Le Rêve d'une Ombre

 La vie n'est que le rêve d'une ombre : je l'ai senti de nouveau ce soir avec intensité. Je ne m'aperçois moi-même que comme une apparence fugitive, comme l'impalpable arc-en-ciel qui flotte un instant sur la bruine, dans cette formidable cascade de l'être qui tombe sans relâche dans l'abîme des jours.

Henri-Frédéric Amiel : Journal Intime, le 29 août 1872.

Mardi dernier, alors que je rentrais de mon travail au lycée Jacques de Vaucanson où j'enseigne l'anglais, j'ai traversé le Pont Wilson sur la Loire, descendu du tramway à la Place Anatole France, puis marché vers mon domicile au 12 Rue de Constantine. C'est à ce moment-là que j'ai remarqué une voiture garée de l'autre côté de la rue, avec une personne qui me fixait. En cherchant mes clés dans mes poches, un tremblement involontaire m'a envahi en réalisant que la fille dans la voiture n'était autre que Valentine.
     Nous nous sommes fixés intensément du regard pendant une minute. Elle avait l'air préoccupée, puis elle a détourné les yeux. J'avais du mal à respirer. Cela faisait déjà plusieurs mois que nous ne nous étions pas parlés. Nous avions eu une dispute à cause de son copain, que je n'apprécie pas, car je pense qu'il a une mauvaise influence sur elle. Elle s'était donc mise en colère et avait déménagé. Avant que je n'entre dans la maison, elle m'a lancé un dernier regard, comme si elle voulait dire : « Adieu papa ». Ensuite, elle a démarré sa voiture et est partie.
     Bouleversé par ce que je venais de vivre, j’ai quand même fini par ouvrir la porte, et je suis entré dans la maison. Dès que j'ai franchi le seuil, j'ai remarqué Gabriel, mon fils qui regardait la télévision. À l’instant où il a perçu ma présence, il m’a appelé : « Viens papa, je veux te montrer quelque chose ». Je lui ai répondu : « Attends un moment, je dois d’abord parler avec ta mère ».
     Ma femme et moi avons quitté le salon pour nous rendre dans la cuisine afin que Gabriel n'entende pas notre conversation. Nous nous sommes installés autour de la table à manger. Une profonde tristesse me serrait la gorge, mais j’ai fini par lui poser la question: « Donc, c’est vrai? ». « Oui » m’a-t-elle répondu. Et avec un mépris évident elle a ajouté : « Elle s’est mariée avec ce type-là ». À cet instant, une vague d'angoisse m'a submergé et j'ai commencé à pleurer.

Tout à coup, mes larmes m'ont réveillé et je me suis interrogé sur le sens de ce rêve. Pourquoi Valentine, vivant à des milliers de kilomètres de moi, avait-elle pénétré mon intimité? Je me mis alors à réfléchir et j'en ai conclu que le passé, très présent dans mon rêve, avait pour but sûrement de me délivrer un message. Gabriel, étant un garçon, symbolisait une époque révolue aujourd'hui. Quant à Valentine, cette fille que je n'ai jamais pu avoir, semblait vouloir me faire comprendre que le temps s’écoule très vite et qu'il est essentiel de se débarrasser de certains espoirs.  
     Mais pourquoi cette jeune fille avait-elle l'air si mélancolique ? Quel message voulait-elle me communiquer ? Était-ce l'impossibilité de la comprendre, de saisir le sens de la vie? Peut-être que ce rêve était également un présage du futur, un oracle dissimulé qui me faisait entrevoir que, malgré toutes les épreuves du temps qui s'échappe, et de la distance qui nous sépare, un espoir était encore possible; et que Valentine (la jeunesse, l’avenir), dans cette voiture symbolisant l’évasion, me transmettait un message codé qui voulait dire : « Ne m'abandonne pas, quoiqu'il arrive et malgré les défis que tu auras à surmonter».   
      Ce rêve, aussi mystérieux qu'il soit et qui me laisse perplexe, me rappelle que les rêves peuvent parfois guider nos vies. Que ce soit des rêves récurrents ou simplement des instants d'évasion, de joie ou de tristesse, ils ont leur importance. Mes paupières s'alourdissent à nouveau, la fatigue m'envahit et je pense que, s'il se reproduit, il finira, au fil du temps, par révéler progressivement tous ses secrets.

©William Almonte Jiménez, 2017
©M.E.C, 2017

Eternal Life

The living room was spacious and dimly lit, partially illuminated by a lamp in one corner. Ice had begun to form along the edges of the windows. Through the thick frost covering the windowpanes, one could only imagine the harshness of the winter night outside.

     His younger brother was asleep while their mother was working the night shift. We were sitting on the sofa, watching one of his favorite shows on TV, side by side, closely together, as if to ease the feeling of loneliness. The large living room always made me aware of that solitude, which, somehow, seemed more intense when his mother was absent.

     “How come kids have fun all day long?” he suddenly asked.

     “That’s just what kids do; they have fun all the time,” I replied, somewhat surprised by the question, not knowing exactly what he meant. “When you’re young, there’s no need to worry because your parents take care of you. But once you grow up, you’ll need to work, get married, and have your own kids,” I added in a casual way, keeping my focus on the television set.

     “How come?” he inquired in a serious tone, as if demanding my full attention.

   “Well, all children eventually grow up and get married, just as you will one day,” I answered, knowing that my words didn’t make complete sense.

     “How come?” he insisted.

    I didn’t know exactly how to reply, but I knew that I had to come up with a better justification. “Sooner or later everybody gets married. You will meet a girl, you will like her, she will like you back, and then you will get married,” I added, still uncertain about that response.

     “What if she already has a husband?” He fired relentlessly, making me uneasy.

     It suddenly became obvious to me that the time I was afraid of had come; the time when my children would start asking serious questions about life’s big issues. I realized I was trying to avoid the pitfalls of giving the wrong answers or giving too much information. “You never marry a girl that already has a husband,” I said, knowing that it was perfectly possible to fall in love with a girl that was already married to another man. But, of course, I wasn’t going to start rationalizing that predicament with him.

      “I will never get married,” he said indifferently.

     “Why?” I inquired, feeling more at ease and seizing the chance to pose the questions.

     “Because I want to stay with you,” he replied as if the answer was obvious.

    I wanted to respond logically to that, but nothing came to my mind. Before I could formulate a thought, he continued with his interrogation.

     “How will you look when I am a grown-up?”

   “I will be older; I will probably have gray hair,” I stated, rather relieved because, in some way, he had changed the subject. The instant I said those words, however, I knew I had taken a turn I shouldn’t have. The respite didn’t last.

     “How come people get old and die?” he promptly inquired, just as I had feared he would.

     We had arrived at the point in the conversation that I was trying to avoid. “I’m not sure, but that’s the way it is,” I replied, lacking conviction.

      Without letting up, there came another query: “If you die, who will take care of me?”

“When you grow up, you won’t need me; you’ll take care of yourself. Just look at me: my parents live back home, and I live here. I manage on my own now without needing them to fix my problems. You’ll be able to do the same,” I asserted in a more confident tone, feeling as if I had finally found the right way to navigate this challenging dialogue.

     “What if you die while I am still a child?”

     “You have your mother.”

     “What if Mommy dies?”

     “There are always your grandparents.”

    “True, but they are so far away. How would I get there?”

     “You would go to the airport and buy a plane ticket.”

     “And if the grandparents die, who will look after me?”

   He wouldn’t yield, set on obtaining every answer immediately. Feeling troubled and unsure of how to respond or react, with the intention of putting an end to the questioning, I repeated rather impatiently, “I’ve already told you, you will look after yourself.”

     He began to sob and then moved in closer to hug me. “I don’t want you to die,” he firmly said. It sounded like he was commanding me, “Don’t you dare die on me.” He appeared to be invoking the powers that govern the universe, delivering his ultimate decree: “I prohibit you from claiming my father’s life; that’s my definitive statement.”

     I was feeling cornered and agitated. The conversation I had been dreading unfolded just as I had feared. A wave of anxiety churned in my stomach. I fought to keep the tears from spilling over my eyes. In a moment of desperation, as if I were offering a lifeline to either him or myself, I held him close and softly whispered, “Everything will turn out alright. You don’t need to worry about that. It won't happen anytime soon. In fact, I’ll never die.”

