Por Nemir Matos Cintrón
La Tertulia 49 "Pero que es el recuerdo sino el idioma de los sentimientos, un diccionario de caras y días de perfumes que vuelven como los adjetivos en el discurso". -Julio Cortázar Calle Cerra, 1940 La calle Cerra en la parada 15 de Santurce es una procesión de puertas y balcones desiguales desteñidos por las lluvias torrenciales del trópico y el sol avasallante. La lejía corre por las cunetas en su afán de aliviar los ácridos olores de la pobreza y la amenaza de malaria que arropa la capital. En el dintel del bar Asencio se dibuja la figura de Manuela, una travesti altiva y morena que desafía con la mirada a los hombres que la miran con desdén al pasar y a las mujeres que cruzan la calle cuando la ven. Se oye al fondo una guaracha de Myrta Silva. "¡Por aquí no ha pasado un tranvía!"—insinúa Manuela con su brazo apuntando a la entrepierna, sus labios en perfecta sincronía con la voz de la cantante. —"En Puerta de Tierra hay un brote de Malaria"—recuerda achicando los ojos mientras exhala el humo de un Chesterfield. —"Para allá no voy porque una nunca sabe quién te puede contagiar".
Irene mira con sigilo y premura las puertas abiertas a la calle de los negocios olientes a licor y cigarros. Trae los bolsillos llenos de caracolas, cansada de caminar a pie desde la playa del último trolley hasta Trastalleres. La mira el vendedor de chicharrón de cerdo, parado frente a Sierra, el negocio de importaciones de vituallas de Holanda. La gente se asoma a la vitrina de su carrito de madera y cristal pero no compra. Solo el pan. El vendedor observa la modesta elegancia de la niña, muy pálida para ser del trópico. Ella lo ignora, mientras fija la mirada en la ilustración de la fachada del negocio que exhibe un queso de bola rojo con su sello de marca. ¡Qué rico que sería comer queso de bola holandés con galletas export soda y café con leche muy dulce!
El show de mediodía se oye en la radio del Friquitín Arroyo "La playa de Vega Baja y la mar chiquita son rinconcitos...de ensoñación". Va tarde y tropieza con una pareja que sale de una cabina fotográfica de madera pintada de amarilla y roja en la esquina de la calle Hoare y la Fernández Juncos. La cabina tiene como fondo una pared pintada con falso paisaje de palmeras. Un esquinero ubicado en el centro frente al paisaje lee "Solo en ti vivo pensando". Lo corona una botella de vino y una lata de salchichas. El fotógrafo coloca una mujer triste y bella junto a un hombre de tez oliva, sonrisa campechana y confiada. Él le aprieta la cintura mientras ella parece conjurar a otro. Tras el lente, mira a ese hombre imposible al cual amaba—Irene- "mijita, no vas a escoger un mecánico, siempre con las manos sucias. Ese muchacho Nemesio anda presentable y almidonado. Es un poco mayor que tú pero eso es bueno. Un hombre responsable". Ella no sabía porqué pero tenía muchas dudas y recelos. No confiaba en este hombre de mucha labia y poesía trillada. Hubiera preferido la mano áspera de su mecánico de ojos oscuros de noche sin estrellas y pelo rizado por el sudor de la faena. Irene se da cuenta de que ella es la mujer que acaba de tomarse la foto junto a ese hombre quien abrazaba a su pareja tenazmente. Reconoce que se estaba mirando en el pasado. Que miraba a la adolescente que había sido. Que era ella quien salía de la cabina fotográfica de la mano del hombre a quien ahora recordaba caminar frente a ella mientras, cuando apenas púber, recogía caracolas en la playa. De repente recordó que Nemesio iba acompañado por esa mujer de la que se enteraría luego seguiría en su vida y sería la causa de su desamor. Decidió que a veces es mejor no tener memoria.
Nemesio Matos e Irene Cintrón.
