Born in Lima in 1959. Engaged in business in the electricity sector-industrial, literary activities began in 2002 with the publication of literature in electronic portals of his early stories " All because of Muriel ", "Questions of amateur photographer "and" imperfect life of a writer "(Literary Editor Badosa-Spain). Later he published his first book of stories titled "The narrator and the happiest woman in the world" (Ed. San Marcos, 2003) and a year later his first novel " of dogs and summer evenings without you " (Ed. San Marcos, 2004). Other stories of his, as "psychotropic" and "Exhausted" have been collected in specialized literature in Spain (Cuadernos del Minotauro - Madrid 2004 and Pnemósyne - Tenerife 2004, respectively). This year was awarded the Thousand Words magazine Caretas . We are definitely facing a writer whose talent is emphasizing disciplined.
ALL BECAUSE OF MURIEL
I
was why he was there. Otherwise never have happened. But now, against these outrageous women of cheap alcohol moistened lips, covered with the acrid smell of snuff, I'm not sure how to do this anymore. What I should have never come? Maybe, probably. However, I am here, facing my weaknesses, enjoying my misery, and that's when I feel overwhelmed, humbled, insignificant in a reality that crushes me, I am dumb and I traps. And all because of Muriel. If it were not for her interest in marrying her stupid, in looking at my side, in white, going to church, maybe now instead of being here, I'd be at his side, having a beer in a tavern or better Barranco in some of those little hotel where we used to expect the early hours of Sunday, resting those who had glasses of wine on our passions and dazzled our eyes. But the reality is solid and cold as ice. I'm here, feeling hopeless fool, because of that stupid fight with Muriel, because of that life with Muriel, because of this marriage to Muriel. Yes, because although for many as a surprise (to me also was), a February afternoon, hot and sweaty in Fatima Church, in front of a handful of incredulous guests dressed in that suit and still had the label of the laundry, I married this girl, Muriel. Melgar Martínez Muriel and her name. Owner of a stolid gray eyes and dotted with thousands of freckles on his face, was with his long figure, his messy hair and nervous gestures, what anyone would call "a strange woman", but for me, since that night I mourn was the only thing strange that I noticed it was this desire uncontrolled by marrying me. Muriel, since I met her, became the artisan of my nights, and was so skilled in his work as extensive and thorough in its delivery, that after a dawn saturated snuff, alcohol and aroma Givenchi hidden, the Sunday morning found us huddled in an old hotel, talking casually about sex and marriage. And to me the first thing I inevitably ended up being the latter. It happened a few weeks after splitting with Malena, then it was easy, very easy, sentimental after that defeat, took the decision (or abide hers) were married. Now, after some years, I can say without remorse; sorry yes, but no regrets: I married to forget Muriel Malena.
The result of this marriage was obvious now with ease. Very simple affair, nothing complicated, predictable as well by those who know me and they used to say, almost daily, from the days when the wedding is coming over me like a wave about to break, that my future as a married man was, say the least, very uncertain and accompanied by gray tinge, typical of the failure. Still I decided to embark, more driven by the obsession Bridal Muriel, who on his own conviction, as absurd undertaking, "total whatever forget this unhappy" I said more once, translucent in each abstract and volatile component of my thought, that feeling of love-hate Malena had planted in me. Malena was part of my history. It was not a platonic or idealized by some strange circumstance, no, none of that, the relationship with her dating from some years ago when we lived in that fifth, near the boardwalk of Miraflores.
The first time I saw her, Malena was fourteen. Bronceadísima walking along the boardwalk on your bike Monark, those who wore rings, pink handles mirror which hung a thin strips of colorful plastic. We all saw it happen but no one was able approach, perhaps because of shyness that boys have discovered the block in front of his figure or simply because our fifteen years, we were overwhelmed by the early maturity of her breasts. As it was, my idea on how to enjoy that summer was conditional on the number of times a day, on my bike, without ring, mirrors and handles colors, crossed the boardwalk with his, and although at the time , my gaze fixed on her figure came from a block before he lost his courage vain diverted to any point on the horizon, the mere fact of having been at his side, to look only for a moment those two small spots, each side by side, on his lips, was reason enough to cause me a few hours of wakefulness. And I lay awake imagining all that summer a thousand ways to reach her riding my bike up to the lighthouse to ask his name that he already knew, to ask how school was, also already knew and to say that these two spots I had were the most beautiful in the world, then you tear a smile and then ... and then, then nothing would happen because I would never have the courage to ask her name or what school a student, or anything. Because this summer or next, or subsequent would say nothing. I'd settle for just to see her with her short cream, their white sneakers, without pins, contrasting with the carrot that his skin color reserved for those hot months. Thus, in the neighborhood, we all used to seeing from afar, always alone, always rejecting the compliments of those boys who drive a car believed to have some choice over others. Nothing could be further than that. Rafael even the most daring and friendly neighborhood you could start a smile. His attempt, worthy and recognized by all, ending with that look of insolence that had Malena and it sank into silence for several days. Malena was therefore as untouchable as beautiful.
