LA LUNA Y YO

LA LUNA Y YO

“... la luna llena, luminosa y 

exuberante reina la noche”

Domingo diez de diciembre del año 2011, cuatro y treinta de la tarde, intersección de la Ruta 4 Este con Oak Street. Es el punto límite entre las ciudades de Dover y Rollinsford en New Hampshire. La luz del semáforo está en rojo. Me detengo. Dover, hacia la derecha. Y Rollinsford, el lugar donde vivo, a la izquierda.

La luz del semáforo cambia, volteo a la izquierda. Miro frente a mi y una maravillosa aparición me deja sin aliento. No es una bella mujer, no es la hermosura del paisaje. Es la luna.

La luna es un disco gigante, color naranja intenso, y suspendido tan cerca y tan bajo en el cielo que pareciera besar la copa de los árboles vecinos. Voy manejando a 60 millas por hora, reduzco la velocidad del auto para disfrutar este mágico momento. A las 4:30 p.m. ya es de noche en New Hampshire, la oscuridad se apodera del mundo, y la luna se ha desvestido para mostrarse radiante, intensa y casi al alcance de la mano.

Salí temprano de casa para “hacer el mercado” y recoger mi árbol de Navidad fresco y natural que tenía comprado de antemano. Llevo los comestibles en la maletera, el árbol navideño de ocho pies de alto va amarrado en el techo del auto. Es invierno en el hemisferio norte, hace frío en las calles, extraño la calefacción de la casa, pero mi encuentro con la luna es cálido y entrañable.

En la radio del auto escucho una entrevista a Paul Simon. Con genialidad él explica el proceso creativo de su propia música, y canta temas de su último álbum "So Beautiful or So What". En un momento de la entrevista el cantautor cuenta que Philip Larkin, uno de sus poetas favoritos, hacia el final de su vida llevaba varios años sin escribir. Y refiere Simon que en una oportunidad se le preguntó al poeta porqué no escribía, a lo que éste contestó: “Mi musa debe haberme desamparado”.

Mientras manejo pienso en la respuesta de Larkin, miro a la luna, y repito para mis adentros: “Esta noche mi musa no me ha abandonado”. La veo tan cerca que si acelerara el auto un poquito, imagino alcanzarla y preguntarle las viejas interrogantes acumuladas en mi mente desde cuando aprendí a recitarle: Luna lunera, cascabelera, ojos azules, boca morena.

"El Túnel": Colina en la calle 

Foundry,  Rollinsford, NH 

(Verano del 2011)

El recorrido a través de la Ruta 4 Este es de tan sólo tres millas. Al final de mi trayecto en esta vía me encuentro con un semáforo donde, otra vez, debo voltear a la izquierda con dirección a casa. Desde aquí doy una mirada final a la luna. Ella pareciera estar posada sobre la cúspide de Berwick Academy, edificio de una escuela que se yergue al final del camino y sobre lo alto de una colina del vecino pueblo de South Berwick, en el estado de Maine.

He volteado a la izquierda, y luego me deslizo cuesta abajo a través del “Túnel” de la calle Faundry y vuelvo a ver a la luna. En forma diagonal, intermitente y sobre todo coqueta, la luna pareciera jugar a las escondidas conmigo a través de los árboles espectrales y sin hojas apostados al lado derecho del camino.

He llegado al final del “Túnel”, hacia mi derecha ya no hay árboles sino un claro donde se extiende un tramo del río Salmon Falls, y al fondo sobre el horizonte nocturno, otra vez la luna llena, luminosa y exuberante reina la noche, mientras yo continúo mi camino rumbo a mi morada.

Río Salmon Falls, Rollinsford, NH  

(Verano del 2011)

Una calle más y desde la distancia veo mi casa, y al carro de mi esposa apostado en la entrada. Señal que tanto ella como mi hija ya están de vuelta, la calefacción debe estar trabajando, y la casa debe estar calientita.

Estaciono mi auto en la entrada, frente a la puerta me espera mi gato “Kitty” quien me muestra su alegría rodando sobre su espalda. Empiezo a descargar las compras, y luego el árbol navideño. Es el punto final a los quehaceres de un día agitado, y aún me queda un tiempito para escribir.

