Ha vuelto la Navidad y aun recuerdo esos días de mi infancia cuando, sentada desde una glorieta con mi madre, veía foquitos en todos los arboles de la ciudad. Mi padre trabajaba haciendo malabares en la calle con naranjas, que luego nos comíamos. Eran buenas pero teníamos pocas.
Como me hubiera gustado estar en una de esas posadas donde montones de naranjas, mandarinas y cacahuates salían de las piñatas.
Recuerdo una vez que al asomarme por una reja vi un jardín donde la gente rica comía buñuelos y ponches de varias frutas. Tanto se me antojaron los buñuelos que decidí pedirles. Pero me corrieron diciéndome que si tanto quería comprara los míos.
Nosotros solo teníamos el dinero que mi padre, mi hermano (que lavaba vidrios de los carros en los altos) y mi hermana ganaban. Ella se pasaba el día vendiendo chicles y por esa tarea no podía ir a la escuela ni participar en una de esas pastorelas que en algunos lugares se hacían por la noche cuando nos dirigíamos a nuestro humilde hogar (pues estaba echo de lamina y cartón).
Pasábamos por viveros que en esa época del año estaban casi llenos de puras nochebuenas. Mi madre suspiraba y decía “si tuviera el dinero necesario para alimentar a mi familia, compraría de esas rojas flores y las sembraría alrededor de mi casa y las cuidaría aunque solo se dieran en épocas de frío”.
Al llegar a casa mama sacaba, de no sé dónde, un mantel viejo sucio y algo roto, por el uso y la mala calidad de la tela. Pero hermoso para nosotros, puesto que además de ser el único que teníamos (nunca comíamos con mantel pues si apenas teníamos el dinero suficiente para comer, no podíamos estarlo gastando en manteles), era solo para Navidad. Mamá lo había bordado para esta fecha.
Yo y mis hermanos nos íbamos a poner nuestra mejor ropa. Mientras mi mamá hacía algo de comer. Luego nos reuníamos mi familia y yo alrededor del mantel. Mi padre dirigía una oración de acción de gracias. Cenábamos y a dormir.
Al día siguiente íbamos a misa temprano y más tarde a la calle a realizar nuestras actividades del día.
¡Ay, esos días! ¡Cómo pasa el tiempo! Ahora yo soy una mujer de blancos cabellos sentada al lado de la puerta de la catedral pidiendo limosna y escuchando misa el día de Navidad.
29 de marzo de 2007
“A Side to Fight For”
Leaving Gorostieta’s camp, the Cristero’s camp, the boy ran, ran until he could run no more. His aching feet wouldn’t allow it, and there was no place further to go. At the top of the hill he came face to face with it: the cross. He had been running from it, trying to escape from it, and here it was: made tall and mighty, reigning over the whole landscape, proud and fearless. Two plain wood planks crossed one over the other, painted in green, was all it was. Unpretentious object, and yet so affluent with connotations, countless implications, untellable meanings; to him, to them. There it was, resolute to never be made silent, in his mind, in theirs. It was the fault of the cross, all this mess for the sake of it, inside of him and between them.
Exhausted, he fell at its foot. Let it remain there, on the top, over the landscape, over him. Very little could it add now to the burden which it had already loaded him with. Let it trouble the nation, but let him rest, body and mind. Let them find him there, all his hopes dead. “Them”, no matter who they were, what side they fought for, for he himself supported no party anymore. All of them were fools, all of them. And he was a fool for having let himself get involved in it.
But he could not have stayed home. What a coward he would have seemed! All his comrades bravely fighting for their God, their country and their families. And he, all full of doubts, confused and uncertain of all his childhood certainties had nevertheless been forced to unite to the troops of the resistance. His family would have had it no other way. His stern father, a good and kind man, but so firm in his moral values and deeply rooted religious beliefs, that he would not have permitted his son to act in discordance to what they dictated should be done in such a situation. Not his good mother. “Luis”, she had told him, “no mother could be more proud than I, for having been mother to such a boy who is willing to die for Jesus’ cause.” Jesus’ cause or not, he didn’t know, but he could not have stood breaking her heart by telling her how absurd he found such a national distress, over such a meaningless governmental issue.
Why had this new law disturbed his fellow countrymen so much? Was it worthwhile to break the national peace, which had so difficultly been kept for seven years, by the government established by Carranza and continued by Obregon? There had been nine long years of fighting, after thirty years of political standstill with the General Diaz as the supreme and unquestionable master. And besides, a new century had begun, these were new times. The country did need reforms. With less than a decade of having been promulgated, the new constitution had lots of holes where improvements should be made.
Perhaps it had indeed been a little harsh or a too prompt measure. True enough, restructuring the relationships between the Church and the State was a most pressing issue; the church having the real control of the nation, not only for its uncountable wealth, but for controlling the minds of the people. Obviously, with such a fanatic population the measures taken should have been softer, applied more gradually. It was pointless for the president to drastically enforce, from the 1st of August on, such an acutely anticlerical law. Restricting the number of priests, as well as the number of churches, closing all catholic schools and forbidding all religious practices out side of the houses of worship, just like that, from one day to the next, would obviously be enough to provoke great discontent amongst the citizens.
But, nevertheless, what if they were right? They would certainly be right, for they knew more. Indeed, he was young, as was his country and it was certainly his responsibility to consecrate his youth to his nation, to fight in its best interests. All the bravery he had been struggling to show in battle, should not be wasted. He had made up his mind: he would march to Guadalajara and join the government troops there. He would certainly be received with great honors, as he would be able to supply them with lots of information on the Cristero movement.
And thus he marched. Giving his back to the cross he started his way to the capital. It might be a day’s walk, or even a little more, but he didn’t care. After many days of mental confusion he had made his decision and nothing would make him falter now.
He walked through the dense woods and came out into a green valley, marveling at the beauty of the landscape. On crossing it he came to a small village, a “ranchería”, of no more than 200 people, from where he was he could see a large number of them gathered outside of the church. Driven on as much by curiosity as by a terrible thirst, he approached the village.
When he was near enough he heard the shouting and the cries of the women and children. He saw what it was all about: the federal troops had arrived first, and having ransacked the houses for food and guns, were now taking possession of the church. The few men that had remained in the village, for the vast majority of them had joined the rebel forces, had fought bravely and were now lying on the ground or chained up and being mocked by some of the soldiers. The women, hiding their children behind their skirts, pleaded for mercy, receiving obscene gestures or blows as the only responses. On seeing the boy’s coming they implored: “Please, please help the priest!”
He turned to where they pointed and what he saw truly brought him low: the priest was surrounded by the few men left, who were vainly trying to conceal some cups and images, which were being violently snatched away from them. Most of these men had been brought to the ground by now, leaving the priest unprotected. And yet, he didn’t seem ready to surrender. Far from it, he seemed to have planted his feet on the ground, at the entrance of his church. His face showed the deepest oath not to let them pass, over his dead body. The boy recalled from the gospel the zeal with which Jesus Christ defended his Father’s house from the temple’s merchants and was certain the priest’s expression was the vivid incarnation of the matching zeal. Watching the scene, his insides lurched with the greatest discrepancy of feelings and thoughts. Suddenly with the most puzzled expression, the priest had fallen to the ground. The soldiers were free now to corrupt the sacred ground.
