fluttering tag-like ends of her personal history, which seems as I look back, are simply leaking out as I write, leading up to the present—which will be the championship.
Her own thinking, talks, things she can only remember, or had imagined, were never quite completely told to me by her (being her husband), thus, I have used fragments to catch up, or to bring up her life to the present day, fragments tossed in the air as by a wind and then abruptly dropped somewhere, someplace.

She was laughing heartily now, at her little successes, during those years. She had married in 2000, met her husband in 1999 (had been talked into taking a trip to America, Disneyland, by her mother, so she could enjoy life before she was put into her grave—and had been given a course in English, a birthday gift by her brother David, for whatever reasons, I never knew—had met him (her husband to be) at the airport in Atlanta, and that in itself is a story by itself) while he was on a trip to Peru. For this reason, she would leave Peru, to live with her future husband in Minnesota (prior to this they met in Guatemala to see the old ruins called Tikal for one week) and then they were married two weeks later; there was an element of sadness among her family, but also elation for her. Asked by a few of her friends “How can you take such a chance and marry a stranger, of sorts?” she replied, “Why would God give me a bad man?” And that was that.

She walked off the airplane, and walked onto the cold ground of Minnesota in February, of 2000, going forward a little unsteadily, life had not yet expressed itself fully for her, definitely in her mind, and for three of those six years she would live in Minnesota, she she’d roll about awkwardly.
At any rate, for her a second life had just begun. She would travel the world eleven-times; get her car license, a permit to carry a gun (an expert shot). She plunged again and again into the unknown, run her husband’s tenant apartment business, helped with the taxes, and did the maintenance on the six buildings they now owned together and sent money to Lima to keep up their home there, and had a crew of five men to include one woman, who rebelled against her being a female boss. “You wait,” her husband said, “I’ll talk to the employees (to include his daughter, and son-in-law);” and he approached all of them, said in his stern voice, “If you can’t work for my wife, you can’t work for me!” Thus, that settled the issue of equal rights.
Hang on now, and you’ll see now what happened.


Part Three
Belly of the Camel

From time to time, her husband started to learn, his wife, Rosa was terrified of water (not bottled water, but swimming in particular, the ocean, lakes, rivers, pools, anyplace a person could drown.) When he had taken her to Rio de Janeiro, on the most famous beach in the world, Copa Cabana, and he was in, what might be considered, shallow water, perhaps up to his wife’s elbows, she panicked and started screaming and tried pulling him out of the water, as a great wave was forthcoming, one she didn’t see, but he saw. Once the wave struck, her husband ready for it, picked her up with his right arm, in a loop around her waist, dug his feet into the sand, in karate like stance—firm, and withstood the onslaught of the wave, had he not picked her up, she, and all her 110-pounds would have been gone out to sea.
He tried to laugh at the situation, but did not succeed very well; it was a serious thing for her.

(Now that I am writing of my wife, I perhaps am not making a comfortable likeness of her. It maybe I overdo, or under do the notes of her life, but it is as I see it, and saw it, I am unable to temperament, or characterize it in her own account, since I am writing this in secret, and without her advise as I have often got when doing my writings—thus leaving all bias out. For one thing, she can be more cleaver than I give her credit for, and I seem to be making her out, simpler.
On many evenings I have spent with her, she was silent, and perhaps a little dull—or I was a little dull, she’d fall to sleep quickly, and of all the movies we watched, let’s say 1000-in the years we were married, nine-years plus, she fell to sleep through 850 of them; and I’d read and write, and for many hours I did this, that's why, she’d walk away awkwardly (if she was not sleeping, or knitting) alone and along, doing something to break this boredom (I being twelve-years her senior), she’d finally find other things to do; at times, catch a cab, go shopping, etc.
My life was very active, had been very active prior to me becoming her husband (up to my heart attack and stroke, in 1993-94, and acquiring my neurological disease MS, in 1996…) and for a spell it became less active, and then as I improved, it became more active again, but never as active as it had been—if that makes sense; especially while in my youth, now in Rosa’s later years she had become newly active…but nothing in the long run of our lives had been dull, or inactive for very long, to the contrary. I had found out, what perhaps she never knew, something she kept a harness on, a yoke around: she was locked in a bottle, and once opened, she was put into a large room—figuratively speaking—and it would be a hopeless affair to stop her now, it really was the summer of her life, life trickling down her back, there was nothing she couldn’t do, once she put her mind to it! And whatever she did, she did it well, and complete.)

We were talking about swimming—were we not, and her fear of it, and water in general? I had thought she had given up the struggle to deal with her fear of swimming that she would run aimlessly through the earth’s land mass, and jump over those water holes as life went on. But evidently I was wrong; her mind must have been striving to conquer water in all its drowning forms. She tried to swim in a swimming pool while in a four-star hotel in Copan, Honduras, she failed when she saw a frog in the water—of all things, it even maddened me to a point I criticized her, and I seldom have in the past made fun of her in any form, for there is nothing to criticize her for, and I apologized somewhere down the road I think for that. Perhaps in this one area of life, she was simply stumbling in the half darkness.
During the summer of 2004, she started taking swimming lessons from an Olympic Champion, in St. Paul, Minnesota, $100-dollars an hour. It had turned out disastrous. Oh she learned a thing or two in those six-months (the fear factor had faded slightly), and two-thousand dollars later, but she could not go into water any deeper than her knees, or turn about in the water, or dive, or do much of anything but swim (which in itself was a small and God given accomplishment)—lightly swim, as long as she could see the bottom of the pool with the naked eye. Swimming under water was out of the question. If anything, she had broken the first straw on the camels back, but the camel didn’t fall yet. The death of the camel—symbolically speaking—would take some more years.
After that, and in the fall of 2006, her and her husband came to Peru, having a home in Lima, and one in the Andes, within the city of Huancayo. She was trying hard to adjust to her new environment; she had loved the city of St. Paul, Minnesota, and missed her disastrous swimming lessons.
Up to the very moment when it would happen—breaking the camel to its knees, it looked to her husband that swimming was out of the future equation, as far as anything significant, but the issue kept arising; however she had saved some money and she sought out another location in Lima for swimming and lessons (a last try from her husband, whom suggested she take it an inch at a time, instead of a foot at a time, which I suppose he had previously expected, he thus, wiped out all expectations of her, and told her to simply go and enjoy it), and the owner of the local pool, happened to be an Olympic swimming champion. Accordingly, she had been lead to two Olympic champions, and henceforward, she took a new undertaking, now she would break the camel’s back, and it would drop to its belly not to its knees.

Part Four
The Late Bloomer


In the following eight-months, swimming became a very warm, and comfortable, and nice sport for Rosa. She would go swimming even if it was cold and rainy outside. It seemed at the time, as if the death of the camel had drawn her closer together with her once fear of the water. Perhaps both the water and Rosa felt it, perhaps Rosa being the more conscious of it; that pleased me at the time. And in time it would even come to the point, she’d go swimming in the evenings.
In Huancayo, she sought out two swimming locations, and did one in the mornings and one in the evenings (sometimes twice a day, at other times, a different one each day), and had conquered most of her fears—she could now dive well, pretty well, and by the first of October, 2009, she could do her flip-turns under the water, quite well, and swim 29-laps, Olympic swimming pool laps, she had stamina galore. She could do such swimming techniques as the: front crawl, back stroke, breaststroke and a little bit of the butterfly, and then came the camel again, back broken and all—for there still remained a deep water fear (but it didn’t stop her, she was swimming under the water, fearsomely swimming), and her professors (or instructors), along with her coach for the nearing competition, Edson Azaña, at both pools told her, “You’re going to be in the next regional championship, in November,” a month away; she was now fifty-years old, competing against hard boned youth with agility, and reflexes to match.

It was a wonder to me how this woman could keep looking forward, burying defeat all along the way—in everyway, even when her fear was at its height, with its loud voice, she never once screamed defeat, she told herself, and she told me “I can’t quite, I can’t give up…” even when the devil was in the corner saying: ‘You can’t do it,’ she screamed back, evidently silently, “Watch and see!”

