Amsterdam Schiphol

 

Aunque mi vuelo estaba programado para las 14:00, me levanté temprano de todos modos. Tenía que dejar el Wittenberg hotel a las 10:00. Mis maletas estaban hechas. Me duché, me vestí, recogí mi equipaje, y bajé a la recepción para devolver la llave. Luego salí del hotel. Antes de comenzar a bajar por Roetersstraat, me detuve en el puente, y eché un último vistazo al encantador Nieuwe Prinsengracht, a las flores y los árboles, a las hermosas residencias, y las pintorescas casas flotantes que se encontraban en cada orilla. El sol de la madrugada de mediados de julio se reflejaba en sus aguas. Antes de descender a la estación del metro en Weesperplein, volví a hacer lo mismo: eché un último vistazo al exquisito diseño arquitectónico de los edificios en Sarphatistraat, que a pesar de la hora temprana, ya era un enjambre de peatones, bicicletas y tranvías.
    El Metro 54 me llevó a Amsterdam Centraal que, siendo la central ferroviaria, ya estaba llena de gente. Allí tomé el tren Intercity Direct 926 con dirección a Rotterdam Centraal, que hace una parada en el aeropuerto de Schiphol. Llegué a las 10:00.
     El aeropuerto tiene una única y enorme terminal de pasajeros, con cuatro zonas de embarque-desembarque, y 8 salas de partida: B, C, D, E, F, G, H y M. Dependiendo de la puerta desde donde saldría mi avión, tendría que caminar una gran distancia desde la parada del tren. Me senté en un banco, junto a la primera pantalla de información de vuelo que encontré. Tuve que esperar hasta las 11:00 para ver en la pantalla detalles sobre mi vuelo. Tan pronto como la pantalla me informó de qué puerta saldría mi avión, me dirigí a Seguridad y Migración, y luego caminé hasta mi sala de partida. Tenía tres horas que matar.
     Para entonces ya tenía hambre, de manera que busqué un lugar para desayunar. Después de recoger mi comida en el mostrador busqué una mesa para sentarme, pero no había ninguna. Había una joven sentada sola en una mesa donde había un espacio vacío. Dudé en preguntarle si podía sentarme con ella; ella me vio mirando y me señaló que estaba bien. Le di las gracias. Nos presentamos. Su nombre era Eryna. Era del Lejano Oriente, estudiaba en Amsterdam y volvía a casa para las vacaciones de verano. Su avión salía de la puerta G3 a las 12:31. Después de terminar mi delicioso desayuno, que consistía en verduras hervidas, espinacas, huevos revueltos y salmón, le dije adiós a la chica.
     Enseguida fui a una librería. Suelo comprar un libro en cada país que visito. La mayoría del material estaba en holandés. No encontré nada interesante en inglés. Pero tenían algunos libros en francés. Estaba hojeando «Sept petites croix dans un carnet» de George Simenon. Un señor se me acercó y me dijo: “Esa es una buena elección”. Era fanático de Simenon. Como consecuencia, entablamos una interesante discusión sobre el comisario Maigret. Nos presentamos. Era un hombre de negocios holandés que viajaba al Lejano Oriente por asuntos de negocios. Su nombre era Lasse. Su avión salía de la puerta G3 a las 12:31.
     Después de caminar más por la terminal, me cansé y me senté en un asiento al lado de un gran ventanal de vidrio con vista a la pista, donde me divertí observando las aeronaves con nombres de aerolíneas extrañas de las que nunca había oído hablar, como: Aegean Airlines, Air Baltic, Pegasus Airlines. Dos niños corriendo, un niño y una niña, chocaron conmigo, al mismo tiempo que su madre, que estaba sentada frente a mí, los regañó, y les ordenó que regresaran a sus asientos y se callaran. Le aseguré que no era gran cosa. Nos presentamos. Eran del Lejano Oriente, pero vivían en el Reino Unido, iban a su país de origen a visitar a sus parientes, y por las vacaciones de verano de los niños. Sólo estaban conectando en Amsterdam. Su nombre era Farah, el nombre de la niña era Ameera, y el niño se llamaba Haruun. Su avión salía de la puerta G3 a las 12:31.
     Cuando mi avión despegó y desde la ventana lo único que vi fue agua, canales y llanuras verdes, me regodeé en el hecho de que KLM pronto retiraría gradualmente el McDonnell-Douglas MD-11, pero no antes de que yo tuviera la oportunidad de volar en el avión de tres turbinas más hermoso jamás construido.
     Mientras sobrevolaba Groenlandia quedé deslumbrado por la isla cubierta de nieve, con muchos afloramientos rocosos. También estaba recordando mi viaje a los Países Bajos. Pensaba que Ámsterdam, con todos sus canales, puentes, tranvías, parques, edificios antiguos y museos, era una ciudad magnífica. El viaje a Marken, Volendam, Edam y Zaanse Schans fue memorable.
     Cuando era joven, antes del Internet y del correo electrónico, mi ventana favorita al mundo era la radio de ondas cortas. Todas las noches pasaba un par de horas sentado junto al viejo receptor Philips escuchando emisoras de radio de lugares lejanos. Tenían clubes de oyentes y listas de correspondencia. Esas listas de nombres y direcciones se enviaban a todos los miembros, para que pudieran escribirse unos a otros. Así es cómo llegué a tener muchos amigos por correspondencia. Durante años intercambiamos cartas, sellos, billetes, monedas, postales y detalles de nuestras vidas diarias. Desafortunadamente mi correspondencia con ellos se vio afectada por las angustias del crecer, la universidad, el trabajo, el matrimonio, los hijos, la emigración a otro país, y finalmente cesó. Años más tarde volví a conectarme con uno de ellos, Sara, en los Países Bajos. Incluso después de la llegada del Internet y el correo electrónico, Sara y yo seguimos escribiendonos cartas escritas a mano, y enviándolas por correo. Cuarenta años después, finalmente nos encontramos cara a cara. Fueron necesarios dos metros, dos trenes y un autobús para llegar al pueblo del sur donde vive, a tres horas de Amsterdam. La experiencia fue muy agradable. Pasamos la tarde juntos; fuimos a cenar, a caminar, a tomar algo. Finalmente nos despedimos en la parada del autobús, sabiendo inconscientemente, pero sin admitirlo, que probablemente nunca nos volveríamos a ver.

Ocho horas y media más tarde, mi avión aterrizó. Sólo al día siguiente, después de ducharme, tomar mi café y encender el televisor, escuché la impactante noticia de lo sucedido el día anterior. El vuelo MH17 de Malaysia Airlines había sido derribado por un misil lanzado por fuerzas separatistas controladas por Rusia, mientras sobrevolaba el este de Ucrania. Los 283 pasajeros y 15 tripulantes murieron. Los restos del avión Boeing 777-200ER cayeron cerca de Hrabove en el Óblast de Donetsk, Ucrania, a 40 kilómetros de la frontera con Rusia; Otras víctimas del conflicto del Donbás, daño colateral, un crimen contra la humanidad, otra señal de la locura humana y la insensatez de la guerra. Todo el peso de la tragedia cayó sobre mí solamente cuando me di cuenta de que yo había llegado sano y salvo a casa, pero Eryna, Lasse, Farah, Ameera y Haruun no.


© William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

Srebrenica

  “Thousands of men executed and buried in mass graves, hundreds of men buried alive, men and women mutilated and slaughtered, children killed before their mothers’ eyes, a grandfather forced to eat the liver of his own grandson, thousands of women and girls repeatedly raped. These are truly scenes from hell, written on the darkest pages of human history.”