Afraid they might have seen him watching, he ran away. He ran away, once more. He ran into the night, until he was outside the city. And there he rested.
By noon of the next day he finally arrived to the capital. The streets were deserted, but he felt no tranquility in the air. He knew the city was not at rest. Where was everybody? He walked street by street, hoping to find someone who could show him to the general headquarters of the Federal army, or that at least could inform him what was going on. A few streets further on he saw the towers of the cathedral and the downtown buildings. He came nearer and could hear some singing, coming from the direction of the cemetery, the “Pantheon de Mesquitán”. Indeed, he found the largest congregation of citizens he had ever seen in his life. They had flooded the streets that surrounded the cemetery, and he now recognized the songs as funeral marches, which they seemed to be singing with the deepest of emotions.
He joined the peculiar procession, hoping to find amongst them a familiar face. Mr. Rivera, a lawyer who had taught him Mexican Law at the high school before he interrupted his studies to go to the battlefield, stood before him. “Luis, my boy, I’m glad to see you around. But I’d imagined you would be fighting under General Gorostieta’s, somewhere in Los Altos.”
“I am, professor, indeed, but we were given the chance to come for a family visit, now that things have settled down a bit more,” he lied. “Er… professor, could you tell me what’s going on here? Has the governor died or something? Why is the whole city at a graveyard?”
“My boy! Please don’t tell me that you don’t know. It is the very same Maestro Anacleto who was executed last night, along with two of the boys at whose house he was staying.”
“Maestro who? Executed by the army? So then he was a rebel…?”
“A rebel my boy? A rebel? He was our truest leader. There was nobody who believed in the cause more fervently than he did. He was a most prepared man, a lawyer, who had accurately foreseen what was coming long before it did, and nevertheless advocated for peaceful means of uprising. He, who had such a clear image of the values of the youth and had been a master and a guide for your generation. Here, take this, will you, and read it please.”
Luis took the book from the professor’s hand and read: You Shall be King, Anacleto Gonzáles Flores. Raising his eyes to thank him, he found the professor had lost himself in the crowd. He was alone once more. Alone, among thousands of people, alone and confused, alone with his thoughts… and Anacleto’s.
He opened the book and read aloud:
“Let not the purpose of bravery be simply to drown in a sea of risks. Take risks for the good of others and to search for the truth.
Though it is not easy to be good, to be holy, to be a martyr.”
Now the boy understood what he was fighting for. The correct path was not easy, but he was willing to take the risk. He was confused no more.
Exhausted, he fell at its foot. Let it remain there, on the top, over the landscape, over him. Very little could it add now to the burden which it had already loaded him with. Let it trouble the nation, but let him rest, body and mind. Let them find him there, all his hopes dead. “Them”, no matter who they were, what side they fought for, for he himself supported no party anymore. All of them were fools, all of them. And he was a fool for having let himself get involved in it.
But he could not have stayed home. What a coward he would have seemed! All his comrades bravely fighting for their God, their country and their families. And he, all full of doubts, confused and uncertain of all his childhood certainties had nevertheless been forced to unite to the troops of the resistance. His family would have had it no other way. His stern father, a good and kind man, but so firm in his moral values and deeply rooted religious beliefs, that he would not have permitted his son to act in discordance to what they dictated should be done in such a situation. Not his good mother. “Luis”, she had told him, “no mother could be more proud than I, for having been mother to such a boy who is willing to die for Jesus’ cause.” Jesus’ cause or not, he didn’t know, but he could not have stood breaking her heart by telling her how absurd he found such a national distress, over such a meaningless governmental issue.
Why had this new law disturbed his fellow countrymen so much? Was it worthwhile to break the national peace, which had so difficultly been kept for seven years, by the government established by Carranza and continued by Obregon? There had been nine long years of fighting, after thirty years of political standstill with the General Diaz as the supreme and unquestionable master. And besides, a new century had begun, these were new times. The country did need reforms. With less than a decade of having been promulgated, the new constitution had lots of holes where improvements should be made.
Perhaps it had indeed been a little harsh or a too prompt measure. True enough, restructuring the relationships between the Church and the State was a most pressing issue; the church having the real control of the nation, not only for its uncountable wealth, but for controlling the minds of the people. Obviously, with such a fanatic population the measures taken should have been softer, applied more gradually. It was pointless for the president to drastically enforce, from the 1st of August on, such an acutely anticlerical law. Restricting the number of priests, as well as the number of churches, closing all catholic schools and forbidding all religious practices out side of the houses of worship, just like that, from one day to the next, would obviously be enough to provoke great discontent amongst the citizens.
But, nevertheless, what if they were right? They would certainly be right, for they knew more. Indeed, he was young, as was his country and it was certainly his responsibility to consecrate his youth to his nation, to fight in its best interests. All the bravery he had been struggling to show in battle, should not be wasted. He had made up his mind: he would march to Guadalajara and join the government troops there. He would certainly be received with great honors, as he would be able to supply them with lots of information on the Cristero movement.
And thus he marched. Giving his back to the cross he started his way to the capital. It might be a day’s walk, or even a little more, but he didn’t care. After many days of mental confusion he had made his decision and nothing would make him falter now.
He walked through the dense woods and came out into a green valley, marveling at the beauty of the landscape. On crossing it he came to a small village, a “ranchería”, of no more than 200 people, from where he was he could see a large number of them gathered outside of the church. Driven on as much by curiosity as by a terrible thirst, he approached the village.
When he was near enough he heard the shouting and the cries of the women and children. He saw what it was all about: the federal troops had arrived first, and having ransacked the houses for food and guns, were now taking possession of the church. The few men that had remained in the village, for the vast majority of them had joined the rebel forces, had fought bravely and were now lying on the ground or chained up and being mocked by some of the soldiers. The women, hiding their children behind their skirts, pleaded for mercy, receiving obscene gestures or blows as the only responses. On seeing the boy’s coming they implored: “Please, please help the priest!”
He turned to where they pointed and what he saw truly brought him low: the priest was surrounded by the few men left, who were vainly trying to conceal some cups and images, which were being violently snatched away from them. Most of these men had been brought to the ground by now, leaving the priest unprotected. And yet, he didn’t seem ready to surrender. Far from it, he seemed to have planted his feet on the ground, at the entrance of his church. His face showed the deepest oath not to let them pass, over his dead body. The boy recalled from the gospel the zeal with which Jesus Christ defended his Father’s house from the temple’s merchants and was certain the priest’s expression was the vivid incarnation of the matching zeal. Watching the scene, his insides lurched with the greatest discrepancy of feelings and thoughts. Suddenly with the most puzzled expression, the priest had fallen to the ground. The soldiers were free now to corrupt the sacred ground.
Afraid they might have seen him watching, he ran away. He ran away, once more. He ran into the night, until he was outside the city. And there he rested.
