Confesiones a un Árbol

sábado, abril 28, 2012

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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sábado, abril 07, 2012

Pablo Silva Villacorta y Yo

PABLO SILVA VILLACORTA Y YO

Pablo Silva Villacorta

07/07/1918 - 14/02/1979

El Día de San Valentín de 1979 no fue una fecha feliz para mí. Ese día, en Chimbote, murió en mis brazos don Pablo Silva Villacorta de un ataque al corazón a los 60 años de edad.

A eso de las diez de la noche él, Hilda Martino y yo habíamos dejado el local central del Partido Aprista, y nos dirigíamos al cine Bahía para ver la función de noche. Una vez llegados a la intersección de las calles Bolognesi y Carlos de los Heros (donde se ubicaba el cine) apareció el militante aprista Oscar Torres Soto, e inició una discusión con don Pablo.

En el calor de la discusión, le sobrevino el ataque cardíaco. Oscar Torres se retiró. Hilda Martino y yo lo llevamos inmediatamente a la clínica San Carlos, pero los doctores confirmaron que don Pablo había llegado sin vida.

Lo había conocido en 1977. Una y otra vez lo vi en el local aprista. Tenía estatura y peso mediano, una testa grande y unos ojos inmensos. Usualmente vestía terno azul oscuro, camisa clara y corbata con detalles en rojo. Era de buenas maneras y fácil hablar. Y mantenía una distancia con el grupo de dirigentes a cargo del Partido en Chimbote.

Yo tenía dieciséis años de edad y había empezado a frecuentar la Casa del Pueblo. Sólo un puñado de personas llegaba al local por esos días. Al año siguiente se convocó a elecciones para la Asamblea Constituyente y el local del Partido se llenó de gente y actividad.

Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre (a la izquierda), Pablo Silva

Villacorta (al centro) y otros dirigentes de Chimbote

Don Pablo tenía escrito un libro sobre doctrina aprista. Lo leí a principios de 1978. Recuerdo que en mi casa tipeaba extractos de su libro y los publicaba en el periódico mural del Partido. Era periodista, jefe de relaciones públicas de la Cámara de Comercio, presidente del Centro Federado de Periodistas de Chimbote, y conducía también el noticiero radial “La Voz de Chimbote”.

Ese mismo año fui elegido subsecretario general departamental de la juventud aprista. Al poco tiempo renunció el secretario general y yo quedé a cargo de la juventud. Entonces empecé a invitarlo para que dictara charlas a los jóvenes apristas y así nos hicimos amigos.

Una de esas noches, concluida la charla salíamos juntos con dirección a la puerta principal. A medio camino me cogió del brazo, me detuvo, y me miró a los ojos. Vi sus ojos aún más inmensos a través de sus gruesos lentes. Y entonces me dijo: “¿Sabes?, yo tengo un plan para el Partido”. Y yo, con la insolencia de mis diecisiete años, le respondí: “¡Qué bueno, porque yo también tengo uno!”

Conversamos casi toda la noche y compartimos una visión para el Partido: afirmar una línea progresista, cambiar a la vieja dirigencia en el poder, y devolver el Partido a sus bases. Al filo de la madrugada sellamos nuestro pacto con un apretón de manos.

Eduardo: 1979

Al poco tiempo devine en su secretario personal. Y uno de esos días, al salir de una tienda ubicada en la sexta cuadra del jirón Leoncio Prado, me dijo: “Necesito una nueva voz para mi programa radial”. Yo le respondí: “Ya la tiene...”. Me miró con desconfianza, y me pidió que leyera en voz alta uno de los documentos que tenía en la mano. Ante la vista de los transeúntes del mercado Modelo, lo leí. Don Pablo me puso la mano en el hombro, y me dijo: “Empiezas esta noche”.

En el día nos reuníamos en la Cámara de Comercio y por las noches en su casa de la urbanización El Trapecio. Aquí conocí a sus tres pequeños hijos: Pablo, Víctor y Jorge de 9, 8 y 6 años respectivamente. Don Pablo era viudo, y sus hijos eran cuidados por las hermanas Gonzáles que vivían en la casa contigua.

Los días 27, 28 y 29 de octubre de 1978 fueron importantes para nosotros. Se realizó la III Convención Departamental del Partido Aprista. Aún no teníamos listo nuestro grupo político, pero fuimos a medir fuerzas contra el sector encabezado por los históricos dirigentes Alberto “Zorro” Romero Leguía y Augusto Saavedra Sánchez. Yo me hice acompañar por dos amigos de entonces, y de toda la vida: Bernardo Cabellos Sabino y Julio César Sifuentes Arias. Las fuerzas dentro de la convención estuvieron parejas, pero se aprobó nuestra principal reclamación: nuevas elecciones para cambiar la dirigencia departamental.

