I had the pleasure of meeting with Alejandro Neyra through the mediation of a mutual friend, Jorge Eduardo Benavides. The next day, after reading some stories of Alexander, I understood that he was facing an important Peruvian writer of these times and it was essential to include one of his stories in this anthology to be arming inches.
Alejandro Neyra takes his life in his diplomatic career and literature. It
Meanwhile, in the other side of his life, as he explains. a BA in Literature from the University
CINDERELLA
Collect especially plastics, papers, bits and pieces of whatever. And Hyde Park is a huge park. Sometimes even eating some leftovers that lies between the grass and shrubs and some people left to pass him, thinking he is a pauper. Sometimes little hunting squirrels away from any of the four thousand trees in the park. Not eat. Only catch and play with them, feeds them, embraces them and returns them to their favorite branches. Well, not always in Hyde Park. There are many parks and the city is so big.
Follow him to London and realize that you are alone. It's not like those vagrants who are recognized and sleep together, embrace and gush in the most unclean. On the contrary, everything in it is pristine.
back very late to a house in Chelsea. Go up the stairs. And just open the door, it's time it will be seen that the springs inside a dim light but clear. A halo of cleanliness and the smell of cleanliness, which suggests a gleaming house full of furniture and polished floors. And it's true. At this time may not house cleaner in London. You may not have in the world.
The route of the separation between the house and found Gumersinda Amantaní their island, is exactly thirty-nine hours. Twenty minutes' walk from the house to Paddington station, and then fifteen from there to Heathrow Airport. Two hours of waiting due to new restrictions and airline security checks before departure. Direct flight to Madrid, it will be always better to travel in an airline in the English-speaking lasting one hour and twenty minutes. There, wait three hours before flying to Lima for eleven hours and forty minutes (with the scales and wait is the same as traveling through Amsterdam or New York, its other alternatives.) When leaving the airport Jorge Chavez but can not start on the first flight the next day, so overnight in Lima, more precisely in Cieneguilla, at her brother, who arrived in Lima long after her. Three hours there and three back to Cieneguilla rest would allow only four hours, but at that time can not sleep because his brother was invited for a beer, corn and cheese, lawita of potato flour, beans, pork guinea pig style Amantaní, and machine guns with questions about England. They are actually mean they get half answers questions because Gumersinda knows little of Nolberto Solano, and yes, lives in Chelsea, but knows nothing of a football team with that name or know any Pizarro. Gumersinda takes flight at six in the morning and put your feet about eight Juliaca. Wait a few minutes that fight to get a good seat in the taxi that carried ten suns the Capachica (San Salvador). There you will find the ferry to the island, although there is some
Well, actually this is what would happen if Gumersinda back. But this does not happen since 1968. Now Gumersinda is too important a task to be done.
- Have you read the Apocalypse Idiot? "Natalia asked me point blank, just sat down.
it is common for me to do those kinds of questions, to show their intellectual outlook is wider than my poor, sad, rigid and limited view on things engineering. Its aim is to remind me that she knows more, much more than me, and that their world is richer. And to me, the truth, I do not care as it does to see her rich, intelligent and beautiful panoramically, listen for hours to tell me about his new literary research while I mentally drooling thinking about how nice it would kiss her, caress her, waking up next her in an apartment built for me.
Now, being distracted, as usual, had not understood what I wanted to ask. Had I asked about the Apocalypse? Or by an idiot? Always the same, always lost in my dreams. My ex was right. I am a foolish romantic, a being from another era, someone who falls for a feeling and the same mental history. As she fell in love as he often does a child. That's my feminine side. Should be, after all, I told my ex (psychologist) I am a man vaginally. A great listener ...
- You hear me? Hey, did you hear me? You're on the moon, for a change ...
- Huh? No, sorry. Idiot. Who? Of Tolstoy, right?
-Ayayay. No, no. The Idiot of the Apocalypse. Is a collection of poems by William Chirinos Cuneo.
- Who?
