My Friend Bernardo

 MY FRIEND BERNARDO

Bernardo Cabellos Sabino:
Provincial Councilor, 1990–92 term

I met Bernardo Cabellos Sabino in the summer of 1978, at the central headquarters of the Aprista Party in Chimbote. He impressed me from the very first moment. He had a gift for words, clear ideas, a devotion to grassroots work, and tremendous charisma.

Just a few weeks after meeting, our chairs happened to be side by side at a large bohemian table in the old Kiko bar, on the second block of Elias Aguirre Street. We talked from dusk until dawn; it was then I realized that Bernardo was the reflection of my own vision for the country and the Party.

That same year, we were elected leaders of the Aprista youth wing that faced the 1978 Constitutional Assembly election campaign, and we began a solid friendship—one that, thirty-five years later, remains as fraternal as ever.

I remember that in the early morning of October 27, 1978, while we were carrying out political activism in front of the main gate of SIDERPERÚ, the police chased us for several blocks. Bernardo, a few other guys, and I were detained by State Security. He was twenty; I was eighteen. The episode was brief, but it marked the beginning of many other detentions that would follow because of our ideals.

Coincidentally, this event is linked to another of significance in the history of the Aprista Party in Chimbote: as evening fell on that October 27, Bernardo and I were released and went directly to the Casa del Pueblo, where another great friend of that era, Julio César Sifuentes Arias, was waiting for us. The III Santa Departmental Convention had begun that day, and we entered representing the Aprista youth. At that Convention, we managed to break the back of the Party's old guard, and it was finally agreed to renew the Committee through new elections.

Our long days of activism forged a brotherhood between Bernardo and me. We ate from the same plate to stave off the hunger of those nights. We shared the same “chata" of rum to take the chill off the early morning cold. And we often lost ourselves in endless bohemian nights, sharing the same dreams of a better tomorrow and the same romantic music that marked our lives forever.

In 1981, I led a large group of young Apristas who wanted to push for a leftist line within the Party. Bernardo brilliantly organized and directed the VI Youth Departmental Convention. This event was meant to elect me general secretary that year, but the leadership in the capital suspended the elections nationwide. In 1982, Bernardo once again took charge of preparing the VII Convention, where I was finally elected to the position.

With the invaluable help of Bernardo, Julio César Sifuentes Arias, and a few other guys, we carried out successful political and social work, echoed at the adult level by Teacher Alejandro Ponce Rodríguez. Then, at the end of 1983, I moved to Trujillo; a few years later, I distanced myself from the Party definitively and forever.

Bernardo stayed and pursued a successful political career. In 1986, he won the internal Aprista elections to join the slate of candidates for provincial councilors, but the party leadership sidelined the results. Nevertheless, no one could prevent him from winning again in 1990, becoming one of the youngest and most brilliant representatives in Engineer Alberto Alfaro Beltrán’s second administration. In council debates, Bernardo was in his element thanks to his solid political background.

Meanwhile, the political and moral decay within the Aprista Party continued—as we all know—and Bernardo also withdrew from active party life. Since then, he has maintained a low profile, though without losing the only political affiliation he has ever known.

My friend Bernardo was born in Chimbote on October 16, 1958. He attended elementary school at Adventista del Santa and “La Gloriosa” 329, later completing his high school years at Erasmo Roca. After graduating as a Certified Public Accountant from San Pedro University, he established his own independent practice. He was married once—“but not for long,” as he puts it. From that union came his son, Jack Ronald, now 32; later, Flor de María, 24, and Rodrigo, 5, were born from other relationships.

When I told my friend Marco that I was writing a story about Bernardo, he asked: "And are you going to mention that there was a chapter when he was a Don Juan?" I smiled then, just as I am smiling now. The truth is that there was a chapter when good old Bernardo earned that reputation, and he once told me he wanted a phrase for his epitaph: "If Neruda confesses that he has lived, I confess that I have loved."