       -International Criminal Court


 
 I have been sitting next to your bed all night, holding your hand. Last evening I selfishly thought that you were going to die. I say selfishly because what I was really thinking was: “What I am going to do with my life if you pass away?” You were shuddering so severely and the fever was so high that I almost called 999. That’s a nasty bug you caught. But the cold towels I put all over your body and the many-herbs and spices tea I prepared for you did their job. Now the fever has subsided, and the shivering has stopped. At first you were raving in that strange language that I don’t understand, then, finally, you fell asleep. It’s a good thing Kilmaynham Gaol Street is quiet, at least during the night. Now your face looks so peaceful that no one could guess the horrific memories you are concealing in some deep, dark and unreachable recess of your mind. Do you remember how and where we met? I do: at the Fortune Terrace Buffet Chinese restaurant on O’Connell Street. I was enjoying the dinner buffet with my friends, and you were sitting by yourself at the next table. Your dark dress, dark hair and dark eyes immediately caught my attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I told my friends that I was captivated by you. They began to tease me saying that I was falling in love. I continued to peep at you, until you realized that I was doing it, and then you started doing the same thing. When you stood up as if you were going to leave, I felt a pang in my heart. Don’t go please! I thought. I was relieved when you went to the counter to get more food. We continued to peek at each other. At one moment you grabbed your purse, retouched your lipstick, looked at yourself in a little mirror, and combed your hair with your hands. I was very pleased because I thought you were doing that for me. When the evening was over, and my friends and I headed for the door, I deliberately walked by you, so close to you that I nearly touched your arm. As I walked by I was able to see the back of your neck, so pale, contrasting with the darkness of your hair. I felt anguished, as I did not want to leave. Outside, my friends and I stopped, to talk about something, while all the time I was watching the restaurant’s main door, until I saw you exit, and you started walking towards us, and I became nervous. I wanted to approach you and talk to you, but then, you went inside the Pick and Pay store. Whether it was to buy a drink, a confectionery, cigarettes, a mobile accessory, to avoid me, to hide from me, or to look at me from inside, I will never know. All this time I was telling my friends about you and what you were doing. They wanted to return to the hotel, but I wanted to wait until you came out of the store. When you did, we looked at each other for several seconds, and I had a chance to pry into the depths of your black eyes. After that you continued walking down O’Connell towards the Liffey. My friends were in a hurry; they crossed the street and were waiting for me at the corner of O’Connell and Eden Quay. Then I reluctantly rejoined them. I looked once more towards the corner of O’Connell and Bachelors’ Walk, and you were still there, standing, looking at me. I told my friends to go on to the hotel, that I would join them later. They warned me to be careful. Thereafter I crossed the street, and joined you. We looked at each other’s eyes, and then walked to a pub in Temple Bar. There, we drank a beer and talked, and afterwards we went to your place, where I spent the night. “Are you fucking insane?” said my friends when I told them that I wasn’t going back home, that I would stay here. They were in shock. Are you throwing away a successful life for a sudden crush? Are you going to stay in a foreign land where you have no friends, no family, no acquaintances, living with a stranger? What are you going to do when you get tired of her, or she gets tired of you? When either one of you says “I can’t do this anymore?” Well, it’s been several years now, and we are still here, at least I am. I am not feeling any itch to leave. I don’t know about you. Despite the fact that we have been living together for several years now, I barely know you; you don’t let me get too close. There is an immense chasm in front of that space where your memories are hidden. I am not allowed to go there. There is a high fence between us that you don’t allow me to jump. It’s funny, my friends even warned me to watch out, that you might be a selkie. It is ridiculous but, for a while, I lived in fear that you might be one, that one day you would hear the call of the sea, and then you would get your sealskin from wherever you had hidden it, and return to the waters to live with your own. Where did she hide it? I would ask myself. I need to find it and destroy it, to prevent her from leaving me and going back to the ocean. And then I would tell myself, don’t be stupid, there are no selkies in the Balkans. While I talk to you, sometimes your hand starts trembling and you mumble something, as if deep inside your sleep, you were listening and wanted to give me the answers that I’ve been begging for. What did they do to you in Srebrenica? Were your family slaughtered? Was your house burned down? Was your village razed to the ground? Were you repeatedly raped? How old were you? How can anyone, let alone someone so young, survive such acts of violence without losing their minds? How can I help you if you don’t talk to me about those things? On the other hand, how can I even ask you to exhume the memory of those appalling events from the places where you have buried them? There, they are out of your conscience, and that is the only way you have had to survive what you had to endure. What kind of gods-believing monsters can commit such atrocities? How can the psychopathic gods allow such monstrosities to happen, looking down coldly, holding back on their supposed power to stop suffering and evil? The yellowish light of the rising sun seeping into our bedroom makes the specks of dust visible, and their dance makes me sleepy.  But I don’t want to sleep. I don’t feel relieved yet.  I want to be awake when you awaken. I want you to see it in my face that I am staying with you through the good times and the bad times. I want to see it in your eyes that, for the foreseeable future, you are not leaving.

 ©William Almonte Jiménez, 2023

Amsterdam Schiphol

 

Even though my flight was scheduled for 14:00, I got up early anyway. I had to check out of the hotel by 10:00. All my bags were packed. I took a shower, dressed, picked up my luggage, and went down to the front desk to return the key. Then I left the hotel. Before starting my way down Roetersstraat, I stopped at the bridge, and took one last look at the charming Nieuwe Prinsengracht, at the lovely residences and quaint boathouses on both of its banks, the flowers, and the trees. The mid-July early morning sun was reflecting on its waters. Before descending to the Weesperplein metro station I did the same thing again; I took one last look at the exquisite architectural design of the buildings on Sarphatistraat that was already buzzing with pedestrians, bicycles, and trams.

     Metro 54 took me to Amsterdam Centraal, which, being a transportation hub was already swarming with people. There I took the Intercity Direct train 926 to Rotterdam Centraal, which makes a stop at Schiphol Airport. I arrived at 10:00.

     The airport has one single enormous passenger terminal with four departure halls, and 8 concourses, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, and M. Depending upon the gate from where my plane was going to depart, I would have to walk a long distance from the train stop. I sat down on a bench, next to the first flight information screen I found. I had to wait until 11:00 to see on the screen any information about my flight. I had four hours to kill. As soon as my gate was shown on the screen, I went through Security and Migration, and walked to my departure Hall.

     By now I was hungry, so I searched for a place to have breakfast. After picking up my food at the counter I looked for a table to sit down, but there was none. There was a young lady sitting by herself on a table where there was an empty space. I hesitated to ask whether I could sit with her, but she saw me looking, and signalled to me that it was alright. I thanked her. We introduced each other. Her name was Eryna. She was from the Far East, studying in Amsterdam, and going home for the summer vacation. Her plane was departing from Gate G3 at 12:31. After finishing my delicious breakfast, which consisted of boiled vegetables, spinach, scrambled eggs, and salmon, I said good-bye to the girl.

     Then I went to a book store. I usually buy a book in every country I visit. Most of the stuff was in Dutch. I didn’t find anything interesting in English. But they had some books in French. I was browsing « Sept petites croix dans un carnet » by George Simenon. A gentleman approached me and said: “That’s a good choice”. He was a fan of Simenon. Consequently we had an interesting discussion about l’inspecteur Maigret. We introduced each other. He was a Dutch business man going to the Far East on business.  His name was Lasse. His plane was departing from Gate G3 at 12:31.

     After more walking around the terminal I got tired and found a seat next to a big glass window overlooking the tarmac, where I amused myself by observing the aircrafts with strange airline names that I had never heard of, like: Aegean Airlines, Air Baltic, Pegasus Airlines. Two running children, a boy and a girl, bumped into me, at the same time that their mother, who was sitting in front of me, scolded them, and ordered them to return to their seats and be quiet. I assured her that it was not a big deal. We introduced each other. They were from the Far East, but living in the UK, going home to visit family, and for the children summer vacation. They were only connecting in Amsterdam. Her name was Farah, the girl’s name was Ameera, and the boy’s name was Haruun. Their plane was departing from Gate G3 at 12:31.