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By Sharon Díaz
La Tertulia 49 I woke up from a nightmare….a dreadful nightmare. I saw his face one afternoon, I greeted him as his smile reminded me of the impact a teacher can have in someone else’s life, perhaps we never realize how losing a cherished heart will forever leave an open wound, waiting to heal. I asked him “So nice to see you Simon!”, “Hello Miss! I’m ready for graduation!”, “I’m so happy for you!” “Va a estar allí, ¿verdad?”, “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”. I walked away, one last time I turned my back, I glanced back at him and he waved his last goodbye. I would’ve never thought, not once in a million years, that one of my birds, carefully designed, perfected, intellectually seeded and grown and formed by my hands momentarily, ….would fly away from this world unexpectedly, as quick as thin air leaves a soul. Perhaps, this world is not for us to bleak upon, perhaps there are only a privileged kind, chosen to gracefully lighten up obscure days upon us. I went back to my office, I felt so proud of all battles he and many others have won, against odds, against society’s biased hatred and confusion. Between love and forgiveness, Simon won, I am sure he won with colossal delight and dignity. Pulse…our home, my home. Many nights of peace, love, friendship, kindness, music subliminally entwining us to dance, obliterating all traces of judgement; Pulse was the only place angels disregarded colors, religions, sexual preferences…none of these were existent. We just danced, without fears, our spirits felt perpetual. June 11th, 2016: I brimmed the day; we had dinner, we went to the movies. Unexpectedly, my pulse longed for one night, of paradise in Athens. I could not resist the urge, as I looked at her face, her eyes presume the love we have for each other. Those sweet eyes, always looking at me with confidence, and forgiveness. I thought ,it is the perfect timing, let's dance the night away, my love. I texted my flower friend, Laura. "Hey, let's go to Pulse", "ok". As we walked to the car, we recalled all the wondrous nights we have had in our home, with friends, family, even foes. I still remember, the last trip I made with my mother to Orlando, before she passed away, a year later. On one of those nights, my brother took me and my sister to PULSE Nightclub; "oh the music! The people dancing! The queens performing their ballads! How much love I can breathe!"; these were my sister's remarks. We arrived home by 4:00am, my parents were asleep, but my brother, my sister and I kept dancing around the living room fooling around with his pink corset, his husband's tiara and his feather boa...the energy filled us, completely. Years later, I could still felt the love emerging, nothing had changed. June 11th midnight: We sat in the car, drove away. As we stopped on the red light, my stomach knotted, I felt as the unimaginable would happen, a sense of awareness. She kept driving, took the highway and arrived at Paramore St. Laura texted me back "hey, I think it's too late, there are no chairs at this time". We kept driving around, we arrived at Church street. June 12th 12:30 am: We drove by PULSE...the music was loud, and only cheerful, ecstatic faces were coming in and out the club. "Hey, I'm hungry, should we stop by IHOP first? We can grab something to eat and then come back", "good idea". Call it fate or déjà vu, something told me this was not the night to feed our urge of dancing. Laura texted me again, "listen, something don't feel right, rain check me for tomorrow". Laura, one of many of my life's guardian angels, confidant and dare to say, alter ego, shook up even more this feeling of uncertainty. "Baby, let's go home, let's come back tomorrow. Sundays are more mellow" , "yeah, let's go home". We fell asleep. The moon was full, I felt it trembling on the unexpected dark timeline about to happen in a couple of hours. Nemir Matos Cintrón reads her poem "Pulse Orlando".
June 12th 7:30am: Text messages became our alarm for the day., we did not answer, an hour has passed...my sister called, I answered "are you guys ok? Why haven't you call us? We were worried sick!", "but, why? What's wrong?" "didn’t you post last night you were going to PULSE?" "well, yes...”, "then, watch the news!!". I jumped from my bed, I turned on the TV...
Only darkness and fear...is all I could see..."Iliana!!!!" We were in awe...our hearts shattered in uncountable pieces...I grabbed my phone, my hand was shaking uncontrollably, 15 unread text messages to be exact. My dear friend Antonio...three unread text messages...Laura, 4 unread text messages, my brother, 6 unread text messages, my dad, my sister, my aunt, my mother in law, my sister in law...the list of many loved ones' unanswered texts... "We are ok", I had no words...nothing else I could say...but "we are ok". Five hours later, the list of victims and wounded showed up... One name..."No! It cannot be! Simon, there is one Simon! Last name, what's the last name! Carrillo! No!" A sudden instant pain got ahold of me...I could not grab the chair, I felt I was living a nightmare from which I couldn't wake up. Everything around me suddenly paused. They say our life's precious moments will replay in your head on your last breath of life, but for me my first replay moment happened on June 12..."estará en mi graduación, ¿verdad?" "of course, why wouldn't I Simon?" Once again, he waved goodbye. I'm sorry Simon! I'm sorry for destiny's foul play, I'm sorry it took your bright future away, I'm sorry your family couldn't see your graduation day, I'm sorry for the pain, suffering, and agony you went through those last hours. Orlando and my community will never be the same again. This attack shook our soul, a year later it is still remembered. Against all odds we became stronger and our purpose now is to bring awareness of our presence, we are here and we will fight. The warriors and soldiers of this battle are the writers, artists, teachers, politicians, college students among many others; these are the harvesters, planting the seed of love and acceptance in our future generation. Sharon Diaz reads her poem "Scarlet and P.U.L.S.E." |
La Tertulia 49Photo by Rawpixel on Unsplash Categories
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