Thirty-five years have passed since we met, and almost two decades since I left Peru. Time and distance have served to gauge the true depth of our friendship. It’s true that the years are taking their toll—he has gained weight and I have lost hair—nevertheless, in our weekly chats, we continue to laugh with the same mischief as ever.

Those who follow my stories closely will have noticed that Bernardo’s name appears in several places. It couldn't be any other way; every time I travel to Peru, we walk the streets of Chimbote together, looking for old friends and the information I need to complete the various projects I write about.

In recent times, health has been playing tricks on good old Bernardo. It has been months of wandering through hospitals, of questions without answers, and of uncertainty. Inexorably, he has become more mystical, more philosophical—as if preparing for a great match whose outcome is not quite in his hands.

His many friends in Peru and around the world are all rooting for his recovery. Bernardo will need to draw on all the strength with which he has carved out his path in life, and which has seen him through so many other trials.

I have no doubt that this unsettling time will pass. I also know that during my next trip to Peru, I will once again gather the old friends from 1978; we will seat Bernardo at the head of the table and toast to life once more. Then, I will raise my glass and recite the words that have lived with me for thirty-five years...

Words that Bernardo himself told me that night in 1978, at the Kiko bar in Chimbote: “We must be visionaries—upright men who, in every moment of life, fight for just causes.”

New Hampshire, USA

February 2013

1981 — Eduardo and Bernardo in the front row at 

La Casa del Pueblo, Chimbote (wearing matching outfits)

Bernardo with his parents and family members

2012 — Bernardo & Eduardo. Chimbote, Peru

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

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Apuntes para Una Historia de Amor

APUNTES PARA UNA HISTORIA DE AMOR

Eduardo, 1994

Un hombre y una mujer se buscan por el mundo. No se conocen pero se han visto en sueños. La búsqueda es larga y el reloj de la vida transcurre inexorable. Entre los tic tac de su martilleo algunos amores han naufragado cual barquitos de papel. Tanto se habían soñado que de encontrarse sabrían reconocerse.

Eduardo dejó Chimbote y se fue a Trujillo en 1983, y luego a Europa en 1994. Terry dejó Estado Unidos y voló a Inglaterra en 1987, recorrió Europa, viajó a África y finalmente retornó a Inglaterra en 1996. Ambos por separado, y persiguiendo sus sueños, se establecieron en Londres. 

La prestigiosa Sauthbank International School de la capital inglesa es un punto importante de estos apuntes. Una vez llegado a Inglaterra, Eduardo trabajó en el Departamento de Mantenimiento de esta escuela con un ciudadano británico de nombre Terry King, ambos establecieron una gran amistad.

Mister Terry King gustaba bromearse con Eduardo y por causa de su soltería solía decirle: “Primera vez que conozco a un latino de treinta y tres años sin varias mujeres y sin hijos. Deberías casarte con una inglesa”. Eduardo le respondía: “Me gustaría casarme con una, pero todas las mujeres de este país son más altas que yo”.

Cierto día Eduardo viajaba en el Metro de Londres. Iba absorto en sus pensamientos, garabateando un poema en su inseparable cuadernillo. De pronto sintió una corazonada. El tren se había detenido en la estación de High Street Kensington. Levantó la vista instintivamente y miró hacia el andén. Alcanzó a ver a una bella mujer, su petite figura era singular entre la multitud de gente mucho más alta que ella. El tren lentamente empezó a retomar su marcha, y la imagen de aquella mujer quedó grabada en la mente de Eduardo.

Por una de esas casualidades de la vida, meses más tarde, la misma mujer llegó al Sauthbank International School para trabajar como profesora. Se llamaba Terry, era ciudadana norteamericana-británica soltera y sin hijos.

Terry - Kenya, África 1995

Durante las primeras semanas que siguieron al arribo de la profesora, era evidente que entre ella y Eduardo había una natural simpatía. Pero la amistad no pudo desarrollarse porque ni ella hablaba español, ni él hablaba inglés... o por lo menos eso era lo que él decía para evitar conversar en una lengua en la que no se sentía cómodo.