 

When my plane took off, and from the window all I saw was water, canals, and green flat lands, I was gloating over the fact that KLM was soon phasing out the McDonnell-Douglas MD-11, but not before I had a chance to fly in the most beautiful tri-jet airliner ever built.

     While flying over Greenland I was dazzled by the snow-covered island, with many rocky outcroppings. I was also reminiscing about my trip to the Netherlands. I thought Amsterdam, with all its canals, bridges, trams, parks, ancient buildings and museums, was a magnificent city. The trip to Marken, Volendam, Edam, and Zaanse Schans was memorable.

     When I was young, before the Internet and electronic mail, my favourite window to the world was short-wave radio. Every night I would spend a couple of hours sitting by the old Philips receiver, listening to radio stations from far away places. They had Listeners Clubs, and Correspondence Lists. Those lists of names and addresses were sent to all members, so that they could write to one another. That’s how I got to have many pen-pals.  For years we exchanged letters, stamps, bills, coins, postcards, and details of our daily lives. But my correspondence with them was affected by the growing pains, university, work, marriage, children, emigration to another country, and it eventually stopped. Years later, I reconnected with one, Sara, in the Netherlands. Even after the advent of the Internet and electronic mail, Sara and I continued to write letters by hand and to send them by post. Forty years later we finally met face to face. It took me two metros, two trains, and a bus to get to the southern town where she lives, three hours away from Amsterdam. The experience was very enjoyable. We spent the afternoon together. We went for dinner, for a walk, for a drink, and finally said good-bye at the bus stop; knowing subconsciously, but not admitting it, that we probably would never see each other again.     

   Eight and a half hours later my plane touched down. Only the following day, after having taken a shower, drunk my coffee, and turned on the television set, I heard the shocking news about what had happened the day before. Malaysia Airlines Flight MH17 had been shot down by a missile launched by Russian-controlled separatist forces, while flying over eastern Ukraine. All 283 passengers and 15 crews were killed. The wreckage of the Boeing 777-200ER aircraft fell near Hrabove in Donetsk Oblast, Ukraine, 40 kilometres from the Russian border; another casualty of the Donbas conflict, a collateral damage, a crime against humanity, another sign of human insanity and the madness of war. The full weight of the tragedy came crushing down on me only when I realized that I had made it home safely, but Eryna, Lasse, Farah, Ameera, and Haruun had not.

 

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2023

Rosa La Rousse

C’est alors que Rosa, le front dans ses mains, se rappela tout à coup sa mère, l’église de son village, sa première communion. Elle se crut revenue  à ce jour-lá, quand elle était si petite, toute noyée en sa robe blanche, et elle se mit à pleurer.

-Guy de Maupassant 

 « La Maison Tellier »

 

Me levanté pensando que el día se desarrollaría como lo había planeado la noche anterior. Cogería el autobús 11 hasta el Government Center; buscaría y encontraría una tienda que vendiera tarjetas postales, para enviarlas a mis amigos en Austin, Montreal, Rozenburg, y Tours; me pasaría la tarde en el Bayfront Park, mirando los transeúntes, los cruceros en el puerto, admirando el cielo, el mar, las palmeras, y leyendo la novela que me ocupaba, “Snow Falling on Cedars”; cuando tuviera hambre comería algo en el Bayside Market; luego caminaría a lo largo de Brickell Avenue hasta el Rickenbacker Causeway, por donde llegaría al William Powell Bridge; y allí, de pie, en el puente, esperaría la puesta de sol. En suma, que sería una jornada serena. Pero las cosas no acontecieron de esa manera. Algo diferente pasó. Normalmente a mí no me suceden cosas así; y las raras veces que sí ocurren la cobardía no me deja reaccionar; no tengo el valor de atreverme.

        Me costó trabajo encontrarlas; las postales, quiero decir. Con excepción de los focos turísticos, ya casi nadie las vende. Pero mi problema no se resolvió ahí; necesitaba estampillas; pregunté en varios negocios de souvenirs, pero no tenían; luego tenía que encontrar un buzón, pero no se veía uno en parte (what´s wrong with the U.S, Mail?). Finalmente encontré un UPS Store desde donde pude remitir las postales.

     A continuación me dirigí hacia Biscayne Boulevard. Llegando a North-East 2nd Avenue me di cuenta de ella. Allá delante, estaba de pie, recostada contra la pared, me miraba y me sonreía. Yo me turbé. Me pareció extraño; a mí las mujeres no me miran así. Pensé que iba a pedirme dinero, de manera que bajé la mirada y apresuré el paso. Cuando finalmente la alcancé intentó detenerme.

 –¡Oye! –me dijo–. ¿Tienes un momento?

 –Discúlpeme –le contesté, sin levantar la mirada–. Tengo prisa.

     Ignorándola, seguí mi camino. Cuando llegué a la esquina el semáforo cambió a rojo. Durante esos segundos de espera no pude quitarme su imagen de la cabeza. Cuando el semáforo cambió a verde, entonces comprendí. ¡Qué tonto que soy! ¡Está trabajando! Por eso me sonríe –me dije–. Bueno, es que no tengo experiencia en ese tipo de menesteres.

     Me puse nervioso. Estremecido y consternado, mil pensamientos me pasaron  por la mente. Sobreponiéndome a la vacilación me decidí a hacer algo que no había hecho antes. Me volví para mirarla. Ella estaba todavía en el mismo lugar, todavía me miraba, todavía me sonreía. Tímida y lentamente, siempre con la mirada baja, me dirigí hacia ella. Cuando la tuve a mi lado, mirando hacia la calzada, como avergonzado, le eché un vistazo rápido, y advertí una mujer joven, bien acicalada, engalanada con  un vestido elegante, ceñido, con el ruedo por debajo de las rodillas.

      – ¿Cuánto me cobra por una hora? –balbuceé, ruborizado, sin atreverme a mirarla a la cara.

      –Doscientos dólares –me respondió.

      –Muy bien –Acordé.

      –Podemos ir a mi apartamento, está cerca de aquí. Te aseguro que es un lugar limpio –explicó–. O podemos ir donde tú quieras.

–Voy al Bayfront Park –dije con una voz insegura y baja–. Sólo quiero que me haga compañía.

Really? – inquirió ella, sorprendida.

     –Sí. –le aseguré.

     –All right! –exclamó,  todavía incrédula–. Tú estás pagando.

     Cruzamos Bicayne Boulevard y nos adentramos en el parque, caminando lado a lado por las diferentes veredas, sin decirnos nada, sin mirarnos. Había poca gente. Alguna pareja que caminaba agarrados de la mano; otra que se besaba recostada contra una palmera; y varias madres que vigilaban a sus hijos jugando en el playground. El cielo brillante, las monstruosas nubes, el azul del mar, y la cálida  brisa que me rozaba la cara, me tranquilizaron.

     – ¿Qué haces aquí? –dijo ella, rompiendo el silencio.

     –Me estoy quedando tres meses –respondí.

     – ¿Si te sientes tan solo, por qué lo haces?

     –Donde vivo es invierno ahora. Son seis meses de oscuridad, temperaturas bajo cero, gélidas ventisca, y montañas de nieve. Tengo que emigrar al sur, como los gansos salvajes. No tenía a nadie que me acompañara, de manera que vine solo.

     – ¡Es terrible! ¿Eh?

     –Nuestro léxico  tiene innumerables términos para referirse a los fenómenos invernarles: snow, snowflake, slush, snowfall, blizzard, whiteout, freezing rain, ice, black ice, drifting snow, wet snow.

     –Holy cow! –exclamó–. ¿Qué hacías en Flaglers?

     –Buscaba alguna tienda donde vendieran tarjetas postales, para enviarlas a mis amigos. Me dio trabajo encontrar una. ¿Es que las tarjetas postales ya no se usan?