16/02/1979 Cementerio Divino Maestro de Chimbote

Eduardo pronuncia un discurso ante el féretro de PSV

El radioperiódico “La Voz de Chimbote” era un éxito de sintonía en Chimbote. A las voces de don Pablo y la mía se había sumado la de Hilda Martino, una chica de 24 años que dirigía unos cursos de taquigrafía y mecanografía en el local aprista. Los editoriales del programa, escritos por don Pablo y leídos por mí, eran al día siguiente difundidos por otros programas de la ciudad.

Entre tanto había empezado la campaña electoral para la nueva directiva del Partido. Don Pablo y yo barajamos nombres para nuestra lista. La primera persona que visitamos fue Alejandro Ponce Rodríguez, un profesor que entonces mantenía un perfil bajo, y que en 1972 había liderado al sindicato de profesores en Chimbote. Junto a él formaron el núcleo central de nuestro grupo: Víctor Galarreta Vásquez, Hernán Mantilla Rodríguez, Adelina Wong Torres, Abraham Torres Barreto y Víctor Hugo Villanueva. Yo aún no tenía la edad mínima para postular, pero cuando don Pablo garabateó el primer borrador de su lista, me dijo: “Te voy a poner en la subsecretaría de difusión”. Yo le respondí: “Todavía no tengo 18 años”. Él me miró por encima de sus lentes, y sentenció: “Tú eres más maduro que muchos viejos... sólo no vayas por ahí diciendo tu edad”. Y escribió mi nombre en la lista.

No todo era política durante las reuniones nocturnas en casa de don Pablo. También había bohemia. A él le gustaban sus tragos y a mí empezaban a gustarme. Jorge Vásquez Hanada, un amigo de mi niñez y de toda la vida venía a El Trapecio con nosotros. “Vayan a la tienda del profesor López y traigan dos cervezas”, decía don Pablo. Y entre trago y trago cantábamos su tango favorito, Cuesta Abajo, mientras en la cocina desabastecida mi amigo Jorge hacía milagros para preparar un caldo de pollo sin pollo.

Armando Villanueva del Campo y Pablo Silva Villacorta

(atendidos por el Dr. Oswaldo Bustos Henostroza)

La campaña electoral que dirigió Pablo Silva Villacorta fue espectacular. Introdujo una nueva dinámica en las elecciones. Dejó el local central al grupo opositor, y él se fue a los barrios de Chimbote. Los movilizó, los llenó de energía, y los convirtió en una fuerza arrolladora. A ese punto nadie dudaba que ganaría las elecciones y que, una vez elegido secretario general, sería candidato victorioso a la alcaldía de Chimbote. El primer barrio que visitó fue el mío, y en el corral de mi casa hicimos una gran asamblea bajo una enorme ramada de tumbo.

Lilian La Bella era una de las hermanas Gonzáles. Yo la llamaba así. La veía por las noches, y a veces por las mañanas cuando me quedaba a dormir en la casa de don Pablo. Tenía un belleza apacible y me gustó desde el primer instante en que la vi. Yo todavía no daba el primer paso, hasta que un buen día don Pablo me dijo: “La estás haciendo esperar demasiado”. Entonces no la hice esperar más y nos hicimos enamorados.

Inicialmente hubieron sólo dos grupos en la campaña electoral, el de don Pablo y el sector histórico que controlaba la directiva, pero pronto apareció un tercero: el de “Los profesionales”. Lo llamábamos así porque en su mayoría estaba formado por médicos del Hospital del Seguro Social encabezados por su propio director, el Dr. Raúl Alvarado Araujo. A este grupo pertenecieron también los profesores Julio Geldres Aguilar y Fernando Bazán Blas.

Mi relación con Lilian La Bella fue breve pero hermosa. Ella asistía a las asambleas en el local central y no decía nada, sólo me acompañaba con su sonrisa. Y entre asamblea y asamblea nos escapábamos por unos instantes al malecón de Chimbote. El cielo estrellado, el murmullo de las olas, y una lánguida farola fueron cómplices de nuestras ternuras de amor. Hasta que un día Lilian La Bella se fue, y dejó la musicalidad de su nombre para evocarla con grata melancolía.

Había algo en común entre el grupo de “Los Profesionales” y nosotros: queríamos el cambio de la vieja dirigencia, pero nos teníamos mutua desconfianza. Sin embargo, hubo un intento para unir ambas listas. Una mañana se concertó una reunión en la dirección del Hospital del Seguro Social. Por nuestro lado fuimos don Pablo y yo. En el taxi trazamos un plan: para forzar al otro grupo a retirar varios nombres don Pablo iba a “declinar” su candidatura, pero yo me opondría a tal cosa. Al mediodía entramos a la dirección del hospital. Por primera vez yo pisé una oficina con alfombra y aire acondicionado. Fuimos recibidos por una veintena de funcionarios y profesionales vestidos de blanco. La reunión fue breve, la unión no se dio y cada grupo siguió por su lado.

