Reviving the History of my Short Stories (II)


Susana is perhaps the prettiest woman I have seen, and the most beautiful character I ever created or described. This is the winning short story of the 1983 Metropolitan University (Barranquilla, Colombia), and the only one of my short story actually published in a book, by Universidad Metropolitana Editions. Please note that Diario del Caribe had decided to spanishize my name and printed it as Antonio rather than Anthony, a significant recommendation from friends and several members of La Esquina literary group, quite linked to El Caribe newspaper, where I once also worked as a part-time IT consultant.

The epigraph atop the short story reads “Men of cold character have quick eyes”, Nathaniel Hawthorne, (Journals, 1937)12

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The French version of “No me Sigas, María” (“Don’t follow me, María”) translated under the title of “Ne viens pas, Marie” (“Don’t Come, María”). The translation was a joint effort of great friends like French-Italian Professor Elizabeth Lamboglia, Prof. Eric Séebold, then Director of the Alliance Française, and myself for some contents and expressions. This can get diverse opinions from a few European Francophones and Canadian readers of this blog.

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An excerpt of my column appearing in El Heraldo newspaper that I wrote in Cali after receiving a National Literary prize. My column appears next to that of German Vargas, a well-know critical writer in García Márquez literary movement.

The number of my American Spanish short stories is just about 12. Some have survived time. This is one that in the first few years after my arrival in North America. This simple short story clear shows how difficult was it to recreate a Latin American scenary immersed in an American environment, where the Spanish language struggles to be a pure language with some American regionalisms, Caribbean barbarisms, while being greatly impacted by Spanglish more than just plain Angliscims. Most versions of the Spanish (Castellano) spoken in Latin American combine a good spoken and written language, with a great variety of regionalist slangs, and some barbarisms. Unlike many native Colombian writers, I do not curse in any of my writings, in great part for the negative feedback by my critics as a teen writer, the pressure from my school teachers, like Prof. R. Díaz, but by far my French literature teachers, who explicitly asked me to avoid this in order to maintain a global literary and creative level, and seek to a be an elite writer. Likewise, I limited the number of regionalisms I ever used due to the same factor.

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Recounting the History of my Short Stories

I started my short story writing career after I read a Selected Reading short story entitled “El Pequeño Escribiente Florentino” (The Little Florentinian Writer). I had consistently published my short stories in the weekly billboard at the Instituto Alexander Von Humboldt, that I managed with the assistance of a few Grupo Progresista ("El GP") supporters, which I had founded in an effort to attain further leadership in the classroom. We had been encouraged by the “to be more” philosophy rather than the “to have more” philosophy, by our leading teacher Carmelo de La Ossa. Literarily, I had created a strong male character, Hermenegildo, inspired by a picture of my grandfather whom I did not know, and whom I only met after my twenty-third birthday. Likewise, I had created María, a coquette female character partly inspired by some of my classmates by that name, who were somewhat playful with me at times, and with whom I had a great deal of fun. Possibly, María also had to do with my very beautiful girlfriend at that time, Carmen. They were so well elaborated after a few years that I won several literary prizes based on more complex related short stories.

“The Blue Eyes of My Green María” (below), published on my weekly Humboldt outdoors billboard, is the short story that initiated it all for that character.

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At age 15, I got my first literary prize and my first regional newspaper publication with Diario del Caribe, a subsidiary of El Tiempo..

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El Retrato del Fantasma, my book title, and also my first university literary prize, while a student at Universidad del Norte, and published by the University magazine "Huellas". It was also published by the regional newspaper Diario del Caribe.

At 19: El Espectador's Magazin Dominical issue #32 publishes my winning short story "Do not follow me, María" at University of Cartagena National University Short Story Contest.

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At age 20: The cover portion of the winning short story "Ese Obsceno Personaje Llamado Maria".

Germ­­­­an Vargas, a member of Noble Prize winner Garc­ía Márquez’s literary and artistic group wrote in his then popular critical column in El Heraldo: “The fact that the jury has selected Noriega-Carranza’s short story deserves to be pointed out.” I believe this is because I had surpassed a few senior writers in the genre and won the contest both for its content and its writing style.

A portion of the winning short story "Ese Obsceno Personaje Llamado Maria"

Universidad del Valle communicating the winning prize (letter)

Universidad de Cartagena Communicating the winning prize (letter)

Universidad de Cartagena Communicating the winning prize (envelope)

My picture at age 20 after winning the national short story sponsored by Universidad del Valle, Cali, Colombia. The picture was taken at Diario del Caribe (Barranquilla, Colombia) possibly during a break, where I also worked as a part-time consultant, progamming in the Basic language to control the newspaper page production operations.

Over the New Age Erotic Literature

The 1990s featured the erotic movies based on erotic novels that most likely serve as motivation for many young writers. Today, there is a significant amount of literature that accounts for a larger percent of fiction at booksellers like Barnes & Noble and Borders. The novels and related movies like Basic Instinct, Diabolique, and Single White Female greatly motivated the young in content to either complete long novels or to bundle a good number of short stories. Those movies and novels depicted the lesbian abnormality in the American literature. Critics called it an abnormality rather than an aberration because they were a driver of crime, in each scenario presented. Like any other aberration, whether voyeurism, fetichism, etc, the aberration of women having sex with other women has been historic, and much earlier than the Aristotelian days in Lesbos. When I saw the premier of Basic Instinct, the crowd packed the historic Bellevue theatre in Upper Montclair, New Jersey. Surprisingly, special interest groups were amused with some of the erotic scenes. The abnormality was featured by acts of violence, presented as the result of anger and aggressive pulsations. My greatest concern in the issue are not really literary. Most importantly, population, socio-demographic, and urban geography studies have shown that for every five young lesbian couples about nine young men go into loneliness and extreme promiscuity lifestyles or are the subject of abusive relations by older women. This is the main reason for conservative cultures and civilizations that oppose the lesbian lifestyle at the legal level. Also, the new age stories mostly ignore the relevance of AIDS in today’s world, and the fact that the World Health Organization has statistically proven a comparable rate to women who have sex with women to those who do have sex with men. Besides, in contrast with any romantic all-female encounters introduced, i.e., the sociologic and psychological normality scenario, and probably the consistently legal one, a great sample of the literature presents initiation rituals that involve assault, force, drug and alcohol usage, or dominance and sadomasoquism, in an effort to persuade the rather passive or subordinated party, and further violence can occurred upon rejection. In particular, some of the stories related occur in a college campus, and the incidents are never disclosed, even when extreme assault has occurred. Competing for a woman’s love with a man is also a leit motif in these stories.

In essence, the key comment in this article is to suggest that morbo in the new age erotic literature works rather as an endurance driver for young writers rather than a leit motif in many of the erotic series that followed those lengthy novels, the very Erotic series, Zane, and Sense and Sensuality are popular names and words in the fast growing genre.