     It was getting late, and he had to get up early in the morning to go to school. I thought it was the ideal reason to wrap up our conversation. I told him that it was time to go to bed. He kissed me goodnight and went to sleep. Then it was my turn to go to bed. While I was in the washroom brushing my teeth and reflecting on our conversation, I noticed him standing by the door.

     “I want to be with you,” he said.

     After I finished brushing my teeth, I took him to bed and pulled the blanket over him. As I sat next to him, I gently stroked his hair until he dozed off. I stayed there a while after he fell asleep, feeling guilty and pondering how I might explain the complexities of life to a six-year-old without lying. How could I provide an answer when I didn’t have a reasonable explanation myself? How could I do it when I felt that despite all my experiences, I still didn’t understand things any better than he did?

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2011
 

Los Hombres No Lloran

Lo más lejos que puedo estirar mi memoria es hasta el día en que murió Noel. No tengo recuerdos de nada que haya ocurrido antes de esa fecha. Aún tengo presente la imagen de mi hermano menor durmiendo en una cama extraña; en ese entonces yo no tenía ni idea de lo que era un ataúd. Se veía tan adorable con ese atuendo. No sabría decir cómo me sentí al respecto, ya que probablemente no entendía la situación. Tal vez me sentía indiferente o incluso un poco entretenido al verlo dormir en esa cama peculiar, con dos hojas de laurel cubriéndole los ojos. Creo que me sentía confundido porque los vecinos seguían entrando a la casa y conversando con mis padres. Seguramente me asusté cuando unos hombres pusieron una tapa sobre el ataúd que contenía a mi hermano, y cuando iban a levantarlo para llevárselo, vi a mamá correr hacia ellos, como una fiera. Entonces abrazó el ataúd, se aferró a él y comenzó a gritar como una loca. Debí sentir mucho miedo al darme cuenta de que algo terrible estaba sucediendo cuando noté que papá también estaba llorando. Siempre había pensado que los hombres no lloran. Muchos años después vería a mi padre llorar una vez más. Al final, cuando mamá logró calmarse, aquellos hombres levantaron el ataúd de mi hermano y lo colocaron dentro de un carruaje tirado por caballos que aguardaba afuera. Luego se lo llevaron.

     Noel murió a causa del cólera, y hasta el último día de su vida, papá lamentó con cierta amargura el hecho de que en ese entonces fuéramos pobres. Estaba convencido de que si hubiéramos tenido dinero para llevarlo a un hospital privado, lo habríamos salvado. Aunque sé que nunca volví a verlo, no estoy seguro de si alguna vez le pregunté a mamá dónde estaba mi hermanito o cuándo regresaría. A veces me pregunto si sólo lo estoy imaginando. ¿Cómo puedo recordarlo? Eso sucedió en 1958. Yo tenía sólo tres años y Noel apenas dos. Es posible que mis recuerdos hayan sido moldeados a partir de los frecuentes relatos de mi madre de esa ocasión. Lo que pudo haber grabado ese evento en mi memoria fue ver llorar a mi padre, una escena que probablemente nunca antes había presenciado. Como dije, ese día sigue siendo mi primer recuerdo de la infancia. 

     Un años más tarde, en 1959, la nación aún se encontraba bajo el yugo de la despiadada dictadura de Rafael Trujillo, que había comenzado en 1930. Vivíamos en un estado de miedo constante mientras el régimen perseguía, torturaba y asesinaba sistemáticamente a los disidentes. Había que tener cuidado con lo que se decía y con quién se socializaba, ya que un vecino, un amigo cercano o incluso un familiar podían fácilmente denunciarte ante las autoridades por tener opiniones contrarias al gobierno. Y entonces, una noche, la policía secreta podía irrumpir en tu casa y llevarte a La Cuarenta, un centro de tortura ubicado en la calle 40 de Santo Domingo. Allí se sometía a los prisioneros a métodos brutales de tortura, como quemaduras con cigarrillos, descargas eléctricas, palizas con martillos o bates de béisbol e incluso la extracción de las uñas, todo en un esfuerzo por obligarte a traicionar a tus colaboradores, si es que los tenías. Si lograbas sobrevivir a tan horrendas torturas, finalmente te mataban y arrojaban tu cuerpo al Mar Caribe, dejando a tu familia sin ninguna esperanza de volver a verte.

     En enero de 1959, los revolucionarios cubanos consiguieron derrocar al dictador Fulgencio Batista. El 14 de junio, exiliados dominicanos, con el apoyo de Fidel Castro, lanzaron una invasión a la República Dominicana desde tres frentes diferentes, con el objetivo de derrocar al dictador Rafael Trujillo. Los rebeldes se dirigieron a Estero Hondo y Maimón remando desde barcos anclados en alta mar, mientras que un contingente más pequeño aterrizó un avión de transporte C-46 en Constanza. Sin embargo, las fuerzas armadas dominicanas, alertadas por sus propios espías, frustraron el asalto marítimo. En Constanza, la mayoría de los rebeldes fueron capturados o asesinados. La fallida invasión intensificó la represión del régimen contra el pueblo. Cualquier persona sospechosa de tener vínculos con los barbudos (los invasores) se enfrentaba a la amenaza de ser capturado, torturado y ejecutado.

     Mi padre era un campesino que, en 1947, a los catorce años, abandonó la granja familiar para forjarse una vida mejor en la ciudad. En 1959, tenía esposa y cuatro hijos (en realidad tres; Noel ya había fallecido), y vivía en la extrema pobreza. No se involucraba en ninguna actividad política; simplemente trabajaba vendiendo billetes de lotería para sacar adelante a su familia. Era simplemente una hombre común tratando de subsistir. Sin embargo, por razones que en ese momento ignoraba, el SIM (Servicio de Inteligencia Militar), la policía secreta, conocida por el público como calieses (matones), comenzó a acosarlo. Lo detenían en las calles, le hacían preguntas extrañas, lo vigilaban y lo seguían en sus Volkswagen negros, llamados cepillos. Papá, asustado y ansioso, decidió hablar con uno de nuestros vecinos, el sargento Collie, que era miembro de la policía regular, para expresarle sus preocupaciones. Ese acto puede haber sido ingenuo e imprudente, pero papá realmente creía que el sargento Collie era un buen hombre. El sargento Collie corroboró que la policía secreta tenía algo en su contra, aunque no sabía exactamente qué. Le aconsejó  que tuviera cuidado, que vigilara su propia sombra y que se mantuviera alejado de los extraños. Esta situación se prolongó durante varios meses, hasta que papá averiguó la razón por la cual lo tenían bajo vigilancia.

    Rivas era un prominente y respetado abogado en la ciudad de Santiago, conocido por su abierta oposición al gobierno. El régimen no lo había asesinado debido a su avanzada edad y al hecho de que no representaba una amenaza seria. También existía la probabilidad de que su muerte provocara un escándalo público considerable y críticas a nivel internacional. Mi padre lo visitaba a menudo tanto en su oficina como en su casa para venderle billetes de lotería. Durante esas visitas entablaban diversas conversaciones y, con el tiempo, forjaron una amistad. Mi padre le contó de sus encuentros con la policía secreta, y Rivas, que era enemigo declarado de Trujillo, le advirtió que podría estar bajo vigilancia porque eran amigos. Le aconsejó encarecidamente que dejara de visitarlo, que se abstuviera de volver a hablar con él y que lo ignorara si se cruzaban en la calle. Mi padre siguió su consejo, y, a partir de entonces, la policía secreta lo dejó en paz. Su experiencia con el SIM terminó sin mayores consecuencias, pero fácilmente papá pudo haber corrido una suerte similar a la de tantos otros. Pudo haber desaparecido una noche sin dejar rastro, y nunca habríamos averiguado su paradero. En 1961, el dictador Rafael Trujillo fue ejecutado por un grupo de disidentes que emboscaron su carro en una carretera en las afueras de la capital Santo Domingo. Eso desencadenó un levantamiento popular que llevó a la caída total del régimen. Luego de este suceso, mi padre y Rivas reanudaron su amistad. 