By noon of the next day he finally arrived to the capital. The streets were deserted, but he felt no tranquility in the air. He knew the city was not at rest. Where was everybody? He walked street by street, hoping to find someone who could show him to the general headquarters of the Federal army, or that at least could inform him what was going on. A few streets further on he saw the towers of the cathedral and the downtown buildings. He came nearer and could hear some singing, coming from the direction of the cemetery, the “Pantheon de Mesquitán”. Indeed, he found the largest congregation of citizens he had ever seen in his life. They had flooded the streets that surrounded the cemetery, and he now recognized the songs as funeral marches, which they seemed to be singing with the deepest of emotions.
He joined the peculiar procession, hoping to find amongst them a familiar face. Mr. Rivera, a lawyer who had taught him Mexican Law at the high school before he interrupted his studies to go to the battlefield, stood before him. “Luis, my boy, I’m glad to see you around. But I’d imagined you would be fighting under General Gorostieta’s, somewhere in Los Altos.”
“I am, professor, indeed, but we were given the chance to come for a family visit, now that things have settled down a bit more,” he lied. “Er… professor, could you tell me what’s going on here? Has the governor died or something? Why is the whole city at a graveyard?”
“My boy! Please don’t tell me that you don’t know. It is the very same Maestro Anacleto who was executed last night, along with two of the boys at whose house he was staying.”
“Maestro who? Executed by the army? So then he was a rebel…?”
“A rebel my boy? A rebel? He was our truest leader. There was nobody who believed in the cause more fervently than he did. He was a most prepared man, a lawyer, who had accurately foreseen what was coming long before it did, and nevertheless advocated for peaceful means of uprising. He, who had such a clear image of the values of the youth and had been a master and a guide for your generation. Here, take this, will you, and read it please.”
Luis took the book from the professor’s hand and read: You Shall be King, Anacleto Gonzáles Flores. Raising his eyes to thank him, he found the professor had lost himself in the crowd. He was alone once more. Alone, among thousands of people, alone and confused, alone with his thoughts… and Anacleto’s.
He opened the book and read aloud:
“Let not the purpose of bravery be simply to drown in a sea of risks. Take risks for the good of others and to search for the truth.
Though it is not easy to be good, to be holy, to be a martyr.”
Now the boy understood what he was fighting for. The correct path was not easy, but he was willing to take the risk. He was confused no more.
Sergey Vasil'yevich Rachmaninov
I open my eyes again and with a sharp and most disagreeable surprise find that my feet are still on the ground, on the floor of the theater. For the lat least 30 minutes I had been delightfully wandering around the perfectly combined parade of notes, tones and themes which beautifully build the Rapsody on a Theme of Pagannini. I look at program that lied on my lap, whiten me is the urgent need to know who was the responsible of taking my senses into such a high state, a state I cannot describe, a state I’d never known before. Is it possible that someone sharing our human nature, could have created a piece which exceeded by much what I considered the limits of humanity? I opened my program and there he was Sergei Rachmaninov.
I find, in this program, a paragraph account of his life, and one more giving information on the Rapsody. At reading this I learn he was a Russian pianist and composer of the beginning of the century who wrote 4 piano concertos, a few symphonies and so. In the second paragraph I learn he was a great admirer of Paganini, an Italian composer who lived a century before him. According to the program this Rapsody is merely an adaptation of Paganini’s 14th Concerto for violin extended by Rachmaninov for piano and orchestra to tell also about the Italian composer’s tormented life, but, interestingly enough, the Rachmaninov’s has being more prized an acclaimed than the original piece.
Not finding this information sufficient to satisfy my desire of meeting this extremely gifted composer (not of Paganini but of Rachmaninov, of course.) What exceptional life was his which led him to such compositions? How was his mind that allowed him to play along with emotions so distant as hatred to passion, from violence to peace and delicate tranquility? Visiting some of his fan web pages and find the most comprehensible explanation to my riddles, here is a summary of it.
Through all his lifetime Rachmaninov always exhibited an icy demeanor when performing, but this was no more than a protective mechanism he had acquired slowly and painfully in his youth, when one difficulty after another presented itself to him: a sensitive and naturally withdrawn young man who was nevertheless determined to make his way in the world as a musician.
He had little help from his parents. His father squandered the famiIy fortune so quickly that when he was only nine years old he saw the estate at Novgorod, where they had lived, the last of their property, auctioned off to pay debts.
His family moved to St. Petersburg and he continued his piano studies at the Conservatory. But soon, when a diphtheria epidemic swept the city, his sister Sofiya died.
Not long after that, his parents separated. And, being still twelve, he reacted to it by failing all his final examinations at school . This brough him as a consequence his being shipped off to Moscow, where he would live and study with the strict disciplinarian Nikolay Zverev.
Life with Zverev was no picnic: the day began at 6:00 a.m. and included a stiff regimen of communal practice, group and private instruction and attendance at various concerts in the city. In a while, he was, at last, able to transfer to the senior division of the Moscow Conservatory, taking more of his classes outside the Zverev household. But when, in order to compose without the constant distraction of his housemates' practice, he asked for a private room, Zverev responded by him out.
During that time, his professor at the Conservatory was his cousin Alexander Ziloti. That was when he started his composing. He had to endure lots of hardships during that time, but at least his genius began to be recognized.
At last, in 1892, he was ready for graduation and he gave his graduation piece, the opera Aleko, at the Bol'shoy and was heard by the older Russian composer Peter Tchaikovsky, who agreed to conduct another work of his, but, unfortuanally enough, he died before that. Nevertheless he left a great impression on the young composer, who acquired some characteristics of his style and wrote by an Elegiac Trio in his memory.
During the following years he composed piano pieces, songs and orchestral works, but in 1897 one of his ambitious early works the Symphony No 1 in D minor, suffered a terrible fate. It was premiered during the 1896 Russian Symphony Concert season but the conductor was drunk and delivered an incoherent, unfeeling performance. The reviews were uniformly bad and, because of that, went into a deep depression and composed almost nothing for another three years. In the end, the young composer consulted everyone from Leo Tolstoy to a medical hypnotist. The hypnotist was the one who proved the most successful. After several weeks of treatment, he rejoined the community of active composers.
Once out of his depression, he quickly composed his Second Piano Concerto, were he takes to the highest the essentials of his: the command of the emotional gesture conceived as lyrical melody extended from small motifs, the concealment behind this of subtleties in orchestration and structure, the broad sweep of his lines and forms, the predominant melancholy and nostalgia and the loyalty to the finer Russian Romanticism inherited from Tchaikovsky and his teachers.
Meanwhile, he set out a new career as a conductor, appearing in Moscow and London and later at the Bol'shoy from 1904 to 1906.During those years, he married his cousin, Natalya Satina, who gave him two children.
From then on he began to enjoy international acclaim as a pianist, conductor, and composer. His most popular piano concerto, the Second, was written in 1900 and 1901. The Second Symphony, the symphonic poem The Isle of the Dead, and a number of other important works followed in the next several years. In 1909 he made his first American tour as a pianist, for which he wrote the Piano Concerto no.3.