     –La gente ahora toma fotos con el celular, y las envía por WhatsApp. Es muy conveniente. El problema es que muchos mandan fotos de cada momento. Como si no pudieran desconectarse, como si las vacaciones y todo lo que hacen sólo tuvieran significado si todos los demás se enteran, porque se ha apoderado de nosotros la necesidad imperiosa de publicar  al mundo lo que nos pasa.

     –Yo prefiero hacerlo a la antigua –apunté–. A mis amigos les causa una gran alegría recibir una postal de un lugar remoto, firmada por otro amigo; a mí también. Es algo significativo. ¿No le parece? ¿No le gustaría que sus amigos le mandaran postales?

     –Yo no tengo amigos –respondió ella con una cierta melancolía–. Y si los tuviera, probablemente harían lo que hacen todos, mandarme fotos tomadas con el celular, por WhatsApp. ¿Le gusta la ciudad? –continuó ella–.

     –Sí me gusta. La naturaleza tropical es hermosa; el mar, las playas. Pero es una ciudad de contrastes, hay mucha riqueza por un lado y mucha pobreza por el otro. Allí debajo del viaducto de la interestatal hay una comunidad de desamparados viviendo en tiendas de campaña. Aunque pensándolo bien, no sé porqué me sorprendo. Donde vivo tenemos el mismo problema. Quiero decir, el problema no son ellos, los sin domicilio, el problema es ayudarlos a resolver su problema, encontrar la voluntad política y los fondos para que eso no ocurra. Es una vergüenza, no para ellos, sino para nosotros el resto de la sociedad por permitir que semejante cosa suceda. Derrochamos una cantidad obscena de dinero en otras cosas de poca importancia.

     –Aquí ese problema va de mal en peor. Algunas de las causas son la gentrificación, la inmigración ilegal, el ensanchamiento de la brecha entre ricos y pobres, la corrupción, la alianza entre los políticos y las corporaciones –dijo ella, haciendo una mueca de desprecio–. ¿De verdad sólo quieres que te acompañe? ¿No quieres hacer otra cosa?

     –Sólo quiero que me acompañe,  que hablemos –enfaticé–.

     – ¿No te gustan las mujeres como yo?

     –No tengo nada contra ustedes, la prueba es que estoy aquí, con usted. ¿No es así?

     –Sí, pero sólo conversando. ¿Te repugnaría acostarte conmigo?

     –Digamos que en este momento lo que necesito es compañía.

     Mientras caminábamos por los senderos del parque se me ocurrió que ella desentonaba. Todos, locales, turistas, y yo,  vestíamos camisetas, pantalones cortos, jeans, y sandalias. Ella por el contrario estaba elegantemente vestida, peinada y maquillada; parecía que iba a una fiesta.  Le propuse que nos sentáramos en un banco junto a la estatua de Julia Tuttle, a lo cual ella accedió. Yo en un extremo del banco, ella en el otro.

     –He notado que sólo me miras de reojos. Sé lo que te pasa por la cabeza en este momento. Todos quieren saber el porqué y el cómo una niña de ocho años, que acaba de recibir la primera comunión, llega a ser prostituta.

–No, no quiero saber –mentí–. No me interesa. It’s none of my business. Pero ella siguió hablando como si no hubiera escuchado mis palabras.

     –Me llamo Rosa. Soy de Louisiana, de un pueblito que se llama Belle Fontaine.

     – ¿Cómo aprendió el idioma español?

     –En Belle Fontaine todavía hablan una forma arcaica del francés; crecí hablando francés. Cuando era niña me llamaban “Rosa la rousse”,  porque soy pelirroja. En esta ciudad no se puede funcionar sin hablar español; de manera que al llegar aquí no tuve más remedio que aprenderlo. El parecido con el francés hizo más fácil el aprendizaje. Cuando terminé la secundaria, mis planes de ir al college se desvanecieron. Quería huir de la atmósfera provinciana y aburrida de Belle Fontaine. Crecí en una familia opresiva de fanáticos religiosos, para quienes todo era un pecado. Quería fugarme de eso también. Le propuse a mi novio que viniera conmigo, pero no le interesó, al contrario, rompió conmigo. Me dijo que tenía otra mujer. Después, digamos que caí en mala compañía. Viví en la calle un tiempo, más tarde comencé a trabajar en un massage parlour, luego en un bar de strippers, y terminé haciendo lo que hago.

     –Mire, usted no tiene que contarme nada. No la estoy juzgando.

     –Pero en el fondo quieres saber ¿No es así?

     –Bueno, admito que sí. Tengo preguntas, si no le molesta hablar de su actividad.

     –No, no me molesta.

     –Se usan muchas palabras para referirse a ustedes; putas, whores, taberneras, cueros, cabareteras, rameras, prostitutas, mujeres de la vida alegre, mujeres de la calle, streetwalkers ¿Cómo prefiere que las llamen?

     –Esas son todas palabras muy feas, ofensivas e insultantes. Prefiero sex worker, así, como se dice  en inglés; suena bien.

     – ¿Hay muchas como usted en la ciudad?

     –Sí. Supongo que es…iba a decir un “mal social”, pero para muchas de nosotras es un “bien”. Y aquí no es tan malo. –prosiguió–. En otros lugares donde hay más pobreza, muchas mujeres lo hacen para sobrevivir literalmente, para darles de comer a sus hijos.

     – ¿Cómo se maneja en su vida? ¿Usted tiene un… llamémoslo… manager, para su empresa?

     –No. Soy independiente. Tengo mi propio apartamento. A veces trabajo para un Escort Service. Los tipos llaman, hablan con una secretaria, hacen una cita, dicen lo que quieren, y yo los encuentro en sus hoteles. De esa manera es más seguro, pero el Escort Service  nos cobra 100 dólares por hacer la cita. Algunas  trabajan en apartamentos privados, que tienen un propietario, que se queda con el 50% de lo que ganan. La mayoría de nosotras lo hace por razones económicas.

     – ¿Le gusta su trabajo?

     –Para serte sincera, no –suspiró–. Lo hago por el dinero. A veces te topas con un buen tipo que, además de pagarte te hace pasar un buen momento, o te trata con decencia. A veces te violan. Muchas de nosotras tienen que endrogarse para poder hacerlo.

      – ¿De verdad lo hace por necesidad? Usted misma lo dijo, aquí no estamos en un país pobre.

     –En eso tienes razón. Pero, el incentivo del dinero es demasiado fuerte.

     – ¿Cómo se protege?  Me imagino que a veces se mete en situaciones peligrosas.

     –Siempre llevo una pistola en el bolso. ¿Quieres verla? Es legal.

     –No. –respondí–. ¿La policía no la molesta?

     –En general no, se hacen los de la vista gorda, o uno les da dinero. Pero hay que tener cuidado, a veces te topas con un desgraciado que quiere abusar de ti.

     – ¿Piensa que sería mejor si legalizaran su oficio?

     –A muchas de nosotras les gustaría que el gobierno lo legalice, que lo reconozca como un trabajo. Pagaríamos impuestos, y recibiríamos beneficios, como la jubilación. El gobierno regularía nuestro quehacer, las mujeres se registrarían, las autoridades harían verificaciones sanitarias, vacunas, y cosas así. Algunos ganarían dinero estableciendo clubes, limpios, privados y seguros, y la muchachas no tendrían que andar por las calles, en los vecindarios donde no las quieren, lo cual es muy peligroso. O las muchachas serían empresarias, con una secretaria, trabajando para ellas mismas. Y este tipo de empresa estaría en una zona designada, como el Red Light District en Holanda. ¿Sabías que la prostitución es legal en Holanda?

     –Sí.

     – ¿Es mejor así, no te parece?

     –No lo sé. No estoy seguro.