... Termino de revisar estas líneas. Las inicié sin nada definido en la mente, sólo siguiendo la dirección de mi auto. Y ahora que las he terminado, me pregunto: ¿Por qué las escribí? 

En realidad, no lo sé... tal vez las escribí pensando en que la luna y la Navidad se encuentran a la vuelta de la esquina.

New Hampshire, USA

Diciembre, 2011

NOTA:

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The Moon and I

 THE MOON AND I

“…luminous and exuberant, the full 

moon reigns once more in the night.”

Sunday, December 10, 2011, four-thirty in the afternoon; the intersection of Route 4 East and Oak Street. It is the boundary between the towns of Dover and Rollinsford in New Hampshire. The traffic light is red. I stop. Dover to the right, and Rollinsford—where I live—to the left.

The light changes; I turn left. I look straight ahead, and a marvelous apparition leaves me breathless. It isn’t a beautiful woman, nor the loveliness of the landscape. It is the moon.

The moon is a giant disc, intense orange, suspended so close and so low in the sky that it seems to kiss the treetops. I am driving at sixty miles per hour, but I slow down to enjoy this magical moment. At 4:30 p.m., it is already night in New Hampshire; darkness takes hold of the world, and the moon has undressed herself to appear radiant, intense, and almost within reach.

I left home early to go grocery shopping and to pick up the fresh, natural Christmas tree I had pre-ordered. I have the groceries in the trunk; the eight-foot Christmas tree is tied to the roof of the car. It is winter in the Northern Hemisphere; it’s cold out in the streets, and I miss the warmth of the house, but my encounter with the moon is warm and intimate.

On the car radio, I listen to an interview with Paul Simon. With genius, he explains the creative process of his own music and sings tracks from his latest album, So Beautiful or So What. At one point in the interview, the singer-songwriter mentions that Philip Larkin, one of his favorite poets, had gone several years without writing toward the end of his life. Simon notes that when the poet was once asked why he wasn’t writing, he replied: “My muse must have forsaken me.”

As I drive, I think about Larkin’s answer. I look at the moon and repeat to myself: “Tonight, my muse has not abandoned me.” I see her so close that I imagine if I accelerated the car just a little, I could reach her and ask those old questions piled up in my mind since I first learned to recite: Luna lunera, cascabelera, ojos azules, boca morena.

The drive along Route 4 East is only three miles. At the end of my journey on this road, I come to a traffic light where, once again, I must turn left toward home. From here, I take one final look at the moon. She seems to be perched atop the spire of Berwick Academy, a school building that stands at the end of the road, high on a hill in the neighboring town of South Berwick, in the state of Maine.

I have turned left and then I glide downhill through the “Tunnel” of Foundry Street, and I see the moon again. Diagonally, flickering, and above all, flirtatious, the moon seems to play hide-and-seek with me through the spectral, leafless trees stationed on the right side of the road.

I’ve reached the end of the “Tunnel.” To my right, there are no more trees, but a clearing where a stretch of the Salmon Falls River expands. In the distance, against the night horizon, the full moon reigns once more—luminous and exuberant—while I continue my way toward my dwelling.

One more street and I see my house from a distance, with my wife’s car parked in the driveway. A sign that both she and my daughter are already back; the heat must be running, and the house must be warm and cozy.

I park my car in the driveway. My cat, “Kitty,” waits for me in front of the door, showing his joy by rolling on his back. I begin to unload the groceries, and then the Christmas tree. It is the final point of a busy day’s chores, and I still have a little time left to write.

… I finish reviewing these lines. I began with nothing definite in mind, simply following the direction of my car. And now that they are finished, I ask myself: Why did I write them?

Truth be told, I don’t know… perhaps I wrote them thinking that the moon and Christmas are just around the corner.

