23
EL duelo SORROW
relato: Clara Obligado ilustración: Violeta Galera
Mediodía. Un mar que se quiebra en luces doradas. Ciega por los reflejos, Cynthia se cubre los ojos con la bufanda. Odia este Mediterráneo al que la han arrastrado, las casas pintadas de blanco, las adelfas venenosas. En una cala, Old Woman toma el sol desnuda. La niña se sube el cuello del abrigo, y, sin dejar de espiar, sopesa ese cuerpo gastado, la red de venas en los tobillos, el pelo largo y canoso como no debe llevarlo la gente mayor. Recuerda la melena roja de su madre, la ropa siempre a la moda, la agenda repleta. Su paso alerta, el orgullo cuando iba a buscarla al colegio, las miradas envidiosas de sus compañeras. El deportivo rojo. “Estás sudando como un pollo”, le dijo Old Woman. “Quítate ese abrigo”. Cynthia no se movió. Old Woman hizo un gesto de indiferencia y se metió en el mar, con potentes brazadas desapareció tras una roca. Una pareja nudista se tendió cerca de la niña, parecían alemanes que no querían hablar alemán y chapurreaban algo absurdo. Cynthia era bilingüe, su madre había dejado Ibiza en cuanto nació y se habían radicado en Nueva York, donde le habían ofrecido un trabajo fa-bu-lo-so. A Cynthia le gustaba el adjetivo “fa-bu-lo-so” que su madre aplicaba casi a todo. Fa-bu-lo-sa la torre en la que vivían, que flotaba sobre el Central Park, fa-bulo-sa su habitación llena de libros, muñecas, juegos electrónicos. Vio cómo Old Woman se secaba con el vestido, el pecho colgante como las tetas de las cabras. Sin decir nada, se quitó las botas. Old Woman no pareció fijarse en ella. Sí que hacía calor. - Vamos, dijo la vieja, y la niña no tuvo más remedio que trotar descalza. Subieron por el camino áspero, donde sabinas y almendros y pinos susurraban con la brisa del mediodía. El mar de un azul desbocado. Los barcos a lo lejos, como cáscaras de naranja. Tierra roja, toldos blancos, pequeños bares abarrotados de turistas. Si no se daba prisa, Old Woman parecía dispuesta a dejarla atrás. Fue calzándose mientras corría. Subieron al coche desvencijado de Old Woman y, dejando atrás todo atisbo de civilización, fueron perdiénLas Dalias
Noon. A sea crumbles into golden lights. Blinded by the reflections, Cynthia covers her eyes with her cravat. She hates this Mediterranean landscape they have dragged her to: the whitewashed houses, the poisonous oleanders. On the sand of a small cove Old Woman is sunbathing in the nude. The girl buttons up her coat and, still staring, thinks about that worn body, the net of veins that spreads down the ankles, the hair, so grey, worn long unlike old people are supposed to. She remembers the long red hair of her mother, her fashionable clothes, her lively stride, the pride she felt every time she picked her up from school, the envious looks on the faces of her classmates. The red sports car. “You’re sweating like a pig”, said Old Woman. “Do take off that jacket”. Cynthia didn’t move. Old Woman shrugged her shoulders and set off into the sea. She swam with bold strokes and vanished behind a rock. A nudist couple lay down next to the girl, they looked German but they didn’t seem to want to speak German, they spoke a gibberish language Cynthia couldn’t understand. Cynthia was bilingual, her mother had left Ibiza when she was born and they had moved to New York, where they had offered her a fa-bu-lous job. Cynthia liked that word, “fa-bu-lous”.It was a word her mother used for almost everything. The skyscraper they lived in was fa-bu-lous. It loomed over Central Park. Her room, full of books, dolls and video games was fa-bu-lous. She saw Old Woman drying herself with her own dress; her saggy breasts reminded her of goat’s boobs. Without saying anything she took her boots off. Old Woman didn’t seem to notice. Actually, it was very hot. “Come on”, said the old woman. And the girl was forced to trot along barefoot. They walked up a harsh dirt track, where sabinas, almond trees and pines whispered in the noontime breeze. The sea was an uncontrollable blue. The boats, far-off, looked like orange peel floating on the horizon. Red earth, white sunshades, small bars full of tourists. If she didn’t hurry, Old Woman seemed more than willing to leave her behind. She put her boots on while she ran. They climbed into Old Woman’s old car and, leaving the last sketches of civilization behind, they made their way through the labyrinth of fields and stones. She was dying of thirst but she wasn’t going to admit it. “Don’t you want to take a shower?”, Old Woman asked. “There’s nowhere to shower”. “Yes there is. In the garden. When it’s sunny the water is warm”. “That’s not a shower, that’s only good for chickens to drink!”
dose por en un laberinto de piedras y sembrados. Estaba muerta de sed, pero no iba a reconocerlo. “¿No te quieres dar una ducha?”, preguntó Old Woman. “No hay dónde”. “Sí que hay. En el patio. Cuando hay sol, el agua sale caliente”. “Eso no es un baño, es un bebedero para gallinas”. Old Woman estudió a su nieta. Qué mal que estaban saliendo las cosas. Desde que la buscó en el aeropuerto y la niña, en lugar de abrazarla, le había retirado la cara, desde que le mostró la casa en la que vivirían, y le pareció una pocilga. Vio que masticaba a desgana un trozo de fruta y comenzó a prepararse para bajar al mercadillo. Tanto tiempo echando las cartas, adivinando el futuro, y no había ni imaginado lo que le tocaría vivir. Se asomó al dormitorio. Cynthia, con el abrigo puesto, estaba haciéndose la dormida. Su espalda menuda bombeaba una respiración leve, como si quisiera disimular la vida. Llevaba una semana sin cambiarse la ropa, casi sin comer. Digna hija de su madre, pensó Old Woman, y decidió descansar ella también, la pena que arrastraba desde hace días y ese duelo sordo le producían un cansancio visceral. Soñó con su hija, con su victoriosa melena de fuego y Cynthia recién nacida, en sus brazos. Todo era rojo en el sueño: el
Old Woman studied her granddaughter. Things weren’t working out. Right from the moment when she picked her up from the airport and, instead of hugging her, the girl had looked away. Right from the moment she had shown her the house they would both live in, and she had said it looked like a pigsty. She observed her for a while dispassionately chewing a piece of fruit and she began to get ready for the market. All those years reading peoples future in the tarot cards and she never would have guessed what she was going to have to live. She pocked her head through the bedroom door. Cynthia, still wearing her coat, was acting as if she were asleep. Her small back moved with each tiny breath, like if she were pretending not to be alive. She hadn’t changed her clothes in a week, she had hardly eaten. No doubt, she was her mother’s daughter, thought Old Woman, and she decided to rest as well, the pain she had been dragging around for days and that silent mourning had exhausted her. She dreamed of her daughter, she could see her victorious fiery long hair and Cynthia in her arms, only just born. Everything was red in that dream: the car, her hair, the blood sprinkled on the mirror of that bloody red sports car. She awoke with a start. Cynthia agreed to help load the table on to the roof rack of the car just for the pleasure of complaining 2016 - 2017