A Memorial Prayer for the captive

This poem is dedicated to all prisoners of wars, people who have been deprived from their liberty through kidnapping or are in captivity or prison while being innocent.

For Liberty and Freedom

I wake up from my dream relieved
from all sadness and pain accrued
I become awaken with the holy word beloved
and I encounter peaceful rest back home.

I experience the sense of innocence
and the forgiveness to the deceiver
I enter the path back home immense
working thoughts to elevate my career.

I leave the ties of hopefulness
I have surrender my spirit to God
and my soul finds first freedom
then drives my full body into liberty.

I awake from penance and solitude.
Thus, I enjoy my peaceful return home
I look for myself in the dreams of lights and levels
and I encounter my friends in freedom.

The First Novel that I Read

Professor Yi had a strong character and great spirituality and was also a very prudent man. He wanted to give a second lesson of courage, as Professor Pupo had previously given me a lesson of manhood having me box a classmate who had verbally offended me the previous year about still wearing short pants at age 10, a classmate by the name of Fernando Bustamante, whom I happen to see once more at the law school. I recalled that Professor Pupo acting as referee stopped the fight when Fernando went to the ground for third time on the second round. But yes indeed, Professor Yi gave me a much better lesson of courage: The first novel I was to read. While I had read many short stories from Selected Readings, a Spanish series that was given to me for reading by my mother. Those readings greatly influenced my technique to write many of the short stories written in my early years, which I posted in a billboard weekly at the Instituto Alexander Von Humboldt (formerly Fundación Humboldt) during my high-school time, some of which deserved my first literary prizes, and later published in Colombia papers like El Heraldo, Diario del Caribe in Barranquilla, and El Espectador in Bogotá. But before that, at Instituto San José, I was yet to say good-bye to the all-boys Catholic School, with a gift that I keep to today’s date. Professor Yi wrote a dedication note that encourages me to a full endeavor in any activity and that reads: “Para Anthony Noriega por su notable aprovechamiento y excelente conducta. Obsequio cariñoso de su profesor Mario Yi.” (To Anthony Noriega for his remarkable performance and excellent conduct. Lovely gift from his teacher, Mario Yi.” It was the dedication note to Jack London’s The Sea-Wolf (El Lobo de Mar, as it is read in Spanish.)

Reading the first novel is not an easy task. Professor Zimmerman at Rutgers University has suggested a technique called reading like a writer, which enables a particular strategy to reading comprehension, yet on my first reading I had to go over chapter one to finally and clearly understand the story of the Martínez ferry-steamer sinking from his trip from Sausalito to San Francisco under extremely foggy weather conditions. When the steamer sinks, the Ghost comes to the rescue of Mr. Humphrey Van Weyden. And there also comes the arrogant personality of Ghost’s Captain, Wolf Larsen. The novel in fact has an enormous literary value in my perception that, as some critics have also pointed out, it contrasts the civilized man and the extreme approach of Nietzsche’s will to power, by a nearly barbaric man; it represents the collision between the civilized world and the brutality of force; between romance and love, and pure physical passion. And, in spite of most of the beauty of the sea, the fog, and the open air at deck, most of the story actually happens à huis clos, as the ship is itself the literary space and the limit of any true action. The in-depth psychological and perhaps mystic meaning of navigating over waters, the confrontation of brutal manhood nuanced with some sort of intellectual manhood something that for Larsen does not exist, as he is also quite an educated man driven by passion interested in literature and the universe; the antagonic dominance represented by extreme will to power and the desire to attain freedom and liberty within the boundaries of the ship, where Larsen’s sole authority was law. In my perception, the ways to perceived freedom within the space given were love and a sort of philosophical wisdom derived from faith as narrated, yet doubts –indeed– are obvious for a man that had never been challenged by life events driven by violence rather than by philosophical wisdom, which is in fact presented by the writing of poetry, among other literary tasks. The novel also has a strong existentialist value, since it conveys the will to power beyond the response and will to live, i.e., the need and desire to survive. In my life I have read a few novels conveying similar meanings, such as Sartre’s trilogy Les Chemins de la Liberté. There is also a short story by García Márquez, Sólo vine para hablar por teléfono, that nuances the vanishing of a reality arising from a sudden event into a dramatic friction with the outside world as the inner unexpected scenary that transported a reality from the Martínez to the Ghost. But the fog and the storm were to go away.

So London beautifully writes:

By the following morning, the storm had blown itself quite out and the Ghost was rolling slightly on a calm sea without a breath of wind.

A new era novel that I picked up a random from the East Brunswick library, Skinny Dip, also explains the drama of being at open sea, but in it an expert swimmer surpasses her limits and reaches a different reality as well, written with a more modern writing style.

As nearly no character in the novel is atypical to sea and a ship scenary, London nuances his novel with a happy romantic ending:

“My man”, she said, looking at me for an instant with tremulous lids which fluttered down and veiled her eyes…

“One kiss, dear love,” I whispered. “One kiss more before they come.”

I am yet to read the Call of the Wild, which I do now . Surprinsingly, I have read other stories were the sea is the outdoors world, and the closed space is represented by a ship or a ship cabin, and like in London’s novel or Hemingways’s The Old Man and the Sea, man is not made for defeat: a man can be destroyed but never defeated.

My Favorite Poets (I):
The South Americans

I will now start this brief series in a scatter fashion with my favorite poets from all around the world. In this part, I will cover some of my favorite South American poets.


In my early years, I started reading poetry from verses that my mother had written such that I could recite during mother’s day. But I also think that I had read a few from Benjamin Franklin, such as, "The Cock", which I read during my exploratory readings of the English Language in Hamilton’s book entitled "A Travel through the United States", one of my first English books. I was later quite excited about studying and analyzing French poetry, and perhaps, there is one that I particularly recall entitled "Consolation à Du Perrier" by Malherbe. So, recently, I wanted to reread it, but could not find it on the shelves of the French Institute Alliance Française Library in the City of New York, where books by Malherbe, including his complete works were missing that day and I could not be found anywhere after I asked for assistance. I believe that most of my poetry reading has been accomplished during my first twenty years of life, half of my life, so I had enormously read the French, the German, the British, the Spaniards, but above all the South Americans by then. At the top of those that I could highlight is obviously Pablo Neruda, who is considered by a great number of poetry experts, and arguable to others, as the greatest poet of all times, i.e,. the best poet ever. Indeed, I have read Neruda extensively, step by step, for many years, since my early school years, and have encountered great messages in his poetry from "Veinte Poemas de Amor y una Canción Desesperada" through "Canto General" to "Confieso que he vivido". What is intriguing about Neruda’s poetry is that he recites it with a vivid feeling and sentiment over what happened to him, romantically, socially, and spiritually, which can easily transmit to the reader. This is the greatest value of this Noble Prize. I have read other books by Neruda, and some of his antologies over time, but no other had the impact of his twenty love poems. From Neruda every Latina remembers and likes:

"me gustas cuando callas porque estas como ausente
y me oyes desde lejos y mi voz no te toca..."