Hoy, cuando Terry conversa con sus amistades sobre aquellos días, aún cuenta que en una oportunidad se encontró con Eduardo en las escaleras rojas que unían a los dos edificios del Sauthbank International School. Ella bajaba al edificio viejo y él subía al nuevo. Ambos se detuvieron a medio camino. En sus propias palabras, Terry lo relata así: “Yo dije Hi y Eduardo respondió Hi. Intenté iniciar la conversación pero él sonrío tímidamente, alzo los brazos, y me dijo que no hablaba inglés”.  

Unas semanas después del encuentro en las escaleras rojas, Eduardo se sacó el clavo, y conversó con Terry durante dos horas. Fue un primero de noviembre. Ambos recuerdan la fecha con facilidad porque coincidió con el cumpleaños de la mamá de Eduardo. Ahí le dijo que una vez la vio en la estación de High Street Kensington. Y ella le contó que ese día regresaba de visitar una agencia de viajes, pues a ese punto estaba considerando regresar a África. (*)

El momento decisivo llegó unos meses más tarde. Un día Mister Terry King llamó a Eduardo y le dijo: “Anda al salón de la profesora Terry, y arregla un alambre que ella utiliza para colgar las pinturas de sus alumnos”. Él preguntó qué herramientas llevaría. “Sólo un alicate”, fue la respuesta. Entonces se encaminó con dirección al edificio nuevo, dio unos pasos, miró sus manos y se detuvo. Le pareció extraño que sólo llevara un alicate. Volvió la cabeza hacia Mister King y vio a éste sonriéndole, y en sus labios podía leerse las palabras: “Buena suerte”.

Tanto la escuela como el salón de Terry tenían una ubicación de privilegio. La escuela estaba enclavada en el corazón mismo del famoso barrio Notting Hill. Y las ventanas del salón de Terry miraban a Portobello Road, una de las calles más populares de Europa, donde podía verse a las más grandes celebridades del mundo confundirse con los cientos de turistas que a diario visitan la zona.

Eduardo retomó su camino rumbo al aula de Terry, y llegó al final de un pequeño corredor. Se detuvo en el umbral de la puerta. El salón se ubicaba en una superficie a desnivel. Seis gradas descendían a su interior. Desde lo alto vio al alambre descolgado, a los turistas más allá de las ventanas, y en el centro del aula la vio de espaldas. 

Cuando la profesora volteó para darle la bienvenida, ellos supieron que la larga búsqueda había terminado. Miles de kilómetros recorridos quedaban atrás. Como si cada uno hubiera guardado la mitad de una fotografía, y al ponerlas juntas sobre la mesa las partes cuadraban, y el sueño finalmente se convertía en realidad.

APUNTE FINAL: Aquel día Terry y Eduardo no hablaron de amor. No fue necesario. Lo hicieron unos días después con la ayuda de un diccionario. En 1999 en Londres nació su única hija. El 2003 se mudaron a Estados Unidos, y desde entonces viven en el estado de New Hampshire.

(*) Detalles del encuentro de aquel primero de noviembre se cuentan en el relato: ¿Perdón, La Luz Estuvo Encendida?

New Hampshire, USA

Diciembre, 2012

NOTA:

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Notes for a Love Story

 

NOTES FOR A LOVE STORY

Eduardo, 1994

A man and a woman search for each other across the world. They are strangers, yet they have met in dreams. The search is long, and the clock of life ticks on inexorably; between its hammering beats, some loves have foundered like paper boats. They had dreamed of one another so much that, upon meeting, they would surely know it.

Eduardo left Chimbote and went to Trujillo in 1983, then to Europe in 1994. Terry left the United States and flew to England in 1987, traveled through Europe and Africa, and finally returned to England in 1996. Both separately, and chasing their dreams, settled in London.

The prestigious Southbank International School in the English capital is a key point in these notes. Once in England, Eduardo worked in the maintenance department of this school alongside a British citizen named Terry King; the two formed a great friendship.

