Guatemala Under My Wings
1.
The first thing she hears as she walks towards the airport exit is a voice that clearly calls her. A voice whispers her name with joy. She looks over her left shoulder to see who it is.
But there’s no one nearby, no one who could have called her.
The good spirits are welcoming me, she thinks.
2.
Room 508 of the Hotel Conquistador.
She calculates that the room is bigger than the cell she lives in. And the best part: it has a huge window, actually, a glass door that opens onto a tiny balcony. She opens the door, but the noise coming in from the street is unbearable. She closes it again.
They’re building something right in front of the window. There’s a giant crane and the cement foundations of what could be, she imagines, an underground parking lot.
Beyond that is a four-lane street. Buildings with flat, cemented roofs, a mixed and disorganized architecture that reminds her of Mexico City.
On the horizon, volcanoes. An immense one, perfectly conical, whose name she doesn’t know.
3.
She turns on the television. It’s a Zenith. She thought those didn’t exist anymore.
The television box has the same cream color as the walls. It looks so ancient that it moves her. It reminds her of her childhood. Of her father. Of a world long gone.
The remote control barely works. You have to press the buttons very hard. She thinks about watching TV for a while and then taking a nap. Her insomnia from the last few months and waking up early to catch the plane have exhausted her.
The Biography Channel is showing a documentary about The Band. And when Richard Manuel sings “Whispering Pines,” she feels a melancholia that hurts.
4.
Each taxi driver she talks to says the same thing: the situation is bad. Everything’s expensive, there’s no work to be found, crime, gangs.
They say this with resignation, without wanting to delve into the matter too much.
She wonders where things might be going well, who might be able to say things are going well somewhere.
5.
She’s waiting for a call. As though she were fifteen. Her heart pounds each time the phone rings, but it’s not him. It’s not him yet.
A couple months earlier, while they were writing to each other, she realized she no longer remembered his features, that she couldn’t draw them in her memory. Desperation.
She finds (by chance?) a couple of his books and looks at the covers just so she can remember his face lost in time.
But while she waits for the call, she feels an atrocious certainty: she doesn’t remember the tone of his voice. Sadness.
6.
People. Lots of people, too many people for her, the hermit.
New people.
People she sees again.
Greetings. Names. Handshakes.
Smiles. Photos. Autographs. Books.
But he doesn’t appear.
Anxiety.
7.
She’s scared. Scared that he’s aged, in that sudden and overwhelming way that some people age, in the worst sense of the word. That he’ll be tired, slow, fat, unrecognizable, dimmed. That she’ll barely be able to recognize his features. That from the depths of his eyes she’ll recognize the spark that reminds her of what she knew of him several years ago.
Worse, she’s scared of what he’ll think of her. That he’ll find her old, unrecognizable, slow, worn out. That they’ll be so disenchanted with each other when they meet that they won’t be able to reconnect, that they’ll look at each other with pity, greet each other cordially, fulfill the requisites of a re-encounter and then… well, that there won’t be an afterward.
8.
But it’s not like that.
It’s not like that.
9.
She accompanies him on an errand to an office downtown. While waiting they talk with a man who’s a magician during his free time.
He’s been in El Salvador. He’s a friend of Mago Fanci.
They talk about magic tricks.
A magician never reveals his secrets. But he mentions a couple. He must know he’s among magicians. And she won’t be the one to share these tricks out loud.
Her, who one of the few things she still believes in is magic.
10.
They step into a café to wait for the rain to pass. They drink coffee and talk without stopping. They can’t stop.
They have to tell each other everything, as though they might die tomorrow. As though they might not see each other again, though they promise they won’t spend so many years apart again. Never again.
Then a boy walks in with his shoeshine box.
It’s been years since she’s seen one. It moves her.
The past revisited. Or the present that really never changes much.
11.
Kisses on a corner on Zona 1, at night.
Smiling, he says, “They’re gonna rob us.”
Smiling, she says, “I don’t care.”
More kisses.
12.
No one can touch them.
No one dares.
A white light, descending from the sky, illuminates them.
13.
In the taxi, he says, “We looked like that photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt, the sailor kissing the nurse in Times Square at the end of World War II.”
In an e-mail, she writes, “We looked like uniformed students who’d escaped from school, sneaking kisses on city corners.”
14.
Time is long, time is short.
Time is their sentence, their separation.