And now for the last part of this story, ‘The Championship’ (to be continued) …



Note.- I want to thanks on behalf of my wife to the instructors (and swimming pools): in USA, to Beth Peterson, Olympic Champion, from the YWCA; in Lima, Peru: Cabana, Miguel, Willy and Luis from the Juana Alarco; Atilio and Reynaldo from Ernesto Domenack (Olimpic Champion); in Huancayo, Peru: Omar Chavez from the Aquatic Park and Johnny Roca from the Juan Bosco Swimming Pools, and to the coach Edson Azaña from the Aquatic Park for training my wife for the competition.

Written 10-14-2009/No: 492



Spanish Version

(Versión en Español)

Un Temor y un Sueño
Una Historia de Inspiración y Determinación

((Campeonato Regional de Natación) (en cinco partes))

Una Historia basada en hechos reales, usando el nombre verdadero de la persona…

Parte Uno
La Oficina de Correos

(Invierno del 2002)

(Invierno del 2002, San Pablo, Minnesota, Estados Unidos de Norteamérica) Aquellos que la vieron descender del camión grande de la Oficina de Correos, en la Calle 4 por el río Mississippi, en el centro de la ciudad, en la mañana fría del 22 de diciembre, vieron a una mujer baja de estatura (1.50 m.) un poco agarrotada por el frío, con una cara bronceada y una bonita sonrisa que se estiraba a cada lado de su boca, y con cabellos castaño oscuro, que parecían más bien negro, ella era peruana.
“Una pequeña chofer decidida” alguien, del grupo parado afuera de la oficina de correos, dijo, comiendo sus almuerzos, fumando cigarrillos. Ellos estaban comentando sobre su estatura y su decisión a manejar ese camión grande, que generalmente lo manejaban los hombres; ella era una empleada de la oficina de correos, y había aprendido a manejar sólo un año antes, a la edad madura de cuarenta y tres años. Los hombres que nunca la habían visto antes—siendo éste su primer mes de trabajo—pensaron que había algo erróneo con sus ojos, debido a tanta gente, hombres y mujeres también, en el estado de Minnesota manejando los camiones de la oficina de correos. Así ellos la vieron, murmurando, con ojos nerviosos, aunque con atención, la vieron ocuparse de su trabajo, mientras desaparecía en el asiento grande de su camión, con un cojín detrás de ella para soportar su espalda y empujarla quince centímetros adelante, y otro cojín grande en su asiento para levantarla hacia el timón, habiendo arreglado el asiento para permitir que sus pequeños pies alcanzaran los pedales. Y después ellos se fueron a trabajar, y talvez pensaron un poquito más sobre esto, sabiendo que la verían a ella alrededor.

Y aquellos que vieron a esta pequeña belleza en la oficina de correos, manejando esos camiones grandes un año atrás, la vieron como una de las principales cajeras, un trabajo que requería de seis años de experiencia en la oficina de correos—no uno, además, de grandes habilidades en matemáticas y habilidades en tratar con el público, un trabajo que requería de una persona bilingüe, aunque no un requisito (ella era una de las pocas, muy pocas que llenaban esos prerrequisitos necesarios). Ella movería grandes paquetes de correspondencia, jalándolos de aquí para allá cuanto no estaba trabajando como cajera, y en muy poco tiempo, fue ascendida, y recibió por respuesta la mirada amarga de sus compañeros, que ella no lo esperaba, pero la envidia y los celos, penetraban muy profundo, especialmente en el indolente; pero para aquellos que miraban amargados, con envidia y quejándose—los jefes los tranquilizaron muy rápidamente, poniéndolos a ellos en una categoría de segunda clase, diciéndoles que las habilidades de ella eran muy superiores a las de ellos. Esto hizo que las cosas estuvieran bien; la victoria se había cumplido dos veces en esta no americana, en el corazón de Norteamérica, quien estaba trabajando con un permiso de trabajo, casada con un americano; ella había cumplido con todos los requisitos para ser una ciudadana americana, y quien (en el año 2004) a la edad de cuarenta y cinco años empezaría un deporte que cambiaría su vida (que sacaría sus temores y los reemplazaría con un sueño), ella sería llamada por muchos—en secreto, durante aquellos días—“Un florecer tardío”.


Parte Dos
Un Viaje a Minnesota

(Enero de 1998 a Octubre del 2009)


Por muchos buenos años, Rosa Peñaloza (su nombre sería cambiado en el año 2000, a Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk) había trabajado en la compañía de teléfonos en Lima, Perú—quince años, para ser más exactos—ella era una contadora y una católica devota que en todo su tiempo libre trabajaba gratis para su iglesia. Nunca se había casado, haciéndose cargo de casi cinco familias ((en ese tiempo su madre, su padre junto con sus hermanas, cuñados y cuñadas, sobrinos, más una empleada con dos hijos, todos viviendo bajo el mismo techo en su casa por muchos años, ya que ella era la que tenía un trabajo permanente) (y venía de una familia de ocho hijos)).
Su madre le había dicho que ella se estaba aproximando a una edad madura y soltera—algo en qué pensar. El sacerdote de la iglesia quería que ella fuera monja—algo más en qué pensar. Fuera de su trabajo e iglesia, ella hacía tiempo para ocuparse de sus sobrinas y sobrinos—haciendo de sus tiempos una animada infancia para cada uno y todos.
Estas son como pequeñas etiquetas de su historia personal, que parecerían, mientras miro atrás, estar simplemente goteando mientras escribo, dirigiéndose al presente—que será el campeonato. Sus propios pensamientos, conversaciones, cosas que ella sólo puede recordar, o haberse imaginado, nunca me fueron completamente dichas por ella (siendo yo su esposo), así, he usado fragmentos para coger o traer su vida al presente día, fragmentos lanzados en el aire como por un viento y luego arrojados abruptamente en algún lugar.

Ella ahora estaba riendo con gusto, por su pequeño éxito, durante aquellos años. Ella se había casado en el año 2000, había conocido a su futuro esposo en 1999 en el aeropuerto de Atlanta, mientras él iba en un viaje a Perú (ella, había sido convencida por su madre de hacer un viaje a Estados Unidos, a Disneylandia, para que disfrutara de la vida antes de que muriera—y previamente había recibido clases de inglés, un regalo de su hermano David, por razones que nunca lo supe). Por esta razón ella dejaría Perú, para reunirse con su futuro esposo en Minnesota, Estados Unidos, y dos semanas más tarde ellos se casarían; había un elemento de tristeza entre su familia, aunque también euforia por ella. Cuando algunos de sus amigos le preguntaban, “¿Cómo puedes tomar este riesgo de casarte con un extraño?”, ella les respondía, “¿Porqué Dios me mandaría un hombre malo?

Ella bajo del avión y caminó en el suelo frío de Minnesota en Febrero del 2000, yendo adelante un poquito temblorosa, la vida no se había manifestado totalmente para ella, y tres de los seis años en que ella viviría en Minnesota, serían difíciles para ella.
En todo caso, para ella, una segunda vida acababa de empezar. Ella viajaría once veces alrededor del mundo, obtendría su licencia para conducir, un permiso para portar armas (una tiradora experta). Ella saltaría de nuevo y de nuevo en lo desconocido; ella administraba el negocio de arrendamiento de propiedades de su esposo, lo ayudaba con los impuestos, y se encargaba del mantenimiento de los seis edificios que, ahora, ellos tenían juntos, también enviaba dinero a Lima para el mantenimiento de su casa allí, y tenía un equipo de seis personas a su cargo, la mayoría hombres incluyendo a una mujer, quienes se rebelaron en contra de ella por ser una jefa mujer. “Tú espera”, su esposo le dijo, “hablaré con los empleados”, y él se dirigió a todos ellos, dijo con una voz severa, “¡Si ustedes no pueden trabajar para mi esposa, entonces no pueden trabajar para mi!”. Así, se arregló el problema de igualdad de derechos.

Ahora espera, y verás lo que pasó.