Mr. Terry King liked to joke with Eduardo, and because of his bachelorhood, he used to tell him: “It’s the first time I’ve met a thirty-three-year-old Latino without several women and no children. You should marry an Englishwoman.” Eduardo would reply: “I’d like to marry one, but all the women in this country are taller than me.”

One day, Eduardo was traveling on the London Underground. He was absorbed in his thoughts, scribbling a poem in his inseparable notebook. Suddenly, he had a hunch. The train had stopped at High Street Kensington station. He looked up instinctively toward the platform. He caught sight of a beautiful woman; her petite figure stood out among the crowd of people much taller than she was. The train slowly began to move again, and the image of that woman remained etched in Eduardo’s mind.

By one of those coincidences of life, months later, the same woman arrived at Southbank International School to work as a teacher. Her name was Terry; she was an American-British citizen, single and with no children.

During the first few weeks following the teacher's arrival, it was clear that there was a natural chemistry between her and Eduardo. But a friendship could not develop because she didn't speak Spanish, and he didn't speak English... or at least that’s what he said to avoid speaking in a language in which he didn't feel comfortable.

Today, when Terry talks to her friends about those days, she still tells how she once ran into Eduardo on the red stairs that connected the two buildings of Southbank International School. She was going down to the old building, and he was going up to the new one. Both stopped halfway. In her own words, Terry recounts it this way: “I said Hi, and Eduardo replied Hi. I tried to start a conversation, but he smiled shyly, raised his arms, and told me he didn't speak English.”

A few weeks after the encounter on the red stairs, Eduardo finally found his voice and spoke with Terry for two hours. It was the first of November. Both remember the date easily because it happened to be his mother's birthday. It was then that he mentioned having seen her once at High Street Kensington station. In turn, she recalled that on that day, she was returning from a travel agency, as she was considering a move back to Africa at that point. (*)

The decisive moment came a few months later. One day, Mr. Terry King called Eduardo and said: “Go to Teacher Terry’s classroom and fix a wire she uses to hang her students' paintings.” He asked what tools he should bring. “Just a pair of pliers,” was the answer. He headed toward the new building, but after a few steps, he stopped and looked at his hands. It seemed strange to him that he was only carrying a pair of pliers. He turned back toward Mr. King and saw him smiling; on his lips, the words were clear: “Good luck.”

Both the school and Terry's classroom occupied a privileged spot. The school was tucked away in the very heart of the famous Notting Hill neighborhood, and Terry’s windows overlooked Portobello Road—one of Europe’s most iconic streets. There, world-famous celebrities could be seen drifting through the crowds of tourists who flocked to the area daily.

Eduardo continued on his way to Terry’s classroom, reaching the end of a short corridor. He stopped at the threshold. The classroom was split-level, with six steps leading down into its interior. From the top, he saw the unhooked wire, the tourists beyond the windows, and there, in the center of the room, he saw her from behind.

When the teacher turned to welcome him, they knew the long search was over. Thousands of miles traveled were left behind. It was as if each had kept half of a photograph, and upon putting them together on the table, the pieces fit, and the dream finally became reality.

FINAL NOTE: That day, Terry and Eduardo did not talk about love. It wasn’t necessary. They did so a few days later with the help of a dictionary. In 1999, their only daughter was born in London. In 2003, they moved to the United States, and they have lived in the state of New Hampshire ever since.

(*) Details of that November 1st encounter are shared in the story: Sorry, The Light Was On?

New Hampshire, USA

December, 2012

Terry - Kenya, África, 1995

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.

Luciérnagas de la Noche

LUCIÉRNAGAS DE LA NOCHE

Foto Internet

Las luciérnagas salpicaban la oscuridad de la noche con su escarcha brillante. A lo largo de mi camino chisporroteaban como luces de bengala suspendidas en las sombras. La ruta de trocha cortaba la densa vegetación y se internaba zigzagueante entre la maleza de Tres Cabezas. El olor a aguas estancadas de los pantanos saturaba mi olfato. Y en la penumbra nocturna, mis pasos juveniles avanzaban con destino a La Casa Rosada... establecimiento legal de mi natal puerto de Chimbote donde un grupo de féminas se dedican al oficio más antiguo del mundo.