    – ¡Pero claro que sí! En Holanda las muchachas trabajan con más seguridad. Si alguien intenta agredirlas hasta pueden llamar a la policía. Se eliminarían los pimps. Se controlaría la prostitución de menores. En Holanda, la edad mínima para ejercer nuestra profesión es 21 años. A los 21 uno tiene más confianza y capacidad para tomar decisiones serias, sobre todo en asuntos tan complicados como el sex work. También se acabaría la prostitución forzada, el tráfico de mujeres. A pesar de eso, muchas, como yo, prefieren el anonimato, sigue siendo difícil publicarle a todo el mundo cómo una se gana la vida, sobre todo a la familia.

     –Mucha gente opina que su oficio es inmoral, y no quiere que el gobierno lo legalice.

     –A nivel mundial hay un movimiento en contra de la prostitución. La oposición viene mayormente de la Religión, y el Feminismo. Sencillamente piensan que la prostitución no  puede ser un trabajo, y que es algo moralmente incorrecto, que no debería existir. No me gusta la manera como nos combaten; me parece injusto; se niegan a escucharnos. Recientemente arrestaron una muchacha. Algunos vecindarios están siendo renovados, “gentrified”, y los nuevos residentes no quieren absolutamente ninguna actividad nocturna, mujeres caminando por las calles. Convencieron a un juez para que mandara la muchacha varios meses a la cárcel, después que la condenaron por prostitución. Do you see? Las clases gobernantes cometen todo tipo de crímenes, evasión de impuestos, confabulación con las corporaciones, invaden otros países, roban, saquean los recursos naturales, y cuando se van dejan detrás un desastre ecológico; montan regímenes títeres que persiguen torturan, y asesinan a los disidentes;  bombardean, matan la población civil, hombres mujeres y niños. Dígame, ¿quién de ellos está en la cárcel pagando por sus crímenes? ¡Nadie! Entonces ¿por qué debería esa muchacha estar en la cárcel? ¿Le parece justo?

     –No –respondí, asombrado ante la diatriba socio-política, y el despliegue de conciencia social –. ¿Cuál, diría usted que es el aspecto más negativo de su trabajo?

     –La dimensión afectiva. Es difícil tener una vida normal, tener amigos, asistir a una fiesta. ¿Qué diría si me preguntaran cómo me gano la vida? ¿Que soy prostituta?

     –Tener un day job ayudaría a camuflar su verdadero trabajo. Ser guía turística, por ejemplo.

     –Supongo que sí.  También esta la vida sexual y sentimental. Somos humanas, necesitamos, cariño, afecto. Pero a lo más que puedo aspirar es a tener un buen amigo. No podría tener un verdadero compañero, porque aún cuando a él no le importara mi oficio, nunca podría tener sexo con él. Se pierde el sex drive, porque el sexo se convierte en un trámite, lo que se hace todo el día, o toda la noche como trabajo.

     – ¿Sus padres en Belle Fontaine saben cómo se gana la vida?

     –No.

     – ¿Algún día se lo dirá?

     –Mi madre murió cuando yo era todavía adolescente. Decirle la verdad a mi padre sería muy difícil.

     – ¿Qué haría si quedara embarazada? ¿Se haría un aborto?

     –Lo hice una vez. No lo haría otra vez.

     –Y si tuviera un hijo, ¿cómo se lo explicaría?

     –Tendría que cambiar de ocupación.

     – ¿Nunca se le ha ocurrido la idea de volver a la escuela, aprender otro oficio, que podría ser no tan lucrativo, pero, digamos más satisfaciente, menos complicado?

     –Sí.

     –Tengo un poco de hambre y ganas de un café. Ahí en el Bayside Market hay una buena repostería, donde también hacen  muy buen café. La invito. ¿Le gustaría acompañarme?

     – Sí.


Cuando salimos de la cafetería la conduje debajo del famoso Bayside Banyan Tree, que en ese momento estaba desierto.

     –Ya se terminó la hora –le expresé, mirándola de soslayo–. Aquí están los doscientos dólares, como acordamos.

     –En realidad no tienes que pagarme –dijo titubeando, con la voz entrecortada y la mirada baja–. Yo no hice nada.

      – ¡Al contrario! Le aseguro que hay acercamientos más íntimos y placenteros que la copulación. Tome el dinero, es suyo, no sea tonta.

     Le agarré una mano con una de las mías, y con mi otra mano le puse el dinero que ella se negaba a aceptar. La obligué a cerrar el puño

     – ¡Gracias! ¡Buena fortuna! –le dije bruscamente y sin mirarla a la cara. Entonces me marché apresuradamente.

     Mientras esperaba que el semáforo cambiara a verde, para cruzar  Biscayne Boulevard, sentí que la espalda me ardía, como si alguien detrás de mí me estuviera mirando persistentemente. De nuevo la ansiedad y el desconcierto se adueñaron de mí. Experimenté unas ganas inaguantables de mirar hacia atrás. Durante un momento no me atreví. Cuando finalmente vencí la inercia y lo hice, la vi en el mismo lugar donde la había dejado,  y me miraba fijamente, tan desolada como el banyan tree. Entonces me percaté de que comenzó a caminar lentamente hacia donde yo estaba. Cuando me alcanzó, le vi la cara por primera vez. La observé con detenimiento. ¡Ay! ¡Era tan joven y tan inocente! Tenía los ojos llorosos. Un nudo me oprimió la garganta.

     –Mire, todos los miércoles, al final de la tarde vengo al Bayfront Park a leer, y me siento en el mismo banco –le declaré seria y bruscamente–. Si alguna vez quiere seguir dialogando sobre la injusticia del mundo y de los criminales que lo gobiernan, puede esperarme sentada en ese banco, cerca de la estatua de Julia Tuttle.

     Se le encendió el semblante, sonrió por primera vez, y una lágrima rodó por su mejilla.

     –De manera que…. supongo que… hasta la vista –pronuncié, como si estuviera enojado, como si sintiera que un mecanismo que iba a dislocar la rutina de mi vida, en contra de mi voluntad,  se había activado, sin que yo pudiera hacer nada para detenerlo.

     El semáforo cambió a verde y crucé la calle corriendo. Cuando llegué al otro lado me detuve, y no pude controlar el deseo de volverme para mirar. Ella seguía de pie, del otro lado de la calle, mirándome. Cuando de nuevo el semáforo cambió a verde, ella comenzó a cruzar la calle, dirigiéndose hacia mí. Cuando me alcanzó, parecía aturdida, inquieta, quería hablar, pero no sabía qué decir.

      – ¿Qué vas a hacer ahora? – consiguió expresar.

     –Voy al William Powell Bridge a esperar la puesta de sol.

     – ¿Te puedo acompañar? –casi me suplicó–. No te voy a cobrar.

     –Sí –respondí–. ¿Y su trabajo?

     –Puedo tomarme un día libre de vez en cuando ¿No?

 

En Biscayne Bay la tierra firme se encuentra al oeste, por lo tanto el sol no se pone más allá del horizonte marino, dejando sobre el agua la estela áurea que tanto nos impresiona a nosotros los aficionados de ese fenómeno natural. En vez de eso, se acuesta detrás de la ciudad, detrás del Vizcaya Museum, o detrás de Brickell. Pero de la misma manera que no hay dos copos de nieve iguales, no hay dos puestas de sol iguales. Y ésa también fue única. El incendio celestial que producía el sol agonizante detrás del skyline, pintaba los nubarrones, los cirros y los estratos que colgaban sobre la ciudad, de rojo, naranja y amarillo. Y para completar el éxtasis estético, ese lienzo se reflejaba en la faja acuosa que separa el puente de la ciudad. También estaba Rosa.