Or at least it was during those three summers, because to start the fourth, one of those afternoons in January, was seen returning from secretarial academy at the Mercedes sports car. The fact is, I accept, was to shake in the depths, like it or not accept it, always had a plan, never put into practice, to conquer Malena. Thus, in the neighborhood, we got used to the presence of Pancho and the upstart named the Mercedes-whom one way or another all envied with justified reasons.
The weeks and months went by and after a couple of years (and Malena was nineteen and maturity announced promising), began to murmur that was Pancho and asked for her hand, which is more, his mother, proud of one engineer working in a high position Petroperú commensurate with their substantial incomes, had not objected to that request in some way. Thus, our "Miss Miraflores Malecon", an example of modesty and beauty for residents and intruders from other neighborhoods, we marry, leaving, as well as surprised, more than a broken heart, including, without false modesty, me. However, sometimes the destination charge of disturbing the plans, and in the case of Malena, their plans collapsed along with the helicopter carrying Pancho, there in the Amazon jungle, from the oil well A-IV towards the base of operations in Trompeteros. As a result of that fatal accident, I should say, not without embarrassment, caused in me a strange satisfaction that I learned to hide from the neighbors, Malena mourning widow kept a virgin, first evidenced in the use of dark skirts, then, with each passing day, go to a black scarf gracefully curled his neck during those Sunday visits to Fatima Church. Obviously, the time had passed for Malena, but also for me, that at this stage of the game and was nearing the age of twenty, and had my body despercudido all traces of shyness quinceañera. So one day I decided. It was a Sunday found me going to church, under the pretext of reaffirming my Christian beliefs, to meet Malena, who until that day had been started only a modest movement of face, every time that by far the greeting . Strategically located in a pew, I had the opportunity to "give the sign of peace", and then, call it shock, call it chance, stumble to the exit, which is why I had the opportunity to express how much I was concerned that this incident marred his life and wedding plans thwarted his cherished. She received my words with a demure smile and from there forward, all walked as the best of my dreams. I started going to church on Sundays (I knew the name of the priest, Paul was called) to go there accompanied by Malena, who my new friend was not entirely indifferent. Then I visited on a Saturday at home, a mass there, another visit there, and after a couple of months as we walked together along the boardwalk of Miraflores, telling our things and laughing at any silly thing that happens around us.
Malena, little by little began to forget that event in the death of Pancho, and over time, everyone began to notice something more lighthearted. And out at night and commented the gossips have seen dancing with a certain impudence in a nightclub, always with an older man and money. I of course did not pay attention to those malicious gossip, which he attributed to the spiteful jealousy of some who could not stand the idea of \u200b\u200bseeing him. To me, she was still the same creature of fourteen who had been on that bike transit, so sweet and innocent as he always had been, and although years had been vainly in love with her, now things were different now Malena was within my reach. A few months later, as the sun was melting on the beaches of Miraflores, I declared my love. There was worth the wait, Malena and although I had accepted that kiss was not a single witness around me, I always imagined that at the time was the most envied man on earth. It was only for a few seconds his tongue tangled with mine. I remember my hand walking down her cheeks, for those two spots on his lips that I always saw far, for that smooth skin tinged with the February sun. Only a few seconds were enough to crown me a thousand years of patience and frustration. I loved that woman, and I did not hesitate to contemplate a future at his side.
II
do not know why I remember those things, right now, Through this sordid environment. That's funny. Now it seems seedy, now that I'm here. An hour ago I thought only to arrive and now wondering "What do I cope with these women from whose lips were red spring metal such words of love?" Clumsy words that will surely one day had a feel for it and now have become the prelude negotiation. "Are you coming with me, my love?", "Where are you going my life?" Rings hollow, empty sound, "" Forty, thirty soles, full service? ", These words sound more appropriate, fair, fit into that environment bathed in red, filled with music, of alcohol. And I look surprised to find myself in front of them. And I think almost immediately that whatever was happening to me was because of Muriel, for this stupid obsession with marriage. When I ordered that construction of a housing project in Cuzco, Malena and I had decided to marry, but at home, although I accept it as "the girl's boyfriend," that would result a blow to her mother, so loving and so conventional ways to institutions as "respectable and sacred" as marriage. So, unable to miss the opportunity that gave me the building, we decided to postpone our plans marriage until my return from Cuzco, a year later. Meanwhile, this forced separation, well paid of course, serve to raise the funds needed to organize a good marriage and a better honeymoon.