Soon after the October Revolution he had to leave Russia, along with his family, and go to Scandinavia. In 1918 they arrived in New York, where he mainly lived thereafter, spending only short periods in Paris, where he founded a publishing firm.
He gave himself a period of creative silence until 1926, on those days he was active as a pianist on both sides of the Atlantic, though never again in Russia. As a pianist he was famous for his precision, rhythmic drive, legato and clarity of texture and for the broad design of his performance.
In 1926 he wrote the Piano Concerto no.4, which was followed by only a handful of works over the next 15 years, even though all are on a large scale..
He died in Beverly Hills in 1943.
I find, in this program, a paragraph account of his life, and one more giving information on the Rapsody. At reading this I learn he was a Russian pianist and composer of the beginning of the century who wrote 4 piano concertos, a few symphonies and so. In the second paragraph I learn he was a great admirer of Paganini, an Italian composer who lived a century before him. According to the program this Rapsody is merely an adaptation of Paganini’s 14th Concerto for violin extended by Rachmaninov for piano and orchestra to tell also about the Italian composer’s tormented life, but, interestingly enough, the Rachmaninov’s has being more prized an acclaimed than the original piece.
Not finding this information sufficient to satisfy my desire of meeting this extremely gifted composer (not of Paganini but of Rachmaninov, of course.) What exceptional life was his which led him to such compositions? How was his mind that allowed him to play along with emotions so distant as hatred to passion, from violence to peace and delicate tranquility? Visiting some of his fan web pages and find the most comprehensible explanation to my riddles, here is a summary of it.
Through all his lifetime Rachmaninov always exhibited an icy demeanor when performing, but this was no more than a protective mechanism he had acquired slowly and painfully in his youth, when one difficulty after another presented itself to him: a sensitive and naturally withdrawn young man who was nevertheless determined to make his way in the world as a musician.
He had little help from his parents. His father squandered the famiIy fortune so quickly that when he was only nine years old he saw the estate at Novgorod, where they had lived, the last of their property, auctioned off to pay debts.
His family moved to St. Petersburg and he continued his piano studies at the Conservatory. But soon, when a diphtheria epidemic swept the city, his sister Sofiya died.
Not long after that, his parents separated. And, being still twelve, he reacted to it by failing all his final examinations at school . This brough him as a consequence his being shipped off to Moscow, where he would live and study with the strict disciplinarian Nikolay Zverev.
Life with Zverev was no picnic: the day began at 6:00 a.m. and included a stiff regimen of communal practice, group and private instruction and attendance at various concerts in the city. In a while, he was, at last, able to transfer to the senior division of the Moscow Conservatory, taking more of his classes outside the Zverev household. But when, in order to compose without the constant distraction of his housemates' practice, he asked for a private room, Zverev responded by him out.
During that time, his professor at the Conservatory was his cousin Alexander Ziloti. That was when he started his composing. He had to endure lots of hardships during that time, but at least his genius began to be recognized.
At last, in 1892, he was ready for graduation and he gave his graduation piece, the opera Aleko, at the Bol'shoy and was heard by the older Russian composer Peter Tchaikovsky, who agreed to conduct another work of his, but, unfortuanally enough, he died before that. Nevertheless he left a great impression on the young composer, who acquired some characteristics of his style and wrote by an Elegiac Trio in his memory.
During the following years he composed piano pieces, songs and orchestral works, but in 1897 one of his ambitious early works the Symphony No 1 in D minor, suffered a terrible fate. It was premiered during the 1896 Russian Symphony Concert season but the conductor was drunk and delivered an incoherent, unfeeling performance. The reviews were uniformly bad and, because of that, went into a deep depression and composed almost nothing for another three years. In the end, the young composer consulted everyone from Leo Tolstoy to a medical hypnotist. The hypnotist was the one who proved the most successful. After several weeks of treatment, he rejoined the community of active composers.
Once out of his depression, he quickly composed his Second Piano Concerto, were he takes to the highest the essentials of his: the command of the emotional gesture conceived as lyrical melody extended from small motifs, the concealment behind this of subtleties in orchestration and structure, the broad sweep of his lines and forms, the predominant melancholy and nostalgia and the loyalty to the finer Russian Romanticism inherited from Tchaikovsky and his teachers.
Meanwhile, he set out a new career as a conductor, appearing in Moscow and London and later at the Bol'shoy from 1904 to 1906.During those years, he married his cousin, Natalya Satina, who gave him two children.
From then on he began to enjoy international acclaim as a pianist, conductor, and composer. His most popular piano concerto, the Second, was written in 1900 and 1901. The Second Symphony, the symphonic poem The Isle of the Dead, and a number of other important works followed in the next several years. In 1909 he made his first American tour as a pianist, for which he wrote the Piano Concerto no.3.
Soon after the October Revolution he had to leave Russia, along with his family, and go to Scandinavia. In 1918 they arrived in New York, where he mainly lived thereafter, spending only short periods in Paris, where he founded a publishing firm.
He gave himself a period of creative silence until 1926, on those days he was active as a pianist on both sides of the Atlantic, though never again in Russia. As a pianist he was famous for his precision, rhythmic drive, legato and clarity of texture and for the broad design of his performance.
In 1926 he wrote the Piano Concerto no.4, which was followed by only a handful of works over the next 15 years, even though all are on a large scale..
He died in Beverly Hills in 1943.
“A Witness of Her Last Days”
Tonight I have to write a short story as an English assignment. I searched through all the hidden corners of my mind; I pressed hard on my imagination to come up with a fictional event to write about, but the reality I’m living right now is stronger and it impedes me from thinking of anything else. Reality is harsh and sometimes harder to write about than fiction.
This evening we arrived at seven o’clock at my grandma’s house, were we paid an emergency visit. I had been there yesterday, but my sisters hadn’t seen her since last weekend. I had been told by my mother that grandmother was worse than yesterday; yet, in the bottom of my heart I held on to the hope that there could have been some improvement in her health. My hope, however, was shattered.
She was lying in the hospital bed my uncles had accommodated in her bedroom. One of her eight sons, the doctor, was by her side, along with his wife and four children. They were praying the 4th mystery of the Rosary, which my grandmother wouldn’t pray anymore.
I wasn’t brave enough to look at her face, so I turned towards my cousins. I came face to face with my 5 years old cousin and in his eyes I saw an expression I’d never seen before, an expression I now find very difficult to describe. There was profound sadness, but the kind of sadness of somebody who doesn’t understand what is happening; it was the look of a child who doesn’t completely understand what is happening, but knows something is terribly wrong.
I turned to the other faces. My aunt was hugging her oldest daughter, the one who is eleven. Both had tears in their eyes. “Don’t cry now, please not now, not yet,” I thought as I turned to my middle sister who was at my side. She was crying too. I hugged her. From the bed I heard gasping sounds and found the nerve to look at my grandmother’s face.