 ©William Almonte Jiménez, 2023

 

 

 



 


Moon Rock

     She was completing the twenty-second turn around the oval in the yard of East Preparatory School when she noticed him, ahead of her, sitting on one of the benches by the side of the track. As she got closer to him she realized that he was sleeping. At that very moment, the book he was holding in one of his hands fell to the ground. She approached him quietly, so as not to wake him up, and picked up the book. She held it in her hand and leafed through it quickly. While the title of the book was a surprise that made her uneasy and put her on alert, the name signed in red ink in the title page was a revelation that made her scream in disbelief. Her scream woke him up.

     “Oh! I am sorry sir,” she almost whispered, at the same time that, flustered and with shaky hands, she handed him the book. “You dropped it. Here you are.” 

     “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I must have dozed off. Thank you young lady,” he said, as he took the book from her hand, and put it in the backpack that was lying on the bench.

      “Do you like it?” she asked, somewhat nervously.

     “Yes, so far. I haven’t finished it yet. It is a novel that I’ve had for many years on my book shelves, and only now I decided to read,” he answered, in a lively way, looking up at her. And although she was standing in front of him, he did not ask her to sit down on the empty side of the bench. Perhaps he was intimidated by her youth.

    “Why now after so many years?” she timidly ventured to inquire, speaking with a soft and calm voice, as if not to make him suspicious.

     “This novel was given to me by a friend,” he replied, looking down on the grass. Then he frowned, and after a short silence he continued somberly. “I haven’t seen her in many years,” he sighed. “I’ve been thinking about her lately, because I came across the movie on one of the streaming services, and it dawned on me that the only object I have to remember her by, is this novel, and that I have never read it. I saw the movie though, back in the days. I have never read a novel by John Grisham, but I have seen all the movies based on them.” He then directed his eyes to the far end of the school yard, and after another short silence he resumed, wistfully. “We went together to see the movie, she and I,” he said, as if to emphasize that nobody else was with them. “I thought Julia Roberts and Denzel Washington made a lovely couple; well, they were not a couple, rather a team, or rather two human beings whose troubled lives crossed, and that encounter made their lives different. She had read the novel, I mean my friend, and she invited me to see the movie, and then gave me the book, urging me to read it, saying it was way better than the film.”

     “Sir, I don’t mean to intrude, I know I am a stranger, and I have no right to pry into your private life, but when you talked about your friend I couldn’t help noticing some regret and sadness in your words. Why? I am intrigued, I would like to know. When was the last time you saw her? Why did you stop seeing each other?” She finished the long question feeling that she had just crossed a line, but hoping he would not recoil, but would rather seize the opportunity to tell the story to someone, which in the end would, possibly, bring him some relief.

     The phrase “I don’t mean to intrude” brought to his mind a memory that made him pensive. For a moment he looked in silence at the young lady, still standing in front of him in expectation of his answer. He was assessing whether he should answer that question. Then, in a low, slow, slightly afflicted manner, he started.

     “Well, it is a kind of sad story,” he sighed again, “one that I would prefer to forget. But here I am, dealing with it again, because a damned film made me remember it. The last time I saw her was Victoria Day weekend, 1999. When I met her I was going through a very bad experience, I was lonely and depressed. She was the new receptionist in the company I was working for. I worked in the warehouse. One day she came to my office to inquire about some shipping. The grief that was weighing me down was noticeable in my face and the way I spoke.”

----------

     “Are you tired?” she asked me. “You look tired.”

     “No, it is something else,” I replied sorrowfully. Then she returned to the front office. About fifteen minutes later she came back to my office, stood in front of me for a moment, looked into my eyes, and while I wondered what she was there for, she asked me:

     “Are you having a rough time?”

     “Yes.”

     “Do you need to talk?”

     “No, I am okay”, I replied without conviction. “But thanks for offering.”

----------

      “It was a Friday. During the weekend I thought about her and her act of kindness. The following Monday I found a coloured envelope on my desk. Inside, there was a card that read: ‘Hi Julian, I hope you are feeling better. I don’t mean to intrude, but if you ever need to talk, I am available, –Janice.’ I still have the card. I accepted her offer. I invited her to go out for coffee, and that was the beginning of a bitter-sweet friendship/potential love story. For the next two years we would spend almost every weekend together. We would go for walks, dinner, movies, concerts, play tennis. Destiny had it that we were born on the same day, so we would celebrate our birthdays together. I would go to her place, or she would come to mine. At that point in time I was completely alone; those whom I loved had deserted me; whether I deserved it or not is another story. She had divorced parents, and a brother, with whom she did not socialize. She had gone through a ghastly upbringing, dealing with a mother who was a religious zealot, for whom everything, especially sex, was a sin. Thus, we brought some company and consolation to each other’s life.”

     “Then why did this bitter-sweet friendship/potential love story, as you call it, come to an end?” asked the young lady, with slightly trembling lips.

      “Well, in my situation of loneliness and lack of affection, it was bound to happen that I would fall in love with her. She was born in ’69. I used to tell her, jokingly, that she was a lunar creature brought back to earth, my Moon rock. When I openly expressed my feelings, they were courteously rejected. Consequently, we continued to be just friends, for a while. But being her friend became unbearable. The Saturday of Victoria Day, 1999, we went to play tennis at the courts on the Saint Clair-Spadina reservoir. It started to rain. She was all soaked up, and looking at her with the water streaming down her hair and her clothes stuck to her body, sent a painful wave from my brain down my spine to my groin. She looked like a goddess that I wanted to worship, and a demon with whom I desired to have carnal knowledge. So wild was the passion I was struggling with! I drove her back to her place on Runnymede. I didn’t utter a word while I was driving. When I dropped her off she asked me whether I wanted to go upstairs. Yes! I wanted to go upstairs, and kiss her, and make love to her, and fuse my body with hers. But I knew that was not what she had in mind; and it would have been a painful, disappointing occasion for me. Therefore, I said no, that I was tired, and that I preferred to leave. The following day, Sunday, about noon, she called me.”

----------

    “What was happening to you yesterday?” she reproached me. “You barely talked to me. You are always brooding. What is wrong with you?”

      “What is wrong with me,” I said, overcome by emotions, “is that I am in love with you, and I can’t continue to be only your friend. I think we should stop seeing each other.”

      “All right,” she coldly replied, as though it was all the same for her one way or another.”

----------

     While he related the account of his heart-aches, the young lady listened to him attentively and became more and more agitated.

     “That was the last time I heard her voice,” he said with certain finality. After a moment of silence his face illuminated. “No!” he screamed.

     “What? What is wrong?” inquired the young lady, really concerned.

     “I am wrong! That was not the last time I talked to her. Holy!” he said feverishly, and raised his voice, and continued to talk fast, as if in a state of frenzy. “You are making me remember things that I had forgotten. There was another time, actually two. Around November, the same year, shortly after our birthdays, she called, and left a message.

----------

    “Hi Julian, I hope everything is well in your life. I’ve been thinking of you these days. Last week I went out in a date with a guy who speaks English with a very thick accent, like you do. The way he speaks reminded me of you. While he was talking I wasn’t really paying attention, I was just thinking: ‘It is so sad that he is not Julian.”

----------

     “What was I supposed to make of that message?” he said, not talking to himself, but addressing the young lady, as if he really expected an answer from her. “That was not enough to make me pick up the phone and call her back.

     “Also, in October 2001, again, around our birthdays, and shortly after the World Trade Center towers in New York had collapsed, she called again. This time I was home and answered the phone. When she identified herself, (I didn’t know it was her; no Caller ID in those days) I said hello indifferently, pretending not to be interested or surprised. She didn’t have much to say, as a result, she casually accosted the topic that was on everybody’s mouth, 911.

----------

   “Who would’ve thought?” she bemoaned, as if talking to herself. “It’s been a wake up call for me. Life is fragile, uncertain, and ephemeral. We are alive today, and tomorrow we are dead, casualties of war. We shouldn’t waste time.”