New Hampshire, USA

December 2011

The “Tunnel”, on Foundry Street,

Rollinsford, NH (Summer of 2011)

Salmon Falls River, Rollinsford, NH

(Summer of 2011)

NOTE:

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Comentarios = comments

Publicar un comentario en la entrada = write a comment in the box

Comentar como = write as ... (choose "Nombre/URL", then type in your name under “Nombre”, leave “URL” blank)

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MI AMIGO MARCO

MI AMIGO MARCO

A

Marco Antonio Arroyo Benites

Chimbote  1978  -  Marco  en  la 

fiesta de promoción del colegio

Era 1972, yo tenía 12 años de edad y terminaba la primaria en la Escuela Nº 89007 del 21 de Abril “B” de Chimbote. Eran tiempos que en mi casa, ubicada en la cuadra trece de la avenida Aviación, se alquilaba bicicletas por hora a los muchachos del barrio.

Entre los clientes que llegaban por las bicicletas había un jovencito evangélico de mi edad. Yo lo conocía de vista, pues lo veía asistir a una iglesia situada a unos cuantos pasos de mi casa, la Iglesia de Cristo. Era serio y formalito. Y al alquilar su bicicleta, se registraba con este nombre: Marco Antonio Arroyo Benites.

En 1973 inicié la secundaria en la G.U.E. San Pedro de Chimbote, aquí me volví a encontrar con Marco. Al año siguiente ya era mi mejor amigo y hacia 1975 éramos estudiantes inseparables, Marco era bueno para los números y a mí me gustaban las letras. Nuestros talentos se juntaron y nuestro grupo de estudios devino en el mejor de la clase.

Con el pretexto de las tareas escolares, a menudo visitaba su casa en el jirón Balta, a un pasito de la intersección con la avenida Pardo. Cada vez que llegaba, su madre, doña Consuelo, me invitaba mi plato favorito: pescado frito con arroz y abundante zarza con limón. Escuchábamos música de Los Galos mientras realizábamos las tareas escolares, y conversábamos de todo, especialmente sobre las chicas y las dudas de la adolescencia.

La música no siempre fue de Los Galos. Marco me introdujo a la música evangélica de Manuel Bonilla, y luego a la mismísima Iglesia de Cristo. Confieso que asistía a la iglesia más por las “hermanas” (chicas) que por el culto, aunque también me gustaban los estudios bíblicos. El padre de Marco, don Félix, impartía un interesante curso bíblico al cual yo empecé a asistir. 

Marco inició su carrera universitaria antes que yo. En 1979 viajó a Lima y al año siguiente empezó sus estudios de Ingeniería Química en la Universidad Nacional de Ingeniería. Mientras que yo, atrapado por el torbellino de la política, me demoré un poco y viajé a Trujillo en 1983 para estudiar Derecho y Ciencias Políticas en la Universidad Nacional de Trujillo.

En 1982 Marco conoció a Eva, una bella chica de Samanco (Ancash, Perú) con quién empezó una hermosa historia de amor, y los hijos le empezaron a llegar: Mirella en 1983, Ivone en 1985, Hanss en 1987, y Nicole en 1995. El idilio con Eva se desvanece, y en 1996 llegaría Sebastián, su último hijo, en otra relación de pareja.

En un punto de los años ‘80 Marco interrumpió sus estudios de Ingeniería Química. Necesitaba trabajar. Se reinventó a sí mismo e ingresó a un mundo nuevo: la peluquería. Desde entonces Marco es uno de los más prestigiosos estilistas de Lima. Cuando me dio la noticia que dejaba los estudios, recuerdo que me dijo: “Tú no verás la conexión, pero voy a utilizar mis estudios de Geometría del Espacio para ser el mejor peluquero de Lima”. Sus palabras fueron premonitorias.

Momentos duros también ha habido. Un día de 1987 me encontraba en mi cuarto de estudiante en el jirón Colón de Trujillo. La radio me traía las noticias. De pronto un reportero anunció un terrible accidente de carretera a la altura de la ciudad de Chepén. Dentro de la relación de fallecidos un nombre me estremeció, pero quise creer que se trataba de un homónimo. Segundos después sonaría el teléfono, y la dueña de la casa gritaría con dirección a mi ventana: “¡Eduardo, teléfono, tu mamá, dice que es urgente!”. Doña Consuelo, la mamá de Marco, se había marchado para siempre.