The woman in the bed was a stranger to me. Her eyes were shut, and would only open when she coughed. She had very little hair left and her formerly wrinkled forehead was smooth now like the skin of a baby. Her nose, once very proud and elegant, was now violated by a long, thin feeding tube. Her lips had disappeared and only a hole remained through which she fought for air. It was as if she were wearing a mask, immobile and expressionless. The rest of her body was just as immobile and very swollen because of the effects of the medication. It was at this moment, and not before, that my hope left me, leaving room only for the harsh reality. Tears flooded my eyes.
I had been foreseeing this for a long time, but I had never expected it to happen in such a rush. None of us had. Just five days ago, last Sunday, my aunts and uncles were still going over the possibilities of taking her to the hospital. They had expected some recovery, and had given it a rest for a day. Monday proved that no treatment in human power would ever get my grandmother back as she used to be. It was then that my aunts and uncles, along with my oldest cousins had decided to let her go, as that was, most certainly, what she would have preferred. But my heart had begun to let her go since earlier.
Since I remember my mother’s mother has always been a good victim of all kinds of sicknesses. In my memories as a child I always see had my grandmother taking different pills for her different illnesses. Two pills stand out in my mind: a huge round pink one and a tiny one, which she would most frequently lose. These were the ones which controlled her epilepsy, and if it hadn’t it been for them, she would have left us long ago, victim of an attack. The collateral effects of such strong medicines were the cause of her present condition.
The Rosary was over, but I had barely noticed. As my little cousins continued on their fruitless efforts of talking with her, my mind began to wander in the past, for I wanted to know exactly when it had been that I had begun preparing for the worst.
I first tried to remember when was the last time I had seen her in full strength. Memory brought me as far as my aunt and uncle’s, Tere and Alonso’s, 25th wedding anniversary. A party had been held then and “Mama Chali”, as we call my grandma, had recited a poem as in her best times in youth. Suddenly another flash from that day came to me: not two hours after the recitation she had a premonition: “I don’t think I’ll live to 2004”. Nobody had taken her seriously and told her to be more optimist, but now I wonder if her mind knew that her body was starting to deteriorate. Now that I go over it, I’m certain it was that, for she was never that healthy again from that day on.
As the months passed more and more little complications began destroying her health. We all knew she wasn’t well, and she had her ups and downs, but for more than four months she was quite stable. Then the complications began in earnest, in front of my very eyes, and it was, perhaps, from December the 22nd that I began to understand how serious her problem was.
We had invited her to my house a few days before Christmas, as she was to help us in bake the date pies. The task was a complete failure and the reason was that my grandmother would fall asleep whenever she sat anywhere and to get any indications on the recipe from her was completely impossible. That day we believed that she was simply tired but, the next day proved us wrong.
The 23rd of December she awoke at 12 pm and, after having my sister and a cousin helping her in the shower, she slept for the entire afternoon as well.
She woke up even later on the 24th and, incredibly enough, my sister and cousin couldn’t help her bathe anymore; it had to be done by my mother and me. Dressing her and preening her for the dinner took us almost the entire afternoon, for everything had to be done for her; she would barely move a muscle and she would shout in pain when we moved her. I was ever so confused for I understood she had lived almost alone in her house, except for her maid, and that she could handle her basic necessities by herself only three days earlier. I asked my mother about it but found her more confused and worried than myself.
On the 26th one uncle was to take her to Vallarta for a week. We had just one day to go, but perhaps that day was the worst. That day I helped her walk to the bathroom and as soon as we walked through the door she let herself fall. She actually let herself fall as she made no effort to remain on foot a few more seconds just to reach the toilet. In less than a second she was lying on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever been so panicked in my life. I did my best to bring her to her feet, but I made no progress at all for she was too heavy for me. Even more panicked I shouted for my mom’s aid. Not even the two of us together were able to bring her up. Mom ran to get Dad. Meanwhile, I stood by her, completely heartbroken at seeing the once proud and strong woman just lying on the floor, half naked and completely unable to do anything for herself. I was then when it struck me that my grandmother’s last days had begun, and that she would never be the same again.
My aunts and uncles and their children found it much harder than me to accept and, in all their right; they did what they thought best for her recovery. They assigned a maid specialized in caring for old people to her, they changed medicines and hoped for the best. But I believe it might have been too late, because, as far as I understood the consequences of her strong medications had begun almost six years ago with the deterioration of her liver and the increase of ammonia in her brain.
Little by little she lost her muscle mobility. For two weeks she hadn’t been able to walk anymore and her days were limited to moving herself from bed into a wheelchair and back by a nurse who, given the conditions, had replaced the other caretaker. Her memory left her almost at the same speed; just last Sunday I had her tell me my name for the last time after a succession of six wrong tries.
I had seen her the day before in the afternoon, she had still chewed the tiniest slice of cheese, but now…
I was drawn back to reality by my little sister urging me to say goodbye to my grandmother. We had to leave because my sisters still had homework and my dad had some work to do. After all life, continued for us, and I had been wondering about its whole purpose and meaning for a while now. Given that my grandma was to leave it at last, then what was life all about anyway?
“Mama Chali, good bye, I have to leave you now, but I’ll be here tomorrow. I hope to find you better.” I kissed her on the cheek and for the first time that afternoon I saw her open her eyes, trying to focus on me, and less than a second later they were shut once more. I don’t know if there will be a tomorrow for her; from the depth of my heart I hope there is, but only He who knows it all can tell. For a long time now I’ve been trying to get used to the idea of loosing her. Just a moment earlier I’d believed I’d already had, but I guess nobody is prepared for a moment like that.
This evening we arrived at seven o’clock at my grandma’s house, were we paid an emergency visit. I had been there yesterday, but my sisters hadn’t seen her since last weekend. I had been told by my mother that grandmother was worse than yesterday; yet, in the bottom of my heart I held on to the hope that there could have been some improvement in her health. My hope, however, was shattered.
She was lying in the hospital bed my uncles had accommodated in her bedroom. One of her eight sons, the doctor, was by her side, along with his wife and four children. They were praying the 4th mystery of the Rosary, which my grandmother wouldn’t pray anymore.
I wasn’t brave enough to look at her face, so I turned towards my cousins. I came face to face with my 5 years old cousin and in his eyes I saw an expression I’d never seen before, an expression I now find very difficult to describe. There was profound sadness, but the kind of sadness of somebody who doesn’t understand what is happening; it was the look of a child who doesn’t completely understand what is happening, but knows something is terribly wrong.
I turned to the other faces. My aunt was hugging her oldest daughter, the one who is eleven. Both had tears in their eyes. “Don’t cry now, please not now, not yet,” I thought as I turned to my middle sister who was at my side. She was crying too. I hugged her. From the bed I heard gasping sounds and found the nerve to look at my grandmother’s face.
The woman in the bed was a stranger to me. Her eyes were shut, and would only open when she coughed. She had very little hair left and her formerly wrinkled forehead was smooth now like the skin of a baby. Her nose, once very proud and elegant, was now violated by a long, thin feeding tube. Her lips had disappeared and only a hole remained through which she fought for air. It was as if she were wearing a mask, immobile and expressionless. The rest of her body was just as immobile and very swollen because of the effects of the medication. It was at this moment, and not before, that my hope left me, leaving room only for the harsh reality. Tears flooded my eyes.