     I don’t know what she was trying to tell me. ‘Give me another chance? Let’s start over?’ I certainly needed something more direct, less vague than that. I didn’t want to guess what she meant, what maybe she was feeling, and then act accordingly, only to be rejected once more. I didn’t say any more. I let her speak.

      After an awkward silence she finally asked, “Are you seeing someone?”

     “No.” I immediately regretted my answer. I should have lied and said ‘yes.’”

     “Would you like to go for coffee?”

     “No, I wouldn’t like to do that,” I said in the most dispassionate voice I could fake. I was trying to make her react, to snatch some honesty from her; some avowal of her sentiments, if she had any; to make her actually say it. ‘Give me another chance, let’s start over.’ Or, was it something else she was trying to tell me? Something she wouldn’t dare verbalize? Something that she had decided was better left unsaid, after all? Something I would be better off not knowing? I was ready and willing to hear anything, even something tragic like: ‘I am sorry, I tried to love you, but I am incapable of going through with that sort of things. Forgive me; something really bad happened to me when I was a child.’

     “All right,” she said, instead, in her customary insensible tone of voice, as if meaning: ‘No big deal.’ “I put a request to Bell to make my telephone number, which so far has been private, public. So, you will be able to find me in the Telephone Book, if you wish to call.”

 ----------

    “That was definitely the last time I talked to her,” he said with total conviction.

      “Sir, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the young lady cautiously said, “a woman does not spend so much time with a man unless she is interested in him. She obviously liked you very much, and enjoyed your company. Why do you think, she rejected you?”

     “I can only guess,” he wailed. “She wasn’t very open when it came to expressing her feelings. Maybe she was, after all, incapable of loving anybody in a romantic-sexual way. Perhaps she was somehow traumatized by the way she was raised. She once mentioned something strange about her father, something she did not want to elaborate on; that made me wonder whether she had been abused as a child. Probably all she needed was a loyal loving friend. Also, I was fourteen years her senior; it is possible I was only a father figure for her. And besides, you see, I have this deformity, this scar on my face, as a result of a bicycle accident when I was a kid. I am not a physically attractive man. And then there is, and this is comical, the Zodiac thing.”

     “What do you mean?” exclaimed the young lady, really puzzled.”

     “They say two Libra should avoid having a relationship. They are too intense, for them nothing is half-hearted, lukewarm, it is all or nothing. A relationship between them would be total bliss, or hell on earth. More likely than not, they would consume each other, suffocate each other, and mutually destroy. So, maybe it was all for the better .”

     When he said “Libra” she could not hold herself anymore, and asked the question that she had been impatiently waiting to ask.

      “When are your birthdays, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

     When he answered, she became disturbed and overwhelmed. She thought she would faint. A little tremor took over her hands; she had to hide them.

      “And now young lady, as much as it’s been a pleasure talking to you, I have to go,” he said, at the same time that he stood up, and for the first time during their encounter, they were looking straight into each other’s eyes.

     “Do you usually come here?” asked her, lowering her eyes, restless, choking, on the verge of crying.

     “Yes.”

     “I usually walk around the oval. If by any chance I see you again, would you mind my approaching you, to keep talking?”

     “No! Of, course not. I would be delighted.” After saying this, he waved her good-bye, and started to walk away, limping, dragging his 67 years of age.

     She watched him depart as if something of her own were leaving her behind. He had left her amidst a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that she couldn’t manage, with the ominous feeling that her life would not, henceforth, be the same. Feeling weak and on the brink of fainting, she had to sit down on the bench. “Who is this man?” she was thinking. “He was talking about things that happened twenty-three years ago, shortly before I was born. My mother has told me about the novel, the movie, and about having gone to see it with a friend she once had. Her birthday is the same as this gentleman’s; she was born in ’69. The name in the title page is her name, her handwriting. Is he telling the truth? Is he lying? Did he really leave when he dropped her at her place on that Saturday of Victoria Day weekend, 1999? Or did he stay and went up to her apartment and stay the night with her? What am I supposed to make of all these things? How I am supposed to react? And what was it that my mother was trying to say when she called him for the last time, shortly after 911? Is it what I am thinking?”

 © William Almonte Jiménez, 2023



You Want It Darker

A million crimes committed by my country, and my religion; a million crimes unpunished by my god.

                                                  –???????

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Leonard Cohen was born in a Jewish family, and therefore must have been familiar with Judaeo-Christian traditions, and scriptures. His songs delve into religion, politics, isolation, sexuality, and romantic relationships. He composed the song “You Want it Darker” in 2016, not long before his death.  It is one of those poems where the author hints, insinuates, and makes statements using symbolic language, in a way that only the writer knows exactly what he is trying to communicate. The rest of us can only interpret it

Some things can be safely assumed, though. The speaker is preparing for his death, believes in the god of the Bible, in Jesus-Christ, and in life after death. The poem alludes to Jewish and Christian concepts relating to death, sacrifice, and salvation. By mixing Christian and Jewish symbolism into the song, Cohen goes beyond religious denominations. He is not making peace with his god. The poem rather seems to be an indictment of his god, his religion, and his scriptures; a resignation to his will and power, before which he can’t do anything. It is a monologue; he is talking to his god; a god that does not listen, or does not answer. The speaker seems to be having a crisis of conscience, or engaging in an argument with his god; an argument that has been going on for thousand of years; an argument that accuses the gods of being responsible for human suffering. The song could be construed as an expression of ambivalent anger—and ultimate surrender—towards a god that cannot be ignored, but at the same time, cannot be loved. Below are some possible interpretations of the poem.  

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If you are the dealer, I’m out of the game.

If you are the healer, it means I'm broken and lame.

If thine is the glory then mine must be the shame.

You want it darker,

We kill the flame.

Magnified, sanctified be thy holy name.

Vilified, crucified, in the human frame.

A million candles burning, for the help that never came.

You want it darker.

Hineni, hineni,

I'm ready, my lord.

There's a lover in the story,

But the story's still the same.

There's a lullaby for suffering,

And a paradox to blame.

But it's written in the scriptures,

And it's not some idle claim.

You want it darker,

We kill the flame.

They're lining up the prisoners,

And the guards are taking aim.

I struggled with some demons,

They were middle class and tame.

I didn't know I had permission to murder and to maim.

You want it darker,

Hineni, hineni,

I'm ready, my lord.

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 If you are the dealer, I'm out of the game.

“You Want It Darker” begins with a personal criticism against God that accuses Him of refusing to alleviate the speaker’s suffering. He seems to be saying: “If you are the dealer, I don’t want any part in this cruel game.” Or, “I am powerless in front of you. I already lost. There is no point in playing the game.”

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If you are the healer, it means I'm broken and lame.

If you are my only hope, then I don’t stand a chance.  If I think you are the healer I must be mentally insane.

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If thine is the glory then mine must be the shame.

If your glory is letting people suffer, while the churches and the priests sing your glory, and assign the blame to those suffering people: then I prefer the shame. Cohen might be asking God for explanations of why we live in such a cruel world. 

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You want it darker,

We kill the flame.

Human violence has been used as a vehicle to sanctify God’s name. Maybe God intends for humans to suffer. That’s how you want it; we act accordingly, we obey.

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Magnified, sanctified, be thy holy name.

This is a straight English translation of the first four words of the Mourner's Kaddish, a Jewish prayer for the dead. 

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Vilified, crucified, in the human frame.

This is obviously a reference to the death of Jesus Christ on the cross, and the belief that it results in the magnification of God, the worship of Him, and the possibility of redemption for humans. The belief that what was really an act of extreme cruelty on the part of God, was an act of supreme love, because he sacrificed his son, for our own sake.

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A million candles burning for the help that never came.