Más de tres décadas han pasado desde aquellas caminatas. Fue en 1978 cuando por primera vez me aventuré a pie a través de los eneales de Tres Cabezas, tenía entonces 17 años de edad. Poco antes habían empezado mis visitas a La Casa Rosada, pero recorriendo el trayecto mediante el servicio regular de autos.

Por las noches, en la tercera cuadra de la avenida Gálvez se ubicaba la línea de colectivos que hacía el servicio exclusivo a este lugar. Era un paradero fantasmal, perdido entre las sombras de la noche, y desapercibido al común de la gente con excepción, claro está, de los que sabían a dónde querían ir.

Dos razones me desanimaron a seguir utilizando el transporte de autos. 

A veces, en los carros, me encontraba con alguna sorpresa inesperada. Por ejemplo, mientras esperaba a que se completaran los pasajeros subía una sombra, se sentaba a mi lado, y resultaba siendo uno de mis profesores del colegio. Entonces yo balbuceaba, “Buenas noches, profe”. Y la respuesta solía ser: “Hola Quevedo, me imagino que ya tienes listas tus tareas escolares”. 

La segunda razón fue económica: la tarifa de los autos era elevada. Con las justas yo ahorraba para la otra tarifa... y se me hacía difícil juntar dinero para las dos cosas. Hasta que un buen día, un amigo más ducho que yo, me dio la idea.

Me dijo: “La línea de autos es cinco veces más cara que la de los microbuses. Mejor tomas tu micro José Gálvez o Ramón Castilla, te bajas en el estadio Pensacola, y de ahí caminas al sitio, pero tienes que ir acompañado porque los totorales son oscuros y peligrosos”.

Y así lo hice. Usualmente me acompañaba mi amigo Jorge, con quien compartíamos escasas monedas y un sinfín de aventuras en el colegio San Pedro. Tomábamos nuestro micro en el centro de Chimbote, y bajábamos en el estadio. Cruzábamos al otro costado de la avenida Pardo, donde se ubicaba el gran muro blanco que cercaba al Centro de Educación Especial para Niños Excepcionales. Y desde esta esquina caminábamos unos tres kilómetros y medio a través de los totorales de Tres Cabezas.

En la oscuridad de la noche no se podía ver nada, excepto la maleza y el impresionante espectáculo de las luciérnagas. Sabíamos que el área contenía pantanos y pozas de agua donde de día se podía pescar lifes y monengues. Había árboles de sauce y pájaro bobo. Abundaban eneales y totorales que servían para la fabricación de esteras. Y habitaban patos silvestres y gallinetas.

Caminábamos con una mezcla de miedo y expectativa. Se decía que en los totorales podían agazaparse personas del mal vivir, pero la idea de estar pronto en la Casa Rosada alentaba nuestros pasos. De rato en rato nos acribillaba el fogonazo de las luces delanteras de autos que hacían el camino de regreso, y no faltaba algún pasajero satisfecho que nos gritara: “¡Hey misios, paguen su colectivo!”.

En el interior de la Casa Rosada laboraban otras luciérnagas. Menos brillantes pero igualmente activas durante la noche. Impúdicas se exhibían en el umbral de la puerta de unas cincuenta habitaciones, recortadas contra la media luz de bombillas eléctricas revestidas con papel celofán rojo. Hacían sus arreglos con la clientela a media voz, casi engullidos por la música de Lucho Barrios, Pedrito Otiniano y José Feliciano proveniente de un amplificador que funcionaba con un grupo electrógeno.