Among the South Americans, I seldom read other poets than the Colombians, such as Porfirio Barba Jacob, Eduardo Carranza, Jose Asunción Silva, and the one that I admired the most Guillermo Valencia, the father of a president by the same name. Barba Jacob had written a poem that everyone loves in Colombia entitled "Canción de la Vida Profunda" where "hay días en que somos tan fértiles tan fértiles que nos depara en vano su carne la mujer", which could be literally translated as "there are days when we are so fertile, so fertile, that the women offer us their flesh in vain". Asunción Silva writes about the pure water by stating "refleja el agua pura su inocencia en la quietud sin peces ni sonido" ("the pure water reflects her innocence for her soundless quietness without fishes."

Besides, I admire Carranza and Valencia beyond their poetry for having my grandfather’s names. I had heard from a relative that my grandfather Hermengildo Carranza Valencia was related to Eduardo Carranza, but I could never corroborate it, and when I personally asked him, when he was already reaching his eigthies, one night that I stayed at his colonial Bogotá home, he just remained silent and gave me no answer, a strange behavior for a strong man at his age. A couple of years ago, I was stunt when I heard about the tragic death of his daughter, María Mercedes, who committed suicide at her home while working for El Tiempo, the largest national newspaper based in Santa Fé de Bogotá. She had written the national best seller "Carranza por Carranza" about her father, Eduardo. Thus, with "Cuando yo digo Francia", Carranza and Valencia are probably the greatest Francophiles in the Colombian literature of all times.

Among the poems that I enjoy the most from the Colombian poets is this one entitled "Las Dos Cabezas" (The Two Heads), by Guillermo Valencia, which reflects all the flavors of his extremely French education. And Valencia is the paradox of his time when relating the beheading of John the Baptist in his poem. But Valencia’s poetry also remains in full the antithesis of his own time, the years that followed him, and the present of other poets’ vision and their styles for generations to come, as I learned in French from Emiscu (rather than in Latin): "…car la vie est un bien perdu quand on ne l’a pas vecu comme l’on a volu." (…for life is a loss asset when we have not lived it in the way we want to…", mostly what Colombian and South American poets reflect in their plural message. Valencia’s poem has an epigraph from a book appearing mostly in Catholic and Orthodox Bible versions, Ecclesiasticus, in Latin, "Omnis plaga tristitia cordis est et omnis malitia nequitia mulieris", which could be translated into English literally as "All vice is sadness to the heart, and all evil is woman-born." Or in contrast as posted on the web at http://www.tldm.org/bible/Old Testament/eccltus.htm: Ecclesiasticus (25:17). "The sadness of the heart is every plague: and the wickedness of a woman is all evil." (The latter translation is questionable.)

From Guillermo Valencia (Colombian Poet)
LAS DOS CABEZAS

"Omnis plaga tristitia cordis est et omnis malitia nequitia mulieris"
( Eclesiástico)

JUDITH Y HOLOFERNES

Blancos senos, redondos y desnudos, que al paso
de la hebrea se mueven bajo el ritmo sonoro
de las ajorcas rubias y los cintillos de oro
vivaces como estrellas sobre la tez de raso.

Su boca, dos jacintos en indecible vaso
de su sutil esencia de la voz. Un tesoro
de miel hincha la pulpa de su carne. El lloro
no dio nunca a esa faz languideces de ocaso.

Yacente sobre el lecho de sándalo el Asirio
reposa fatigado, melancólio sirio
los objetos alarga y projecta en la alfombra...

Y ella, mientras reposa la bélica falange,
muda, impasible, sola, y escondido el alfange
para el trágico golpe se recata en la sombra.

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Y ágil tigre que salta de tupida maleza
se lanzó la israelita sobre el héroe dormido,
y de doble mandoble, sin robarle un gemido
del atlético tronco desgajó la cabeza.

Como en ánforas rotas, con urgida presteza
desbordase en oleadas el carmín encendido
y de un lago de púrpura y de sueño y de olvido
recogió la homicida la pujante cabeza.

En el ojo apagado, las mejillas y el cuello,
de la barba, en sortijas, al ungido cabello
se apillaban las sombras en siniestro derroche.

Sobre el lívido tajo de color de granada...
y fingía la negra cabeza destroncada
una lúbrica rosa del jardín de la noche.

SALOME Y JOKAMAN

Con un aire maligno de mujer y serpiente,
cruza en rápidos giros Salomé la gitana
al compás de los crémalos. De su carne lozana
vuela equívoco aroma que satura el ambiente.

Danza todas las danzas que ha tejido el Oriente
las que prenden hogueras en la carne liviana
y a las plantas deshojan de la déspota humana
o la flor de la vida, o la flor de la mente.

Inyectados los ojos, con la faz amarilla
el caduco Tetrarca se lanzó de su silla
tras la hermosa, gimiendo con febril arrebato:
"Por la miel de tus besos de daré Tiberíades"
Y ella dícele: "En cambio de tus muertas ciudades,
dame a ver la cabeza del Escenio en un plato!"

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Como viento que cierra con raquítico arbusto,
en el viejo magnate la pasión se desata
y al guiñar de los ojos, el esclavo que mata
apercibe el acero de su brazo robusto.

Y hubo grave silencio cuando el cuello del justo,
suelto en cálido arroyo de fugaz escarlata
ofrecieron a Antípas en el plato de plataque él tendió a la sirena con medroso disgusto.

Una lumbre que viene de lejano infinito
da a las sienes del mártir y a su labio marchito
la blancura llorosa de cansado lucero.

Y -del mar de la muerte melancólica espuma-
la cabeza sin sangre del Estenio se esfuma
en las nubes de mirra de sutil pebetero.

LA PALABRA DE DIOS

Cuando vio mi poema Jonatás el rabino
(El espíritu y carne de la bíblica ciencia)
con la risa en los labios me explicó la sentencia
que soltó la paloma sobre el Texto Divino.
"Nunca pruebes -me dijo- del licor femenino
que es licor de mandrágoras que destila demencia;
si lo bebes, al punto morirá tu conciencia;
volarán tus canciones, errarás el camino..."

Y agregó: "Lo que ahora vas a oír no te asombre:
La mujer es el viejo enemigo del hombre;
Sus cabellos de llama son cometas de espanto.
Ella libra la tierra del amante vicioso
y Ella calma la angustia de su sed de reposo
con el jugo que vierten las heridas del santo..."

Please note that Valencia’s perception of women could probably be encountered in some of Baudelaire’s poetry and personal notes or a clear match to Racine’s character Phèdre.