-Guillermo Chirinos Cuneo. It is a strange poet. A poet chalaco the sixties. Just published a book of poems ...
- Idiot of the Apocalypse.
. Did you know?
"No, it sounds like. But why should I know about him? "It Callao?
"Yes, of course. It lived around your house. In San Jose.
- In San Jose?
San Jose, my neighborhood. Where out bike riding as a child. Border between Lima and Callao really, middle-class neighborhood not decide, as its inhabitants, whether it was more Lima or Callao, more tense or port city bold. I grew up there, yes, ashamed to say who lived in that neighborhood that belonged to these whims of cities, the port, being closer to the center of the city from the sea. I lived there. But the neighborhood could make the emergence of a poet? A real poet?
"Yes. A poet in San Jose. At that thought, right? What do you think that a poet must be born in a cradle of gold? Or die in misery? Or live in Paris, London or New York? Or what?
"No, no. If not ... well, yes. It seems strange. Do you know where exactly?
"Well, I have a direction, yes. Should be close to home ...
Gumersinda not clean. Clean, remove dirt, that almost anyone can do. Gumersinda not leave things as new, for that they are detergents and liquid dishwashing commercials. She leaves everything truly pristine, untouched, just created. That does not make any. And that was what made it different. That's what allowed him to stay in London when not speak English. In some ways it was also forcing her to leave after being with the family of William.
Amantaní 's trip to Lima was real. His sister was the first to reach the capital, thanks to a premium is placed with a family of the newly created urban San José, Bellavista, Callao. Lived in that place and some provincial families, who came years ago with great effort. But there were also families who had to leave the city center and yet had no money to buy houses in Miraflores or San Isidro, where everyone was doing well in those years. Callao was going to condemn themselves to ostracism. The same thing happened to the people who had homes in
had not been another possibility for a recent widow who had nothing more than a teenager who wrote poems and did not seem to want a decent profession, as
cleaned out everything in that big empty house, especially the huge garden and sad, and the fourth of the young, always messy and filthy.
Gumersinda left everything again. It was a gift, one of those inexplicable wonders. Even in the fourth youth, who are bent by adding strange items and write in books that nobody could see. She did not understand but he did. He realized that this little woman with dark skin, his girl (what a luxury private property!) Had the gift to create, to invent. As the first poet, one who made the world with a verb, or perhaps a poem. She did what he could not help but scratch paper and scribble books and insisted on hearing the voice of the creator. He could not. She does.
We were in the park in my home. It had to be a signal. A wink of fate. Natalie and I sat on the bench in silence. She thinking of this poet and I just watching beautiful in your question, in its silence.
"Funny that this poet has lived there in front of your house and you do not mind.
- Huh?
"That's strange that William Chirinos has lived here in the same park, and you will not have heard.
"Well, I told you. If this old fool who sat smoking at the same banking, in fact, he met him. Well, I knew not, but I saw it. I do not let out much of my home and had to ride a bike around the park, never far away. In the afternoon, before I touch back home, he came to sit here. My mom said that I approached, I was a stoner. Just seemed to me that was a little crazy.
-A misunderstood, another poet misunderstood.
I do not know if misunderstood. It seemed crazy, I told you. Sure, if it was him ...
"Yes, it was. Matches your description. Shortly before his death in 1997, a couple of poets made him an interview was not published.
was published but I do not know. He knows everything. She knows everything. The life of the best writers, the famous novelists of the misunderstood bohemian, poets, hippies. I only know a bit about strength of materials, how much is needed for a house will not fall, so that if there was an earthquake a building remains standing and does not collapse. She, beautiful, intelligent. I filled
- ... poem.
- Huh?
- You hear me? You never listen.
"No, yes. Yes, but do not know. A poem?
"I do not hear, idiot of the Apocalypse.
"Yes, the poems.
"No, idiot of the Apocalypse are you, turkey ... - she said, laughing. Making fun of me, but so beautiful and so confidently made me happy. There, in my park, the two laughing. Sitting on the banks of the poet.