The first months were pretty rough, but the internet and phone, took care of my melancholy amenguar through countless hours at the computer or the phone booth. It was also through the internet (emails they say) that I started to get these anonymous messages. The first of its kind that I received had some elegant touch of mystery, one of them said something like:
When the cat is, mice parade, and the truth that little mouse is increasingly paseandera. Knowing what malicious
can be certain people, do not hesitate to attribute this kind of messages to a rejected suitor of Malena, a modest be enraged by such rudeness with which she defended herself against the onslaught of those awkward galancillos. Anyway, trying not to offend Malena, even with the more subtle assumption about any action that desdijera of person, you never told those anonymous email he received, by the way also becoming more frequent and heavier. Thus the emphasis was of the person or persons sought to discredit it before me, that when the last mail arrived, they were carriers of crude messages accusing one Malena shamelessly, as the one I received on a Friday, when he was six months in that city:
Malena is made a whore
Or this:
Malena Talk for cheaper copper.
remember that after reading the first message had been somewhat uneasy about the content, because thinking about it objectively, this figure cats and mice, it could have been with Malena. It was certainly likely to find itself, had taken advantage of this freedom some nights out or trips not previously used, nothing indeed reprehensible, but the last post, removed any vestige of doubt that initially could have. It was obvious that Malena never behave like a whore. Everything was certainly an invention of some envious insane.
The project ended in less time than expected and a couple of months before their first birthday I was suddenly back in Lima. He had not mentioned my return to Malena and I wanted to be a surprise. He brought me the bags full of money and dreams, ready for marriage. But that did not happen. I never married her. That was said by e was true. That night I returned from Cuzco, Malena unexpectedly visited and could not find. I waited in the corner, with a bouquet of roses in hand, until his arrival. He did around dawn in a sports car that fell between a cluttered mess of laughs and kisses. An unbuttoned blouse, an unknown blonde hair and a tiny black leather skirt completed the scene. If not for those two spots on his lips, was reluctant to deal with it, my Malena. I said nothing, only I left. The next day I went in search of Rafael, expect me to comment on Malena, on that type of sports car on the leather miniskirt, about anything I do understand that was what was happening. It was then that I learned. Everyone in the neighborhood I commented. He came every night in a different car and always dressed outrageously. Every time wearing more jewelry, had painted the hair and of course I was not going to Mass on Sundays.
"Excuse me for saying so, but for me, Malena has emputecido" said Rafael.
- Emputecido? I asked, somewhat puzzled by that little word. Emputecido
-Ha. But yes, it has done in a higher social stratum. Just guys with money. Swim with the neighborhood nor Mysians. You can see it arrive every morning, her hair dyed blonde, her skirt black leather and neckerchief. I feel sorry for you, but you know better. Dude, forget Malena.
And that's what I did, or rather what I do. After verifying the words of Raphael, which was enough for only a couple of dawn in the corner of the house of Malena, I became an insomniac who resigned to accept, over drinks and cigarettes, including taverns and brothels, which his image, despised and hated, had always adhered to me that from now on live, forever, remembering Malena inescapable.
III
"Then he fell ill with a strange virus he contracted on his journey to the jungles of Congo. Days later, about to be married, died. "I was told that he died when I did bungee jumping while on holiday in Sydney ...
- Yes? This time he was drunk ... why she was crying.
"Now, so are you ... and you're crying.
That was Muriel. Always willing to pick up my tears and hear a thousand versions of the death of Malena. Died riding elephants in Ceylon, at the Eiffel Tower electrocuted, drowned in the Nile, killed by a Palestinian terrorist command and devoured by piranhas in the Amazon. I first heard in the bar, with a pile of bottles beer, then in my room Barranco, under some blankets that cover my winter, until, finally, obsessed with the idea of \u200b\u200btaking care of me forever, he engineered a sophisticated plan that eventually meet one afternoon, with my new suit collected from the laundry, standing in front of the yellow walls of Fatima Church. No matter that we lived all three together, Muriel, I and the memory of Malena. Was understood, and we should live and live well for years. I resumed my activities in civil engineering, rent an apartment in Miraflores and walked away from those bars and taverns that sheltered my stories about the death of Malena. But that could not work forever. Muriel was after all a woman and the only woman who can stand for some time is the one you love. And I (and Muriel knew), I did not love her. That was why he was there. Otherwise never have happened. I do not remember if the discussion started because I asked him to stop fondling or because I was reprimanded for leaving naked. I do not remember. The truth is that before further discussion on that stupid bathed by tears and my "fuck and shit ', I decided to get out to one of these bars in downtown Lima, which swarm aserranados cheap prostitutes and transvestites.
And here I am now, sitting at the bar a bar that exudes moisture, guarded breathing, whores, while I count my last fifteen years, recalling that afternoon I saw Malena walking his bike, remembering that night when I learned that to be a bitch is that being female and that being female is something that happens to anyone. Anyone, yes of course, to anyone, unless of course, Muriel. She was too good. I hated her for that, for good. I could not stand this obsession with me, protect me, to collect my tears. He had to escape it, being in a place like this, wallow in the squalor, in this sea of \u200b\u200bwhores, alcohol, lipstick ... Yes, I need to enjoy this vulgar sex, enjoy this misery, forget Muriel between the legs of one of those sluts thirty soles. I will, perhaps with the brunette, pink nail or perhaps with the other, the brown-eyed Chinese girl or maybe ... No, not with any of them. Now I know whom I will. Yes, I am sure I will with this one, that dyed blonde hair, that of black leather skirt and neckerchief, which has two small moles, one beside the other, there just on her lips ...
0 comments:
Post a Comment