My Novel

Planning the Novel of Self-Analysis

The True Facts

“One night, when I returned to my second year of law school, I suffered an unexpected attack. I had spent an hour in a Shotokan karate class, and two hours in a constitutional law class with Dr. Castañeda. During the break, and while standing near a few trees and the campus main gate, three heavyweight men assaulted me. Although, I was able to block most of their punches while holding my book bag, the heavier man was able to punch me in the face, and broke my nose with his ring and left a small scarf between my eyes, but they could not knock me down. My best strategy was to evade them while I could, so I ran towards the Law Faculty indoors, which was also gated and on a second floor, but I was first reached by a kick on the back of the head, a kind of punch that is illegal in most sports and martial arts. After the Dean, a man whom I featured as an attorney in one of my short stories, learned about the incident, the woman, who has ordered her three “bodyguards” to beat me, admitted that she had made a mistake attacking the wrong man. Although I never knew the details of a parallel incident, the woman never apologized for the attack, and I never got the chance to confront her, as she graduated that year, as a member of a powerful political family.” This is how politics were present early in my life, and as French writer Julien Freund wrote, in his book Qu’est-ce que la politique?, “La politique n’est pas le royaume des beaux sentiments.” Like another close relative, I had been the target of campus violence. In fact, this is the incident that broke my education life into two parts, the first part, where I was outstanding in anything I did, except probably in accounting and music (playing the guitar or the violin), and a second where I have been outstanding at a few things and intermittently at a few others. Therefore, I thought that a campus violence novel would be easy, but instead, attempting to write the semi autobiographical, semi imaginary novel is a difficult task, not only because you can hit scenes of your private life that you would rather keep private. However, in my commitment to be truthful to myself, I promise to tell the entire tale as it happened. For instance, I believe that my great success as a young writer and overall career wise had to do with my spiritual life. I had been a very devout Catholic, and around fifteen had been invited by one of my best friend of the time, to a Christian Gnostic (CG) conference, which drove me into a good understanding of both esoteric and exoteric spirituality, as they strive to reconcile any cosmologic discrepancies. There are many similarities between these two beliefs and I was extremely surprised that both were quite compatible, and both viewed Jesus as the center reason for that spirituality. For instance, I learned about the Gnostic gospels long before their discovery was release to the public. In particular, St. Thomas Christian-Gnostic gospel uses a particularly naïve language that would makes easy for non-spiritual readers misinterpret it. CGs believe in many special things such as the practice of tantric sex (not the old paradigm between Apollonian or Dyonisiac love, but rather mystic and free of morbo, perhaps the unconceivable for many), the delivery of life to others, the extermination of the psychological ego, and many other esoteric secrets also praised by many other alike movements. For instance, currently, Scientologists talk about the pre-clear, a state of the soul that Nietzsche calls the “ugliest man” in some of his aphorisms. However, my novel is not even close to be Leonardo’s code. One of the interesting experiences I had, is how Christian Gnosticism easily drove me into tantric love, with my second girl friend and fiancée, a red head white woman, like my first girlfried, but with a great deal of class. There were many failed attempts by others, and when I wrote some short stories about these anonymous incidents, which deserved a few national literary prizes, my older and more senior colleagues came to the attack by stating that I need to be more consistent about those erotic scenes, probably never lived. And they were right, since my fiancée and I had forgotten about wild sex, and had been exclusively dedicated about tantric sex. There was nothing wrong with it, except that we had gone to far and we were not married, but it no longer matter, as we did not believe we were sinful but blessed. This was a beautiful time to recall. The five years that we spent together deserve a special page in my adolescence time. The fact is that otherwise I practiced sexual abstinence with a military firmness, and this had become a discussion with contemporary friends that were rather extremely promiscuous, and who ended up in Russia and Germany. And although I was a good lover, I still remember years before when I contemplated the first woman who lied next to me nude under the transparent red silk after staying home during a storm, which made me a very young voyeurist. The contemplation of all these events made me an analytic young man more than one would seek a quick development from a simple caress or a kiss. I used to remain with a cold character until the right moment, and I must admit that unless there is a planned attitude towards love passional love will easily overcome and override tantric love. My novel attempts to find a self-analysis as to why he after all we could not wait for one another, as I further went to both the engineering and law school, and she had no further time to come into my room and go sightseeing around the city. This is the introductory chapter of my novel. During the next chapters, I expand in my writing of how I became rather independent based on my education, where my language professors, and previously even my high-school had had a great impact. First my French literature club, and then my advanced literature class had become a major cosmopolitan center for all sorts of philosophical discussions à huis clos, where European, Arabic, African, and Latin American students had a chance to delight each other with the French culture and her literature. Among the women that entered my class were a couple of German women, one of which I liked very much since she reminded me one of my beloved fiancées. But I realized that then I had limited accessibility and little time to think about a conquer. I also remember a few large Arabic women who were quite cultivated. The men in my class were intellectual, and I had started their humanistic steps, but could probably not compete with them, including the industrial, engineers, and business men that attended it. The years that came after the campus incident were followed by lower or mixed grades in engineering, and I only returned to the law school after the completion of my engineering degree. After my graduation, I immediately became a bilingual Mathematics teacher and also the Department’s Dean or Principal, in an international school where the staff was mostly British. I had little to say about my interaction with them except when we got the chance to meet a one of the Scottish women’s house for a private party and refreshment that was full of fun and rather quite. Unlike my parties with the French and the conglomerate of European, Asian, African and Arabic which were loud and noisy and full of plentiful goodies and other desserts, the British parties were quiet and followed by private conversation unusually interrupted by a less conservative guest. My interaction with the American people was intermittent after a few years of English studying where I had met people from Boston, New York, and California, and had got the chance to meet a few religious members and Peace Corps missionaries. My love stories after missing my beautiful read head fiancée were short ones, and I had basically stopped attending the CG conferences, which I had attended for at least five years in different camaras (levels), but I never stop attending the Sunday mass, getting a confession, or taking the communion, as a good Catholic. I had left for Santa Fé to either complete my degree in law or start a master’s degree in Statistics at the University of La Salle, which never happened although I had been formally accepted. I started trying to derived pleasure from my night life in Bogotá, and for the first time in my life I had started to build up muscle, against the CG belief, based on Jesus. Nigh t life in Bogotá is sparkled with colorful lights. Telling why I would never let unknown women seduce me was an issue. My girl friend and fiancées in Santa Fé were very young, and none reached twenty years, as if in fact I was just that, a growing adolescent, and just kept growing and growing like that, and as if passion would never be enough to grow enough. So, if like novel that have class and sex, you will love mine. The arrival of my immigration visa cut my links to a global computer manufacturer that preached to become the company of the twenty first century, as in fact they have done so. The US has offered me some opportunities to grow career wise, but I still believe that I have not understood the culture quite well, in particular, as I feel detached from those that I would like to have closer to me, and eventually, just like marketing become unreachable. Thus, trying to maintain relationships of any nature is difficult, and this will be a secondary idea in one of the “American” chapters.