15.
Ten minutes before five A.M., the phone rings.
She says, “I thought you wouldn’t call.”
He says, “I wasn’t gonna miss the chance to hear your voice one last time.”
Five years of absence between them were eaten up by oblivion’s black hole. A quantum bridge ignoring time, distance, silence and absence has been built.
Now there can be a tomorrow. Even though she’s about to board a plane. Even though they’ve done nothing more than hold hands and exchange a few stolen kisses in the most dangerous part of the city.
16.
She returns.
Unpacks. Her clothes smell of Guatemala, of room 508 of the Hotel Conquistador, of another prompt flight served by Taca Airlines, of taxis, of his hug. Of him.
Of him. Only him.
17.
The nostalgia begins.
(Published yesterday in my “Gabinete Calgari” column, in Séptimo Sentido magazine in La Prensa Gráfica. Due to formatting reasons, the spacing in the printed version was altered. It’s reproduced in its original version here.)
{ Jacinta Escudos, Jacintario, 1 September 2008 }
Showing posts with label Jacinta Escudos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jacinta Escudos. Show all posts
4.22.2008
Drive Inn El Flamingo / Jacinta Escudos
Drive Inn El Flamingo
In San Salvador, very close to the Salvador del Mundo monument, where today there’s a little mall whose most prominent locale is a fast food restaurant (I can’t remember if it’s hamburgers or pizzas), there used to be a place in the late 60s called Drive Inn El Flamingo.
The parking lot was huge and in the center of the lot stood the establishment with many giant windows. There were a few trees and very tall palms and a large sign with a flamingo made out of pink neon tubes. Back then, the schedule for classes at school (which was a few blocks away) ran almost the entire day. Classes started at 7 in the morning and finished at 4 or 4:30 in the afternoon. I was on the half boarding plan, in other words, I had lunch at school because it was too hard for my parents to take me there and pick me up at noon.
Being a half boarder turned me into a “strange creature” of sorts, because almost none of my classmates stayed that long. And I would eat lunch with the boarders, those who slept at school all week and went home on Friday afternoons, returning on Monday mornings. Almost all the boarders were in high school.
Sometimes, for reasons I can’t remember now, afternoon classes were canceled. When that happened I had to borrow the phone and call my father at his office. The number, I still remember it, was 21-4827 and the office was in Pasaje Montalvo, right in the center of the city. It was much easier to call my father on the phone than my mother, because in order to call Los Planes de Rendero in those years you had to dial a central office from where they gave you an extension. But there were few lines, and Los Planes was basically “wilderness,” getting through wasn’t always simple or quick. So the best bet was to call my father.
Then he would arrive to pick me up at school. He’d get there a bit late, at about one, when he was finished with his work and school was already empty and silent. I waited in the front office, with my book bag and one or two other girls who had also been left behind. The buzzer rang from the street, a nun would go open the door and, well, they already knew my dad and I was so happy to be out of there.
He was never effusive, never smiled, never made jokes. He was always a profoundly reserved man and he usually walked with the same expression on his face. Whoever didn’t know him well could have thought he was angry or bitter, because the expression lines (that phrase was never more accurate) had marked his face with deep furrows, the result of ancient sufferings whose cause I would learn about years later. We’d get into the car in silence and then he would ask me if I’d had lunch already. But no, I hadn’t gone up to the cafeteria because I’d been waiting for him. Since he hadn’t eaten either, he’d ask if I wanted a hamburger and I answered, “Yes!” enthusiastically, because that was the “secret password” that would take us to the Flamingo.
Those were the days when absolutely no one worried about cholesterol, junk food, French fries and those things. People cooked and ate with pleasure and eating was an enjoyable act, without anguish, so that any food happily wolfed down was healthy food, even if it was made with lard (as tended to happen at my house), or if we ate at the open market (which was another one of our favorite places to eat), or stuffed ourselves with a good hamburger, one of those they used to make back then.
Even though it was a drive-in, we preferred to sit at the tables inside. And we went through the ritual of the menu even though we always ordered the same thing: a hamburger and a refresco de ensalada, because they made the best ones in the country. They served them in these huge glass cups, with a straw and spoon, with a whole bunch of mamey, pineapple, melon and cashew. The spoon was for eating the fruit that was abundantly served. And then it was time for that majestic hamburger, the best ones I’ve had in my life. As ever, my father and I would eat in complete silence. He wasn’t much of a talker, as I’ve said, but we didn’t have much room for conversation because the food was so good that we’d concentrate on eating.