She liked that. Because he could do what he does. Create. Just fell in love. She attracted by this strange young man as white and different, they almost never left his room. Him because he knew she was the real poet. Between 1966 and 1967 he wrote - thanks to Gumersinda, no doubt, these eight poems, "Red City", "Dolls", "Cats Night", "Autumn", "The earthquake", "The collapse," "Cinderella "and" Idiot of the Apocalypse. " Since it was at home, since they both loved the simplicity of ignorance, William was able to write. Create like her. And yet he wrote "Cinderella" because I thought that after all he had before taking advantage of his naive provincial girl.
- Cinderella?
- You were the servant of my house / You had a quarter of terraces and stairs / And your breasts collapsed in my eyes, / my eyes fell, collapsed: / A cascade deflowered: / Ano and blood , Cinderella- Natalia recited from memory.
"Geez, a little strong. So this leg wrote the poem after raping his employee ... and put up "Cinderella" ... it happened, right?
I do not know.
"A little bit. You know everything, Natalia. This girl abused his leg and then dedicated a poem. It was a damn ...
"That sounds horrible.
"Sorry ... but the poem says things worse.
I do not know. It's poetry. But in any case it is curious that said. Many consider Chirinos as a damned poet. But you can not say anything about poetry ...
- Poetry? It sounds too real. I do not understand how anyone can write poetry after raping his employee. Is wrong, right?
"Poetry is neither good nor evil. Poetry is.
- Is it? It's a dirty trick if so. I mean I can rape you now, but then if I write poetry and sounds okay?
I do not know. No. I do not think. Poetry comes from the heart.
"And going into the bowels if you also violated, Natalia. Sorry. But if the employee violated leg was, like it or not, a savage. An idiot.
I do not think that has been violated.
"The poem seems a bit real, right?
"Yes, indeed. But it is not true. Poetry just is. The literature simply is. Can not be judged as any fact
"You never know, Natalia. You never know.
She is quiet, beautiful. Never violate you, Natalia. Sorry. Never. Nobody who truly loves to rape someone. No. You can not.
're my Cinderella said the poet. And he recited things she did not understand. Gumersinda barely understand English. But he liked to sleep with the young. I liked it because after going to bed he spoke, and although she did not understand anything, I knew things were beautiful.
He would say things and liked to see her smile. He hardly spoke. The words just came out, but he felt that each was made possible by it. A woman. Poma, Famula, celery, yellow, bottom ash . She was the one who gave life to words. She was his word and poetry. He nothing but a stupid doomsday reader, an idiot of Revelation.
banking That we were Natalia and I, the banks of the poet, would be our bench. She was thinking that after long discussion and allowed to embrace, pat. Left to give him a kiss on the forehead, another in the nose, more in their eyes, his neck in his mouth. Had been disarmed. She was always so confident, let me do what I wanted. I was kissing and caressing her small firm breasts, her thighs under tight torn jeans. Natalia just let me. And when I did not know what else to do, inexperienced in love for real unarmed except that bulk undisguised attack on his pants, I stopped.
"What a wicked game I play.
-What?! "I said, just waking up my outbursts. We met in English classes and it was normal that sometimes interrupt me with a sentence gringota. But this time was different.
-Sorry, Chicho. We can not continue. Sorry. I thought I could feel what I felt
- "rape you?! I would never violate, Natalia. Never.
- Why not?
"Because I'm in love. Clearly, no? I love you. More than anyone else. I do not know what happened. It was as if ...
-As if you wanted to rape me.
"No, no.
-Admit it.
"Well, really I do not know ... Did you do that just to prove that the violation of your poet was not rape?
"Almost. Actually I'm not sure. I thought I could feel something ... Sorry, Chicho. I did not want this to happen.
- You did not want this to happen?! "I did not want to fall in love with you?! You're crazy!
"Maybe, yes. Well, sorry again. I have to go ... see you in class tomorrow.