     En la época y el lugar en que crecí me enseñaron que los hombres no debían llorar.  Papá no lloró en 1959 cuando estaba siendo perseguido por la policía secreta de Trujillo, o cuando lo metieron preso en 1964. Sin embargo, yo no estuve a la altura de esa norma el día que fui a visitarlo en la cárcel. Un vecino, a quien mi padre alquilaba una vivienda, albergaba resentimiento contra él y lo acusó falsamente de esconder armas de fuego ilegales en nuestra casa. A pesar de que no se presentaron cargos formales y nuestra casa nunca fue allanada ni se encontraron armas, mi padre pasó una semana tras las rejas. Los llamados derechos humanos no aplicaban a nosotros. Estar bien conectado con las autoridades otorgaba a algunos el poder de perjudicar a otros. Cuando mi madre y yo entramos en la habitación donde él esperaba, inmediatamente corrí hacia él y empecé a llorar. Ojalá hubiera podido ser más fuerte, ya que supongo que él necesitaba apoyo emocional. Pero no pude. Sólo tenía nueve años.

     Mi padre no derramó ni una lágrima aquel día, estoy seguro de ello porque, a diferencia de la primera vez, que sólo recuerdo vagamente, la segunda y última vez que lo vi llorar está grabada indeleblemente en mi memoria. Era el verano de 1969. Mi hermano menor, Hugo, estaba gravemente enfermo y llevaba meses padeciendo. Se lastimó mientras jugaba en el banco del carpintero que estaba reparando nuestra casa. Tropezó y cayó, aterrizando con fuerza en el banco y se lesionó el páncreas. Le operaron tres veces, pero los médicos finalmente perdieron la esperanza y decidieron enviarlo a morir en su casa . Una vecina, que trabajaba de enfermera, acudía varias veces al día para inyectarle analgésicos por vía intravenosa. No obstante, una vez que el efecto del medicamento pasaba, el dolor volvía de manera insoportable. Su cuerpo se había deteriorado tanto que, en determinado momento, literalmente no era más que piel y huesos.

     Un domingo por la mañana que recuerdo nítidamente, encontré a mi padre junto a la cama de mi hermano, tratando de consolarlo, mientras yo me mantenía de pie cerca. De repente, mi padre perdió los estribos y salió furioso de la habitación, dirigiéndose hacia el patio trasero, gritando como un loco que ya no podía soportar ver a su hijo sufrir, deseando incluso que muriera para que la agonía terminara. Me quedé boquiabierto. Lo seguí afuera, donde él estaba sollozando de desesperación. Y de nuevo me sentí incapaz de ayudarlo. Simplemente me quedé allí a su lado, haciéndole compañía. No sabía qué más hacer. Sólo tenía catorce años. La dura verdad era que todos en nuestra familia, incluida mi madre, compartíamos ese mismo sentimiento. Sin embargo, las cosas no resultaron de esa manera. Mi hermano perdió el año escolar, pero logró sobrevivir y ocupa un lugar único en nuestros corazones porque, como mi madre solía expresar con su lenguaje tan poético: “Ese niño se lo arrancamos de los brazos a la muerte”. La muerte se había llevado a Noel, pero no pudo llevarse a Hugo.

 

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

 

The Eye of the Storm

 Our only importance is that we have the ability to make contact with other human beings.

-Ingmar Bergman

Néstor woke up to the ringing of his alarm clock, feeling startled and irritable. With a strong and spiteful slap, he silenced the damned mechanism he hated so much. After a sleepless night, or sleeping at short intervals, tormented by inexplicable dreams, the worst thing that could happen to him was to be frightened by that infernal machine that forcibly took him out of the pleasant sleep he had finally managed to drift into at daybreak. He sat up on the bed for a moment, still half asleep, with shadows and shapeless lights swirling in his eyes. Letting out a long sigh, he looked at Edith, who lay sound asleep, half naked, wrapped in the sheets, and her disheveled hair. The realization of her presence restored his composure. Gently, so as not to wake her, he leaned down and kissed her buttocks, her shoulders, and her hair.

     In the shower, he floated amid the mist shrouding him and the memories coming to life in the spirals of water vapor.

     "What a pain!" he grumbled. "I don't want to rehash the past; I don't like to do it, but it always shows up without an invitation."

     Indeed, he despised revisiting the past, knowing it was behind him and should remain there. However, memories were constantly lurking, often assaulting him at the most inconvenient times. And there they were, haunting him in the shower, like ghosts performing a macabre dance, reproaching him for his failures, with their devilish laughter echoing from their hollow mouths as they let the shattered glass of his unfulfilled dreams slip through their skeletal hands. He reflected on the winding road he had traveled—his achievements, setbacks, the great mistakes, the dramatic divorce, the heart-wrenching separation from his children, the loneliness, unrequited loves, the disintegration of the psychic framework that defined his identity, and the descent into madness that he managed to avoid without turning to narcotics. Currently, his life resembled a ceasefire. Edith was a breakwater, the eye of the storm, the Sea of Tranquility, Sigma Octantis, Polaris, the counterweight that balanced the scale of his everyday existence. He hoped fervently that this state of peace would last as long as possible.

     He sipped his coffee while seated on a chair at the kitchen table. The rich aroma and bold flavor of freshly brewed coffee—black and strong, with a slight hint of nutmeg— gave him an ineffable pleasure that helped him shake off the lingering drowsiness from a restless night. Somehow, the morning coffee softened the acrid crust stuck to his soul, and that seemed to be reborn every morning, exacerbated by the strange dreams. He fastened his scarf, buttoned up his coat, and put on his cap before heading outside. 

  

The slow fall of the snow on the dimly lit street brought him a sense of tranquility. A group of individuals waiting at the bus stop huddled together in an effort to generate warmth and ward off the chill. The winter season compelled them to abandon their cherished personal space.

     He headed for the bakery at the corner. The man who usually slept on the sidewalk by the entrance, even in winter, covered by many blankets to withstand the freezing temperature, was still fast asleep. Upon entering the shop, which was already bustling with people despite the early hour, he was greeted by a delightful fragrance of newly baked bread, cookies, cakes, pies, and other pastries that permeated the air. He ordered his regular apple Danish, with its flaky, crispy crust and warm apple pieces sprinkled with cinnamon. That’s something he enjoyed very much.

     He stepped outside and immersed himself in the pale, almost ghostly mist created by the falling snow. The beggar was already awake and asked him for some change. Néstor searched his pockets and took out a loonie, which he placed in the man’s outstretched hand. After walking a short distance, he paused and returned to the homeless man, who looked at him with a puzzled expression. Once again, he searched his pockets, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to him.

     The sharp sound of the crossing guard’s whistle stopped the traffic. A group of children crossed the street, bundled up in their winter clothes, carrying their backpacks as they headed for school. This scene brought back memories of his children when they were little, when he would take them to school before going to work. This reminiscence put a smile on his face and wiped off the discomfort caused by the previous sleepless night. They were good boys, now grown and living on their own. They often came to see him, and they all would talk about the old days. They got along well with Edith, even though she was not their mother. Néstor figured that as long as they were doing well, he would be fine.

     The path leading to Eglinton West subway station always gave him the impression of being in a foreign land. It extended downhill alongside Allen Road, isolated from it by a noise barrier. On either side there were neatly lined trees, exhibiting their charming foliage, which changed with the seasons: bright, green, and new in spring; dark green and shiny in summer; orange, red, and yellow in autumn; and bare branches covered with snow or ice in winter. Walking under their mantle brought him joy and reminded him of the Boulevard Saint Michel, and Les Jardins du Luxembourg.

     At Eglinton West, before descending into the bowels of the earth, he picked up a newspaper. Once the train arrived, he took a seat at the back of the car, from where he could observe the crowd. He liked spying on people and guessing what their lives were like based on their facial expressions or the brightness in their eyes. The crowd was typical: those who were sleeping; those who were reading; the man with the briefcase, in a suit and tie, who was obviously in a hurry, as he was constantly looking at his watch; the girl who listened to music with tiny earphones in her ears, her eyes closed, bobbing her head, and whispering a melody; the girl who chatted loudly on her cell phone; the elderly man with an empty stare, who spoke to himself, seemingly lost in his thoughts and solitude.