A sample romantic scene about my younger years, could be narrated as follows:

“And it was the first time that she entered my room to meet me. She was wearing white clothes, and her pink white skin turned into a beautiful vanilla nuance as she was partly illuminated by the light filtering through the semi-open window. She stood behind me watching me typing without uttering a single word. When I stopped typing, she turned over in front to me and I kissed her lips that had a cherry flavor, like we went to the movies. That flavor is still in my mind today. I touched her body for body for the first time. Slowly, we leaned on my bed to talk about one another…”

In the past, I have had several attempts to write a novel, but I did not have the endurance, the time, the organization, and the motivation to maintain and keep the manuscript that travel many places before finally disappearing.

The Fiction
(where I refer to myself as the author of the novel)

The author driven by imagination and after completing his graduate becomes a secrete agent for B-NSI unexpectedly being signed by somebody else into that game, and recalls his campus violence experience, as he finds himself dumped in a Maryland cliff, nearby Baltimore, during his second duty trip to the area. This is the second incident affecting the author’s life, since there is not a clear recall of it, and it is presented as an uncertain imaginary event. The intimate life in the US is vague, and it is usually sparkled by the uncertainty of not sharing the space with the same person, which spoils the sense of spiritual assurance that I learned an adolescence during the formation of my strong spiritual character, a key identified aspect that drives committed relationship into failure. The contemplation of this reality is the final chapter of my novel, where spiritual and natural laws point at the fact that love synergy is to take place between a man and a woman to become one together, and any affair or aberration will drive the synergy created into disastrous events. Although, the novel is not intended to be tragic, it conveys the final expectation of trust and fidelity, which is key to an individual and a couple’s success altogether. The novel ends when the author survives another vicious attempt of campus violence. The novel will also cover the unknown Davis game of sex, infidelity, and videotape. Although the novel exposes my religious beliefs, it is not to be written in the style of Brown’s code, but rather more dynamically in the style of Forthsythe’s “The Day of The Jackal” or Camus’ L’Étranger with a full-sense of originality in both fond and form. It could also be that by witnessing a rape scene, in particular, if the rapist could easily be identified. The author is the target of kidnapping to build false evidence against and thus becomes the object false accusations and testimonies against him, while in captivity… the novel becomes a thriller.

Indeed, I try to explain some times of loneliness and gaps in love, and the in the end the novel ends with a lovely encounter where a young love brings happiness into my life. After all, I only write the truth.

A Poem About True love, Physical love and Sex Without Love

A few weeks ago, an evening coming back from New York City, I wrote this poem on the train. The commute was so slow, that I got the chance to read it and rewrite it on my notepad in a cleaner fashion on the next page, with some typos. Interestingly, it was one of the few times I rode one of the new two-level trains. Indeed, I was mulling over physical love, and true love, as someone had sent me an email to invite me to an anti-Valentine's Day party, after I my flowers remained in my mind just undelivered. I did not go, so I wrote Sex Without Love.

Sex Without Love

Sex without love is a thorn in the heart

that exults the flesh as it weakens the soul…

Sex without love is the city at large

with all her scents of casual events

that entices the passion and denies the true love.

Sex without love is not a word or two

that soon got together and sooner turned apart.

Sex without love is the not thought step

to deliver her inner realm without getting to know

that the spirit is good when dominating the flesh

and forgiving the bones for they have gone wrong.

Sex without love is the paradox of solitude

for it suddenly turns into repeating déjà vu.

Sex without love is the city of no control

it is rejection at large, pressuring true beings

not the integral ones that are hidden below

like two flowers that open together at once.

Sex without love is the gross risk

to give away what is destined to the wise.

Sex without love is a thorn in the heart

that grows in despair with the kidnapped soul

the body surrendered, submitted to the violent power

the flesh delivered, the entangled carmine silhouette.

And at times, also, sex without love

is the price and the rest of the vicious lover.

And is it perhaps that sex without love

is always the paroxysm of the hedonic lover,

and the reward or freedom of the pleasant lover…

A short story that deserved the jury attention at RFI's Juan Rulfo 2007 Contest

According to a confidential and official source, my participating short story deserved the jury attention of the 2007 Juan Rulfo Short Story Contest sponsored by Radio France Internationale, el Instituto Cervantes, Casa de Las Americas and others, but did not make it to the final 5,000 Euro prize. The short story was written last summer and represented a 40-hour effort. This is the first time an American made it to the finals.

The story is written in pure Spanish (español o castellano). It is in support of my unofficial and silent anti-Spanglish campaign as a literary language. Personally, I have no problem in accepting Spanglish as a street language. In fact, I wish that the many typos, excessive “anglicismos”, misconjugations, etc., be once fixed from state and federal government agencies, and that sometime there is room to create The American Royal Academy of the Spanish Language, as there is one in each Spanish speaking country. If English and Spanish language maintain their purity and interdepence, it is likely that there will be fewer Anglicisms in the Spanish language and less influence of Spanish in both spoken and written language. There is always a graffiti language in every country and that is probably the destiny of Spanglish.
Here is my short story “Perdóname por Amarte” (“Forgive for Loving You”) in good Spanish.


De Anthony Noriega Carranza

“Perdóname por amarte”