Parte Tres
Barriga del Camello

Con el tiempo su esposo empezó a aprender, que su esposa Rosa, tenía terror al agua (no al agua en botella, sino a nadar en particular, al océano, a los lagos, ríos, piscinas, cualquier lugar en el que una persona podría ahogarse). Cuando él la llevó a Río de Janeiro, Brasil, a la más hermosa playa del mundo: Copa Cabana, y él estaba en la playa en lo que consideraba como parte baja, talvez con el agua hasta el codo de su esposa, ella entró en pánico y empezó a gritar tratando de jalar a su esposo fuera del agua, mientras una ola grande estaba viniendo, una que ella no vio, pero que él si la había visto. Una vez que la ola golpeó, su esposo que estaba preparado para ésta, la cogió a ella con su brazo derecho, por su cintura, hundió sus pies en la arena en una postura firme de karate y resistió el ataque de la ola, si él no la hubiera agarrado, el mar la hubiera arrastrado a ella con todos sus cincuenta kilos.
Él trató de reírse de la situación, pero no tuvo buen éxito; era una cosa muy seria para ella.

Estuvimos hablando acerca de nadar— ¿cierto? Y el temor a esto, y al agua en general. Pensé que ella se había rendido en la lucha para vencer el temor a nadar y que ella correría sin dirección a través de la tierra, y que saltaría sobre aquellos charcos de agua mientras la vida continuaba. Pero evidentemente estaba equivocado; su mente estaba luchando por conquistar al agua en todas sus formas. Ella trató de nadar en una piscina de un hotel cuatro estrellas en Copan, Honduras, pero ella fracasó cuando vio a una rana en el agua—de todas las cosas, esto incluso me molestó muchísimo al punto que la critiqué, y nunca lo había hecho antes, porque no hay nada de que criticarla, y en algún momento me disculpe con ella por esto. Talvez en esta área de la vida, ella estaba simplemente tropezando en medio de la oscuridad.
Durante el verano del 2004, ella empezó a tomar clases de natación con una campeona olímpica, en San Pablo, Minnesota, costaba cien dólares la hora. Esto resultó desastroso. ¡Ah! ella aprendió algunas cosas en esos seis meses (el factor temor se había disipado ligeramente y dos mis dólares), pero ella no podía entrar en el agua que estuviera más arriba de sus rodillas, ni darse vueltas, ni clavados, sólo nadar, ligeramente nadar, siempre y cuando ella pudiera ver el fondo de la piscina a simple vista. Nadar bajo el agua era imposible. Si había algo, era que ella había roto la primera paja de la giba del camello, pero el camello no se había caído todavía. La muerte del camello—hablando figurativamente—tomaría lugar algunos años más.
Luego de ello, en el otoño del 2006, ella y su esposo vinieron a Perú, teniendo una casa en Lima y otra en Los Andes, en la ciudad de Huancayo. Ella estaba tratando duro de acostumbrarse a su nuevo ambiente; a ella le había gustado mucho la ciudad de San Pablo, Minnesota, y extrañaba sus desastrosas clases de natación.
Hasta el mismo momento cuando esto ocurrió—doblar al camello a sus rodillas—le pareció a su esposo que la natación estaba fuera de una futura ecuación, en lo que respectaba a algo significante, pero el tema seguía surgiendo; sin embargo, ella había ahorrado algo de dinero y buscó un lugar en Lima para nadar y tomar clases (un último intento de su esposo, quien sugirió que lo tomara pulgada por pulgada, en vez de pie por pie, que supongo él previamente lo había hecho; él, así, borró todas las expectativas de ella, y le dijo simplemente que fuera y disfrutara). Y sucedió que el dueño de la piscina era un campeón olímpico en natación. Por consiguiente, ella había sido dirigida por dos campeones olímpicos, y en el futuro, ella tomaría una nueva responsabilidad, ahora ella rompería la giba del camello, y este caería en su estómago no sólo sobre sus rodillas.


Parte Cuatro
Un Florecer Tardío


En los siguientes ocho meses, la natación se convirtió en un cálido, cómodo, y bonito deporte para Rosa. Ella iría a nadar incluso si hacía frío o estaba lloviendo. En ese tiempo parecería, como si la muerte del camello la habría acercado más cerca con su, una vez, temor al agua. Talvez ambos, el agua y Rosa lo sentían, talvez Rosa era la más consciente de esto; esto me complacía. Y con el tiempo incluso llegaría al punto de que ella iría a nadar en las tardes.
En Huancayo, ella buscó dos piscinas, en la que iba a nadar un día en las mañanas a una y al siguiente día en las tardes a la otra, y había conquistado casi todos sus temores—ahora ella podía hacer clavados muy bien, y para el primero de octubre del 2009, ella podía darse la vuelta olímpica bajo el agua, nadar 29 vueltas en piscinas olímpicas, ella tenía resistencia a montones. Ella podía nadar, estilo libre, espalda, pecho y un poco de mariposa; y luego, el camello viene de nuevo, con la espalda rota y todo—porque todavía permanecía el temor al agua profunda (pero esto no la detuvo a ella, ella estaba nadando bajo el agua) y sus profesores o instructores en ambas piscinas, junto con su entrenador para la competencia cercana, Edson Azaña, le dijeron: “tú vas a estar en la próxima competencia regional de natación, en noviembre”, a un mes; ella ahora tenía cincuenta años de edad, e iba a competir con personas más jóvenes,
Era un asombro para mi ver cómo esta mujer continuaba adelante, enterrando derrotas a lo largo del camino—en todas las formas, incluso cuando su temor estaba en su máximo, ella nunca gritó derrota, ella se dijo a si misma, y me lo dijo: “No puedo dejarlo, no puedo rendirme…” incluso cuando el diablo estaba en la esquina diciéndole: “tú no puedes hacerlo”, ella le gritaba respondiéndole, evidentemente silenciosamente, “Observa y verás”.

Y ahora por la última parte de esta historia, “El Campeonato” (continuará…)


Nota.- Quiero agradecer, en nombre de mi esposa, a los siguientes profesores (y Academias de Natación): En Estados Unidos, a Beth Peterson, Campeona Olímpica (YWCA); en Lima, Peru: Cabana, Miguel, Willy y Luis (Juana Alarco); Atilio y Reynaldo ((Ernesto Domenack) (Campeón Olímpico)); en Huancayo, Peru: Omar Chávez (Aquatic Park) y Johnny Roca (Juan Bosco), y al entrenador profesor Edson Azaña (Aquatic Park) por preparar a mi esposa para el campeonato de natación.

Escrito 14-Octubre-2009/Nro: 492

“Uncle Lee’s last Go-around!”

I know what they said. They said I didn’t know Uncle Lee very well, or all that much, that he was a crazy poet and writer, who, if he didn’t die of a heart attack or stroke, would have killed himself in another year or two or three on some crazy adventure.
The good folks of the city had driven Uncle Lee local and I feel he did what he did because he knew he was on his last go-around and if he didn’t—land on White Mountain, some 16,000 plus feet high in the Andes, by way of a helicopter, and have a picnic—and then go write what he felt he had to write, that he only could write, or would write, it would never have gotten written had he not—he would have died sooner. For good or bad it was forever for Uncle Lee—a now or never thing.
Uncle Lee was the finest man I ever came to know; nobody could bend or beat him. No woman, or man, poor or rich, clergy or politician, poet or journalist, dog or cat, we can add horses in there also, he liked them, riding them, betting on them, like at bullfights, or boxing matches, or cockfights, and so forth, because in spite of them, he went on living, getting fun and adventure out of life, not making big issues out of silly things, doing the things most important to him, because I was around to observe him, and that is something no other person but his wife got to do. He didn’t meddle into other folks’ lives.
He was everybody’s uncle, I suppose you could say (or everyone thought so). He didn’t acknowledge having any children—said most kids were ungrateful little rug rats, after the age of ten, and expected handouts and felt life owed them a free living; nor did he acknowledge any kin, not at all except a brother, named Mike, someplace in Minnesota. He lived with his wife whom he called his sidekick (and of course, she had kin).
He lived in a little apartment in the city of Huancayo, in the Andes of Peru; a neat warm apartment. His wife never cooked, but she kept a neat and clean house, and would run to the drugstore when he needed medicine (he was all of twelve years her senior).
In those first years he came to Huancayo, I saw a lot of him, if not in the newspapers or on television, or on the radio, then in person, at his house or a café called Mia Mamma, among other restaurants, and cafés. He liked to sit in the sun and bake, while eating his lunch in quiet, he didn’t care to look out of windows, he said once: “The reason is, is that I never get to taste the God given fresh air, or feel the sun’s heat in those enclosures.”
So you see I knew him pretty well, or as well and perhaps even more so than most people, to include his journalist friends, whom were mostly bloodsuckers or otherwise known as leaches, other than the younger group, and even some of them; even better than his wife’s kin. And they were always protective of him.
He had a liking for ice cream; it tasted all right to me, especially on a warm August day in Huancayo. He didn’t care for most of our city’s sports, he’d never come to see us play; only his wife’s swimming. Anyhow, we’d all wait to hear about his next book, or new production, his next forthcoming book to come out, and I never missed a presentation of his. The next day we’d all talk about Uncle Lee, how he sat behind a table or podium not saying anything, just standing or sitting there all clean and neat and proper like a scholar, with his clean looking tie and suite jacket on, and a whole lot of medals on each lapel, looking more like a general than an Andean Scholar, or Poet Laureate—as he was. And then abruptly, he’d talk, answer questions, tired looking eyes behind his small glassed-in, framed glasses, and it was always short and sweet.