He’d finish first and say, “ I was hungry.” And he would remain absorbed in his thoughts while I ate everything very slowly, to my father’s disbelief, thinking I’d never finish it all. It was really a lot of food for me, but the flavor imposed itself and I’d leave there with a big belly.
Afterwards he would take me to his office and I’d spend the afternoon there, playing imaginary races with the rolling office chairs, “writing” on a typewriter (I didn’t know how to write too well so I would just type out jumbled letters) and jumping all over my beloved uncle Ricardo, my father’s brother.
I don’t remember what year they closed the Drive Inn, but it was sometime in the 70s. And I can’t express how much it hurt when I saw them begin to knock down that solitary building, to cut the trees and giant palms and build that mall with zero architectural taste, where the hamburgers were McDonald’s and you could no longer find a refresco de ensalada, not even at gunpoint.
And that’s what they call “progress”…
{ Jacinta Escudos, Jacintario, 15 April 2008 }
In San Salvador, very close to the Salvador del Mundo monument, where today there’s a little mall whose most prominent locale is a fast food restaurant (I can’t remember if it’s hamburgers or pizzas), there used to be a place in the late 60s called Drive Inn El Flamingo.
The parking lot was huge and in the center of the lot stood the establishment with many giant windows. There were a few trees and very tall palms and a large sign with a flamingo made out of pink neon tubes. Back then, the schedule for classes at school (which was a few blocks away) ran almost the entire day. Classes started at 7 in the morning and finished at 4 or 4:30 in the afternoon. I was on the half boarding plan, in other words, I had lunch at school because it was too hard for my parents to take me there and pick me up at noon.
Being a half boarder turned me into a “strange creature” of sorts, because almost none of my classmates stayed that long. And I would eat lunch with the boarders, those who slept at school all week and went home on Friday afternoons, returning on Monday mornings. Almost all the boarders were in high school.
Sometimes, for reasons I can’t remember now, afternoon classes were canceled. When that happened I had to borrow the phone and call my father at his office. The number, I still remember it, was 21-4827 and the office was in Pasaje Montalvo, right in the center of the city. It was much easier to call my father on the phone than my mother, because in order to call Los Planes de Rendero in those years you had to dial a central office from where they gave you an extension. But there were few lines, and Los Planes was basically “wilderness,” getting through wasn’t always simple or quick. So the best bet was to call my father.
Then he would arrive to pick me up at school. He’d get there a bit late, at about one, when he was finished with his work and school was already empty and silent. I waited in the front office, with my book bag and one or two other girls who had also been left behind. The buzzer rang from the street, a nun would go open the door and, well, they already knew my dad and I was so happy to be out of there.
He was never effusive, never smiled, never made jokes. He was always a profoundly reserved man and he usually walked with the same expression on his face. Whoever didn’t know him well could have thought he was angry or bitter, because the expression lines (that phrase was never more accurate) had marked his face with deep furrows, the result of ancient sufferings whose cause I would learn about years later. We’d get into the car in silence and then he would ask me if I’d had lunch already. But no, I hadn’t gone up to the cafeteria because I’d been waiting for him. Since he hadn’t eaten either, he’d ask if I wanted a hamburger and I answered, “Yes!” enthusiastically, because that was the “secret password” that would take us to the Flamingo.
Those were the days when absolutely no one worried about cholesterol, junk food, French fries and those things. People cooked and ate with pleasure and eating was an enjoyable act, without anguish, so that any food happily wolfed down was healthy food, even if it was made with lard (as tended to happen at my house), or if we ate at the open market (which was another one of our favorite places to eat), or stuffed ourselves with a good hamburger, one of those they used to make back then.
Even though it was a drive-in, we preferred to sit at the tables inside. And we went through the ritual of the menu even though we always ordered the same thing: a hamburger and a refresco de ensalada, because they made the best ones in the country. They served them in these huge glass cups, with a straw and spoon, with a whole bunch of mamey, pineapple, melon and cashew. The spoon was for eating the fruit that was abundantly served. And then it was time for that majestic hamburger, the best ones I’ve had in my life. As ever, my father and I would eat in complete silence. He wasn’t much of a talker, as I’ve said, but we didn’t have much room for conversation because the food was so good that we’d concentrate on eating.