1987 es también el año en que Marco empieza a viajar por el mundo. Argentina y diferentes países europeos son testigos de su depurada destreza. A sus triunfos en Lima, se sumaría su gran experiencia internacional.

Lima 2007 - Eduardo y Marco 

Yo, por mi parte, salí hacia Europa a inicios de los ‘90. En Londres conocí a Terry, mi esposa, y nació Dorothy, mi única hija. Cada dos años llevo a mi familia al Perú. Al llegar al Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Chávez, Marco siempre nos espera y jamás nos permite alojarnos en hoteles: nos lleva a su casa. Así conocimos su pequeño alojamiento en la avenida Angamos de Miraflores, Lima donde Marco nos daba su cama, mientras él dormía en su silla de peluquero. Y luego conocimos su amplio alojamiento-salón en la avenida Dos de Mayo del mismo distrito limeño.

Si alguien me pidiera que defina a Marco con una palabra. La respuesta sería fácil: Determinación. Varias veces he visto a Marco caído, y siempre me dijo lo mismo: “Dame unos mesecitos y me verás parado otra vez”. Siempre cumplió su palabra.

Y si alguien preguntara a Terry o Dorothy por el momento más emocionante de sus visitas a Lima. La respuesta es invariable: cuando Marco les arregla el cabello. Durante nuestra última visita a Lima no tuvimos tiempo para este detalle, entonces Marco viajó por siete horas de Lima a Chimbote, trajo una tijera en el bolsillo, les arregló el cabello y se regresó a Lima. 

Y para Dorothy hay otra cosa especial en Chimbote: el papá de Marco, un prestigioso joyero, le ha hecho varios trabajos, entre ellos un brazalete. Dorothy se va haciendo grande, y en cada una de las visitas don Félix le va agregando eslabones al brazalete.

Marco: así es nuestra amistad, como los eslabones que se van agregando al brazalete de Dorothy. Es una joya enriquecida con el tiempo. Atrás quedaron tantas cosas, como Inés e Hilda, como Pocha y La Zarca ¿las recuerdas? De muchachos compartíamos tanto tiempo juntos que terminábamos enamorándonos de parejas de amigas!

Volviendo al presente. Hoy es un día especial para ti. Y he querido brindar testimonio de nuestra amistad. ¡Feliz cumpleaños!

Eduardo.

New Hampshire, USA

Diciembre 13, 2011

NOTA:

Si deseas dejar un comentario ten en cuenta lo siguiente: debajo del recuadro para los comentarios aparece una opción que dice “comentar como”. Acá sólo debes seleccionar la opción que dice “nombre” y en este recuadro escribe tu nombre (Deja el recuadro URL en blanco) Si todo esto te parece muy complicado, entonces escribe tu comentario en un e-mail y envíalo a: edquevedo@yahoo.com

Los comentarios van primero al Editor, antes de ser publicados.

My Friend Marco

MY FRIEND MARCO

To

Marco Antonio Arroyo Benites

Chimbote 1978  

Marco at the high school prom

It was 1972. I was twelve years old and finishing primary school at School No. 89007 in Chimbote’s 21 de Abril “B” neighborhood. In those days, at my house on the thirteenth block of Aviation Avenue, we rented out bicycles by the hour to the local kids.

Among the customers who came for the bikes, there was an evangelical boy my age. I knew him by sight, as I used to see him attending the Church of Christ, located just a few steps from my house. He was serious and well-mannered. When renting his bicycle, he would sign in as: Marco Antonio Arroyo Benites.

In 1973, I started secondary school at G.U.E. San Pedro in Chimbote, where I ran into Marco again. By the following year, he was already my best friend, and by 1975, we were inseparable. Marco was good with numbers, and I liked the humanities. Our talents complemented each other, and our study group became the best in the class.

Under the pretext of doing homework, I often visited his house on Balta Street, just a step away from the intersection with Pardo Avenue. Every time I arrived, his mother, Doña Consuelo, would serve me my favorite dish: fried fish with rice and plenty of zarza with lemon. We listened to music by Los Galos while doing our schoolwork and talked about everything—especially girls and the doubts of adolescence.