     He unfolded the paper, pulled out the first section, and glanced at the headlines. Radioactivity in water higher than previously thought. Iraqi man kills daughter involved with Al-Qaida. Depression in men on the rise due to socioeconomic changes. 7.4 magnitude earthquake in Pakistan. Floods in the Philippines leave 51 dead and 1.6 million homeless. Suicide bomber kills 21 in Egyptian church. Philadelphia doctor accused of killing patients and newborns. Israeli soldier kills Palestinian at checkpoint. 15 headless bodies found in Mexico. Mother kills her children. American officer kills two Pakistanis in Lahore.

     The second section brought more hopeful news. Hundreds work in Vietnam to save the Sacred Tortoise. India and Bangladesh settle their border disputes. Radio stations in Senegal promote peace using local languages. Nepalese rebels join government. Cuba frees political prisoners. South Korean president begins talks with North Korea. Jordan lifts ban on public gatherings. Philippine government and rebels begin peace talks in Norway. Egyptian military agrees to transfer of power. Israeli woman gives birth in Palestinian hospital. Pizza delivery man saves elderly woman. Philanthropists give more than money; they donate their time and talent to students. Woman rescued after 24 hours in New Zealand earthquake.

  

When he arrived at the office, Rosina, the receptionist, greeted him with her usual cheerful smile and inquired about Edith. She enjoyed sharing harmless gossip and usually inquired about Néstor’s personal and romantic life, curious about how things were going. He happily would update her, as he saw no malice in her interest in his private affairs. Her face would light up with joy when he reported that everything was fine, and she would express genuine concern if the news was less favorable. He was very fond of her. She was married and had two young daughters. Néstor liked trying to read her mind through the expressions she displayed each day: apathy, enthusiasm, sadness, melancholy, worry.

     As he walked through the control center Mariela stood up and gave him a hug, as she did every morning. There was nothing romantic or sexual about it. They had been friends for a long time. From the very start, he and Mariela developed a close bond, and they came to the conclusion that the only healthy way to start the day was with a hug. When they first met, he was on his own, while Mariela was unhappily married. They both found comfort in those morning hugs. They were truly meant to be friends. Now he had Edith, just as she had her husband, but one thing had nothing to do with the other. Romantic relationships are frequently unpredictable; lovers come and go; nevertheless, the complicity between them always remained, like a safe haven in the middle of a hurricane. Their coworkers didn’t misinterpret them or spread rumors; they saw nothing inappropriate about that hug. Instead, they just watched this daily ritual, bewildered, unable to understand, and lacking the courage to step out of their own comfort zone and do the same. They stared at the couple with healthy envy, perhaps wishing they too had a safe harbor like theirs.

     After a morning of toiling in the warehouse, where he worked, receiving and shipping merchandise, he put on his coat and went out to grab a bite from the food cart that parked at the corner each day, serving hamburgers, hot dogs, and soda. The temperature had increased slightly, and the snow was beginning to melt. However, there was a chilly breeze, and everyone gathered around the cart, seeking its warmth and worshiping it as if it were the sacred life-giving fire. He ordered a Polish sausage with Perrier water. While eating, he engaged in conversation with Czeslaw and the other people present about sports, politics, and, inevitably, the miserable winter they were experiencing. But really, when had Winter ever been anything but miserable?   

     After he finished his meal, he didn't go back to the warehouse. He was only working half a shift that day because in the afternoon he had a doctor’s appointment. For months he had been experiencing pain deep within his abdomen. He had already undergone a few tests, and that afternoon he would receive the results.

At the doctor's office, Néstor listened with some indifference to what the doctor was telling him, as if the doctor was talking about someone else, not about him, as if he did not understand, or did not want to understand, the seriousness of what the doctor was communicating. In the best case, with treatment, his life could be prolonged to about five years. In the worst case, he would live around eight months, or a year.

The subway passengers were the usual crowd: those sleeping, those reading, those looking at their watches impatiently, those talking to themselves or on their cell phones. The only difference was a girl who was shamelessly kissing the boy beside her. A few riders, including Néstor, cast sidelong glances at them, frowning in disapproval. “Get a room!” thought Néstor to himself. They were aware of the attention they were attracting. She didn’t seem to care. “What the fuck!” “What the hell!” The boy was overwhelmed with embarrassment, but he couldn’t shake her off.

     Néstor was musing about what the doctor had told him, yet feeling detached and aloof, as if these events were happening to someone else rather than him, and he was merely reading about them in the newspaper or on the advertising signs pasted on the walls of the subway car. Once he exited the Eglinton West station, he thought no more about the matter; he left his potential death sentence buried in the belly of the steel snake. The temperature had risen, the snow had melted away, and rain had fallen. The tram tracks, still wet, were glowing, reflecting the orange light of the dying sun. The atmosphere was fresh. The rain had a way of cleansing everything: the air, the streets, the city, and even the souls and consciences.

     He didn't head home right away. Instead, he stopped by the churrasqueira to pick up some grilled chicken, potato dumplings, and seafood rice. The vibrant ambiance, the crowd of people buying their meals before going home, the enticing smell of so many tasty dishes, and the ever-jolly voice of Mrs Martinha calling out to the staff lifted his spirits.

     As he waited for his turn, he smiled, looking forward to being home in just fifteen minutes. Upon arriving, without even removing his coat, he would immediately switch on the radio tuned to 91.1 FM. Next, he would step into the shower and levitate in the steam of the hot water. After that, he would set the table with plates, food, and a bottle of wine. Finally, he would settle on the sofa to continue reading “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” while enjoying the soothing trumpet of Miles Davis, the elegant piano of Oscar Peterson, the sensual saxophone of Stan Getz, and the lulling voice of Suzie Arioli. He would jump off the couch driven by a flash of joy as he heard the sound of Edith’s key opening the door; he would stand at the threshold, feeling her presence before she stepped inside; then they would embrace gently, their bodies pressed together, and time would stand still.

    Mrs. Martinha's voice, saying "17 dollars," snapped him out of his daze. After settling the bill, he stepped out of the churrasqueira. It was almost night. He looked down the street toward the horizon, still glowing and fractured by the sun’s rays, which was reluctantly going down. The magic of the air, which absorbs the blue light and lets the red shine through, never ceased to amaze him. The twilight appeared magnificent and enchanting, like it was yesterday, and every day before yesterday, like always. Nothing had changed.

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

Body and Soul

Prince charming does exist. He just doesn’t look the way you think he does. Keep your eyes open.

-16 year-old American girl.

I've been watching you from behind the glass wall for some time now, even though you are unaware of my presence. I'm talking to you, knowing that you can't hear me. The problem is that fear has paralyzed me; I don't know how to proceed. Our relationship was thriving, but now everything is going to change; I don't know if for better or worse. I shouldn't have followed your advice. I didn't agree with what you suggested, yet I didn't have the courage to say no. 

     You're going to be disappointed. We should have left everything the way it was. I don't understand why you wanted to change things. I shouldn’t have let you persuade me. I don't like proximity very much, especially when it comes to physical intimacy, I don't enjoy being touched or touching others. I’d rather communicate over the phone, or even better, through email.

     Do you understand what I mean? The human body is not exactly appealing. We urinate, we defecate, we pass gas, we get foul breath, unpleasant body odors, and eye boogers; our skin wrinkles, loses its softness, and becomes blemished; fat builds up, or bones become more visible. A naked human body can be rather repulsive. The body is nothing but a pestilent, nauseating prison from which, fortunately, the soul escapes when we die. For me sex is only a formality to satisfy a physiological urge, and once it is consummated, it lacks any transcendental meaning.

    On the other hand, according to what you have told me, you are always longing for affection, a kiss, a hug, the touch of a skin, the warmth of a hand, as if they were the air that you breathe, the food that satisfies your hunger; as if your life depended on it.

     We are so different in that regard. The essence of our being—whether you call it the soul, mind, or spirit—is truly unique. Why did we fall in love? Because our souls resonate in a deeply similar way. You see? That’s the explanation. The bond binding us is as strong as steel. Our romance is unfathomable. On our road there are no stumbling blocks, no retaining walls, and no dangerous curves. Our passion is not founded on physical attraction or primal instincts but, on the communicative capacity of the mind and the transforming power of the spirit. Do you see? We refuse to let outside forces control our relationship. We do not wear masks; we do not play roles, as an actor does in a theatrical farce; we do not disguise our true selves.