La primera vez que visité este lugar, mis tímidos pasos no tuvieron que deambular mucho. En el primer corredor encontré a una mujer joven, guapa, de ojos orientales, y cuya larga cabellera reposaba en el descanso de su bella figura. Le llamaban “La China Margot”. Desde entonces sólo visité a ella, hasta que un día no la encontré más. Se había ido, y por vez primera me sentí un poco perdido en el laberinto de La Casa Rosada. 

 “¿Buscas a alguien?”. Me preguntó una voz desconocida sacándome de mis tribulaciones. Se trataba de una mujer un tanto mayor, a quien, lo que la vida le había arrebatado en belleza, se lo había compensado con encanto. Me sedujo su sonrisa. Y tenía un nombre por el cual sentía debilidad desde que en 1972 escuché al dúo José y Manuel cantar la bella canción “Teresa”. Nos volvimos amigos. Un día a fines de 1981 le dije que ya no volvería más, y le di mi razón. Teresa, me dijo: “Cuídala, y sé un buen hombre”.

La Casa Rosada, Chimbote, Perú

Treinta y un años más tarde volví en busca de la ruta de las luciérnagas. Ocurrió hace tres meses, durante mi última visita al Perú. Quise tomar una foto de La Casa Rosada para ilustrar el presente relato. Y me hice acompañar por un amigo de viejas andanzas: Bernardo Cabellos Sabino.

Contratamos un auto y nos dimos una vuelta por la zona de Tres Cabezas. La ruta de las luciérnagas ya no existe más. Hoy los autos circulan por una vía de tierra con cúmulos de desmonte a lo largo del camino. Me subí a uno de estos montículos con mi cámara fotográfica en la mano. Y desde la distancia, al pie del archifamoso cerro Tres Cabezas, divisé La Casa Rosada fundada en el ayer por don Germán Farro García y regentada por “La Tía Silvia”.

Me encontraba tomando las fotos cuando súbitamente fuimos rodeados por tres vehículos portando sujetos con caras de no buenos amigos. Era personal de seguridad del establecimiento. Hubo un momento de tensión, pero el verbo de seda de mi amigo Bernardo brindó una buena explicación, siendo ratificada por el chofer del auto que habíamos contratado. Los vigilantes se retiraron.

Estoy a punto de terminar este relato. Es casi medianoche en el pueblito semirural y boscoso donde actualmente vivo. Antes de cerrar la cortina doy una última mirada a través de la ventana. No alcanzo a ver al árbol de mis confesiones. Las sombras se han apoderado de New Hampshire. Lo único visible son las luciérnagas chisporroteando en la oscuridad de la noche.

Sonrío para mis adentros. Ésta ha sido una noche perfecta para escribir sobre las luciérnagas de mi juventud.

New Hampshire, USA

Noviembre, 2012

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.

Fireflies of the Night

 

FIREFLIES OF THE NIGHT

Representational image: Fireflies in the night

The fireflies flecked the darkness of the night with their brilliant glitter. Along my path, they flickered like sparklers suspended in the shadows. The dirt track cut through dense vegetation, winding between the brush of Tres Cabezas. The smell of stagnant marsh water saturated my senses. And in the nocturnal gloom, my youthful steps advanced toward La Casa Rosada... a legal establishment in my native port of Chimbote where a group of women engage in the world’s oldest profession.

More than three decades have passed since those walks. It was 1978 when I first ventured on foot through the eneales of Tres Cabezas; I was seventeen years old then. Shortly before, my visits to La Casa Rosada had begun, but I would make the trip using the regular collective taxi service.

At night, on the third block of Gálvez Avenue, you could find the line of colectivos that provided exclusive service to that place. It was a ghostly stop, lost among the shadows of the night, unnoticed by the common folk—except, of course, for those who knew where they wanted to go.

Two reasons discouraged me from continuing to use the taxi service.

Sometimes, in the cars, I would run into an unexpected surprise. For instance, while waiting for the car to fill with passengers, a shadow would climb in, sit next to me, and turn out to be one of my high school teachers. Then I would stammer, “Good evening, profe.” And the response was usually: “Hello Quevedo, I imagine you already have your school assignments ready.”