“La prueba del pastel está en comérselo.”
Cervantes


Al viejo ya octogenario lo afeitaron por completo antes de tirarlo en el ataud. Todavía bajo el susurro del viento que apenas agitaba la ventanilla entreabierta, lo mirábamos sin juzgarlo bajo el ámbito lúgubre del momento final, donde aún contrastaban los globos multicolores del féliz cumpleaños. Tenía la certeza de que la mezcla de emociones había dejado de ser inteligente desde su momento último, y a mí —como a todos— me había quedado un sentimiento de ansiedad por lo ocurrido. El viento parecía evocar sus palabras ensordecedoras: “¿Dónde dejaron a mi niña bella?”. El portazo con que luego se abrió la puerta rugió estridente y metálico como una bala certera. Los extraños penetraron la habitación con una impaciencia inapacible para un vecindario de bien como el nuestro, y la adolescente despertó de su letargo de casi mediodía. Se quedó esperando una respuesta del abuelo maestro, y se quedó vencida y silenciosa como un ángel blanco que levitaba a través del sopor lúcido del sórdido amanecer. “Nunca la había visto tan pálida”, me dijo Clotilde Echavarría, la sirvienta, recordando el pormenor de aquella mañana aciaga, mientras nadie podía justificar el porqué de tantos desagravios después de una noche de farra de vallenatos y cumbia celebrando la llegada primaveral de la adolescente casi adulta, que se había vestido de un blanco purísimo y una seda encajada por sujetadores franceses que habían mantenido su enderezo a pesar del mal viaje de entrega y le daban todavía una figura más esbelta y delicada. La víspera el viejo Hermenegildo Martínez del Porto se había preguntado tantas veces por la exacta ubicación de su nieta, y había encontrado en la premura de sus sombras nocturnas la premonición indecible de la experiencia onírica: “Me voy”, se dijo con un dolor en el alma. Afuera los vecinos comenzaron a pasar de boca en boca la noticia que conmovió a los medios sin un anuncio previo.
Al viejo lo desplomaron en la caja rectangular de color café ante la mirada apacible de los que llegaron sin aviso. Cecilia Martínez había salido casi desnuda de la ducha de mediodía para mirar por última vez el fresco cadáver en el reverberante calor de las doce. Sus senos engrandecidos y apenas cubiertos por la toalla blanca y la bata rosada que le habían regalado no a ella sino a su hija el día de su cumpleaños último. Por eso, me parecía estraño que a la pequeña Cecilia Teresa Martínez no se la viera aquel viernes aciago. Tenía la costumbre de recogerse el cabello para esconderse, ya que era fácil reconocerla hasta en una multitud por su esbelta silueta y su larga cabellera negra, que brillaba a cualquier hora del día. Por eso, nadie notó su inadvertida presencia debajo de la escalera en espirales, ni tampoco desde la ventanita entreabierta, como tampoco la vieron al salir por la puerta principal cuando los vecinos entraron sin permiso a darle la despedida extraoficial al viejo verde que había pasado de chocho a ser reconocido no sólo como el padre de la patria nueva, sino que se había quedado condenado para siempre al olvido de los jóvenes que no lo conocieron y a los viejos de su tiempo que lo odiaron por sus atrocidades vituperables y su desempleo interminable. Entre las escatológicas verdades, se estaba quemando el olor descompuesto de su cadáver joven, de sólo horas, pero ella estaba aprendiendo por primera vez que él no era de verdad su abuelo, ni tampoco su padre, como le habían hecho creer. Por eso, en el día de sus dieciocho años se había recogido el pelo, y se lo había recubierto con manteca y aceites de olivas para que nadie la reconociera; y se había cubierto el rostro con una bufanda para el sol, y había salido inadvertida ante la mirada inerte de los que penetraron la casa sin aviso. Así que a la hora de partir el pastel de cumpleaños nadie pudo encontrar a Cecilia Teresa, porque nadie la vio ni el comedor principal donde estaban los globos multicolores y el pastel de tres niveles, de queso, chocolate, y vainilla, con una diminuta vela inapagable por cada año vivido, ni la vieron en la sala de estar, ni el balcón de los honores, ni en la cocina donde había preparado un plato típico con sancocho de gallina, ni en el patio con la inexpugnable cerca blanca y las bardas de espinas plateadas, porque se había ido desesperada para que nunca más la encontraran. Y sólo yo sabía que ella había estado bajo la escalera presagiando el momento augusto en que él expirara sin llamar a nadie. Ellos sabían que ocurriría, que lo había anunciado cada vez que se quejaban repitiendo “me voy, me voy” . Y no le creíamos, porque el no sabía que su alma decrépita llevaba el peso de dos años silenciosos en que se había deslizado sin pensarlo por su habitación y había encontrado en el silencio inerme de los sueños indecibles el cuerpo tierno y dorado de los dieciséis años de Cecilia Teresa Martínez, y la había seguido buscándola cada noche en que parecía haber revivido sus momentos de adolescente en que apaciguaba sus tormentas pasionales con las jovencitas semidesnudas en las playas de Salgar y Pradomar. Era por ello, que a pesar de su silencio Cecilia Martínez, su madre, había sospechado siempre de la incomprensible naturaleza de aquel secreto, y había aprendido a quedarse quieta y pretender dormir cada noche en que lo advirtió levantarse, y a sentir su musculoso cuerpo deslizarse en la oscuridad hasta la habitación continua; y pretendió no escuchar sus silenciosos gemidos de placer, pues parecía a ciencia cierta que la menor dormía, y parecía que la oscuridad había aprendido a poner el silencio en la amplitud descomunal de la mansión, tal vez porque sólo se escuchaba el latido de la noche, el canto agudo de los pájaros, y las palabras incompetentes de los que soñaban con la mano caída del poder, y se quedaban en el letargo inconsciente del abuso. Por eso, a la hora de su desaparición Cecilia Teresa Martínez tenía el cabello recogido y la bufanda al cuello, y había logrado evadir la atención de sus vecinos, de los transeúntes de mediodía, y había llegado a la plaza del mercado sin que nadie la reconociera, ni pudieron saber que era el día de sus cumpleaños, aunque llevaba la tarjeta de felicitación familiar en sus manos y la cinta con su nombre de reina, tal como lo había insinuado su abuelo desde hacía un par de años en los que ella había devenido su adoración prohibida. También llevaba entre sus manos el rosario de perlas blanquísimas que había recogido la última mañana en que atendió la misa dominical de las siete.
Y durante algunos segundos, yo había respirado el aire fresco que penetró con la entrada de los vecinos intrusos. Y había visto en los ojos del anciano decrépito entumecido por el estertor final y el peso del arrepentimiento, y había percibido como nadie más que él sabía que yo conocía que nadie más si no yo sabía de su secreto de cada noche en que no podía resistir dejar a su mujer infértil, y entrar en la habitación de los dieciséis años en que buscaba a la niña perdida en la guerra y encontrada una tarde de verano durante un toque de queda que le dio el prestigio último a su oficial más sobresaliente, y él se la llevó entusiasmado para hacerla su cocinera en jefe a los doce años. Y ella había aprendido prematuramente con su madre adoptiva las funciones básicas para preparar los platillos típicos cada mañana, y a dirigir desde la cocina a los cocineros más expertos que aprendieron de su dominancia delegada por el padre de la patria. Fue entonces cuando aprendí a despertarme muy temprano. Quizá era posible que al viejo le estuviesen faltando las energías que parecían volver a ganar cada noche, y a revivir con sus aventuras que eran como un sueño para ella.
