Carmen Rosa in Four Acts

 CARMEN ROSA IN FOUR ACTS

The year was 1975; I was fourteen years old and in my third year of high school, class 3º “B,” at the San Pedro School in Chimbote, Peru.

I was a very timid boy back then. And that year, in my classroom, I found the most beautiful girl in the world.

Her name? Carmen Rosa.

And what was expected to happen to me?

Well, quite simply, I fell in love.

I fell in love with that languid, platonic love of tender adolescents. Clumsy in the world of desks and notebooks, but marvelous in the world of dreams and fantasies.

She was kind and attentive to me, but she never realized why I became so flustered every time I saw her.

Or did she? I never knew.

I remember one day, barely containing the trembling of my body, I said to her, “Carmen, listen to Radio Chimbote tonight at eight; there’s going to be something for you.”

At the end of classes that day, I walked toward the third block of Elías Aguirre Street. I reached the Radio Chimbote building and climbed the stairs leading to the station's offices on the second floor.

I didn't find a secretary, only an announcer who did everything at that hour; his name was Antonio “Chito” Balta Rodríguez. I told him: “I’d like you to play two songs tonight dedicated to a friend.”

Mr. Balta asked for my name, my friend's name, and the titles of the two songs, and then he told me the price. I gave him what he asked for. He wrote the details on a small slip of paper and tucked it into his pocket along with my coins.

That night, lying on my bed, I waited longingly with a battery-powered radio by my bedside. I heard our names and I heard the songs.

Love Story, performed by Andy Williams, flooded the night with romance; and Nostalgia, in the grieving voice of Dyango, added sentiment to sentiment itself.

Then I startled. I realized that after the songs, I would feel too self-conscious to be face to face with Carmen. I didn't want to go to school the next day. It was like having hunted the bear and not knowing what to do with its hide.

But I understood that staying away would only make things worse. So, I went to class. Nothing special happened. I avoided Carmen Rosa all day, and possibly for a couple of days more. When I finally recognized that I was caught in my own spiderweb, I asked her if she had heard the songs.

And... I said nothing more after she answered that she had.

One day during the summer school holidays of 1976, I was around the Modelo Market in downtown Chimbote, looking for some spare parts my father had sent me to buy for his bicycle shop.

Among the crowd huddling at the corner of Manuel Ruiz and Leoncio Prado streets, near the Mechita juice bar, I suddenly saw Carmen Rosa’s face.

I saw her for an instant. Perhaps for a second. Her light brown hair and the glow of her beauty made themselves felt like a ray of sunlight on that radiant midday. For a fraction of a second, I didn't know what to do. It was the first time I had seen Carmen Rosa outside of school. I looked down at my mechanic's clothes and felt I couldn’t possibly approach such a wonderful apparition as she drifted out of sight.

I reacted and decided to follow her. From the visual flashes of her body moving through the bustle of the people, I could tell  she was wearing an orange top and pastel-colored pants. I tried to see more of her, but she vanished. I searched for her around the market. It was final: she had disappeared into the crowd.

Carmen Rosa’s sudden appearance on that radiant midday would prove decisive in the fabric of my memories in the years to come.

During high school, I had always seen her wearing her school uniform. But in the years that followed, every time she came to my mind, she did so wearing that orange top and those pastel pants.

And her beauty remained the same as it was on that radiant midday in the summer of 1976.

By the mid-eighties, I was a somewhat different person. I was working and studying in the city of Trujillo. I was a standout law student and also an efficient administrative head at the Social Security office. Years earlier, I had ventured into politics, and some said a bright future awaited me.

During this period of my life in Trujillo, I traveled to Chimbote on weekends to visit my parents. And so, one fine day, during one of those visits, this happened.

I left my house on Aviation Avenue to catch a colectivo—one of those old cars that served as shared taxis, coming from El Carmen housing development and crossing through downtown Chimbote. I walked toward Balta Street and waited for my ride in front of the 21 de Abril market.

One approached, and I signaled it to stop. I noticed the two front seats were taken, but I also saw that one of the four back seats was free. So, I opened the rear door and settled inside. Once seated, I could see the other passengers. And there, sitting at the far end of my seat, I saw Carmen Rosa again after several years.

We both showed surprise at seeing each other once more.

As I realized that Carmen’s beauty had only been enriched by the years, I kept repeating to myself: “Alright, Eduardo. You are an adult now. You are a confident person now.”

The conversation during the five minutes we shared the colectivo was good. I smiled, spoke with poise, and moved my hands with that certainty I had learned in politics. Carmen retained her charm; the dimples in her cheeks still gave her that pleasant air she always had. She spoke less than I did, but remained just as interesting.

The colectivo moved along Balta, turned right toward Pardo Avenue, and stayed on that route. Once at the intersection with Elías Aguirre Street, I told Carmen I was getting off at the Plaza de Armas, just one block ahead. I signaled the same to the driver as I handed him the standard fare.

The car stopped in front of the Plaza de Armas. I tried to manage a smile and said to Carmen, “It’s been a pleasure seeing you again.” She accompanied her words with a slight smile and replied, “For me, too.” I opened the door and stepped out. The driver resumed his way, and I had time for one last look and a wave goodbye.

The car took Carmen away and she vanished from my sight.

A sense of annoyance took hold of me. I felt as if I had failed at something. First, I thought that, being a gentleman, I should have offered to pay her fare. And while I struggled with that first thought, another more piercing one slipped into my mind: Why didn't I ask her if I could call her?

I was still walking with this thorn in my side when I reached my destination, an office where I had some paperwork to do. There, the receptionist asked me, “How can we help you?” And with her question, she brought me back to earth.

In July 2010, I made one of my usual trips to Peru. While in Chimbote, one day I set about cleaning my house’s living and dining room. My mother had told me: “Do a deep clean and don’t leave anything behind the furniture.”

Trying to follow her orders, I needed to move the heavy china cabinet where the dishes are kept. I moved the left side one step forward. Then the right side one step forward. Then the left side another step, and then, on the back of the old cabinet, I saw something... that pierced my heart.

I found a pencil drawing. It was a heart with Cupid’s arrow and the names Eduardo and Carmen Rosa. And there was a date: 01/11/1976…

Then I remembered the day I drew it: It was upon my return from the Modelo Market in Chimbote, after seeing Carmen Rosa... when her light brown hair and the light of her beauty seemed like a ray of sunlight on that radiant midday in the summer of 1976.

New Hampshire, USA

April, 2012

Eduardo, 1975

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