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Fuimos al teatro… “Una comedia divertidísima con situaciones enrevesadas que te harán reír a mandíbula batiente”… ponía más o menos en internet… “Uy, qué bien, menudo plan para el sábado echarnos unas risas…” pensamos… Así que ahí estábamos sentados entre el público, expectantes por ver si nuestro humor reaccionaba como se esperaba… Pero nada, la verdad es que  se nos hacía cuesta arriba sacarle la gracia a aquellos primeros gags…En fin, habíamos pagado la entrada y no era cosa de tomar decisiones precipitadas… Dejamos pues que la comedia siguiera su desternillante curso… hasta que , estupefactos,  vemos a un actor diciendo que es de la Eta, a otro confirmando su papel de  compañero de comando  y a todo el plantel , escenificando, entre las risas del respetable, un secuestro  de un hombre encapuchado en casa de la novia de uno de ellos…

No pudimos más. Nos levantamos  y, tras constatar no sin cierta angustia, que la salida de emergencia estaba cerrada, nuestras mandíbulas  se batieron en retirada como pudieron, abriéndose camino por encima de la hilera de butacas en las que, confortablemente sentada, la gente seguía riéndose.

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Categorías:Historias

Il faut…

diciembre 14, 2015 Deja un comentario

“Chérie, il faut que nous nous dépechions. Le petit déjeuner est déjà prêt”

À peine reveillée, la femme se bouche les oreilles pour eviter d´entendre à nouveau ces mots de son mari.

“Ma chérie, est-ce que tu m´as entendu?” répete le mari. “Il faut que nous nous dépechions. Le petit déjeuner est déjà prêt”

“Qu´est-qu´il faut, vraiment” se demande la femme enfonçant la tête dans l´oreiller. “Dormir, dormir…Ne pas se réveiller. Se laisser emporter par la chaleur douillette des draps qui enrobent mon corps. Faire la grasse matinée, c´est tout qu´il faut. Rien de plus. Qu´il est chiant, mon mari!” se répond elle même en serrant l´oreiller contre son coeur comme s´il était son vrai mari.

“Mon amour, est-que tu ne vois pas que le petit-déjeuner va refroidir?” insiste le mari pendant qu´il change la chaîne TV sans savoir quoi faire de plus, comme si le retard de sa femme était la cause d´un ennui plus profond qu´il ne le croyait.

“J´arrive, j´arrive, mon chéri” réplique finalement la femme en se détachant douleuresement de l´oreiller comme s´il lui manquait déjà.

Puis elle réjoint son mari sur le canapé face à la télé pour prendre le petit-déjeuner.

Ensuite le mari lui rappelle qu´il faut téléphoner à leurs amis pour les prévenir qu´ils arriveront  en retard.

Ne pouvant plus supporter un nouveau “il faut” après tous les “il faut” qu´il a fallu supporter pendant la semaine, la femme s´empare de la télecommande, éteint brusquement la télé et met sa bouche en cul de poule pour envoyer un baiser à son mari de l´autre bout du canapé.

 

 

Le long d´un quai sans issue

Sous la lumière crépusculaire, après s´être promené le long d´un quai sans issue, l´homme s´arrête et commence à se parler à soi – même.

L´homme pense à lui, à sa vie. Il essaie d´en tirer le bilan. En serrant les yeux de toutes ses forces il tente d´arriver à une conclusion. En vain. Il a beau réflèchir, la faute s´emparant de lui procure à sa pensée une rigidité douloureuse.

L´homme venait de recevoir une saisie conservatoire du tribunal. C´était un cas judiciaire dont il se croyait délivré aprés tout ce temps passé.

Les documents, soigneusement pliés dans sa petite valise, temoignaient, pourtant, que la faute était toujours là. “Saisi par son passée” ce fut la façon dont l´homme se racontait d´abord sa situation, condamné à répéter le même parcours qu ´auparavant, comme s´i y il avait vraiment un chatîment qu´il meritait.

Au bout du quai sans issue ,  se parlant toujours à soi même, l´homme ne regardait pas l´eau en face de lui. Il avait même oublié ces mots de Pascal, cet homme qu´il estimait tant:

“L´homme est ainsi fait qu´à force de lui dire qu´il est un sot, il le croit; et à force de se le dire à soi- même on se le fait croire, car l´homme fait lui seul une conversation interieure qu´il importe de bien régler”

Tout d´un coup l´homme ouvre les yeux.