Sus últimos diez años de felicidad los había pasado en el placer matizado de las viejas experimentadas y el secreto singular de la adolescente a quien todas creían la más virgen y pura de la comunidad. Y nadie sospechaba, a pesar de que todos podían soñar los mismos sueños en intersecciones comunicantes, y presenciar sus cuerpos tergiversados por la turbulencia astral de sus mesmerismos comunes, que ella le había pertenecido a él desde hacía muchos meses, y que había usado la mano del poder para despojarla en el silencio subliminal de su inocencia primera. Cecilia Martínez me había confesado con discreción que su marido parecía más agotado que nunca, e incapacitado para satisfacer sus anhelos de mujer de edad media. “No sé por qué”, me susurraba la víspera, porque ya no encontraba al hombre incólume que distraía sus pasiones y quien la hizo tener experiencias oníricas de placer con centauros astrales indomables, que la llevaban por todos los senderos más plácidos hasta el clímax que nunca pensó lograr por su frigidez hormonal prematura, la tarde de hacía quince años en que él la tomó por sorpresa a los dieciocho luego de la batalla campal que puso fin a la guerra civil. Fue la noche en que la madre adoptiva encontró las cartas con sus escritos de desilusión, y ya no hubo nada ni nadie que pudiera salvarlo de aquel tiempo oscuro e intangible. Era por eso que nunca sospechó de sus andares nocturnos con su hija adoptiva, desde su adopción al final de la guerra años después. Ella sabía que nadie sabía nada, y que sus sospechas cuando surgieron no tenían justificación alguna, a pesar que en los últimos meses ella había notado el contagioso cansancio así que sus cuerpos nunca se tocaban en la oscuridad desnuda, y sus desnudos eran sólo un símbolo de sus deseos mutuos, que él había proyectado en sus últimos meses sobre la adolescente de piel dorada. El domingo antes de su inexperada muerte había atendido la misa de las siete sin Cecilia, y más bien la había llevado a Cecilia Teresa con los cabellos negros sueltos y brillantes, y había percibido por primera vez el silencio circunspecto y desorbitante de volver a sentirse joven, y experimentó una energía incontable después del servicio dominical. Se quedaron juntos para tomar el desayuno matinal en un restaurante a las afueras de la ciudad. Tenía la imaginación incómoda de hacer consciente lo inconsciente y despertar la subliminal pasión que él había ejercido sobre ella durante los últimos meses en que todos vieron desaparecer sus cabellos grises y los vieron tornarse negros, y vieron las barbas grises volverse de un negro sólido, y vieron desaparecer una a una las líneas faciales de su vejez, que era más decrépita que la de todos ancianos jamás vistos. Y lo vieron con una mirada rozagante que sólo Cecilia Martínez podía desconocer en la oscuridad de sus desnudos en que ella no pudo buscarlo más a pesar de sentirlo más joven, sino que más bien aprendió a apreciar el letargo placentero del sueño largo en que todos inconsciente platicaban intersecciones oníricas, que él aprovechaba consciente para deslizarse íntegro, y de cuerpo presente, en la habitación de Cecilia Teresa Martínez. La primera vez ella ya había cumplido los dieciséis. Para ella fueron sus primeras inocentes fantasías que no tenían sentido en la soledad de su mundo fugaz. Fue entonces que comenzaron a terciarse las verdades que nadie conocía. Durante aquellos días el había ha visto a su médico de familia para contarle que la joven podía estar sufriendo de alucinaciones nocturnas, por lo que el médico le prescribió la fórmula necesaria para mantenerla serena y tierna durante la noche, que el viejo también había utilizado para mantener bajo control a Cecilia Martínez, su mujer. El viejo Hermenegildo Martínez del Porto soñaba con su mocedad revenida de la fuente natural del amor joven, mientras revertía los efectos ajenos de las arrugas prematuras de ser octogenario, y había revivido las facciones obsoletas de su adolescencia, y tenía piel rosada e hidratada por un misterioso agente genético que lo había hecho sentirse joven una vez más, cada noche, noche tras noche. Y no podía resistir el rostro del abuso de la joven intacta que tenía la piel más tierna y dulce que todas las princesas de sus cuentos mitológicos, y resbalaba cada vez ante la seducción del secreto diario que por meses le devolvió los tiempos olvidados de la paz. Lo cierto es que durante los meses de insomnio placentero todos dormían mientras el disfrutaba de su rejuvenecimiento insólito, y llevaba consigo el presagio de que de alguna manera estaba redescubriendo el tiempo perdido, y tenía la piel casi tan tierna como la de su amor prohibido, y tenía el cuerpo muscular de joven sin celulitis ni carnes flojas, y tenía las voz sonora y sin dudas cuando susurraba sueños de placer a la durmiente, que rescatada de la guerra civil había terminado por sucumbir, sin saberlo, a la sumisión inconsciente de lo públicamente inaudito. La inocencia de Cecilia Teresa mancillada cada noche llevaba un afecto único, indecible, e indomable para el octogenario remozado, que había aprendido en la oscuridad a pasar transparente entre las intersecciones oníricas de los durmientes, y había aprendido a divagar sobre el viento que penetraba silbante por entre la ventanita entreabierta, y a tiempos, había visto la luna como una manzana desdibujada entre los marcos de la ventana, y había visto la noche caerle encima con un placer que nunca encontró cuando adolescente, y encontraba entre las tiernas carnes de su durmiente amante el paso agitado que llevaba cuando vestía su uniforme, y el galope ardiente al montar su caballo, y sentía el sudor al contacto de la belleza pura, y miraba bajo un entrecejo el busto erecto que tamaño adulto, y el cuerpo que él desnudaba con una mano y acariciaba con la otra, noche a noche, hasta el punto en que el ejercicio se convirtió en una tarea diaria y rejuvenecedora. Le susurraba a sus oídos los poemas del recordado poeta Guillermo Valencia, y le decía entre los oídos que “eres diferente como la bella durmiente”, y que la amaba sin restricciones, y con una fe que sólo su silencio y la oscuridad de la noche podrían contar. Le contaba de uno a dieciséis para revelar cada día incógnito que el no pudo verla antes de la guerra, hasta el momento que su oficial condecorado se la entregó para que la adoptará. Durante el crepúsculo matutino, después de su tarea nocturna, había soñado con un centauro indomable, como los que otros veían en los sueños entretejidos de sus propios letargos colectivos, que más parecían en conjunto un delirio programado por la ignorancia idónea de toda moral. A Cecilia Martínez se le antojaba que al octogenario rejuvenecido y más fuerte que nunca se le estaba esfumando la otra parte de su fortaleza, y creía que se estaba quedando sin ánimo para el amor durante sus meses de ensueño y delirio. “Y era lo más importante hasta su edad...”, se decía. Era por ello que, en la víspera de su muerte, ella se hallara triste, deprimida, y desconsolada, y con la certidumbre de que algo trágico podía ocurrir, pero sin darse una explicación, y más que nada una justificación. “Es la falta de amor”, le dijo. “Ya no me quieres”, volvió a decirle varias veces, sin que él le contestara una palabra, porque el amor se había enfriado, y a pesar de parecer más joven que él Cecilia Martínez conservaba un aura de frialdad, tristeza, y desconsuelo, y su cuerpo destinado al hombre mayor se estaba recubriendo con una aureola de escamas prematuras exageradas para su edad. Le recordaba que el