Diario El Faro de Chimbote del Viernes 16 de Febrero de 1979

En ese punto nos encontrábamos cuando llegó el Día de San Valentín de 1979. Durante la mañana don Pablo y yo estuvimos en la Cámara de Comercio, por la tarde visitamos algunos barrios, a las 6:30 pm estuvimos en el programa radial, a las 7:05 pm fuimos al Partido Aprista y permanecimos aquí hasta las 10:00 pm, a las 10:15 pm arribamos al cine Bahía, y unos minutos mas tarde un ataque al corazón fulminó su vida.

Su biografía quedó inconclusa, pero mientras estuvo entre nosotros derramó a manos llenas su genialidad, su carisma, y su talento de comunicador. Entre sus tareas pendientes dejó un manuscrito de aproximadamente 56 páginas en el que venía trabajando. Queda en las manos de sus descendientes asegurarse que este documento algún día vea la luz.

La noche en que Pablo Silva Villacorta falleció en mis brazos yo tenía 18 de edad. Treinta y tres años han pasado hasta poder sentirme listo y escribir estas líneas. Éste es mi recuerdo del viejo maestro, y es también una pequeña contribución para mantener viva su memoria.

New Hampshire, USA

Abril, 2012

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Pablo Silva Villacorta and I

PABLO SILVA VILLACORTA AND I

Pablo Silva Villacorta
(July 7, 1918 – February 14, 1979)

Valentine’s Day 1979 was not a happy date for me. That day, in Chimbote, Don Pablo Silva Villacorta died in my arms from a heart attack at the age of sixty.

Around ten o’clock that night, he, Hilda Martino, and I had left the headquarters of the APRA Party and were heading to the Bahía Cinema for the late showing. Upon reaching the intersection of Bolognesi and Carlos de los Heros streets (where the cinema was located), Oscar Torres Soto, an APRA militant, appeared and started an argument with Don Pablo.

In the heat of the argument, he suffered a sudden heart attack. Oscar Torres retreated. Hilda Martino and I rushed him to the San Carlos Clinic, but the doctors confirmed that Don Pablo was dead on arrival.

I had met him in 1977. Time and again, I saw him at the party headquarters. He was of medium height and weight, with a large head and immense eyes. He usually wore a dark blue suit, a light-colored shirt, and a tie with red details. He was well-mannered and easy to talk to, and he kept his distance from the group of leaders in charge of the Party in Chimbote.

I was sixteen years old and had begun to frequent the Casa del Pueblo. Only a handful of people came to the headquarters in those days. The following year, elections for the Constituent Assembly were called, and the Party headquarters filled with people and activity.

Don Pablo had written a book on APRA doctrine. I read it in early 1978. I remember typing extracts from his book at home and posting them on the Party’s bulletin board. He was a journalist, head of public relations for the Chamber of Commerce, president of the Federated Center of Journalists of Chimbote, and he also hosted the radio news program “La Voz de Chimbote.”

That same year, I was elected regional undersecretary-general for the APRA youth. Shortly after, the secretary-general resigned, and I was left in charge of the youth wing. I then began inviting him to give talks to the young members, and that is how we became friends.

One of those nights, after the talk had ended, we were walking together toward the main door. Halfway there, he took my arm, stopped me, and looked into my eyes. I saw his eyes looking even larger through his thick glasses. And then he said: “You know? I have a plan for the Party.” And I, with the insolence of my seventeen years, replied: “That’s great, because I have one too!”

We talked nearly all night and shared a vision for our local movement: to establish a progressive line, replace the old leadership in power, and return the Party to its grassroots. At the break of dawn, we sealed our pact with a handshake.

Soon after, I became his personal secretary. One of those days, as we left a shop on the sixth block of Leoncio Prado Street, he said: “I need a new voice for my radio program.” I replied: “You already have it...” He looked at me with skepticism and asked me to read aloud one of the documents he was holding. There, in full view of the passersby at the Modelo Market, I read it. Don Pablo put his hand on my shoulder and said: “You start tonight.”

During the day, we met at the Chamber of Commerce, and at night, at his home in the El Trapecio housing development. It was there that I met his three young sons: Pablo, Víctor, and Jorge, aged nine, eight, and six. Don Pablo was a widower, and his children were cared for by the Salazar sisters, who lived in the house next door.

October 27th, 28th, and 29th, 1978, were important days for us. The III Regional Convention of the APRA Party was held. We didn't have our political group ready yet, but we went to test our strength against the sector led by the veteran leaders Alberto “Zorro” Romero Leguía and Augusto Saavedra Sánchez. I was accompanied by two lifelong friends: Bernardo Cabellos Sabino and Julio César Sifuentes Arias. The forces within the convention were evenly matched, but our main demand was approved: new elections to change the regional leadership.