En sécouant son corps pour se débarraser de l ´étourdissement où il ètait plongé, il croit d´emblée entendre les mots de Pascal lorsqu´ils sortaient de la bouche d´une mouette don’t le bec accusateur était dirigé vers lui et qui se perchait sur la proue d´un bateau dans le quai.

S´apercevant vite de son erreur l´homme tourne la tête dans tous les sens pour chercher la veritable source des mots qu´il venait d´entendre.

Là, à sa gauche, il voie la présence d´une femme prendre corps à quelques metres de lui.

Un beret rouge, d´abord. Puis, un manteau vert, des cheveux blonds ensuite et à la fin un visage qui lui tourne le dos et que l´homme n´arrive pas à voir.

Enveloppé dans un écho auquel se mélait le son d´un bateau qui s´éloignait, l´homme entend les mots suivants s´ajouter à ceux de tout à l´heure:

“L´imagination grossit les petits objets jusqu´à en remplir notre âme par une estimation fantasque, et par une insolence teméraire elle amoindrit les grandes jusqu`á sa mesure”

C´étaient les mots auquels la femme songeait en se promenant le long d´un quai sans issue le jour de leur séparation.

Pete´s beheading home

septiembre 18, 2014 Deja un comentario

Pete was heading home. He was angry and felt tired but the mere thought of his family desperately relying on the dough he daily earned with the sweat of his forehead calmed him down. As he was about to unlock his house´s entrance door he pictured the cosy order that awaited him, the household chores her wife would be performing for his sake, the two sons he was so proud of doing their homework at the kitchen table, the dog- the fabulous retriever that the organization he worked for had given him as a present last Christmas for the clockwork accuracy of his late jobs- reveling in the sucking of a bone´s head or in the licking of the milk bowl by the fireplace. Everything, as it were, falling into place, just as he had figured it out  when he married Mary, his life- long partner, his beautiful other half, his “sweet little rib” as he was fond of calling her. He decided thus to put the keys again into his pocket and to ring the bell, saying to himself that nothing would be nicer than seeing the door´s knob turn and the door being opened by the smiling countenance of any of his loved ones , by any member of such a merry compound whose head he had become because he had proved successful at running it in the same efficient, staunchly way, perhaps, that you see horses running around in merry-go-rounds. As he stood in the house´s threshold getting mentally ready for such a welcome his right hand stroke briefly the bulk of  the revolver he was carrying in his inside jacket´s pocket before going on to caress the flower he wore in his lapel, Pete´s face beginning to show a smile that already relished at the picture of  being mirrored by a twin one devoted exclusively to him . It could be nonetheless one of his quirks, he admitted somewhat wantonly, a farewell caress to the workday´s bloody chores and a flowering wink at the impending happiness after that particular hard day in which his boss had scorned him calling him a “bonehead” for not having finished off the last “deal” he was in charge of. “He was no longer worth a lousy retriever” his boss had remarked contemptuously. For a brief second Pete´s growing smile froze into a grimace.

…To be continued….

Hair and fear

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He came across that picture early that afternoon. He was lolling on the deep red velvet sofa of his parent´s living room watching tv, just wasting his time. He turned his head for a moment and there he saw it, in an old- style silver frame, standing on top of a deep red satin upholstered Chippendale table. The Chippendale table had been there for years, together with the velvet sofa he was lolling on, right in the middle of his parent´s living room , its upholstery matching the pleats of the thick felt draperies that kept the sunbeams from entering the room, but until then it hadn´t attracted his attention at all, to his eyes that picture had amounted all the while  to nothing but another piece of an overdone set of furniture.

The picture showed his father and him. His father appears smiling and he, wearing an expression of complaint on his face. The photo was taken long ago during some Christmas holiday´s that he and his family had spent in some seashore beach resort in the Atlantic. Given that in his hometown it should have been raining at the time of the year when the photo was taken and given all the amusements that were available for them, kids, in that seashore beach resort he should rather have been smiling at the camera as his father was. Instead, he´s making a grimace that expresses grievance as if he were complaining at the vain effort to shake off his father´s embrace. Actually, if one looks closer at the picture, it is not an embrace but rather his father´s hands encroaching upon his hair what is going on at the moment of the shooting. His father, moreover, isn´t exactly stroking his hair, his  hands are aiming, stroke upon stroke, at straighten it out, at “taming” his dear son´s hair, as he used to say back in those days, so that the hair remained properly combed back like the hair of some of the movie stars his father was so  fond of.