He walked quickly to his car, parked just a few feet from our bench. It was almost eleven. We had been there all night. And from Callao to your beautiful neighborhood was more than an hour's drive. On another occasion I had stopped, he would have continued and would have gone with her before returning in combination only after spending one hour talking in front of his home. Would have taken more than doubled between walking to the nearest whereabouts, expecting a Custer to take me downtown Lima, and then took my combi Lima-La Punta, taking care not to rob me at the corner of Tacna and Beehive finally arriving at my house. But this time I moved. It was as if
Cinderella had to leave when William's mother realized her son was in love. If nothing had happened just lying or had abused her. But William had fallen in love. I was crazy about her. And the worst part was that somehow she understood. Gumersinda was not beautiful, but did well what was asked, was simple, quiet and delicate. But no. I could not let William continue well. It was enough to devote himself to poetry and did not have a fixed office. Or maybe yes. Maybe she could change. But I could not get any better? Did it have to be a cholita a lost island of Titicaca?
Gumersinda had to take their belongings and leave at dawn. And he was silent, without saying goodbye to William. Walked aimlessly known to the one place he knew. It was toward the center of Lima.
Why still wanted if he had played with me? If kisses were nothing but a joke to test myself and prove his theory about rape? Did not understand. Maybe it was my narrow-mindedness. Or my lack of experience. I imagined that Natalia had begun to lay the foundation for a future relationship. There were already structures and a little cement, columns grew, and when we kiss (along with metaphors - I can too), I thought it was time to start emptying. To fill the roof and place the concrete, armed as he was. And suddenly, when the scaffolding seemed complete, all collapsed. Inside me, however, still wanting to see her in the classroom, where her blonde hair and smell distracted me forever. He sat by her side to share every year in English, to further humiliate me with excellent pronunciation, his sarcastic smile every time I made a stupid mistake. Living without dignity.
Unless our contact in English, spent several days without calling. I did not know what to say or how to convince ourselves alone again. I had to find out more of the enigmatic poet. I started to ask my family and my neighbors and I decided to finally go home, talk to the old lady who lived there, the mother of apocalyptic idiot. It was actually her.
just asked for William, his son, the poet, his eyes widened and without a word I made it happen. We talked in a large room, occupied only by a rickety chair and a
wooden bench where I sat. The other furniture was a vast and ancient Victrola in which a station could be heard passing those romantic songs of the past. Hence the poet's mother told me of the story, that I needed to excuse Natalia call and invite me back to sitting on a park bench, our bench.
Old Gumersinda perfectly remembered.
"Well. You know it's a rite of passage almost accepted in our society. The right of the master over his servant. A droit de seigneur veiled transferred to XXI century, well, the twentieth century in the case of the poet.
- Pardon? I can not believe I say that.
"But you know?
"Of course I understand you. I understand all your theorizing about the modern droit de seigneur. I do not understand is another thing: you, you always say you should not confuse the real author of the poetic voice or something, now accept that the poet may have written this after raping Gumersinda.
"Well, yes. You can not ... no, should not confuse the person of flesh and blood with the author of a work. But in this case if what you said the old that is true ...
"What I said is nothing old. She believes they were lovers. And so out of the house to the girl.
"Which also is normal.
- Normal?
"Well, I guess that would be afraid that cholita had a son, or a grandchild of it, right?
- And you think that's normal?
-Normalazo. Hallucinates that the pregnant me my old driver.
"I botarían the jato.
"Well, never happen. But men are weaker with the meat, right?
knew this was telling me about what happened the last time. Gradually, the conversation was invaded by a very different feeling her love for her until then. I could not suddenly say that he hated, either. But their words, their justifications were for me unacceptable. "Having a child of the chola ',' droit de seigneur modern." Theorizing that holding something that seemed insignificant.
walked without destination. It was very early and when he came to the center was surprised to hear such thunderous noise. The very earth shook.
A soldier saw her, fell from one of the tanks that would
The car pulled immediately. Ambassador White was on his way to the airport to board the first flight of Braniff headed for the U.S., destination London. Gumersinda go with them. No one would ask questions, the country had suffered the twenty-seventh coup in its history. No one was to questions at that time.