The second reason was economic: the taxi fare was high. I was barely saving enough for the other fare... and it was hard for me to scrape together money for both. Until one fine day, a friend more experienced than I gave me an idea.

He told me: “The taxi line is five times more expensive than the minibuses. Better take your José Gálvez or Ramón Castilla bus, get off at the Pensacola stadium, and walk to the place from there—but you have to go with someone because the totorales are dark and dangerous.”

And so I did. Usually, I went with my friend Jorge; together, we shared a few coins and endless adventures at the San Pedro school. We would take our bus in downtown Chimbote and get off at the stadium. We crossed to the other side of Pardo Avenue, where the great white wall enclosed the Special Education Center for Exceptional Children. And from that corner, we walked about two miles through the marshlands of Tres Cabezas.

In the darkness of the night, nothing could be seen except the dense undergrowth and the impressive spectacle of the fireflies. We knew the area contained swamps and ponds where, by day, one could fish for lifes and monengues. There were willows and pájaro bobo trees. Eneales and totorales abounded, used for making woven cattail mats. And wild ducks and gallinules lived there.

We walked with a mixture of fear and expectation. It was said that ill-intentioned people could lurk in the cattail beds, but the thought of soon being at the Casa Rosada emboldened our steps. Every now and then, we were struck by the flash of headlights from cars making the return trip, and there was always some satisfied passenger who would shout at us: “Hey, you broke kids, pay for a collective!”

Inside La Casa Rosada, other fireflies were at work. Less brilliant but equally active during the night. Unabashedly, they displayed themselves at the thresholds of about fifty rooms, silhouetted against the dim light of electric bulbs covered in red cellophane. They made their arrangements with the clientele in low voices, almost swallowed by the music of Lucho Barrios, Pedrito Otiniano, and José Feliciano coming from an amplifier powered by a generator.

The first time I visited this place, my timid steps did not have to wander far. In the first corridor, I found a young, beautiful woman with Oriental eyes, whose long hair rested upon the curve of her lovely figure. She went by the name “La China Margot.” From then on, I only visited her, until one day I found her no more. She was gone, and for the first time, I felt a bit lost in the labyrinth of La Casa Rosada.

“Are you looking for someone?” an unknown voice asked, pulling me out of my tribulations. It was a somewhat older woman; what life had taken from her in beauty, it had compensated with charm. Her smile seduced me. And she had a name for which I had felt a weakness ever since I heard the duo José y Manuel sing the beautiful song “Teresa” back in 1972. We became friends. One day in late 1981, I told her I would not be coming back, and I gave her my reason. Teresa told me: “Take care of her, and be a good man.”

Thirty-one years later, I went back in search of the fireflies' route. It happened three months ago, during my last visit to Peru. I wanted to take a photo of La Casa Rosada to illustrate this story. And I went with an old friend from my adventures: Bernardo Cabellos Sabino.

We hired a car and took a drive through the Tres Cabezas area. The fireflies' route no longer exists. Today, cars travel along a dirt road with mounds of rubble along the way. I climbed onto one of these mounds with my camera in hand. And from a distance, at the foot of the legendary Tres Cabezas hill, I spotted La Casa Rosada, founded long ago by Don Germán Farro García and managed by “La Tía Silvia.”

I was taking the photos when suddenly we were surrounded by three vehicles carrying characters with unfriendly faces. It was the establishment’s security personnel. There was a moment of tension, but my friend Bernardo’s silver tongue provided a good explanation, which was backed up by the driver of the car we had hired. The guards retreated.

I am about to finish this story. It is almost midnight in the small, wooded, semi-rural town where I currently live. Before closing the curtain, I take one last look through the window. I cannot see the tree to which I confess. The shadows have taken over New Hampshire. The only things visible are the fireflies flickering in the darkness.

I smile to myself. This has been a perfect night to write about the fireflies of my youth.

New Hampshire, USA

November, 2012

La Casa Rosada. Chimbote, Peru

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