I had been foreseeing this for a long time, but I had never expected it to happen in such a rush. None of us had. Just five days ago, last Sunday, my aunts and uncles were still going over the possibilities of taking her to the hospital. They had expected some recovery, and had given it a rest for a day. Monday proved that no treatment in human power would ever get my grandmother back as she used to be. It was then that my aunts and uncles, along with my oldest cousins had decided to let her go, as that was, most certainly, what she would have preferred. But my heart had begun to let her go since earlier.
Since I remember my mother’s mother has always been a good victim of all kinds of sicknesses. In my memories as a child I always see had my grandmother taking different pills for her different illnesses. Two pills stand out in my mind: a huge round pink one and a tiny one, which she would most frequently lose. These were the ones which controlled her epilepsy, and if it hadn’t it been for them, she would have left us long ago, victim of an attack. The collateral effects of such strong medicines were the cause of her present condition.
The Rosary was over, but I had barely noticed. As my little cousins continued on their fruitless efforts of talking with her, my mind began to wander in the past, for I wanted to know exactly when it had been that I had begun preparing for the worst.
I first tried to remember when was the last time I had seen her in full strength. Memory brought me as far as my aunt and uncle’s, Tere and Alonso’s, 25th wedding anniversary. A party had been held then and “Mama Chali”, as we call my grandma, had recited a poem as in her best times in youth. Suddenly another flash from that day came to me: not two hours after the recitation she had a premonition: “I don’t think I’ll live to 2004”. Nobody had taken her seriously and told her to be more optimist, but now I wonder if her mind knew that her body was starting to deteriorate. Now that I go over it, I’m certain it was that, for she was never that healthy again from that day on.
As the months passed more and more little complications began destroying her health. We all knew she wasn’t well, and she had her ups and downs, but for more than four months she was quite stable. Then the complications began in earnest, in front of my very eyes, and it was, perhaps, from December the 22nd that I began to understand how serious her problem was.
We had invited her to my house a few days before Christmas, as she was to help us in bake the date pies. The task was a complete failure and the reason was that my grandmother would fall asleep whenever she sat anywhere and to get any indications on the recipe from her was completely impossible. That day we believed that she was simply tired but, the next day proved us wrong.
The 23rd of December she awoke at 12 pm and, after having my sister and a cousin helping her in the shower, she slept for the entire afternoon as well.
She woke up even later on the 24th and, incredibly enough, my sister and cousin couldn’t help her bathe anymore; it had to be done by my mother and me. Dressing her and preening her for the dinner took us almost the entire afternoon, for everything had to be done for her; she would barely move a muscle and she would shout in pain when we moved her. I was ever so confused for I understood she had lived almost alone in her house, except for her maid, and that she could handle her basic necessities by herself only three days earlier. I asked my mother about it but found her more confused and worried than myself.
On the 26th one uncle was to take her to Vallarta for a week. We had just one day to go, but perhaps that day was the worst. That day I helped her walk to the bathroom and as soon as we walked through the door she let herself fall. She actually let herself fall as she made no effort to remain on foot a few more seconds just to reach the toilet. In less than a second she was lying on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever been so panicked in my life. I did my best to bring her to her feet, but I made no progress at all for she was too heavy for me. Even more panicked I shouted for my mom’s aid. Not even the two of us together were able to bring her up. Mom ran to get Dad. Meanwhile, I stood by her, completely heartbroken at seeing the once proud and strong woman just lying on the floor, half naked and completely unable to do anything for herself. I was then when it struck me that my grandmother’s last days had begun, and that she would never be the same again.
My aunts and uncles and their children found it much harder than me to accept and, in all their right; they did what they thought best for her recovery. They assigned a maid specialized in caring for old people to her, they changed medicines and hoped for the best. But I believe it might have been too late, because, as far as I understood the consequences of her strong medications had begun almost six years ago with the deterioration of her liver and the increase of ammonia in her brain.
Little by little she lost her muscle mobility. For two weeks she hadn’t been able to walk anymore and her days were limited to moving herself from bed into a wheelchair and back by a nurse who, given the conditions, had replaced the other caretaker. Her memory left her almost at the same speed; just last Sunday I had her tell me my name for the last time after a succession of six wrong tries.
I had seen her the day before in the afternoon, she had still chewed the tiniest slice of cheese, but now…
I was drawn back to reality by my little sister urging me to say goodbye to my grandmother. We had to leave because my sisters still had homework and my dad had some work to do. After all life, continued for us, and I had been wondering about its whole purpose and meaning for a while now. Given that my grandma was to leave it at last, then what was life all about anyway?
“Mama Chali, good bye, I have to leave you now, but I’ll be here tomorrow. I hope to find you better.” I kissed her on the cheek and for the first time that afternoon I saw her open her eyes, trying to focus on me, and less than a second later they were shut once more. I don’t know if there will be a tomorrow for her; from the depth of my heart I hope there is, but only He who knows it all can tell. For a long time now I’ve been trying to get used to the idea of loosing her. Just a moment earlier I’d believed I’d already had, but I guess nobody is prepared for a moment like that.
Rosa y Berenice
Berenice avienta el teléfono y se suelta a llorar desconsolada. Alondra se lo había dicho todo, y ella confiaba en su amiga: durante la semana y media que llevaba fuera de la ciudad, en su viaje de fin de carrera, Fernando había estado visitando a Margarita, a la que por tantos años ella había llamado su mejor amiga. Su novio, y su mejor amiga, las dos personas a las que más quería le habían traicionado. Y el maldito Fernando, ¡todavía había tenido el descaro de hablarle de la boda…!
“¡Pobre Berenice!”, pensaba la joven, mientras doblaba las camisas del patrón frente al televisor. ¡Y pensar que su vida le había parecido tan perfecta: bonita, de buena posición económica, linda casa, con una carrera y un novio que también le había parecido perfecto. Todo había apuntado a que se casarían y tendrían la vida más envidiable con la que ella hubiera podido soñar!, ¡y ahora el desdichado la había engañado!
Ahora ella, Rosa Domínguez, sencilla trabajadora de una casa en la ciudad, se sentía más afortunada, en cuanto a amor, que la protagonista de su telenovela predilecta. Ramón la esperaba allá en el Rancho, le hablaba con frecuencia y le había prometido hacerla su esposa en cuanto juntara el dinero necesario.
Sin embargo, volviéndose a comparar con la estrella, se daba cuenta de que no era posible que fuera la perfecta Berenice fuera más desdichada que ella. No, verdadera desdichada era ella, que no había tenido jamás una aventura de amor, un desamor, una tragedia digna de ser contada. ¡Cómo deseaba ser desgraciada!. Entre más conciencia hace de ello, más desafortunada se siente, y, sin embargo, “que le garantizaba que Ramón le fuera tan fiel, tal vez su historia personal podría volverse interesante, después de todo.”
Y, en los momentos en que alimenta aquellas necias reflexiones, oye el teléfono timbrar.