    Listen to what I say. No human relationship is entirely pure, since various external factors influence them. No one falls in love with anyone and values them solely for their inner qualities. We (often subconsciously) take into account numerous conditions: physical appearance, race, height, age, tone of voice, gestures, manners, nervous tics, financial position, social standing; the opinion that your family, friends, and society in general have of that person; religious upbringing, educational background, intellectual abilities; even their first name. Many marriages are little more than a business transaction.

     In our case, these aspects are of no importance. You might think I am weird, but I assure you that our union is stronger and more legitimate than that of those around us who live together under false pretenses. We are not simply two interacting bodies, but rather two minds whose channels of communication are wide open. Whether I like you or dislike you, whether our love grows and strengthens or weakens and disappears, solely depends on how much our ideas and feelings overlap or diverge, whether our minds are more or less tuned to the same frequency, or whether they fail to connect at all.

     Look, I've mentioned this before. At some point in our lives, we have to confront the reality of existential loneliness. No one can know our most intimate thoughts or feel our most intense emotions—not even those closest to us like partners, children, parents, or friends. We live in a world full of individuals, each with their own internal universe. However, difficult as it may seem, we are all looking for a soul mate. We want to find someone with whom we can be honest, in front of whom we can think out loud, with whom we can communicate freely with the certainty that we are being understood. That's the kind of connection you and I share.

     Getting too close may damage our relationship. Do you think I am crazy? That I have a twisted mind? Perhaps I do. But the thought of losing you is terrible and unbearable. I hope you understand me. After all, aren't you the one who claims that matter doesn't truly exist, that when we touch something we're not really touching anything, that all that happens is that the protons and electrons that make up our bodies are attracted and repelled by the protons and electrons of the things we touch, without there being any real contact, that the subatomic particles of our being, agitated by the proximity of the nuclear particles of other bodies, become unbalanced and transmit a disturbance, through the nerves, to the brain, where the sensation, the illusion of being in contact with something, is created?

     So, in reality, the body has no existence of its own; it is merely a concept, a fallacy, a mirage, very convenient indeed, but all the same, a construct of the mind. What we call the body is a very complex entity, but it does not correspond to any objective reality. Energy, not matter, is the driving force of the universe. Therefore, the most important things are the mind, the soul, and the spirit, because they are immaterial, they are energy, and consequently (according to the first law of thermodynamics), they are eternal. Ultimately, all the power existing in the universe is mental, not physical. Keep that in mind!

     I have no idea how I'm going to react when we're lying in bed, naked, hugging each other, pressed against each other, one inside the other, soaked with sweat, saliva, semen, vaginal fluids, and tears, wrapped in the mist of our own breath. You're going to regret it. Isn't what I give you enough? Why did I have to say yes to your proposition?

    That's why I don't know what decision to make. Should I stay here and leave you standing there, holding the banner with my name on it, staring at the arrivals gate, waiting for someone who will never show up? Or should I run to you, hug you, and kiss you... for the first time?

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

 

 

Forty Degrees in the Shade

The sunrays lashed mercilessly on the house’s corrugated zinc roof, while inside, the infrared radiation pierced through us and then went into the earthen floor. The temperature was forty degrees inside the house. Mom had been pressing clothes using coal-heated iron plates. The kitchen’s wood stove, still filled with embers, intensified the heat, making it unbearable. That and the afternoon brightness coming in from outside made us doze off, dulling our senses and distorting our perception of reality. Maybe that’s what happened; perhaps nothing out of the ordinary occurred that day. We probably imagined the whole thing.  

     Mom was pacing back and forth while holding a baby in her arms, trying to soothe him down. The baby had disturbed her with his screams while she was working in the kitchen. He had been crying for many days. According to mom the baby tried to stand up by holding on to a chair and made such an effort that resulted in a hernia. The doctor said that due to his small size, surgery was not possible. We needed to wait until he was older. In the meantime, the pain subsided briefly before intensifying once more. During my short life I had heard him cry many times, and though his screams were muted by the time they reached my ears, I can say he had never cried in such agony as that day.

     Mom moved around the house; from the bedroom to the dining room, then to the living room, and from there to the veranda. The intense sunlight forced her to come back inside. I moved with her, feeling the changes in her body, the shortage of oxygen, the accelerated heartbeat, the blood rushing to her head, the sweat, the trembling, the heat that consumed her more than me, and the anguish she felt at the baby’s desperate cries.

     Mom pressed her lips together, trying hard not to scream. That, in some way, made the anguish easier to endure. She knew how to do it very well; she had grown accustomed to it. I suddenly had the feeling that she was going to pass out. I was breathing with difficulty; my heartbeats were slowing down; life was slipping away from me. She bowed her body, and she fell on her knees on the dirt floor, yielding to the weight of so much sorrow and the assault of the heat that was fiercely harassing us. I felt like I was dying alongside her. At the same time, the baby’s crying was getting louder. 

     Her jaws started to tremble with helplessness, resentment, and defiance as a spasm gripped her face. Tears then began to flow down her cheeks, but she did not cry, moan, weep, or even whisper a word. She had shut herself up in silence in the depths of her thoughts, and not even I could know the dark musings that haunted her in the abyss into which she had descended, where the last light had gone out.

     For a brief moment she glanced by turns at the knife hanging on one of the kitchen walls, the scissors on the dining table, the bottle in the cupboards containing the kerosene needed for the lamps used at night, a rope lying on the floor, and the wooden beams supporting the ceiling.

     Doom loomed over us on that fateful day. I could sense it in the form of a disturbance in the air molecules. Perhaps my condition allowed me to notice environmental changes that were imperceptible to others. It was one of those days when everything combines and conspires—circumstances, chance, and the dark side of human nature—to bring about disaster; when it seems that the forces of good and evil are engaged in a mortal battle for a person's soul, with no way of knowing which one would prevail.

     However, years of hardship had made her proud and unafraid in her struggle against daily events. Mom decided that she would not give up. Summoning the only force left within her, rage, (for all other powers of any kind had deserted her), holding the infant firmly in one arm, she placed her other hand on the table and began to stand up—first one leg, then the other, then her whole body. Staggering, she managed to sit down on a chair near the dining table. She took a deep breath and gradually recovered her strength. While holding the baby in one arm, with her other hand she took a handkerchief out of her dress pocket and wiped off the sweat dripping down her face, at the same time that I felt myself coming back to life. Then she caressed the baby, laid her hand on me, felt my heartbeat, and regained her composure. Still lost in her thoughts, she looked out at the street, her eyes fixed on some point on the pavement that seemed to be boiling, until the noise of a truck passing by suddenly came through the open door and jolted her out of her reverie.

     In the midst of the confusion that still controlled her, dazzled by the light coming in from outside, Mom saw a ghost appearing and disappearing, becoming solid or transparent. The premonition of something dreadful overcame her; adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream, her pulse started to race again, and sweat flowed all over her body. The agitation was so intense that I thought neither one of us would survive.

     She quickly covered her eyes with one hand and took a deep breath. When she calmed down she removed her hand from her face, apprehensively, as if she were not sure she was safe, and noticed a woman standing on the veranda. Her long, ragged dress stretched down to her bare feet; a filthy fabric bag hung from one of her shoulders; her tangled hair partially covered her wrinkled face. She was staring at us, and as she did so, her eyes shone with a mysterious glow that only I could perceive.

     Mom remained hesitant, as though trying to determine whether the woman was an angel or a messenger from hell. Eventually, detecting no signs of hostility, she dropped her guard, got to her feet, and, as one walking in a dream, made her way toward the veranda, still unsure that there was actually someone at the door.

     “Why is the baby crying, ma'am?”, gently asked the woman, with a soft voice that brought mom back to a state of lucidity and full consciousness—a voice that dispelled all her fears. Mom then went on to tell about the injury the baby had suffered when he tried to walk too soon. “I have here with me an ointment that relieves many pains; let me apply it to the child,” added the woman. And without waiting for mom's answer, she fumbled with the bundle that hung from her shoulder and took out a bottle, which she immediately opened. Once mom had taken off the baby's diaper, the woman applied the ointment to the baby's tummy and thighs, while performing a strange ritual with her hands and murmuring some words that neither Mom nor I understood. When she was done she closed the bottle, put it back in the bundle, stepped out of the veranda, and walked away without saying a word or looking back.