Uncle Lee didn’t die that one day he was ill, it was after that. He came home after a long spell in the hospital, weighing thirty-pounds less, his eyes foggy, likened to cracked eggs, near dead eyes, but still alive. We hoped he’d remember us, and he did, although he had to relearn our names. Faces he never forgot, just names. His brother remained in that there Minnesota, up near Canada, I heard him tell once “I think my brother feels Peru is a bit too dangerous for his blood.”
I remember that one afternoon when he called over the young waiter, and he looked at Uncle Lee, as if he had wide window glass eyes—the boy being his nephew, eleven-years old at the time, “You’re my waiter, hey?” he said, and the boy said back, “Yes, uncle.”
With those eyes that were now pale, and in need have something, he commented staring at the boy, “You shook my hand like a man today, it’s about time,” he affirmed to the boy.
The boy began to say something else, then Uncle Lee said, “Okay, okay. Just give me another hand shake like that and I’ll double your tip.”
The boy did it, shook his hand firm, and got two- soles. And Uncle Lee said, “All right, okay, you know a firm hand shake gives a message (the boy stood there in astonishment) it means we aren’t going to fight, we’re friends.” And that was that, a lesson perhaps, if not a confirmation to the boy, he was entering a new world, outside of his democratic home front.
And the boy took the money and put it in his pocket and went to eat his lunch, his mother, the cook had made for him.


I don’t know for sure how his religion was, I just heard he never disconnected himself of it, not even for a minute or two, he said and I heard him say it, and he said it more than once, but I’ll try to quite him the best I can: “The best of men or the worse of men are all entitled to it (religion), anybody, and everybody, but cussing and drinking, and lying and fornication, and taking what does not belong to you—all these kinds of things don’t get washed away because you got a cross in the car hanging around your rearview mirror, instead of those large white or black dice, and you say look I got religion; or you go to a fiesta, and pray for an hour prior to the drinking and dancing and eating, and drink and cuss for ten-hours afterward, spend all your money and can’t buy a dime’s worth of bread for the household, and say I got religion, it isn’t going to save you one bit, you don’t have a license to whore about and look God in the face, and not think he’s not going to slam the door in your face and say “I don’t know you,” because that’s exactly what’s He’s going to say about you and your religion, it’s not worth a plum nickel. Those are the folks that haven’t a notion of anything about religion because it means something different.”
I suppose you could say, Uncle Lee lived on the quiet side of the street, but often went over to the wild side to ponder, with the reckless, I guess in his younger day, he was very much like them.

When he got ill, this last time, I suppose we all thought, that was all of him, that this was the last for Uncle Lee, that he would surely die, because even a cat only has nine-lives, and he had used them all up long ago. But he always lived on the edge, so we were baffled one which way to think.
I went to see him at his apartment because I wanted to, because he was—as I mentioned before—the finest of men I had known, got to know, I’d ever get to know perhaps, because he made fun out of life, grabbed opportunities in spite of limitations, if indeed he had any, or if there were hurdles, or stumbling blocks in his way, it didn’t matter, he went around them, under them, or over them. Regardless, people had tried to kill him (his kin, from way back, for his money; I heard it was a son-in-law, and a daughter), and he was robbed a number of times, beat a few times—so I learned about him, but he held no grudges, he said, “It’s the price you pay for being alive.”
I didn’t understand all of him; perhaps no one did, not even himself, not even his mother, whom he lived with, and she lived with him, back and forth for 33-years, closer than two peas in a pod; as I was saying, I didn’t understand all of him, yet, in time I might, but I’d have to get old for that, yet I think I knew more of him than most folks knew, besides the surface things that everybody knew. In any case, this was Uncle Lee’s last go-around. His picnic on White Mountain, and his last writings of Huancayo, and his hometown of St. Paul, Minnesota, where he lived, but never cared to return to, said they all grew to be snobs back there.
He said the region, the Mantaro Valley, and Huancayo, of which he loved so dearly, had no top to it, or on it—no lid. That is, or was to his surprise, un-comprehendible, why God had so much patience with the folks of the Valley Region. That it was alive, and an un-rule-ridden, valley region full of small towns and one big city. That the folks were terrified and timed, fiesta clinging, and could be quite deceiving—but warm hearted. It was hard for me to understand all that, but perhaps he was more right than wrong.

He would not have had to ask me, no—not anymore than he did, and he never did verbally, and I would have gone with him anywhere, anytime, had he asked. I could tell from his voice though, this last time, he was not fine. Then came the sign that arrow that no one can dodge…

Note: written while still ill (the 11th-day), at the author’s apartment in Huancayo, Peru, No: 494, 10-17-2100; dedicated to Uncle Lee.

A Cross for Bridgette ((PartI) (In English and Spanish)