He’d finish first and say, “ I was hungry.” And he would remain absorbed in his thoughts while I ate everything very slowly, to my father’s disbelief, thinking I’d never finish it all. It was really a lot of food for me, but the flavor imposed itself and I’d leave there with a big belly.
Afterwards he would take me to his office and I’d spend the afternoon there, playing imaginary races with the rolling office chairs, “writing” on a typewriter (I didn’t know how to write too well so I would just type out jumbled letters) and jumping all over my beloved uncle Ricardo, my father’s brother.
I don’t remember what year they closed the Drive Inn, but it was sometime in the 70s. And I can’t express how much it hurt when I saw them begin to knock down that solitary building, to cut the trees and giant palms and build that mall with zero architectural taste, where the hamburgers were McDonald’s and you could no longer find a refresco de ensalada, not even at gunpoint.
And that’s what they call “progress”…
{ Jacinta Escudos, Jacintario, 15 April 2008 }
2.21.2005
La próxima diáspora / Jacinta Escudos
The Next Diaspora
(La Prensa Gráfica, San Salvador, El Salvador)
It's happening. I talk about it with a writer who went to London "for good." There will be a second diaspora in this country, headed by artists and intellectuals who can no longer find alternatives for continuing their work. This diaspora has begun.
It would take too long to provide names, but I know of several who have started to pack their bags, or who are in the process of doing so, tired of the oppression of an intellectual environment that looks more like a pirahna-infested sea rather than a space for the growth and exchange of ideas.
Contrary to what some insist on presenting as achievements and progress, there are spaces that have closed silently and others that are under constant threat.
For example, the harassment which La Luna receives is outrageous, and if that space remains open, it is thanks to the hard work and tenacity of Beatriz Alcaine, who wholeheartedly believes in her project. But be careful, even Beatriz could eventually grow tired.
How many novels and collections of short stories were published in 2004? We, this country's writers, keep an abundant amount of unedited work in drawers. Work which would enrich the literary luggage of this country. But few people care about that.
Another writer friend recently showed me an excellent short story. It's included in a book that's waiting for a decision from the DPI [Dirección de Publicaciones e Impresos] since oooohhhh so many years ago.
We discussed where he might be able to publish it, and we reached the conclusion that there are no publishing houses publishing literature. A few universities are publishing books with social themes and a few poetry collections which, to make matters worse, don't receive the necessary support.
It's happening. I just received a note from another writer. He tells me that he's leaving in one month. No one should complain when this country wakes up without its best artists. Nor should anyone be so shameless as to pretend to be proud when these artists find success in other borders.
{ Jacinta Escudos, La Prensa Gráfica, 12 February 2005 }
(La Prensa Gráfica, San Salvador, El Salvador)
It's happening. I talk about it with a writer who went to London "for good." There will be a second diaspora in this country, headed by artists and intellectuals who can no longer find alternatives for continuing their work. This diaspora has begun.
It would take too long to provide names, but I know of several who have started to pack their bags, or who are in the process of doing so, tired of the oppression of an intellectual environment that looks more like a pirahna-infested sea rather than a space for the growth and exchange of ideas.
Contrary to what some insist on presenting as achievements and progress, there are spaces that have closed silently and others that are under constant threat.
For example, the harassment which La Luna receives is outrageous, and if that space remains open, it is thanks to the hard work and tenacity of Beatriz Alcaine, who wholeheartedly believes in her project. But be careful, even Beatriz could eventually grow tired.
How many novels and collections of short stories were published in 2004? We, this country's writers, keep an abundant amount of unedited work in drawers. Work which would enrich the literary luggage of this country. But few people care about that.
Another writer friend recently showed me an excellent short story. It's included in a book that's waiting for a decision from the DPI [Dirección de Publicaciones e Impresos] since oooohhhh so many years ago.
We discussed where he might be able to publish it, and we reached the conclusion that there are no publishing houses publishing literature. A few universities are publishing books with social themes and a few poetry collections which, to make matters worse, don't receive the necessary support.
It's happening. I just received a note from another writer. He tells me that he's leaving in one month. No one should complain when this country wakes up without its best artists. Nor should anyone be so shameless as to pretend to be proud when these artists find success in other borders.
{ Jacinta Escudos, La Prensa Gráfica, 12 February 2005 }
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