     Mom, thinking that maybe she was hallucinating but not finding anything else unusual about the woman, watched her leave until she was out of sight. I on the contrary, was able to feel some radiation emanating from her body as she walked away, which weakly reached my brain, muffled by the amniotic fluid that protected me in my mother’s womb.

     We never heard anything else about the enigmatic visitor, whether she was from this world or from the hereafter. All we know is that as soon as she applied the ointment to the baby, the swelling vanished, and he stopped crying. He did not cry again that day. In fact, he did not cry the following day either, or ever again.

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

Golpe de Estado y Verano en el Campo

El martes 30 de mayo de 1961, el dictador Rafael Trujillo fue asesinado a tiros cuando su automóvil fue emboscado en una carretera en las afueras de Santo Domingo, la capital dominicana. Los conspiradores, sin embargo, no lograron tomar el control del gobierno. La familia Trujillo movilizó al SIM (Servicio de Inteligencia Militar) para dar caza a los implicados en el complot y también trajo de vuelta desde París, al hijo del dictador, Ramfis Trujillo, quien tomó las riendas del país. Cientos de presuntos conspiradores fueron arrestados, y muchos de ellos fueron torturados y ejecutados. A pesar de sus intentos, la familia Trujillo no pudo mantener el control de la nación, y en noviembre de 1961, se vieron obligados a exiliarse en Francia,  mientras que el presidente títere, Joaquín Balaguer, asumió el poder.
    Ante la presión del gobierno de los Estados Unidos, Balaguer se vio obligado a compartir el poder con un Consejo de Estado de siete miembros, establecido el 1 de enero de 1962, que incluía a miembros moderados de la oposición. Tras un intento de golpe de Estado, Balaguer renunció y se exilió el 16 de enero. El Consejo de Estado reorganizado, bajo la presidencia de Rafael Bonnelly, dirigió el gobierno dominicano hasta la celebración de las elecciones en diciembre de 1962.
     Juan Bosch, un intelectual y poeta que había fundado el partido de oposición Partido Revolucionario Dominicano (PRD) en el exilio, durante la era de Trujillo, ganó las elecciones. Sus políticas de corte socialista generaron inquietud entre los militares, el clero católico y las clases altas, que temían que el país se convirtiera en otra Cuba. En septiembre de 1963, Bosch fue derrocado por un golpe militar de derecha encabezado por el coronel Elías Wessin y fue reemplazado por una junta militar de tres hombres. Bosch se vio obligado a exiliarse en Puerto Rico. Posteriormente, lo que parecía ser un triunvirato civil pronto se convirtió en una tiranía de facto.
     Esos fueron años de intensa agitación política, pero, como sólo tenía siete años, no guardo muchos recuerdos de aquello. Lo que más conservo de esa época son los felices días de verano que pasé en la finca de mi abuela. A veces mis hermanos o mis primos me acompañaban. La estancia en la finca de la abuela era siempre una plétora de actividades extraordinarias: deslizarse en una yagua (la espesa capa leñosa de las ramas de las palmeras) sobre la alfombra de hojas resbaladizas bajo las matas de cacao; recoger los mangos y aguacates que el viento había derribado la noche anterior; y desenterrar batatas.
     Mi abuela era viuda y sólo vivían con ella dos de sus hijas solteras. Todas tenían que trabajar en los sembrados. A mí me encantaba acompañarla cada vez que iba a algún conuco (pequeña parcela de tierra) para sembrar. Ella hacía un surco en el suelo con su machete y yo colocaba una semilla.
     Durante el día, el campo era hermoso, resplandeciente y mágico. Los pájaros y las chicharras cantaban y zumbaban en las ramas de las matas de buenpán. Los cerros se erguían imponentes del otro lado del arroyo. El viento silbaba, a veces furioso, a veces juguetón, en las copas de las matas de mango, haciéndolos parecer gigantes vivos. Los cultivos de maíz, plátano, yuca, café y cacao eran un reflejo de la generosidad de la madre tierra. Sin embargo, al caer la noche, sin luz eléctrica, la hondonada donde residía la abuela se sumía en una oscuridad total. Mirando hacia afuera través de las ventanas del rancho, las sombras espectrales que reinaban afuera convertían el campo en un lugar temible, embrujado por monstruos, fantasmas y demonios.
     En esos momentos buscaba la compañía de mi abuela, quien, sentada a la mesa del comedor, realizaba alguna tarea, tal como coser una colcha, bajo la luz de la lámpara de queroseno. Ella me conocía muy bien y sabía lo que pasaba por mi mente. Me sentaba en una silla a su lado, cruzaba los brazos sobre la mesa y hundía la cara en ellos, como si ignorar las sombras que envolvían el rancho pudiera protegerme de las malvadas criaturas que acechaban en la noche, escondidas tras los árboles. Después de eso, esperaba sus manos, que invariablemente comenzaban a acariciar mis cabellos hasta que me quedaba dormido.

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

Primer Amor

Jamás sabré con certeza si ella sentía lo mismo por mí. Nunca le expresé mis sentimientos. Estuvimos juntos cuatro años, como amigos, quiero decir, de hecho ni siquiera como amigos, sino como compañeros de clase, durante el bachillerato. Para alguno de nosotros fue una época feliz. Mi vida estaba llena de familia, música, películas, libros y escuela, mientras el régimen de Balaguer seguía persiguiendo y asesinando a los disidentes, con impunidad.

     Todos le teníamos un gran cariño a la maestra Velásquez, nuestra querida profesora de matemáticas. Nosotros los muchachos alimentábamos fantasías sexuales con las hermanas Ramírez, nuestras profesoras de Humanidades y Ciencias, respectivamente. Y por supuesto, era imposible no fijarse en los muslos de Alba, Gisela y Valentina. Era la época de las minifaldas. Algunas muchachas las llevaban de manera bastante atrevida.

     Carla y yo solíamos conversar mucho sobre temas académicos. En cierto modo, ella giraba en torno a mí porque yo era un estudiante dedicado y ella necesitaba ayuda con algunas materias. Pero eso era todo. No era atractiva de la forma llamativa y provocadora de algunas de las otras muchachas. Era simplemente elegante y con clase. Yo anhelaba su compañía constantemente; deseaba tenerla frente a mí; escuchar su voz suave; verme reflejado en sus ojos oscuros y soñadores; observar sus manos delgadas y, mientras hablábamos, tal vez imaginar que estaba acariciando sus largos cabellos negros. Ella era unos años mayor que yo, lo que podría explicar por qué supuse que estaba, como decimos ahora, fuera de mi alcance. Después de la escuela secundaria, nunca más la volví a ver.

     Un ex-compañero de clase al que vi hace poco tiempo me comentó que Carla había emigrado a los Estados Unidos y que ahora es agente de policía en la ciudad de Nueva York. Me resulta difícil imaginar a una chica tan delicada desempeñando esa labor en un lugar tan peligroso. Lo gracioso es que muchas veces he sentido la necesidad de conducir los ochocientos kilómetros que nos separan, parar en la Quinta Avenida, romper el cristal de una vitrina, infringir la ley y que me arresten. Siempre y cuando sea Carla quien me detenga, no me importaría.

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

La Guerra Civil y el Reader's Digest

En mayo de 1961, después de más de treinta años en el poder, Rafael Trujillo, el dictador de la República Dominicana, fue asesinado a tiros cuando un grupo de disidentes le tendió una emboscada a su Chevrolet Bel Air 1957 en una carretera de las afueras de la capital, Santo Domingo. En 1962 se celebraron nuevas elecciones y el profesor y escritor Juan Bosch salió victorioso. Sus políticas socialistas, que incluían la redistribución de tierras, la nacionalización de ciertas propiedades extranjeras, intentos de poner a las fuerzas armadas bajo control civil y la legalización del divorcio, provocaron la oposición de los oficiales militares, la jerarquía católica y la clase alta, que temía otra Cuba. En septiembre de 1963, Bosch fue derrocado por un golpe militar de derecha encabezado por el coronel Elías Wessin y fue reemplazado por una junta militar de tres hombres. Bosch se exilió en Puerto Rico. Posteriormente, un presunto triunvirato civil controlado por trujillistas, con Donald Reid Cabral como líder, estableció un gobierno de facto.