English Version

A Cross for Bridgette

I

When Miss Bridgette Martinez, died, a large portion of our town's folks went to her memorial service: the men seemingly went to see a legend behind a legend, the women, to see how she had lived, for it was said among many of us, after her uncle died, the store and house-which was one building structure-remained as it was, and that was thirty-years prior (in 1978). No one-save the old renegade, Fernando, her uncle's spiritual leader-had seen her face to face-other than by a window profile, or a shadow walking in the backyard of her now empty and vacant store, in at least ten-years.
It was a large, corner adobe brick store, and the living quarters was up a floor, it had not been painted in nearly a generation. Built, with a Spanish style architecture to its doorways and windowsills, built around the turn of the century (1899), with a balcony, over the front of the store-that when standing on it you could get a good view down both of those, dirt roads meeting at the corner, it had once been the busiest grocery store in Villa Rica. But "The Lore Machaco," gangsters and their reputation to the Martinez family, had eaten, if not wiped-out the once good name they had, even her good name, Bridgette's was smeared in our hamlet, or small town, of Villa Rica: only Miss Bridgette's store was left, the other family members went to Huancayo, and Lima to live, and here the old store lay in decay among the gravel streets, newer built hotels and gas stations. Not a pleasing sight for the new generation's perception, rather a blemish. And now Miss Bridgette had gone to visit her old family members, long deed-in the nearby mountain-valley cemetery, among them her uncle Juan Diego Martinez who raised her after her parents were killed a bus accident near La Merced (a township two hours by dirt road from Villa Rica, and nearer Huancayo, the large of the three cities); her uncle who was the Boss man of the 'Loro Machaco,' cartel, killed on the streets of Huancayo, for trying to rob a bank.
Living, Miss Bridgette had become a legend of sorts, the one who endured, and remained worried for her family name-or so it appeared to us, a sort of inherited compulsion, that now the town had forgotten about; her family dating back fifty-years, prior to the township's officially becoming a district, sixty-four years earlier (1944), when General Martinez (her great uncle), became the first unofficial mayor of the town, and built the store for his son to inherit, Juan. He made a law back then, that no Chilean could enter the township, without a paper of recommendation from a member of the hamlet's Committee, and there were only two members on the board, himself, and a writer. Thus, if no such paper was submitted at the time of entry, the allowance dating from the moment he entered the town's limits, he could be jailed, time without end, although they only had a one cell jailhouse, and one had to have a relative nearby, or a mighty good friend, to feed the prisoner, for the township didn't have the money to do so, or was unwilling to do so.
The General had documented that his store had paid for the town's jail to be built, and in doing so, the town would compensate him by allowing his store to be tax free, not of duty tax, but land tax. A way to repay him, true or not, he never paid land tax, nor did his son, Juan Diego, nor Miss Bridgette, Diego's niece. No one believed it, but everyone in the Martinez family lived by it, and so did Villa Rica.
She was no longer young, a short, thin woman, with deep dark eyes, who wore no jewelry, no rings, or earrings, or necklaces, her face once bronze and smooth, now pale and vanishing into her bone structure. She used no cane, but leaned on everything, everywhere as she walked, seemingly much older than what she was. Her once wavy black hair now streaked with white. Her frame, petite and unused-she had never married, merely (we town folks all guessed), because she was so fussy.
She looked skeletonized, almost deboned, likened to a body frame crushed by a tone of coal, pressed tightly against her every pour, and as she stood in the cemetery, she looked from one headstone head to the other, as if recalling earlier days. Nearby, there were other visitors, visiting gravesites, once they caught a glimpse of Miss Bridgette they stared at her as if she was the mystery of mysteries, their duty to bring home the gossip.
She did not ask them to stop gawking, she just quietly looked about, faltering from one headstone to the next, as if undetectable like, her heart ticking like the solid silver watch, that was attached to along intertwined silver chain, her uncle once gave her, and Fernando polished now and then. A murmur, perhaps more on a whisper, came from her voice box, slight and iced, "You've been dead a long, long time Juan, they haven't forgotten!"
Consequently she, Bridgette, left the cemetery, Fernando helping her by foot to his old 1950s Chevy, passing the small groups of visitors to the cemetery along the dirt path; just as she had done thirty-years prior, when they buried Juan Diego, and ten-years prior to that, when they buried the General. Her last visit was ten-years ago, a short time after her lover, the one everyone thought she'd marry, had run off with another sweetheart, he had charmed-they say-we didn't know for sure of course-but we figured we had guessed good, he having charmed half the town's unwed girls, and a few of the married ones. That even isolated her more, and Fernando, who had promised Juan Diego to take care of her, kept his word, and like his uncle-a young man back then-kept a close eye on her, and anyone and everyone, who had ideas to possess her, were subject to his scrutiny.
Several of Bridgette's schoolmates, had tried aimlessly to get a hold of her, to call on her to join them at the church, or poetry readings her uncle had started back when, but she never gave them the time of day, and Fernando did all the market shopping for her and him.
The house was unkempt, upswept, the grass uncut, the weeds as high as the fence posts, neighbors complained, and the cities officials decided to trim the premises up free of charge, knowing Miss Bridgette wouldn't, and Fernando could care less, his duties were to Bridgette not to gardening and we all figured that to be the case, he was afraid to leave her alone. And the judge knew her uncle, Judge Franca, now in his 90s, and he would not lift a finger against Juan Diego's niece, nor allow anyone else to do so, they-Juan Diego and the Judge-were compadre to one another, at one time.
As Fernando, and Miss Bridgette, crossed the dirt street, she saw in a window, a café underneath it, curtains opened, behind them an old man, she saw mostly his torso as he stood up from a chair to get a better look at her- (an old schoolmate she thought); unbelieving his eyes, still as the frame of the building, she walked slowly across the street, a shadow of a dog ran past her, she saw it only by the blink of an eye, then the shadow, or silhouette, once in the window was gone, went away.
That was when people started to remember her, and her uncle's terrorist gang; people in our town, remembering how he brought scorn to us, not necessary her great uncle, the general, but Juan Diego Martinez, known as the 'Loro Machaco,' the deadly snake killer. They started to think the Martinez family, and perchance Bridgette, held her status a little too high, for what they and she were.
Miss Bridgette's parents, were really way back in the background, no one remembering them for the most part, a shadow in the foreground, their daughter hanging onto their memory though: a shadow and infamous legend: two father figures framed in a decaying adobe store, vacant for twenty-years.
When she got to be middle-aged, and still not married, the town was suspicious, but blameless, so they felt, perhaps allowing her a tinge of madness, that of which her uncle and great uncle portrayed long ago, she may have inherited-perhaps a family trait. Chances now were nil to nothing, that she'd ever marry-perhaps at one time they thought it might materialize, but of course it never did.
When her uncle died, she inherited the store that was all that was left of his so called empire of terrorizing the land from Lima to Huancayo. I think we all were glad she got something from her uncle; it made him look more humanized in our eyes. If anything, thereafter, she learned the thriftiness of spending and saving.
After her uncle's death, many town folks went to give their condolences, and assistance, verbally anyways, it was traditional in our small town, there was much grief in her face, and she couldn't or wouldn't believe he was dead, not until Huancayo sent his body to be buried in the local cemetery of Villa Rica, a week later. She kept the body in the house for another week, until it reeked, and Fernando had to insist the body be removed, and it was, painfully for her.
None of us called her mad, not to he face anyhow, it was not the thing to do, he fathered her for many years, we all knew that, and she really had nothing left, especially after the few relations she had in the town left shortly after. And I suppose we all felt, she was robbed, just like all those other victims by the gang called 'The Loro Machaco.'

Spanish Version

Una Cruz para Bridgette
(Parte seis de la saga del “Loro Machaco de Villa Rica”)

Por el Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

La Vida y Tiempos de Bridgette de Villa Rica


I


Cuando la señorita Bridgette Martinez murió, una gran cantidad de gente del pueblo fue a su velorio; los hombres aparentemente fueron para ver a una leyenda detrás de una leyenda; las mujeres, para ver cómo había vivido ella, porque se había dicho entre muchos de nosotros, de que después de la muerte de su tío, la tienda y casa—las que estaban en un solo edificio—permaneció como era, y esto fue treinta años atrás (en 1978). Nadie—salvo el viejo renegado, Fernando, el líder espiritual de su tío—la había visto a ella cara a cara, aparte de perfil por una ventana, o su sombra caminando en el patio de su, ahora, tienda vacía, en al menos diez años.