The music wasn't always Los Galos. Marco introduced me to the evangelical music of Manuel Bonilla, and later to the Church of Christ itself. I confess I attended church more for the "sisters" (the girls) than for the service, although I also enjoyed the Bible studies. Marco’s father, Don Félix, taught an interesting Bible course that I began to attend.

Marco started his university career before I did. In 1979, he moved to Lima, and the following year he began studying Chemical Engineering at the National University of Engineering (UNI). Meanwhile, caught up in the whirlwind of politics, I took a bit longer, traveling to Trujillo in 1983 to study Law and Political Science at the National University of Trujillo.

In 1982, Marco met Eva, a beautiful girl from Samanco, with whom he began a wonderful love story. Then the children began to arrive: Mirella in 1983, Ivone in 1985, Hanss in 1987, and Nicole in 1995. The romance with Eva eventually faded, and in 1996, Sebastián, his youngest son, arrived from another relationship.

At one point in the 1980s, Marco interrupted his Chemical Engineering studies. He needed to work. He reinvented himself and entered a whole new world: hairdressing. Since then, Marco has become one of the most prestigious stylists in Lima. When he gave me the news that he was leaving his studies, I remember him saying: “You might not see the connection, but I’m going to use my studies in Solid Geometry to be the best hairdresser in Lima.” His words were prophetic.

There were hard times, too. One day in 1987, I was in my student room on Columbus Street in Trujillo. The radio was bringing me the news. Suddenly, a reporter announced a terrible road accident near the city of Chepén. Among the list of deceased, a name shook me, but I wanted to believe it was just someone with the same name. Seconds later, the phone rang, and the landlady shouted toward my window: “Eduardo, telephone! Your mom says it’s urgent!” Doña Consuelo, Marco’s mother, was gone forever.

1987 was also the year Marco began traveling the world. Argentina and various European countries witnessed his refined skill. To his triumphs in Lima, he added vast international experience.

I, for my part, left for Europe in 1994. In London, I met Terry, my wife, and Dorothy, my only daughter, was born. Every two years, I take my family to Peru. Upon arriving at Jorge Chávez International Airport, Marco is always there waiting for us, and he never allows us to stay in hotels: he takes us to his home. That’s how we first knew his small place on Angamos Avenue in Miraflores, where Marco would give us his bed while he slept in his barber chair. And later, we saw his spacious salon-residence on Dos de Mayo Avenue in the same district.

If someone were to ask me to define Marco in one word, the answer would be easy: Determination. Many times I have seen Marco down, and he always told me the same thing: “Give me a few months and you’ll see me back on my feet.” He always kept his word.

And if anyone asked Terry or Dorothy about the most exciting moment of their visits to Lima, the answer is always the same: when Marco styles their hair. During our last visit, we didn't have time for that, so Marco traveled seven hours from Lima to Chimbote with a pair of scissors in his pocket, styled their hair, and headed back to Lima.

And for Dorothy, there is something else special in Chimbote: Marco’s father, a prestigious jeweler, has made several pieces for her, including a bracelet. Dorothy is growing up, and with each visit, Don Félix adds new links to it.

Marco: our friendship is just that way, much like the links being added to Dorothy’s bracelet. It is a jewel enriched by time. So many things are behind us now—names like Inés and Hilda, Pocha and La Zarca. Do you remember them? As boys, we shared so much time together that we ended up falling in love with pairs of friends!

Returning to the present: today is a special day for you, and I wanted to bear witness to our friendship. Happy Birthday!

Eduardo.

New Hampshire, USA

December 13, 2011

Lima 2007 - Eduardo and Marco 

NOTE:

If you'd like to comment on this post, here is a translation of terms in the directions:

Comentarios = comments

Publicar un comentario en la entrada = write a comment in the box

Comentar como = write as ... (choose "Nombre/URL", then type in your name under “Nombre”, leave “URL” blank)

Vista previa = preview (see how your comment will look)

Publicar un comentario = publish your comment

If you think that these steps are too complicated then write me an e-mail with your comment and I’ll publish it for you: edquevedo@yahoo.com

Every comment goes to the editor first before being published.