-Buenas tardes, casa de la familia Gálvez.
-Rosa, soy Jacinta, su comadre.
-Comadre, que milagro, ¿cómo le va? ¡Qué gusto que me hable! ¿no habrá visto a Francisco estos días verdad?
-Pues, sí, lo vi. Hace dos días, que yo estaba en casa de su Tía Lupe, su prima Lorenza lo recibió en su casa.
“!No, imposible!, ¡Sin vergüenza! ¡Si ya lo había sospechado!”
-Y bueno comadre… pos ya platíqueme otra cosa. ¿Bautizaron ya al niño de Felipa?...
Berenice, sobreponiéndose a su desgracia, cogía el teléfono de nuevo y marcaba el número de Fernando.
“Eso haría también ella, llamarle al ingrato que había jugado con ella para decirle sus verdades.”
-Fernando, me lo han dicho todo. ¡No quiero volver a saber de ti!.
Y de nuevo invadida de lágrimas, asota el teléfono una vez más.
-Comadre, antes de que me cuelgue, mande decir a Ramón que me llame. Es imprescindible que hable con el lo más pronto posible.
Media hora más tarde, suena el teléfono de nuevo.
-Mi amor, ¿cómo estás, Rosita linda, que querías hablar conmigo?.
-¡Si, estúpido! ¡No sé cómo aún tienes las agallas de llamarme, después de lo que has hecho! ¿Y además me llamas “mi amor, Rosita linda”?. Lo único que quería decirte es que espero no volver a saber más de ti.
E imitando a su maestra de drama, asota el teléfono a su vez, y se concentra en llorar de la manera más trágica que le es posible.
Ahora ya se siente tan realizada, ahora sí su vida es tan dramática, tan interesante como la de su admirada Berenice.
Dos capítulos más adelante y el viaje de Berenice ha terminado. Vuela de regreso a casa y en cuanto asoma fuera del avión descubre a Fernando de entre toda la gente, esperándola, con un ramo de rosas en una mano y una cajita negra en la otra.
-Berenice, amor de mi vida, sé bien lo que te dijo Alondra y entiendo el porqué de tu llamada terminante. ¿Que me vio con Margarita? Era sólo para que me ayudara a planear la sorpresa que quería darte cuando volvieras.
Y sacando el anillo de la cajita negra le decía.
-Ya lo tengo todo preparado, sólo tienes que decir que sí.
Y Berenice, olvidando todo cuanto había pensado de él, se arrojaba en sus brazos.
“Berenice dichosa de nuevo”. La desgracia de su ídolo había terminado. Entonces es también hora de que termine la suya.
El teléfono timbra de nuevo.
-Casa de la Familia Gálvez
-Prima, soy Lorenza. Fernando me ha contado lo que le has dicho, y, de verdad, prima, que no entiendo porque te has portado así como él, cuando el hombre no ha hecho nada estas últimas semanas, mientras tu trabajas en la ciudad, que pensar en ti y planear su boda. Tenía ya un poco de dinero y me había pedido ayuda para poder sorprenderte.
“¡Qué enorme felicidad!, su problema se resolvía tal como se le había resuelto a Berenice! Ya no sentiría envidia de ninguna bonita y rica el resto de su vida. ¡Había sufrido como ella, y sería tan feliz como ella!”
-Prima, no sabes lo feliz que soy de oír eso, y pensar que me había preocupado de que me estuviera engañando contigo. Búscale y dile que me hable. Es imprescindible que hable con él.
-No Rosa, ya no puedo buscarle. Lo destrozaste, ¿Que no era la que querías, no volver a saber de él? No es un tonto que solo te iba a estar aguantando tus caprichos. Se dio cuenta que el dinero que tenía, no valía emplearlo en ti y con eso mismo pagó su avión a Tijuana. Ya ha de estar cruzando la frontera, Rosa, y no creo que le vuelvas a ver.
-Pero, Berenice… pero…, ¡no puede ser!
Deseo concedido: ahora sí podía considerarse desgraciada.
“¡Pobre Berenice!”, pensaba la joven, mientras doblaba las camisas del patrón frente al televisor. ¡Y pensar que su vida le había parecido tan perfecta: bonita, de buena posición económica, linda casa, con una carrera y un novio que también le había parecido perfecto. Todo había apuntado a que se casarían y tendrían la vida más envidiable con la que ella hubiera podido soñar!, ¡y ahora el desdichado la había engañado!
Ahora ella, Rosa Domínguez, sencilla trabajadora de una casa en la ciudad, se sentía más afortunada, en cuanto a amor, que la protagonista de su telenovela predilecta. Ramón la esperaba allá en el Rancho, le hablaba con frecuencia y le había prometido hacerla su esposa en cuanto juntara el dinero necesario.
Sin embargo, volviéndose a comparar con la estrella, se daba cuenta de que no era posible que fuera la perfecta Berenice fuera más desdichada que ella. No, verdadera desdichada era ella, que no había tenido jamás una aventura de amor, un desamor, una tragedia digna de ser contada. ¡Cómo deseaba ser desgraciada!. Entre más conciencia hace de ello, más desafortunada se siente, y, sin embargo, “que le garantizaba que Ramón le fuera tan fiel, tal vez su historia personal podría volverse interesante, después de todo.”
Y, en los momentos en que alimenta aquellas necias reflexiones, oye el teléfono timbrar.
-Buenas tardes, casa de la familia Gálvez.
-Rosa, soy Jacinta, su comadre.
-Comadre, que milagro, ¿cómo le va? ¡Qué gusto que me hable! ¿no habrá visto a Francisco estos días verdad?
-Pues, sí, lo vi. Hace dos días, que yo estaba en casa de su Tía Lupe, su prima Lorenza lo recibió en su casa.
“!No, imposible!, ¡Sin vergüenza! ¡Si ya lo había sospechado!”
-Y bueno comadre… pos ya platíqueme otra cosa. ¿Bautizaron ya al niño de Felipa?...
Berenice, sobreponiéndose a su desgracia, cogía el teléfono de nuevo y marcaba el número de Fernando.
“Eso haría también ella, llamarle al ingrato que había jugado con ella para decirle sus verdades.”
-Fernando, me lo han dicho todo. ¡No quiero volver a saber de ti!.
Y de nuevo invadida de lágrimas, asota el teléfono una vez más.
-Comadre, antes de que me cuelgue, mande decir a Ramón que me llame. Es imprescindible que hable con el lo más pronto posible.
Media hora más tarde, suena el teléfono de nuevo.
-Mi amor, ¿cómo estás, Rosita linda, que querías hablar conmigo?.
-¡Si, estúpido! ¡No sé cómo aún tienes las agallas de llamarme, después de lo que has hecho! ¿Y además me llamas “mi amor, Rosita linda”?. Lo único que quería decirte es que espero no volver a saber más de ti.
E imitando a su maestra de drama, asota el teléfono a su vez, y se concentra en llorar de la manera más trágica que le es posible.
Ahora ya se siente tan realizada, ahora sí su vida es tan dramática, tan interesante como la de su admirada Berenice.