Ésta era una tienda grande, de adobe, en una esquina, y la residencia estaba en el segundo piso, ésta no había sido pintada cerca de una generación. Las entradas y alféizares habían sido construidos con una arquitectura al estilo español, construida a finales del siglo (1899), con balcones al frente encima de la tienda—que cuando te parabas en éste tenías una buena vista de ambas carreteras de tierra que se encontraban en la esquina, ésta había sido una vez la tienda más concurrida en Villa Rica. Pero los gángsteres del “Loro Machaco” y su reputación a la familia Martínez, se habían comido, sino borrado, una vez el buen nombre que ellos habían tenido, incluso su buen nombre: Bridgette, había sido manchado en nuestra aldea, o pequeño pueblo, de Villa Rica. Sólo quedaba la tienda de la señorita Bridgette, los otros miembros familiares se habían ido a Huancayo y Lima a vivir, y aquí la vieja tienda permanecía deteriorada entre calles de grava, hoteles y estaciones de gasolina recientemente construidos. No era una vista agradable para la percepción de la nueva generación, más bien era una mancha. Y ahora la señorita Bridgette había ido a visitar a sus antiguos miembros familiares, mucho tiempo muertos—en el cementerio cercano del Valle, entre ellos su tío Juan Diego Martinez, quien la había cuidado luego de que sus padres murieran en un accidente de autobús, cerca a La Merced (un pueblo a dos horas por el camino afirmado desde Villa Rica, cerca a Huancayo, ésta última la más grande de las ciudades entre las tres); su tío quien fue el jefe de la banda del Cartel del Loro Machaco, fue asesinado en las calles de Huancayo, por tratar de robar un banco.
En vida, la señorita Bridgette se había convertido en una clase de leyenda, una que perduraba y permanecía preocupada por el nombre de su familia—o eso nos parecía a nosotros, una clase de compulsión heredada, que ahora el pueblo lo había olvidado; su familia databa de hacía cincuenta años atrás, antes que oficialmente el pueblo se convirtiera en distrito, sesenta y cuatro años atrás (1944), cuando el General Martinez (su tío abuelo), se convirtiera en el primer alcalde no oficial del pueblo, y antes de que construyera la tienda para que heredara su hijo, Juan. En ese entonces él creó una ley, y era que ningún chileno podía entrar al pueblo sin un papel de recomendación de uno de los miembros del comité del pueblo, y solo había dos miembros en el Consejo: él mismo y un escritor. Así, si ese papel no era presentado al momento de entrar en el pueblo, él podía ser detenido por tiempo indefinido y debería tener a un familiar o un gran amigo que lo alimentara mientras estaba en prisión, porque el pueblo no tenía dinero como para alimentar a un prisionero o no estaba dispuesto a hacerlo.
El General había documentado que su tienda había pagado para construir la cárcel del pueblo, y debido a esto, el pueblo lo compensaría a él permitiendo que su tienda estuviera libre de impuestos sobre su propiedad, autoevalúo. Una forma de pagarle a él, cierto o no, él nunca pagó autoevalúo, ni tampoco su hijo Juan diego, ni la señorita Bridgette, la sobrina de Diego. Nadie lo creía, pero todos en la familia Martínez se basaban en esto, y también Villa Rica.
Ella ya no era joven, una mujer baja y delgada, con ojos oscuros profundos, quien no usaba joyas, ni anillos o aretes, ni collares, su cara que una vez fue bronceada y suave, ahora estaba pálida y desaparecía en su estructura ósea. Ella no usaba bastón, pero se recostaba en todo, en todos sitios donde caminaba, aparentemente lucía más vieja de lo que era. Su cabello una vez negro y ondulado, ahora tenía mechones de canas. Su estructura era pequeña y ella nunca se había casado, simplemente (nosotros la gente del pueblo adivinaba) debido a que ella era muy exigente.
Ella lucía esquelética, similar a una estructura corporal aplastada por una tonelada de carbón, apretada fuertemente contra cada poro, y mientras ella estaba parada en el cementerio, ella miró de una tumba a la otra, como si recordando días tempranos. Cerca había otros visitantes, visitando tumbas, una vez que ellos echaron un vistazo a la señorita Bridgette ellos la miraron fijamente, como si ella fuera el misterio de los misterios, su obligación era llevar chisme a la casa.
Ella no les pidió dejar de mirarla, simplemente miraba alrededor, hesitando de una tumba a la siguiente, como si imperceptible, su corazón latía como un sólido reloj de plata, sujetado a una entrelazada cadena de plata, que una vez su tío le regalara, y que Fernando lo pulía de vez en cuando.
Un murmullo, talvez más como un susurro, se oyó su voz, ligera y helada,
“¡Tú has estado muerto por mucho, mucho tiempo Juan, ellos no te han olvidado!”

●

Consecuentemente, Bridgette, dejó el Cementerio, Fernando la ayudaba a pie a llegar a su antiguo carro, un Cadillac de 1950, pasando por el pequeño grupo de visitantes en el cementerio a lo largo de una senda de tierra; justo como ella lo había hecho treinta años atrás, cuando enterraron a Juan Diego, y diez años antes a eso, cuando enterraron al General. Su última visita había sido diez años atrás, poco tiempo luego de que su amante, con el que todos pensaban ella se casaría, había huido con otra chica que había conquistado—ellos decían—nosotros no lo sabíamos por seguro—pero nos imaginábamos que suponíamos bien, él habiendo conquistado a casi todas las chicas solteras en el pueblo, y a unas cuantas casadas también. Esto incluso la había aislado más, y Fernando, quien le había prometido a Juan Diego hacerse cargo de ella, mantenía su palabra, y como su tío—un hombre joven entonces—estaba pendiente de ella, y alguien o todos, que tenía ideas en poseerla, estaba sujeto a su escrutinio.

(Muchos de los compañeros de colegio de Bridgette, trataban envano de acercarse a ella, o de llamarla, para reunirse con ella en la iglesia, o en los recitales de poseía, que su tío había iniciado mucho tiempo atrás, pero ella nunca les daba tiempo, y Fernando hacía todas las compras para ella y para él.
Su casa estaba descuidada, sin barrer, el pasto alto, la mala hierba tan alta como el cerco, los vecinos se quejaban, y las autoridades decidieron recortarlos sin cobrar, sabiendo que la señorita Bridgette no podría pagar, y a Fernando le importaba poco, su responsabilidad estaba en Bridgette no en el mantenimiento del jardín y todos se imaginaban que ese era el caso, él tenía miedo de dejarla sola a ella. Y el juez conocía al tío de Bridgette, el juez Franca, ahora de noventa y tantos años, y él no levantaría un dedo en contra de la sobrina de Juan Diego, ni permitiría que alguien lo hiciera, ellos—Juan Diego y el juez—habían sido compadres uno del otro)

Mientras Fernando, y la señorita Bridgette, cruzaban la calle de tierra, ella vio en la ventana abierta del segundo piso de un café, a un hombre detrás de ésta, ella vio mayormente su torso mientras que él se paraba de una silla para verla mejor, incrédulo a sus ojos—(un viejo compañero de colegio, ella pensó); ella cruzó lentamente la calle, la sombra de un perro pasó junto a ella, ella lo vio sólo con un parpadear, luego la sombra, o la silueta, una vez en la ventana, se había ido, se había alejado.
Fue entonces cuando la gente empezó a acordarse de ella, y de la banda terrorista de su tío—y de las cosas que ellos hicieron (esa última vez que ella se apareció en el cementerio); la gente en nuestro pueblo, recordaba cómo él había nos había traído desprecio, no necesariamente su tío abuelo, el general, sino Juan Diego Martínez, conocido como “El Loro Machaco”, la serpiente mortal asesina. Ellos empezaron a pensar que la familia Martínez, y talvez Bridgette, mantenían su posición un poco muy alto, para lo que ellos eran y fueron—los tiempos habían cambiado.
Los padres de la señorita Bridgette, estaban muy en el fondo, por la mayor parte nadie los recordaba, una sombra en primer plano, sin embargo su hija se agarraba en sus memorias, una sombra e infame leyenda: dos figuras de padres enmarcados en una tienda de adobe descompuesta, vacía por veinte años.
Cuando ella llegó a mediana edad, y todavía soltera, el pueblo tenía sospechas, quizás consintiéndole a ella un poquito de locura, pero inocente, eso ellos sentían, locura del que su tío y su tío abuelo interpretaron mucho tiempo atrás, ella a lo mejor lo había heredado—quizás un rasgo familiar. Las oportunidades ahora eran nulas o nada, de que de repente ella se casaría—tal vez en un tiempo ellos pensaron que esto se materializaría, pero por supuesto, nunca lo hizo.
Cuando su tío murió, ella heredó la tienda que era todo lo que quedaba de su llamado imperio que aterrorizaba las tierras desde Lima a Huancayo. Creo que todos estábamos contentos de ver que ella obtuvo algo de su tío; esto lo hacía lucir a él más humano a nuestros ojos. Si había algo, luego, ella aprendió la prudencia de gastar y ahorrar.
Luego de la muerte de su tío, mucha gente del pueblo fue a darle sus condolencias, y su ayuda, verbalmente de todas formas, era tradicional en nuestro pequeño pueblo, había mucho dolor en su cara, y ella no podía creer que él estaba muerto, no hasta que, una semana más tarde, Huancayo envió su cuerpo para ser enterrado en el cementerio de Villa Rica. Ella mantuvo el cuerpo de su tío por una semana más en su casa, hasta que éste apestaba, y Fernando tuvo que insistir en quitar el cuerpo, y esto fue muy doloroso para ella.
Ninguno de nosotros la llamó a ella loca, no en su cara de todas formas, no era correcto hacerlo, él había sido como su padre para ella por muchos años, todos sabíamos esto, y ella realmente no tenía a nadie más, especialmente luego de las pocas relaciones que le quedaban en el pueblo. Y supongo que todos sentimos, que ella había sido robada, justo como aquellas otras víctimas, por la banda llamada “El Loro Machaco”.