domingo la había dejado sumida en su sueño para irse “solo” a la misa matutina de las siete. Y no sabía que el la había llevado a Cecilia Teresa para sacarla de sus sublimes inocentes fantasías de primeriza, y que a los ochenta soñaba todavía con otro tipo de amor más apasionado que paternal. Durante el desayuno de pareja la miraba con una mirada intensa que ella no podía reconocer, que nunca hubiera imaginado en él, pero así Cecilia Teresa sentía que amaba a quien hubiera creído su padre por mucho tiempo, y a quien ahora empezaba a descubrir más allá de sus mitológicas e insensatas fantasías. Y él siguió diciéndole que en su cumpleaños dieciséis ella lo había hecho sentirse más joven con un abrazo que ya tuvo otro sentimiento, que había soñado con ella desde los diecisiete, y que cada noche despertaba para vigilar su sueño, mientras se sentía devenir más joven. Fue entonces que Cecilia Teresa Martínez comenzó a hilvanar sus fantasías de entre la inocencia y a presenciar una realidad en que en verdad experimentaba el sentimiento cálido y su cuerpo musculoso junto al suyo tierno, y que otra infatuación subliminal se había forjado sin saberlo, que ella no podía desatar porque no había un elemento consanguíneo, y el que no podía perdonarse a sí misma más allá de su inocencia. Aquella mañana dominical, Cecilia Martínez reprendió a su hija Cecilia Teresa con una rabia endemoniada que nunca pudo explicarse a sí misma. Aunque nunca tuvo evidencia alguna sobre ninguna irregularidad entre sus relaciones amorosas y de familia, tenía el sentimiento insólito de que había perdido a su marido, y que su hija había devenido una muñeca tierna y matizada con una inocencia sutil y tangible que podía despertar tormentosas pasiones entre los hombres, pero nunca tuvo la menor idea de lo que había ocurrido. Pero entre la depresión del amor sin sexo, de la dulzura perdida, de la cama inconscientemente vacía, y de los versos callados del amor platónico de años antes, ella había planeado con terminar con el general y con su vida propia, así que el lunes había encontrado entre sus reliquias militares, su revólver calibre 38, y había preparado certera el momento en que pudiera escapar de su soledad, y quería esperar para no dañar el cumpleaños del Cecilia Teresa. Durante la semana todo transcurrió como de costumbre. Así que ella durmió los mismos sueños entrelazados con sus otros parientes, y todos en la casa, incluyendo la servidumbre, se sumían en una experiencia onírica colectiva en la que ninguno podía ver al viejo rejuvenecido, ni podía percibir a la bella durmiente que había aprendido a amarlo conciente, sudorosa y húmeda desde el domingo, en tanto que él había aprendido a susurrarle poemas de amor sin límites. La buscaba por entre las sábanas en que percibía su cuerpo decrépito rejuvenecer. Y ella había aprendido a percibirlo joven, más joven que nunca, a esconderlo entre sus brazos mientras el le cantaba el poema de la tierna princesa de los labios de rosa que quería ser golondrina, y ser mariposa. Y en la última tierna noche de amor, el no presintió que algo pudiera ocurrir, porque había logrado persuadir a Cecilia Martínez de sus presagios, y a desligarla de su estilo de sobreprotección. Tal vez entonces ella había dudado en llevar a cabo su premeditado plan para evadirse de una realidad ajena en la que había pasado mil y una noches sin sexo, y con un amor plástico que resultaba inaceptable en el ánimo de su edad. Era por otra razón que el momento de armonía familiar había terminado por disuadir a Cecilia Martínez de completar un plan que nunca jamás hubiese pensado antes. Pero la depresión la había llevado por senderos desconocidos, así que en la víspera de su muerte había guardado el revólver debajo de su almohada y entre las fundas, y se había preparado para utilizarlo en la mañana siguiente, aunque no sabía si tenía una razón sensata, sólo sentía que no faltaba una razón para aceptar al octogenario rejuvenecido que ya no la amaba, y que entre sus sueños de mujer todavía joven sentía una necesidad inmensa por deshacerse de las ataduras que nunca quiso de hecho. Y durante la noche, ella volvió a dormir intensamente, mientras el despertó a disfrutar del amor joven, a percibir su piel estirarse sin líneas, sin escamas, a sentir la voz dulce del amor secreto y consolador, y a descubrir entre el cuerpo tierno el dorso desnudo, el busto levantado y engrandecido de la adolescente que brillaba entre la oscuridad como una virgen blanca. Y más allá sintió penetrar el silencio de su amor con un susurro que decía que para el amor no hay confines. Y volvió a recitarle el poema de la noble princesa de los labios de rosa que volvía a ser golondrina y una vez más mariposa. Pero temprano en la mañana el volvió a la cama desnudo al lado de Cecilia Martínez su amante y esposa de quince años y cuarenta cuatro años más joven. Ella lo espero como si durmiera, en un ensueño letárgico y lleno de odio y repudio. Lo esperó con el revólver escondido bajo su cuerpo también desnudo. Pronto cuando el se quedó dormido boca arriba, como nunca había dormido en quince años, ella le apunto con buena puntería al corazón. Le disparó una ráfaga certera de seis disparos que le penetraron por el abdomen, muy por debajo del corazón, y que se insertaron en las costillas inferiores sin deteriorarlas y sin dejar agujeros de entrada o de salida, pues las heridas o nunca existieron o parecieron sanar en segundos y no dejaron brotar un gota de sangre, y las balas apenas tocaron las costillas fortificadas por un fenómeno sobrenatural que Cecilia Martínez nunca pudo entender. Pero en la media mañana él despertó de su letargo con dolores en la espalda y en la cadera, y se quejaba con una voz irreconocible después de su rejuvenecimiento inconcebible diciendo “Me voy, me voy”, como lo había estado sugiriendo intermitentemente en las noches en que le faltó el amor juvenil. El médico de familia que lo examinó durante su convalecencia no encontró ningún indicio de enfermedad alguna, o de algún derrame interno, y más bien estaba sorprendido por su rejuvenecimiento inconcebible, como tampoco pudo encontrar las balas después de la necropsia. Durante sus últimos momentos la mañana de su muerte, había despertado de su letargo y la buscaba con susurros de enamorado diciendo “¿Dónde estás Cecilia Teresa de mi alma...?, que te busco sin encontrarte”. Y la volvió a ver por un instante más para decirle: “Perdóname por amarte”, y su voz se le hizo tenue y menuda. Su sollozo se volvió silencio, y su respiración de paró en seco con el zarpazo certero del estertor final, tal cual fueron los seis disparos que le dio Cecilia Martínez, fruto de la depresión y de su desamor final. La joven se desvaneció de entre todos, se refugió en su habitación para vestirse de dominical con una falda negra gruesa de luto, que su madre adoptiva le había comprado a unos judíos errantes que visitaron la ciudad durante los carnavales. Yo la había visto bajo la escalera, a través de la ventanita entreabierta, pero no la advertí caminar hacia la puerta principal como tampoco la percibí partir cuando los vecinos penetraron sin aviso por ella para congraciarse en condolencias inesperadas que Cecilia Martínez parecía no escuchar en medio de su desolación y su letargo, y sólo despertó cuando vio al viejo decrépito y afeitado desdoblarse en el ataúd. Entretanto, Cecilia Teresa Martínez ya había emprendido su destino, y había tomado el único tren hacia la capital con la premeditada certeza de que al llegar a la estación alguien muy cercano estaría esperándola para continuar disfrutando de sus fantasías prohibidas y de sus amores secretos.