Dos capítulos más adelante y el viaje de Berenice ha terminado. Vuela de regreso a casa y en cuanto asoma fuera del avión descubre a Fernando de entre toda la gente, esperándola, con un ramo de rosas en una mano y una cajita negra en la otra.
-Berenice, amor de mi vida, sé bien lo que te dijo Alondra y entiendo el porqué de tu llamada terminante. ¿Que me vio con Margarita? Era sólo para que me ayudara a planear la sorpresa que quería darte cuando volvieras.
Y sacando el anillo de la cajita negra le decía.
-Ya lo tengo todo preparado, sólo tienes que decir que sí.
Y Berenice, olvidando todo cuanto había pensado de él, se arrojaba en sus brazos.
“Berenice dichosa de nuevo”. La desgracia de su ídolo había terminado. Entonces es también hora de que termine la suya.
El teléfono timbra de nuevo.
-Casa de la Familia Gálvez
-Prima, soy Lorenza. Fernando me ha contado lo que le has dicho, y, de verdad, prima, que no entiendo porque te has portado así como él, cuando el hombre no ha hecho nada estas últimas semanas, mientras tu trabajas en la ciudad, que pensar en ti y planear su boda. Tenía ya un poco de dinero y me había pedido ayuda para poder sorprenderte.
“¡Qué enorme felicidad!, su problema se resolvía tal como se le había resuelto a Berenice! Ya no sentiría envidia de ninguna bonita y rica el resto de su vida. ¡Había sufrido como ella, y sería tan feliz como ella!”
-Prima, no sabes lo feliz que soy de oír eso, y pensar que me había preocupado de que me estuviera engañando contigo. Búscale y dile que me hable. Es imprescindible que hable con él.
-No Rosa, ya no puedo buscarle. Lo destrozaste, ¿Que no era la que querías, no volver a saber de él? No es un tonto que solo te iba a estar aguantando tus caprichos. Se dio cuenta que el dinero que tenía, no valía emplearlo en ti y con eso mismo pagó su avión a Tijuana. Ya ha de estar cruzando la frontera, Rosa, y no creo que le vuelvas a ver.
-Pero, Berenice… pero…, ¡no puede ser!
Deseo concedido: ahora sí podía considerarse desgraciada.
While Waiting for Mother
The two girls walked hand in hand out of the school building, down the sidewalk to the colossal Laurel of India. Massive in both width and height, it had dark green leaves coating dozens of branches. With a strong brown stem, dark as the leaves, it stood proud before them. To them, the tree was a heaven of wonder, and they, small and awed, looked up. Did they dare conquer it?
They wore white school uniforms: pleated skirts and navy blue shoes and berets. One was six, the other barely four. The eldest, tall and skinny, energetic and messy, was determined to climb up, while her little sister, her beloved and precious doll looked at her horrified. Petite and chubby, neat from toes to curls, determined too, she told her sister, “Meg, I won’t.”
“Come on, Rosie!”
“I won’t, I won’t.”
“You can do it!”
“I can’t and won’t.”
“ Of course you will”
“No. I won’t. I’m scared.”
Meg, looking lovingly at her sister just sighed and hugged her.
“All right then. Don’t move from here, ok?”
“I won’t. You’ll tell me what you see?”
“Of course, Rosie. Indeed I will.”
And sighing again, she began to climb. Up she climbed, farther and farther until the tallest branch, looking down at Rosie, assuring herself that her little sister was well.
Rosie, from the ground, followed her big sister, the brave Meg, with her eyes, until she lost her among the green. “Good luck Meg,” she thought as she wondered what new adventure her sister was to live. Then she felt cowardly and alone, and she cried.
Not ten minutes had passed; for Rosie a lifetime, for Meg just a blink. Rosie waited, her tears watering the tree, feeding the stem, nourishing the leaves. And the tree, being grateful, drank her sorrow through its roots, converting it to gayety as it rose up to its crown. From the crown Meg felt it and her spirit rose higher still and then she lived such joyful adventures, forgetting she was up on the tree. From being kidnapped by pirates, she had been taken to the moon, met dwarves and pretty fairies and the mermaids of a pool. Suddenly her trip was over; she was called back to earth…
“Meg! Meg! Come down this instant. Never, ever again leave Rosie by herself. Do you understand?”
…and thus ended her dreams.
“Yes mom, I’ll be right down.”
And she climbed down from the tree.
“I’m sorry Rosie, I love you. I lost track of the time. Let’s go home with mother.”
“Y-es Meg,” Rosie sobbed. “But please tell me what you’ve seen.”
They walked away from school, away from the Laurel tree. Hand in hand the little sisters, their mother letting them be. And Meg brought back all her adventures, from the moon down to the sea. Rosie, bewildered believed her every word, as she always did. Her brave big sister Meg, would she ever be like her? Would she ever dare climb up the tree?
They wore white school uniforms: pleated skirts and navy blue shoes and berets. One was six, the other barely four. The eldest, tall and skinny, energetic and messy, was determined to climb up, while her little sister, her beloved and precious doll looked at her horrified. Petite and chubby, neat from toes to curls, determined too, she told her sister, “Meg, I won’t.”
“Come on, Rosie!”
“I won’t, I won’t.”
“You can do it!”
“I can’t and won’t.”
“ Of course you will”
“No. I won’t. I’m scared.”
Meg, looking lovingly at her sister just sighed and hugged her.
“All right then. Don’t move from here, ok?”
“I won’t. You’ll tell me what you see?”
“Of course, Rosie. Indeed I will.”
And sighing again, she began to climb. Up she climbed, farther and farther until the tallest branch, looking down at Rosie, assuring herself that her little sister was well.
Rosie, from the ground, followed her big sister, the brave Meg, with her eyes, until she lost her among the green. “Good luck Meg,” she thought as she wondered what new adventure her sister was to live. Then she felt cowardly and alone, and she cried.
Not ten minutes had passed; for Rosie a lifetime, for Meg just a blink. Rosie waited, her tears watering the tree, feeding the stem, nourishing the leaves. And the tree, being grateful, drank her sorrow through its roots, converting it to gayety as it rose up to its crown. From the crown Meg felt it and her spirit rose higher still and then she lived such joyful adventures, forgetting she was up on the tree. From being kidnapped by pirates, she had been taken to the moon, met dwarves and pretty fairies and the mermaids of a pool. Suddenly her trip was over; she was called back to earth…
“Meg! Meg! Come down this instant. Never, ever again leave Rosie by herself. Do you understand?”
…and thus ended her dreams.
“Yes mom, I’ll be right down.”
And she climbed down from the tree.
“I’m sorry Rosie, I love you. I lost track of the time. Let’s go home with mother.”
“Y-es Meg,” Rosie sobbed. “But please tell me what you’ve seen.”
They walked away from school, away from the Laurel tree. Hand in hand the little sisters, their mother letting them be. And Meg brought back all her adventures, from the moon down to the sea. Rosie, bewildered believed her every word, as she always did. Her brave big sister Meg, would she ever be like her? Would she ever dare climb up the tree?
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