Nota.- Parte uno (de tres) del cuento “Una Cruz para Bridgette” escrito en la noche del 17 de diciembre del 2008. (Publicado en inglés en el libro “Hombre con Mujeres Decididas”)

They have not Perished

(The Inhabitants of Easter Island, 2002)


And I know them also. I had seen them also. Who had never been further from their island, Easter Island than I could return by night to sleep? It was as if they had not yet even seen cellphones, like twilight itself had been frozen over that little island that didn’t hardly even show on a map, that not even 600-people out of all the world, lived, and less than 3,000-visitors came to visit a year, looking out into all directions and touching nothing for two-thousand miles, never any thing bigger, or big enough for a plane to land on—to be remembered; the place that banshees, and unfamiliar spirits have lived beyond reproach, for countless centuries—have lived in and on, and loved, whether they had anything to be remembered for. Also to point to the towering ancient statues of them with or with not, all the names that are now but shadows of the deeds that made them now silent statues, men who did the deeds, who lasted and now endure the stone and fought the battles and lost and won and fought again, because they were not even aware they lost, but in time overwhelmed by the world that surrounded them, yet still went on to shape their island, reliving, and living customs, traditions.
I knew them also—the inhabitants, still powerful in their legends, still powerful and dangerous with their unfamiliar spirits—they did visit me, talk to me, and told me what they died for, what they became, just whispers, a few words, no louder than a sun shower (we came to an understanding). It was Easter Island, and it is just a dot in the south pacific.

No: 487 (written, 10-5-2009)

A Ferocious Centipede

(A Play in One Act)


Three Family Members
(Takes place in 1955)

Elsie: daughter to Anton
Anton: father to Elsie, grandfather to Chick
Chick: son to Elsie, Grandson to Anton

An Apparition

≈

Scene: In the dining room, by a window, in back of a table, a rug on the floor.


Enter Elsie, seemingly happy, a smile on her face, a rag in her right hand as if she is going to polish the dinning room table, she stops abruptly looks down and about, as if she saw something run under the rug, folds her hands and leans down closer and takes in a deep breath, as she looks up towards the ceiling…


Elsie: Oh God, I hope it’s not!

Silence.

From the living room, the other side of the dinning room, about fifteen feet a ways, Anton, he too seemingly content, and his eyes abruptly looks straight over to the ground where Elsie was looking at, and then at Elsie (knowing she is afraid of spiders and centipedes) as he stands a bit puzzled…

Suddenly she sees a centipede, racing from under the rug out by her legs.

Elsie: Screaming something! (it is morning)

She jumps, or more like jerks backward, near frozen in fright, trying to scream again, but nothing is coming out, she pulls a chair out behind the table, in front of her, she’s in agony of despair.

In a rush Anton to see what is taking place.

Elsie: Oh my God…my god, a giant…gi ant centipede!!

Anton: Silly girl, it just a damn centipede, what’s the hell matter with you?

Elsie and Anton are looking around to see where it went, they bump against one another, as Elsie wants to run to the kitchen, but can’t…

Anton: I thought you said it was a big one, there it is, no bigger than my baby finger!

Anton pays it little attention, but continues to follow it with his eyes, shakes his shoulders, looks at Elise with disgust—he is barefoot—and stomps on the centipede, like nothing happened. He notices Chick, his nine year old grandson standing by the bedroom that leads into the dinning room, he is in the archway.

Anton: Oh look Elsie, look at what it is now, there under my foot!
(he lifts his foot for her to see)

Anton and Elsie look quietly, she puts the chair back in place, there behind the table.

Chick: What’s the matter mom?

Anton (murmurs): The damn little centipede…

Elsie (trying to get her composure back): I can’t help it pa, you know that (she turns to Chick); everything’s okay now. (She has a grin on her face, points to the dead centipede).Can you take this rag Chick, and pick the centipede up with it, throw it into the toilet, and put the rag into the laundry basket? (Chick looks at the centipede.) There, right here (she is pointing to the centipede, handing him the rag) you you, can do that, you can, can’t you?

Chick (near, sneeringly—not really wanting to): I guess so mom.

Apparition (the only one that hears him, is Elsie): Maybe I’ll make it come alive!

Elsie (pointing to the centipede): hurry up and pick it up before it comes alive again (the legs on the centipede appear to be wiggling, perhaps an automatic response, or a vision of sorts, but she is starting to get freighted again)

Apparition: Elsie, look at the centipede, he has something to say to you, matter-of-fact, I’ll tell you what he says: ‘oh, your poppa broke my spine…’

Elsie: Hurry up pick up the centipede (Elise nearly crying now)

Apparition (having fun at Elsie’s expense): I’ll turn the centipede into a spider, how about that, Elsie? Maybe he laid some eggs under the dinning room table.

Elsie (gloomily, Chick now has the centipede engulfed in the rag): I don’t care just get it out of here…Chick!

Anton (with a sigh): You still are mumbling about that dead insect!

Anton starts to laugh lightly, while Chick is in the bathroom, no one can see him of course and Elsie’s checking under the dinning room table and the curtain falls.

No: 489 (written October, 6, 2009)

Curse of the Sphinx

(A true account, while in Egypt, 1998)


Not one police guard or soldier saw him, other than the soldier captain, and the guide who was with the stranger in the unanimous dark night, standing between the two large feet of the Sphinx, in Egypt, outside of Cairo. But in a few minutes there would be no one who did not know the taciturn man who came from America, who now stood deeply inside those two paws of the Sphinx (side by side)—no one that is within a mile from the Sphinx, he took a picture with his camera, a flash that lit up the midnight area. What was certain was that the man climbed up alongside of the Sphinx, without noticing the all-purpose police, the guards of the Sphinx, those who saw his camera’s flash, nauseated they were not to have been told of his presence, and bloodthirsty for money, it cost $1400, to do what he was doing for $140-dollars, of which he paid only the guide and Captain of the Army, stationed by the Sphinx. This area was likened to a sacred temple, which devoured centuries of ancient rituals, pious devotion, and holy mist within its desert surroundings. Although it would seem, the god or demigod that encased, or enshrined this ancient wonder, no longer received the homage of men, not at least as in the ancient days of Egypt. This stranger, tourist, stretched himself upward as if to sit upon the Sphinx, its body, as his pedestal; he was awakened by the guide, whom was frightened of some kind of spiritual, and military retaliation. The stranger was astonished to find the guard’s words trembled and had weakened; there was a determination to get him out of there quickly.
He knew this place required his most invisible intent, meaning, the ruins belonged to the ancient gods of the dead, and all whom was to experience it, needed to pay a reverence duty, to all the guards, and police and soldiers, making the sum—as I mentioned before—sum total of: $1400-dollars (consequently, only two people got paid with that lesser sum, whereas there were several unpaid).
What he was to the police guard that was rushing up to see what the flash was, would be nothing less than a spy, disrespectfully on his shift, and the Captain of the Army (that is, the soldier or soldiers that were assigned to guard the sphinx) was to be his protection, yet he, the Captain was the only soldier present, was fearful of the magic, and power and chill of the moment, as they all looked at the stranger, near the dilapidating Sphinx.
Prior to all this, when the stranger was near the chest of the Sphinx, looking up at its head, the evil spirit within its strata—staring down upon him (of which he could sense), it seemed to have guided him to that near impossible dilemma he’d find himself in, within a matter of minutes, through the supernatural spirit within those ancient stone walls of the Sphinx (perhaps it was Seth). There was a near magic projection that was exhausting the proximity of the expanse, and in his mind, as well, which contained the presence of the inhabited ruins, for it seemed to contain a minimum of the visible world (yet remaining imprisoned with no body and needing one to activate his evil intentions), where his presence was nourishment enough for him to be activated—would be in the police guard that would confront the stranger, which was consecrated to the sole task of bringing chaotic into his new amphitheatre, the one he now found himself in.
The young police guard lectured the stranger, an examination took place—an inquisitive one, one with vengeance written all over his face, and the stranger intuitively knew he was sent by Seth, as his physical phantom— the stranger sensed the perplexities, a growing intelligence in the body of the police guard, Seth was seeking a soul, worthy of participating in his universe, thus the police guard pulled forward and raised up his automatic rifle, passively the stranger looked, was ready to react—pretending he was not going to oppose him, yet the stranger saw in his eyes, he’d be buried in the sands of the Egyptian desert, should he not react, but he prayed silently, not saying a word, not answering a question, and then came another stranger, and he dismissed the vast illusory guard, telling the stranger, “You have good fortune, you would have been shot and buried as a spy out in the desert here had I not come in time, walk now, quickly out of here before catastrophe takes place.”
All that night and all the following long day, the insupportable clarity of that incident befell him, to a point of insomnia. Before resuming his tour and adventure, and his equilibrium, he purified himself with prayer, and thanked God, with his heart still throbbing.