     En abril de 1965 estalló la guerra civil. El creciente descontento con Reid Cabral y su gobierno desencadenó un segundo levantamiento militar que pedía la restitución de Bosch. El Palacio Nacional fue tomado por los rebeldes, también conocidos como los Constitucionalistas, que eran leales a Bosch e incluían oficiales liberales del ejército y combatientes civiles bajo el mando del coronel Francisco Caamaño. Las fuerzas armadas conservadoras, llamadas Leales y comandadas por Wessin, respondieron de inmediato atacando Santo Domingo con tanques y aviones.

     Yo no viví en carne propia la muerte y la destrucción que causó la guerra debido a que la mayor parte del conflicto armado ocurrió en la capital del país, Santo Domingo. Mi familia vivía en Santiago, en el interior de la isla. Sin embargo, recuerdo claramente un día en que escuchamos un ruido ensordecedor que provenía del cielo, parecido a disparos de ametralladoras. Cuando todos salimos a la calle para ver de qué se trataba, vimos el cielo lleno de helicópteros, de esos que se ven en las películas sobre la guerra de Vietnam. Yo tenía sólo nueve años de edad, y me impresionaron aquellas máquinas voladoras, pero también me aterrorizaron porque sabía que algo terrible estaba sucediendo. Le pregunté a mi tía, “¿Qué está pasando?” “Los yanquis nos están invadiendo”, respondió ella.

     Los elementos del ejército que estaban en contra de Bosch habían solicitado una intervención militar americana. Pero además, el presidente americano Lyndon B. Johnson, convencido de la inminente derrota de las fuerzas Leales y preocupado por la posibilidad de una segunda Cuba a las puertas de los Estados Unidos, autorizó el envío de 20,000 soldados americanos a la República Dominicana con el fin de restablecer el orden y, supuestamente, para proteger y evacuar a los ciudadanos americanos y otros extranjeros, en lo que se conoció como Operación Power Pack.

     El transporte desde los pueblos del interior hacia Santo Domingo se vio interrumpido. Papá tenía una hermana que vivía en la capital y de la cual no había tenido noticias durante un tiempo. En la cama de un camión clandestino logró ir a la capital y llegar hasta el barrio donde vivía la tía Pulia. Su casa, como otras del barrio, había sido saqueada y abandonada. En ese momento no había manera de saber si ella y sus hijos estaban vivos o muertos. Pero preguntando a cada uno de los que quedaban en el barrio, papá se enteró de que su hermana había huido con sus hijos a otra parte de la capital. El caso es que pudo encontrarla, y, junto a sus hijos, solamente con la ropa que llevaban encima, lograron cruzar el río Ozama en un bote, y del otro lado pudieron encontrar otro camión ilegal que los trajo de vuelta a Santiago.

     Después de cinco meses de lucha entre el pueblo y una facción de las Fuerzas Armadas dominicanas por un lado, contra el ejército estadounidense y otra facción de las Fuerzas Armadas dominicanas por el otro, el conflicto llegó a su fin. Más tarde, en septiembre de 1966, las tropas internacionales se retiraron del país y se celebraron elecciones democráticas, en las que Joaquín Balaguer, un ex partidario de Trujillo, fue elegido presidente. Entonces volvimos a una paz precaria, a algo que podía llamarse normalidad, bajo el gobierno de una pseudo democracia.

      Creo que fue en esa época cuando se despertó en mí la pasión por la lectura. Primero empecé leyendo las historietas como “Joyas de la Mitología” y “Korak, Hijo de Tarzan”; luego pasé a leer “Selecciones del Reader’s Digest” que me prestaba mi amigo Mauricio, porque yo no podía comprarlas. Todos los domingos mi padre me daba quince centavos: diez centavos para ver una película en el Cine Odeón, y cinco centavos para comprar un sandwich o una fundita de maní. Después, cuando mi mesada aumentó a 25 centavos, podía ahorrar 35 centavos al mes para comprar el “Reader’s Digest”. Posteriormente me dediqué a leer novelas. “La Isla del Tesoro” de Robert Louis Stevenson fue mi primera. Iba todas las tardes a la biblioteca Amantes de la Luz a leer, ya que los libros no se prestaban y yo no tenía dinero para comprarlos.

© William Almonte, 2024

 

Navidad

Durante todo el año fui diligente en la escuela, hice todos mis deberes, aprobé mis materias con excelentes notas, me porté bien, no hubo quejas de mis maestros a mis padres, ayudé a mi madre con las tareas de la casa, no peleé con mis hermanos, respeté a mis padres. Debo reconocer que todo esto no lo hice motivado por puro altruismo. Tenía segundas intenciones. Quería que el Niño Jesús me trajera los juguetes que quería para Navidad: una bicicleta, o el proyector de cine, o los dos revólveres de vaqueros y el rifle Winchester.   

     En el lugar donde nací y crecí, Papá Noel no traía juguetes el día de Navidad, sino el Niño Jesús. De la misma manera que los Reyes Magos lo colmaron de oro, incienso, y mirra, varios días después de su nacimiento, él, en su infinita bondad, dejaba juguetes debajo de las camas de todos los niños del mundo.

     Mi decepción (o mejor dicho mi enojo) fue grande cuando lo único que encontré debajo de mi cama fue un rompecabezas y una bolsa de bellugas (canicas). Mientras que mi vecino y compañero de clase, que era un mal estudiante, irrespetuoso con sus padres, un bravucón, un malcriado total, no sólo se quedó con mis revólveres de vaqueros y el rifle Winchester, sino también con un gran camión de bomberos de pilas. 

   Casi llorando y conteniendo mi indignación, le pregunté a papá cómo era posible semejante injusticia, como si estuviera diciendo: “¿Es qué el Niño Jesús está loco?”. Mi padre, avergonzado, no sabía cómo explicármelo. Mi frustración crecía de año en año pues cada Navidad ocurría lo mismo.

   Por supuesto, más tarde en mi vida, cuando supe la verdad, comprendí que mi padre, el único proveedor de una familia de nueve personas (papá, mamá, cinco hijos y dos de mis tías), no podía darse el lujo de comprarles juguetes caros a sus hijos.

     Me prometí a mí mismo que si alguna vez tenía hijos, nunca les diría una mentira tan monstruosa. Y cumplí mi promesa. Mis hijos nunca creyeron en Papá Noel ni en el Niño Jesús. El día de su cumpleaños, íbamos juntos a Toys R Us. Yo les decía cuánto dinero podía gastar y ellos elegían lo que querían, siempre y cuando estuviera dentro del presupuesto.

     Se lo comenté a un amigo y se quedó perplejo. Me dijo que los niños necesitan ese tipo de fantasía, que en realidad es bueno para su bienestar psicológico. Y por eso me hizo dudar de si les hice un favor a mis hijos o los perjudiqué al decirles la verdad, privándolos, en consecuencia, de esa creencia fantástica que, en opinión de mi amigo, es tan importante.

 

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

Víctimas de la Guerra

 No, no eres un error. Sé que tu madre te dijo que haberte tenido a los diecisiete años le arruinó la vida. Sé que tu padre juró sobre tu cuna que nunca volvería a cometer el mismo disparate. Sin embargo, déjame decirte algo.

    Niños abandonados, hambrientos y huérfanos buscando algo para comer en los basureros; ancianos decrépitos tropezando entre los escombros de sus casas arrasadas, vagando sobre los innumerables cadáveres esparcidos por todas partes, buscando fragmentos de lo que fue su vida, algo a lo que aferrarse, para justificar su existencia y su cordura, un retrato de su familia tal vez, de sus hijos volados en pedazos por las 6,727,084 toneladas de bombas lanzadas sobre su tierra; la multitud, de todas las edades y géneros, incluyendo niños, jóvenes y viejos, con miembros amputados y rostros y cuerpos mutilados, deambulando, mientras sus caras reflejando una total confusión, como si se preguntaran “¿por qué?”; los campos, quemados, devastados y estériles, sembrados con semillas extrañas que seguirán matando a los vivos durante muchos años; los pueblos quemados; las mujeres violadas; el sacrificio de nuestros jóvenes e inocentes muchachos, su transformación en máquinas de matar, armas de destrucción masiva para ejecutar atrocidades innombrables y crímenes contra la humanidad, en ambos lados de la línea; el exterminio mutuo; el negocio de la guerra: ¡Eso es un error terrible, una perversión espantosa!
     Pero tú, tú esparces amor, belleza, bondad, comprensión e inspiración por dondequiera que vas. Cada vida que tocas cambia para mejor. Todo el que se cruza en tu camino se queda con una sonrisa de agradecimiento. Tú representas todo lo que es decente, noble, edificante, honorable y positivo en la raza humana. Las personas como tú nos dan una razón para creer y hacen que la vida sea soportable y digna de vivirse. ¡No! ¡Un millón de veces, no! ¡No eres un error!