"I was afraid to impregnate the girl. Gumersinda was falling in love.
"And you threw it.
- was the maid of the house!
-As much as Guillermo was in love. And she surely.
- The employee! Do you understand? Do you think your mother would like you you'll love your job?
"No, guess not.
"Me neither.
"But as I said before, William was in love.
- Sure, I was in love! It was a pretty girl! Different! I knew he was going to find at night, and sometimes she went to her room. Ever spies. I was listening. Guillermo told nice things. And she learned to read with him. Do you understand? Were falling in love, but I could not leave.
"Yes, I understand more or less. Calm down, ma'am. Quiet.
"In the end it was my fault. If I had not missed perhaps Guillermo did not end well.
"Relax, lady, quiet.
The old woman was agitated. His eyes sparkled under the sole focus of the room. Now repent. He knew he had screwed up. William, tell me then searched for her for days, weeks, everywhere. But it was October 1968. Right in the middle of the stroke of Chinese Velasco. There were complications. Never seen again.
Guillermo had changed during the time he was in love with Gumersinda. But when she was returned to his depression and his stuff. Out all day to walk, look. His health was ruined. Drink. Drugs. He was first admitted, did rehabilitation at home later. Thus began his journey to death, and with it the increased suffering of the mother. That old lady who had fallen asleep in his chair after having cried in front of me. Me.
Gumersinda was installed in the White house in London, and worked with them for five years. He still had his magic skills to make things as new. The people who went to the home of the White ambassadors were impressed with her marriage and when he had to travel again outside your country, Gumersinda stayed in London. He realized that he could work on several houses and make more money. Let him occupy the White house of Chelsea as they went to their mission in South Africa, where they were brutally murdered in a racist so many misfortunes.
Gumersinda stood alone again, this time in London, with those white saviors residence had been left to care and nobody would claim ever. Would be to live there. It was there that one day in 1999, more than twenty years later, she received a letter that had been around the world. The letter from William, his dear William. Gumersinda read a poem but just understand, but still answered.
normal "Then you think that the poet has raped the girl.
"Well, as you were love.
"That's what the mother thinks.
-Never mind.
- Whether you have violated or not the girl!
"If after the rape wrote that poem, no matter.
- does not matter?!
"Sometimes suffering can create the most beautiful artistic expression.
- What?!
"Thousands of artists have been inspired suffering.
-A touch. I guess you talk about war, death. One's own suffering. Not rape someone. Not killing someone.
"I told you. If after art has emerged worthwhile.
-Pucha you bad, ah.
I do not know how much trouble you get ... if it was also his employee. Security was one of those who seek cholitas pendejas sure the pattern. A Natacha.
- Puta, why you are dumb!
- What did you say?!
"That you're a dumb. A co-Ju-da!
Those were the last words he spoke to Natalia, who, offended, stood on the bench I thought would be ours. I do not know how many insults I threw. I'm not interested. I realized what had happened. I did not want. I was in love with a beautiful girl who thinks that art is above all, the lives, death, love. Absolutely everything. I realized that I could not tolerate. Since then never showed up in class English. I kept going. Segui also visiting the old lady, mother of William Chirinos Cuneo. And since then I started reading more poetry. But I have fallen in love.
Gumersinda The answer came when Guillermo Chirinos was already very serious. It was a miracle that the first letter arrived. A miracle greater than the response it did. The poet died a few months later, in December 1999. But before he died, in one of their deluded dreams, packed all his poems and letters returned and sent to the address of Chelsea was the recipient of the letter Gumersinda.
Since then she goes to visit London to find small things to pick up and carry your shiny home. There is only a messy room in the house. A basement room that is very similar-in fact- is identical to that in which forty years before she and William had begun to recognize words and objects. Consists mainly of plastic, paper, pieces, bits and pieces of whatever. With them goes home and locks herself in that room that may sometimes appear Guillermo Chirinos Cuneo, and where if you could get in, understand what the true Poetry.
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