Notes: Based on actual events which took place in the summer of 1998, Story No: 484, written: October 2, 2009

The Long Waiting

(Inspired by actual Events, July 1, 2003)


So she was finally alone at the last. And nobody in the world to know, to interfere, and I suppose it was like the world itself had not yet been invented. I got thinking standing over her body that had stopped breathing two hours before—this is the finality and the enduring which must be endured, because it is so—at last, is simply part of my lifetime.
I have loved, and even seen loss and grief, but never endured them all at once. I am speaking of inextricable suffering—all of it at once. I could have been happy for her, she looked content, I did say, “Its all right mom, let go.” She was someplace in that hospital room. I could even feel her looking at me, so perhaps she was waiting for me to arrive at the hospital, to hear me say those very words.
“Yes,” I said; she could hear that, “I’ll be alright.” But I wasn’t, and later on down the road of grief, I’d whisper to her “How did you know?” It was as if the earth swallowed her up, and the sun to have come down—this early morning—all the way down from the heavens as if its journey was from the beginning of time, for this one moment in time, and nobody to appreciate it, because she died at 5:00 a.m., sunup (if anything, she got a flicker of it; watching a sunrise or sunset, takes only a flicker of time, and is the most beautiful of all God’s rainbows)—and for thirty-days she remained in the hospital through all her difficulties and waiting and the sun—they got together for only a passing moment—desperate because—for that moment, they were finally alone, and nobody in the world to know, just her and God and daybreak, a very short day for her at best.
‘What does it matter now,’ I thought, at 7:25 a.m., ‘I’m glad she’s finally at peace, I loved you,’ I whispered to my mind—its second-self.
And she said, “Then I’ll go home…”
“No!” I said I had changed my mind, “Not yet.”
She didn’t leave; she could have, worn beyond death, an ear listening to the trumpets calling her and me, oh yes me, my mind going full blast. She was not deaf of course, — perhaps all this was a premeditation, now a premonition (or foreboding, a presentiment of sorts, but less ominous than one might expect)—so noticeable.
My mind babbled on, as if in a shipyard, men working, people sounding. She hadn’t told me yet she was leaving. I held her still warm arm, hand.
At this moment my grief matched my love: I knew it was only a few steps and she’d be home—she was in bed, somewhat propped on a pillow, in loose clothing (likened to a robe), her hair cut short, her eyes closed, the air in her had seeped out of her body, from one end to the other, so it looked …
“I tell you I want you to go home, it will be easier for you to do, so I do say, that (but I didn’t mean that).”
Of course I had to do what was right— to let go.
The sun finally went high into its sky, back up and there was nothing except the sky and the sun and the trees and green grass, her and I and my brother and wife, Rosa, and I said to myself, how all this, after all this waiting—this moment should not be wasted—and us two, her two boys (my brother and I) leaned over her bed, kissed her forehead. I could see under the weight of her closed eyes, tears, though I had only seen her cry once in her lifetime. And perhaps she didn’t even know it was happening.
There was the customary and normal whitening of her tissue (death taking the moisture out of the body—the last movements of ones remains).
‘Don’t worry,’ I said to my mother, near silently, ‘I’m going to let you go even if I don’t mean it. I’m no longer the important one here.”
I couldn’t feel a thing, anything, no heat, cold, nothing, not even the wind when I left the hospital—if it hadn’t been for her, I knew now, I wouldn’t have gotten this far in life. So with that settled, I cried for six-month, straight, sick with depression.
How do you say it—? Two people in all the earth that it is all right for you to die, to let go of us down here; I swear it’s not easy, all I could say—night after night after night was: “Good night, mom,” and I would add, “I loved you,” and I would add to that, “yes, I know your busy with old friends and angels, and the lord,” because he was her first love, but I still wanted to let her know, she might come down to visit us now and then, and so she has.

No: 481 ((9-30-2009) (Dedicated to Elsie)) ••Inspired by actual events

The Subversive Summer

((Original named: “It Was Summer Again”) (based on actual Events, 1967))

So finally I had to see it, to believe it, not that believing it was all that important, but on my own belief, my own negative or—and/or personal conviction that her only defense was to frighten me cold, Nothing’ wrong with her first and last idea, to which the only answers was nothing—seeing (not hearing) was believing even if she denied it, refuted it, I could claim it, affirm it, even if no one believed it—I’d know (and I think everyone else knew anyhow).
In any case, that’s how it stood, how it was, going to be—until that is, proven otherwise, and at present all that remained was to go and find out which would be like walking into a lions den (‘Did you do, or are you doing, what others are saying you are doing, or what I think you’re doing?’) No one to save her…if confirmed.
Because during the rest of the summer of 1967, she was getting more and more uneasy, restless; oh, she was still meddling in the emotions of anyone who paid her attention, as the neighborhood called it, but when confronted with it, she overlooked it, perhaps by familiarity of her friends, I being one, but there was no way to stop her fraternization, or flirtation, especially with the two in question.
This, until the end of summer when she had a party, whereupon I suddenly realized—when it dawned on me—one main thing: it was Dan and Jerry that was her social pattern (on the sly). John and Rick and Doug and all the others from the neighborhood, unlike Dan and Jerry who wouldn’t wait for her affections—who demanded them at the party, right then and there, and Dan who felt confrontation, would not agree to leave her alone, which was the reason David got involved between the three, when Dan left, he no longer had anyone to fight with, and he was a tinge mad, crazy, mentally unbalanced (as everyone already knew); so no one should not have been surprised when he came back with a shotgun, nor did she say anything to help the dispute between the two devotees. She could have said ‘I got to do something, I simply cannot let this build up,’ but she said nothing.
‘It’s all right,’ she must have told herself, ‘they’ll settle it.’
And Dan said to Jerry, “Come out!” and David was already outside the apartment, and they knew each other long enough.
And nobody said ‘Wait!’ or ‘No!’ just gripping their teeth, her with two hands and holding her breath until she heard a shot and stopped or stopped long enough to say “I told you so,” and everybody now or nearly everybody hushed…
David was dead. And now I thought she would panic but she didn’t even pause—so I remember, “Oh no,” she said “David,” she let out a long sigh, “the police will be here soon,” then Dan ran.
“Yes,” she said, breathing calmly and slow, ‘they’ll catch Dan he can’t run far!”
I walked out of her small apartment onto and into the hallway, and I knew once she was free of this mess, away from any kind of court order or inquiry by the police, she’d be back to her old ways—nobody could challenge her intentions, because nobody knew them—I had even dated her once (years prior), but quite briefly. She was deaf to all around her, she’d never agree to refrain, and I simply told myself it was a disagreeable world engaged, we all lived in; everyone, especially us youthful, and childlike, semi-adults, were trying to deal with the deadly monstrosities thrown our way, which involved—especially in our neighborhood—an ongoing war. And perhaps, if she was at peace, if peace was possible for her—all the better.
I don’t know what she thought, only I know closely what I thought—it was summer, a hot summer, a death occurred, and a date was booked into a chamber of my mind, likened to as if it endured a train crash.

No: 480 ((9-29-2009) (Dedicated to David)) ••
Inspired by actual events