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

Letter to the Editor

You are morning and night, cereal, oceanic…

Roads, revelations, insurgent peoples…

Rimbaud like a wounded bleeding fish throbbing in the mud…

A book is victory in the naked marine solitude…

Humankind discovering the final mysteries…

–Pablo Neruda: Ode to the Book

Dear Madam, I am a native of Santiago who has lived abroad for twenty-five years, an avid reader, and an amateur writer. After reading your anthology of short stories, I learned about the magazine that you publish. I am very glad to have found a wormhole that enables me to stay in touch with my beautiful and peaceful village, as I like to call my birthplace; at least, that's how I remember it. I was  growing up blissfully and becoming a man in the 1970s, shielded by my family, religious faith, and ignorance, removed from the atrocities being committed by the dictatorship that was ruling us. But that's not what I want to talk to you about.
     I have just read your article “Religion” in your magazine’s Issue 57. I must admit that I approached it with the same suspicion with which I read almost everything: a general mistrust of some conservative and mainstream attitudes; finding (sometimes where there is none; I plead guilty) a degree of complicity with the status quo, with the authorities in charge of perpetuating dogmas, legends, and historical lies, in order to keep us in the dark. For, as you say, I am not one of the many who have faith, but rather one of the few who doubt, and not only one who doubts, but one who questions everything, especially if it comes from the authorities, and even more so if it comes from religious leaders. And that's exactly why I sympathize with poor Nietzsche (despite the fact that he died young and stark mad, as you say), precisely because he was an iconoclast. Like your son, I too became disillusioned with religion before I was eighteen, and I decided that when I had children, I would raise them without it. I have to admit that, like the atheists and agnostics about whom you write (I am also one of them), I have moments of doubt as to whether I did the right thing. But that's not what I want to talk to you about.
     Despite the initial skepticism with which I begin reading each issue of your magazine, I always end up smiling because the effort is rewarded with a new influx of ideas and a desire to read more, in addition to the intellectual joy.
     I came upon Junot Díaz on Issue 56. A Dominican who makes it big in the United States, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, graduate of Rutgers and Cornell, professor at MIT, and all that. And I don't know him? But it is not possible! Are you kidding me? I hadn't even heard of him. After reading the article, I headed to the bookstore, and bought “Drown”, “The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao”, and “This Is How You Lose Her” which, let me clarify, I read non-stop.
      I had tears in my eyes when I read “The Memphis Boys” by Pedro Peix on Issue 53. It brought to mind another of my all-time favourite short stories from my teenage years, “Now That I'm Back Ton” by René Del Risco Bermúdez. Pedro Peix's fearless, assertive and accusing stance in “Drugs are not the problem” gave me goose bumps. It’s difficult to be more point-blank than that. Way to go, Pedro! We must not let ideals die. It was a delight to read “Yelidá” by Tomás Hernández Franco again on Issue 46. I have read only a few poems that can be compared to this one.
    “Of Chance and Readings”, written by you in Issue 54, made me finally decide to read Marguerite Yourcenar.  I've never read her before. What a shame! Tomorrow I'll go to the bookstore and buy “L'Oeuvre au noir”. But that's not what I want to talk to you about. 
     What I want to say is: Thank you for publishing the magazine! So much beating around the bush, and so many words to say it! An incorrigible vice of all aspiring writers, I guess.

 © William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

 

Return to Sender

The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;

–Ralph Waldo Emerson: The Past

When I opened the mailbox and took out the package inside, I felt my heart skip a beat. Tucked in among the bills and commercial flyers was a letter. I recognized the sender's name and address: Hildegard Austerlitz, Dusseldorf, Germany. Anticipating its content, I impatiently ran up the stairs. After reading it, I was both pleased and disappointed at the same time. 

 

Dear Basilio: What a great surprise to receive a letter from you after so many years! Thank you so much. I am very sorry that we cannot resume our communication. I am eighty-six years old now, and I can no longer write. But I wanted you to know that I received your letter and that I still live in the same apartment, in Dusseldorf. Only the postal code has changed (it used to be 9200; now it's 09599). Despite that, I received your letter. I wish you the best in your future life. Greetings from Hildegard Austerlitz.

Months earlier, I had sent eighty-seven letters. One by one, they were returned to me with different stamped notes: «Wrong address», «Postal code does not exist», «Recipient no longer resides at this address», or «Return to sender».

     Ever since I was a boy, I have always wanted to travel around the world and get to know people from all corners of the earth. I used to stare at the pictures on my geography textbook for long periods of time, daydreaming that one day I would visit those remote places. But before the Internet and email existed, my only window to the outside world was shortwave radio. Thanks to the magic of the ionosphere, the waves could travel around the globe, bouncing from the sky to the ground, back and forth. Every evening I would spend a couple of hours sitting next to the old Philips radio receiver. I remember the thrill of being able to tune in to a radio station from far-off countries like Japan or South Africa. I frequently listened to BBC, Deutsche Welle, Radio Netherland, Radio France International, Radio Canada International, and Radio Moscow, among other stations. The stations had listeners’ clubs and mailing lists. Those lists were sent to all members so that they could write to one another. That is how I got to have eighty-seven correspondents, or pen pals. For years we exchanged postcards, stamps, coins, banknotes, and details of our countries and our daily lives.

     In 1988 I wrote to each one of them, notifying them that I was moving to another country, that the letters would stop for a while, that I understood the beginnings were always difficult, but that I would resume the correspondence once I had settled in my new home. The reality is that the beginning was much more difficult than I expected. Immigrating to a new land where I had no relatives, no friends, and no acquaintances, with a wife, a three-year-old child, and a nine-month-old baby, was extremely complicated. Nostalgia, loneliness, winter, and financial problems proved to be a very oppressing weight. I got sidetracked by the ups and downs of life, and I never wrote again.

     Twenty-four years later, rummaging through a trunk where I keep things from the time when my children were children, I came across a list of names and addresses. When I realized it was the list of my pen pals, I was astonished. A violent wave of nostalgia swept me away, and I decided to write them once more. I was aware that there was little chance of success; it was like sending a message in a bottle, hoping that somehow it would reach the other side of the ocean. I thought that most likely they had all moved, and therefore no one would reply. Yet, I did it anyway. Months later, when I had already given up on the project, not without some degree of sadness, I received Hildegard's letter. I had returned to her a little late. Her life had changed. Mine too.

     I am currently trying to find fulfillment in a variety of activities, such as reading, writing, traveling, listening to music and promoting peace and goodwill among my fellow human beings. Lately, I have been striving to reconnect with old friends, schoolmates, and former teachers. Attempting, I suppose, to attenuate existential loneliness and give some direction to my life through love and interpersonal relationships. It is the only way I know to achieve salvation.

     I visited my old school. After many years of searching for my beloved second grade teacher, I finally found her. She lives in New York. I spoke to her on the phone twice. I told her I was traveling to New York just to see her. She assured me that she would be waiting for me. Last summer I went. I called her several times, but there was always an answering machine at the other end. I left her messages, telling her that I was in town and that I wanted to meet her. However, she didn’t return the call. I didn't know her address. As a result, I left without seeing her.

     For the most part, the effort has been futile. Almost all the letters I sent to my former pen pals were returned to me. They have evidently moved. Or, there is always that possibility; perhaps they do not want to respond; maybe they don't want to renew contact with old friends; and maybe they are right. It's probably not a good idea to try to go back in time. The past is in the past, and we have to leave it behind. We must move forward, and only forward.

   

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024