Amsterdam Schiphol
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
©William Almonte Jiménez, 2023
Amsterdam Schiphol
Even though my flight was scheduled for
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
© 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.”
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“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.”
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“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.”
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“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.”
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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.
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“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.”
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“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.
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“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.”
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“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.