The First Kiss (...and a proper one!)

THE FIRST KISS (...and a proper one!)

Eduardo  as a  child on a  bike.  

The first kiss was still far away...

In 1972, my father closed the corner store he ran from our house and opened a bicycle and tricycle repair shop in a sort of flea market on the second block of Buenos Aires Avenue in Chimbote, between Pizarro and Garcilaso streets.

At the workshop, bicycles were rented by the hour to the neighborhood boys. Those were times when owning a bike was almost a luxury. After school, I would help my father in the shop, and I did the same during weekends and school vacations.

Every day, the workshop was crowded with teenagers waiting for their turn to rent a bike. For some reason, the girls preferred that I be the one to help them. And that is how I became friends with many of them... and even more than friends!

By late 1973, I was thirteen years old. At that time, to prevent thefts at the shop, my father sent my brother Fernando—who was fourteen—and me to sleep there. We went quite happily; in fact, there was a very good reason for our high spirits.

Every night when we arrived at the workshop, Fernando and I would pick the best bikes and go for a ride. I always went in search of the neighborhood girls, who punctually waited for me at their doors for their "turn" to ride on the crossbar.

Night after night, half a dozen girls would hop onto my bike. For some, it was a short ride. For others, a longer route through darker stretches...

By late 1974, I was hugging and kissing several of these girls every night. However, none of these kisses scattered along the bike route was meant to be the first proper kiss of my adolescence; that privilege was reserved for a kiss that would arrive in the summer of 1975.

Her name was Nelly. She was a little taller, darker-skinned, and older than me. She was pretty, with slightly curly hair and a long, distinguished neck. I enjoyed her company a little more than the others, and I found her conversation more interesting as well.

We would kiss at her window, or sometimes in the shadows around the workshops on the second block of Buenos Aires Avenue. We had been kissing and hugging for several weeks until the day of the definitive kiss finally arrived.

It happened like this:

One night, in front of the workshops, standing on the railroad ties that ran along Buenos Aires Avenue, I was kissing her. Suddenly, she gently pushed me away. In the glow from the Martinez Funeral Home’s neon sign, I could see her gaze. And she said to me:

“…Eduardo, that’s how a boy kisses his mother.” I hadn’t even recovered from my surprise when she added: “I’m going to teach you how a boy should kiss a girl.” And then, she kissed me.

It was a new and different kiss. A kiss that made all the wasted kisses before that moment pale in comparison. A kiss that marked a “before” and an “after.” A kiss that charted a new era in the innocence of my fourteen years.

Nelly smiled. “Did you like it?” she asked. She also asked if I could repeat the lesson. I don’t remember what I answered to the first question, but I tried to be diligent regarding the second. She had no further complaints.

Sometime later, my relationship with Nelly ended. I don’t remember how, either. What I do remember is that two years later, she left her old school and came to finish high school at Santa Maria Reina, right across from my house.

In those days, every evening I would wash my face, groom my hair, and stand on the corner of my house to watch the students leaving school. Among the crowd of girls, Nelly would pass by. I would smile at her shyly. She would smile back mischievously.

And as she smiled, in the brightness of her eyes, I seemed to find the reflection of a more distant smile—the one I saw two years before, thanks to the glow of the neon sign at the Martinez Funeral Home, in the darkness of the second block of Buenos Aires Avenue...

...the reflection of Nelly smiling at me after the lesson and the first proper kiss of my adolescence.

New Hampshire, USA

November 2011

Eduardo,1975

ps - If the reader were curious to know more about Nelly, a previous article provides additional references. This is the link:

A FORGOTTEN OLD PHRASE

NOTE:

If you'd like to comment on this post, here is a translation of terms in the directions:

Comentarios = comments

Publicar un comentario en la entrada = write a comment in the box

Comentar como = write as ... (choose "Nombre/URL", then type in your name under “Nombre”, leave “URL” blank)

Vista previa = preview (see how your comment will look)

Publicar un comentario = publish your comment

If you think that these steps are too complicated then write me an e-mail with your comment and I’ll publish it for you: edquevedo@yahoo.com

Every comment goes to the editor first before being published.