The radio news program La Voz de Chimbote was a hit. Hilda Martino, a twenty-four-year-old woman who taught shorthand and typing at the party headquarters, joined Don Pablo’s voice and mine. The program’s editorials, written by Don Pablo and read by me, were broadcast the following day by other stations in the city.

Meanwhile, the election campaign for the new Party leadership had begun. Don Pablo and I brainstormed names for our ticket. The first person we visited was Alejandro Ponce Rodríguez, a teacher who then kept a low profile and had led the teachers' union in Chimbote in 1972. Alongside him, the core of our group was formed: Víctor Galarreta Vásquez, Hernán Mantilla Rodríguez, Adelina Wong Torres, Abraham Torres Barreto, and Víctor Hugo Villanueva. I wasn’t yet old enough to run, but when Don Pablo scribbled the first draft of his list, he told me: “I’m going to put you in the communications sub-secretariat.” I replied: “I’m not eighteen yet.” He looked at me over his glasses and pronounced: “You are more mature than many old men... just don’t go around telling people your age.” And he wrote my name on the list.

It wasn’t all politics during the nightly meetings at Don Pablo’s house. There was also bohemia. He enjoyed his drinks, and I was starting to enjoy them too. Jorge Vásquez Hanada, a lifelong childhood friend, would come to El Trapecio with us. “Go to Teacher López’s store and get two beers,” Don Pablo would say. And between drinks, we would sing his favorite tango, Cuesta Abajo, while in the empty kitchen, my friend Jorge worked miracles to prepare a chicken soup without the chicken.

The election campaign led by Pablo Silva Villacorta was spectacular. He introduced a new dynamic to the elections. He left the central headquarters to the opposition group and headed to the barrios of Chimbote. He mobilized them, filled them with energy, and turned them into an overwhelming force. At that point, no one doubted he would win the elections and that, once elected secretary-general, he would be a victorious candidate for mayor of Chimbote. The first Barrio he visited was mine, and in my backyard, we held a large assembly under a massive trellis of tumbo vines.

Lilian La Bella was one of the Salazar sisters. That’s what I called her. I saw her in the evenings, and sometimes in the morning when I stayed over at Don Pablo’s house. She had a peaceful beauty, and I liked her from the first moment I saw her. I hadn't made a move yet, until one day Don Pablo told me: “You’re making her wait too long.” So, I didn’t make her wait any longer, and we began our romance.

Initially, there were only two groups in the election campaign: Don Pablo’s and the veteran sector that controlled the board. But soon a third appeared: “The Professionals.” We called them that because they were mostly doctors from the Social Security Hospital, led by its director, Dr. Raúl Alvarado Araujo. This group also included teachers Julio Geldres Aguilar and Fernando Bazán Blas.

My relationship with Lilian La Bella was brief but beautiful. She would attend the assemblies at the central headquarters and say nothing, simply accompanying me with her smile. Between one assembly and the next, we would slip away for a few moments to the Chimbote boardwalk. The starry sky, the murmur of the waves, and a languid streetlamp were accomplices to our tender moments of love. Until one day Lilian La Bella left, leaving behind only the musicality of her name to be evoked with pleasant melancholy.

There was something in common between “The Professionals” and us: we both wanted to change the old leadership, but we shared a mutual distrust. However, there was an attempt to merge the two tickets. One morning, a meeting was arranged at the Social Security Hospital director’s office. Don Pablo and I went on our behalf. In the taxi, we mapped out a plan: to force the other group to withdraw several names, Don Pablo would “decline” his candidacy, but I would oppose it. At noon, we entered the director's office. For the first time, I stepped into an office with a plush carpeting and air conditioning. We were received by about twenty administrators and professionals dressed in white. The meeting was brief; the merger didn't happen, and each group went its own way.

That was where we stood when Valentine’s Day 1979 arrived. In the morning, Don Pablo and I were at the Chamber of Commerce; in the afternoon, we visited some Barrios; at 6:30 p.m., we were at the radio station; at 7:05 p.m., we went to the APRA Party and stayed there until 10:00 p.m.; at 10:15 p.m., we arrived at the Bahía Cinema, and a few minutes later, a heart attack ended his life.

His biography remained unfinished, but while he was among us, he poured out his genius, his charisma, and his talent as a communicator. Among his pending tasks, he left a manuscript of approximately fifty-six pages that he had been working on. It remains in the hands of his descendants to ensure that this document one day sees the light of day.

The night Pablo Silva Villacorta died in my arms, I was eighteen years old. Thirty-three years have passed before I felt ready to write these lines. This is my tribute to the old master, and it is also a small contribution to keeping his memory alive.

New Hampshire, USA

April, 2012