Paris.
noviembre 16, 2011
In the bitter cold
I carried you
in one hand,
in the damp form
of a crumpled
piece of paper
left to me
on your kitchen table-
coffee capsules scattered,
and dirty mugs holding
the remains
of a hurried breakfast
and a silent talk.
I carried you,
clutched invisibly
in my fist,
walking fast
past other
pedestrians
because Paris,
in December,
somehow feels
more concrete,
more absolute,
in your kitchen
than by this frozen river,
this clean beauty
of the still buildings
against the thick fog.
In this rain,
I wanted
to walk you off,
through this morning,
so I could go back
to the capsules,
to the gestures,
as if I had never
been there
before.
En un parque de febrero.
febrero 23, 2011
El invierno empieza a morir, entrando ya en su último tercio. Si no llueve, a la hora de comer dejo la oficina y me voy al parque más cercano a estirar las piernas y pensar lejos de la mesa de trabajo. En Holland Park, a los pies de un jardín japonés, hay siempre un grupo de pavos reales que cuando hace sol ocupan las ramas más altas de los robles circundantes, y cuando el cielo está gris rondan por el césped afanados, buscando qué comer.
Ayer, durante mi paseo habitual, asistí al primer indicio de la primavera con la danza de un macho que desplegó la cola ante una potencial pareja y se entregó a un baile desesperado y febril que me mantuvo admirada durante los veinte minutos que duró la frenética, preciosa coreografía.
¿Cómo puede uno no sobrecogerse ante el despliegue de la cola de un pavo real? ¿Cómo no maravillarse ante ese diseño tan elaborado y tan vistoso, que se abre de pronto en una extensión centelleante y multicolor? ¿Cómo quitarle la vista de encima a ese penacho que antes colgaba arrastrado por el suelo y que se ha convertido en un reclamo sexual de increíble minuciosidad, como si lo hubiera tallado a mano algún orfebre? El pavo lo exhibía orgulloso, y lo hacía vibrar como si su cola estuviera formada por mil panderetas diminutas. Y no acababa el hechizo de esta danza en el placer visual, sino que emitía además un murmullo muy cautivador con cada quiebro vibrante, con cada aproximación del decidido enamorado a su conquista.
La pava agasajada lo ignoraba por completo, y no levantó en ningún momento la vista del suelo y de los bichos que estuviera comiendo. Él, infatigable, no cejaba en el empeño: se acercaba a ella con un andar zigzagueante, agitaba las alas además de la cola, estiraba el cuello, cimbreaba las panderetas hasta el agotamiento, y observaba su indiferencia contrariado. Pero en lugar de hundirse, de darse por vencido, se mantenía erguido mirándola. “¡Mira mi cola enhiesta!”, “¡Mira su abanico de iridiscentes colores! ¿Cómo no te rindes ante esto que te ofrezco?”. Pero nada la conmovía, y se acercaba ella cada vez más a sus compañeras de mesa; la cabeza ladeada, desdeñosa, en manifiesta desatención a su pretendiente.
Al final cejó el flechado. El entusiasmo tiene un fin, y a esta criatura esplendorosa se le desinfló la perseverancia pasados unos muy loables veinte minutos de tesón que si bien no sirvieron para colmar sus anhelos, sí nos mantuvieron a mí y a otros transeúntes acodados contra una valla, maravillados ante el espectáculo imprevisto de una fría tarde de febrero.
Coming back to London.
marzo 26, 2010
Every time I leave London for a while, which I have done recently to enjoy some holidays, I get, just before having to come back, that vague feeling of loathing you can have when you know you are leaving a peaceful setting to go back to the ferocious place that a big city like this one can be. But then I always, always, as soon as I have left the airport and I’m coming back into the city on a train and I start to see its sheer size, its buzz, the lit bridges across the river, I get that almost indescribable high, which is nothing but the feeling of being where I want to be, where I feel I belong, at least for this part of my life.
London always manages to transmit that feeling of roughness you get when you know you are almost alone in a place which needs to be fought for, but also, paradoxically, that sense of endless possibilities within reach. It has that uniqueness, that inimitable idiosyncrasy that makes it so addictive, and at times so overwhelmingly hateful. Some people can’t stand it, others are drawn to it forever. Clearly, a great part of its attractive lies in the fact that it makes you feel like you can become whatever person you choose to be, because London seems to have a niche for anyone and to admit anything.
There is much romanticism around the idea of “going back to the origins” and living in the countryside. I have recently been thinking about this quite a bit. I went to see Stewart Lee, a British comedian, about three months ago or so, and the best part of his show was when he told the story of one of his friends, who had chosen to leave the city for the supposed joys of the countryside because his little daughter was dyslexic and he wasn’t happy at all with the choice of schools they got in London. “So they’ve now been living in the countryside for a while”, he explained, “and the girl can now spell” [brief pause] ,”but she’s a racist”. Spot on.
Romanticism can be a dangerous aspiration at times. The countryside is what I most long for, what I most miss in my life here. Surely, you don’t have the possibility of getting in a car and finding yourself climbing a mountain after only fourty five minutes of driving, but also I love knowing that, by living in London, I can go to certain parts of it which will almost make feel as if I were in India, or in New York, or even in some bits of the more rural England. And that mostly every type of person (and certainly every kind of food!) I can think of can be found in this mad place.
I think I’d much rather have that on a regular basis than the provincial emptiness of a green lawn and a corner shop, knowing that I can run for the longed countryside whenever I need to, but that I am immersed in the world of possibilities that can only be found in a truly cosmopolitan city.