Millions of people pray to their gods, asking for help. But the gods don’t listen or answer. The universe is silent.  Millions of Amerindians were exterminated by the European Christian powers; millions of Africans were kidnapped and enslaved by the European Christian powers; over one million Tutsi were slaughtered by the Hutu animist-Christian regime in Rwanda; over one million Armenians were killed by the Muslim Ottoman Empire; millions were killed in China by the communist-atheist regime, under the leadership of Mao Zedong; millions were exterminated in the Soviet Union by the atheist-communist regime, under the leadership of Josef Stalin; over one million were  massacred in Cambodia by Hindu-Buddhist Khmer Rouge regime, under the leadership of Pol Pot; millions were exterminated in Europe by the Christian Nazi regime under the leadership of Adolf Hitler; over one million were killed in North Korea by the communist-atheist regime of Kim Il Sung; hundreds of thousands has been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan by local Muslims, and Christian invading powers, during the so called “war on terror”; hundreds of thousands has been killed in Syria under the Muslim regime of Bashar Al-Assad; about 20 millions have been killed, in 37 “Victim Nations” Since World War II, by the American empire, directly, or through its proxy governments, and puppet regimes ; more than 8,000 Muslim men and boys were massacred by Christian Orthodox Serbs, in and around the town of Srebrenica, during the Bosnian War; thousands of  children has been physically and sexually abused by catholic priests. A million crimes committed by my country, and my religion; a million crimes unpunished by my god.

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There's a lover in the story,

But the story's still the same.

There's a lullaby for suffering,

And a paradox to blame.

Believers have struggle with the paradox of a loving god and the existence of suffering, for a long time. A version of the “Epicurean paradox” goes this way: “God does not exist; or if he exists, he wants to eliminate evil, but he does not have the power to do it, in which case, he is not almighty, in which case he is not a god. Or, he exists, has the power to eliminate evil and suffering, but does not want to, in which case, he is a psychopath”.

If god is so loving (the lover)), then how come the story (the scriptures) is nothing but a lullaby for suffering? It is a paradox, it doesn’t  make sense. But the priests and the churches don't see it that way. For them it is a case of “god’s mysterious ways”. They put the blame onto the suffering people instead.

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But it's written in the scriptures,

And it's not some idle claim.

Cohen sees human suffering as inherent to the scriptures, which is a paradox, because they are supposed to have been handed down to us from a loving God, by beans of his prophets. And yet, religions incite to violence, death, and destruction. For example: the genocide of the Canaanites; imposing the Cross on the Amerindians by the force of the Sword; The unholy alliances of churches and states; the wars of religion; the violence among the various religious groups. In many cases, suffering, death, and destruction are inflicted on humans by humans in the name of their gods and religions. But this is not exactly a case of religious fanaticism, a case of people twisting their god’s will and words for their own purposes. It is not just that they are misinterpreting the sacred books. It is actually written. 

According to the Pentateuch (the first five books of the Old Testament), when God called forth his people out of slavery in Egypt and back to the land of their forefathers, he directed them to kill all the Canaanite clans who were living in the land (Deut. 7.1-2; 20.16-18).  The destruction was to be complete: every man, woman, and child was to be killed.  The book of Joshua tells the story of Israel’s carrying out God’s command in city after city throughout Canaan.

Other so-called sacred books incite their followers to violence against the unbelievers, or infidels: “Kill the disbelievers wherever we find them” ; “Murder them and treat them harshly”; “Fight and slay the Pagans, seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait for them in every stratagem”; “Slay or crucify or cut the hands and feet of the unbelievers, that they be expelled from the land with disgrace and that they shall have a great punishment in the world hereafter”; “Smite them above their necks and smite all their finger-tips off them”. They also say that: “Non-believers will go to hell and will drink boiling water”; “For them (the unbelievers) garments of fire shall be cut and there shall be poured over their heads boiling water whereby whatever is in their bowels and skin shall be dissolved and they will be punished with hooked iron rods”.  

The American physician, and evolutionary anthropologist John Hartung, expressed a similar view when he wrote: “The Bible is a blueprint for in-group morality, complete with instructions for genocide, enslavement of out-groups, and world domination. But the Bible is not evil by virtue of its objectives or even glorification of murder, cruelty, and rape.   Many ancient works do that – The Iliad, the Icelandic Sagas, the tales of the ancient Syrians, and the inscriptions of the ancient Mayans, for example. But no one is selling the Iliad as a foundation for morality. Therein lies the problem. The Bible is sold, and bought, as a guide to how people should live their lives. And it is, by far, the world’s all-time best seller.”

In the words of American physicist Steven Weinberg, “Religion is an insult to human dignity. Without it, you would have good people doing good things, and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, it takes religion”.  

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They're lining up the prisoners,

And the guards are taking aim.

This could be interpreted as, “my time has come and I know I'm about to die”; or “there's always some killing done in the world, justified by whatever reasons.”

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I struggled with some demons,

They were middle class and tame.

The speaker could be saying: “I know I've done some bad things in my life, however nothing as bad as those done by the ruling classes. My transgressions  pale when compared to the crimes committed by the Church, and the State.  

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 I didn't know I had permission to murder and to maim.

Cohen’s confession that he didn’t know he had “permission to murder and to main” suggests that people are killing others in God’s name, using their faith as a means to justify violence. Peoples, Churches, and States commit crimes, justifying them, as if they had the authority and permission for it. This sarcastic verse seems to say: “I didn’t know you gave the Powers of the Earth permission to murder and maim”. But, if the Kings rule by divine right and the religious leaders are the vicars of God here on earth, then Evil becomes not only human, but also divine. By causing human beings physical harm, and death, God gives human beings implicit permission to do the same. Imitatio Dei, the imitation of God, the doctrine that humans can and should be godlike in their conduct, transcends Judaism. This line, then, is not about anything that Cohen has done. It is about what God has done.  And when it comes to human beings causing people harm in the same way that God has, Cohen lays the responsibility of human Evil at God’s feet: If you wanted things different, God, you would have made it so.  God allows suffering, and while people cause suffering in His name, ultimately it is God Himself who has to answer for these human crimes.

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Hineni, hineni.

I'm ready, my lord.

The Hebrew word Hineni  means, “Behold!” or “Here I am!” Cohen was almost certainly thinking of the Abraham/Isaac story, where he responds “Hineni” to God, at the beginning, when he is called. He is then commanded to sacrifice his own son. This verse could be interpreted as: “But who I am to question your designs. I summit to your will. Here I am my lord. I am ready”. It could also be construed as Cohen saying he's had enough of seeing the pain of human kind and that he is ready for Resurrection or afterlife of some kind; that he is actually preparing himself for death. It could also mean there is no sense in revolting: “I am powerless; you are the one who decides”. He is saying implicitly:  if you are the one who decides how things are, then we are doomed.” They could be words of resignation, meaning: “Here I am, kneeling down, bowing my head and begging for mercy”. Or they could be words of rebellion: “Behold! Here I stand. I'm ready to go; not because I blindly accept what I was told, but because I don't want to take part in this farce any more. I want out of the game. It never was my game anyway.”

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In the end, there is no resolution for the speaker’s conundrum. He concludes that any relationship between the human and the divine will inevitably lead to suffering, because this is the inherent nature of a relationship characterized by a disparity of power.  Cohen recognizes that he has no choice but accepting his mortality. God is still addressed to as “my Lord:” God exercises control over Cohen, and Cohen accepts that he will always be in the dark about how the world works, about death and suffering. This feeling is not unique; everybody is in some way or another coping with the reality that they are going to die, and depending upon whether they are religious or not, they face this task in different ways. Cohen surrenders to a relationship in which he will forever be in the dark—because that’s how God wants it.

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© Text, William Almonte Jiménez, 2021

© Image: Rwandan Genocide; painting by Julius Guzy, 2013

© I hereby give due credit to the web sites that I researched.