It would certainly be an exaggeration to state that that expression of complaint on his face stood for any risk-taking worth the name, hard to trace any shadow of  heroism at the twisted corners of the kid´s mouth. However, as he looked at the picture for the last time while he sat up in the sofa and walked up to the tv set to turn it off, he couldn´t help feeling a vague sense of pride taking hold of himself, as if at the time when the photo was shot, he were already fighting a war he was barely conscious of.

Pete Rodriguez

soy la ley 4
A tanned guy with olive skin crosses New York´s 8th avenue. He´s medium to talll height, around his late fifties. He has white trousers on and a floral shirt hangs out of them.His hair is pitch-black ,sparse and  combed tightly backwards. Ointed with hair lotion his hairdo ends in a ponytail. Sun glasses with gold rimmed frames are on top of his head. He´s possibly wearing more than one gold ring in his fingers but this is  hard to know due to the distance i´m watching from. He´s talking, in any case, in a loud voice to his cell phone while he keeps its mouthpiece  very close to his mouth. He suddenly purses his lips in a coleric grimace that shows a sort of violent determination. The blackness of his beard is enhanced by the pressing movement of the muscles of his jaw. His name is Pete, Pete “Conde” Rodríguez, also known as “La Ley”.
Pete is heading home after having accomplished his duty. Pete knows what his duty is. His boss in Miami has no reason to complain about him. He has become the representative of the organization in the New York area and every major deal is now carried out under Pete´s supervisión. Pete never fails to inform afterwards his boss of every detail.No matter how minor these details are ,his reports to his boss are always of a painstaking accuracy. Far from considering himself a criminal Pete is fond of stating that life has led him along this random path after having unsuccessfully applied for some uninspiring jobs in his youth. According to Pete there isn´t much difference between one kind of life and the other, the most important thing being to carry out one´s duty properly and to act as one´s  told, expecting thereafter nothing but a proper reward. Pete had indeed been  properly rewarded:  he had climbed the corporate ladder of his organization, become its representative  in the New York area and ended up building a home, with a wife, children and even a dog.
Pete, as i say, is heading home. He´s fond of this expression “heading home” because he feels it corresponds with his innermost feelings. Pete “La Ley” Rodriguez accomplishes his chief duties so thoroughly that he strongly needs to own a sort of compound where wife, children and even a dog acnknowledge him as the head of someting.

Voces amigas

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“Puerta abierta” le decía su puerta nada más salir a la calle al inicio de la jornada y esto, no fallaba, le daba ánimos.

“El ascensor está subiendo” no tenía reparos en asegurarle éste mientras se apretujaba contra las demás personas que  subían.

A media mañana solía tomarse un café y con una voz recia, masculina, parecida al de un viejo amigo con quien ya no se hablaba, el expendedor se lo agradecía y encima le devolvía los cambios.

Tuvo sus más y sus menos al ir a cambiar el recibo de la luz con una voz que le sugería que pulsase el uno y que, al ir a pulsarlo, aprovechó para sacarle el dedo y dejarle colgado.

Fue a sacar tabaco sabiendo que la máquina del bar del menú no le fallaría. Sin embargo, las amables palabras que salieron de la máquina fueron seguidas de un “El tabaco mata” que le quitaron las ganas de comer nada.

Por la tarde, de visita a un cliente, pasó por la estación de servicio y se quedó charlando un rato con el surtidor de gasoil. El sí que le comprendía.

Reconfortado y de vuelta en la oficina, “el ascensor está bajando” le confirmaba que, tras el reporting al jefe ,la jornada había, por fin, terminado.

“Puerta abierta” le susurró su puerta al sentir dentro de sí el cosquilleo de las llaves. Le hubiera gustado quedarse con ella un rato pero en casa le esperaban la tele , el whatsapp y un buzón de voz repleto de voces amigas.