Kathleen N. March
Rochester (Nova York, EUA), 20/ 10/1949 - ,Ler como feminista. Kathleen Nora March naceu en Rochester (NY) en 1949 e formouse como especialista en estudos hispánicos, latinoamericanos e portugueses; na actualidade é catedrática emérita de Español na University of Maine. En 1975 veu a Galiza para investigar sobre a poesía de Manuel Antonio e aquí quedou prendida, galega por elección. Logo virían estudos sobre Carvalho Calero, Castelao, Luz Pozo, Xohana Torres e tamén Rosalía, a quen nos ensinou a ler como a literata consciente que foi, en diálogo permanente co pensamento e coa literatura universal do seu tempo. Segundo a propia Kathleen, foi a lectura e análise de La hija del mar o que a inspirou para estudar, a partir de 1988, a sempre complexa intersección entre literatura, feminismo e nacionalismo en Galicia. As súas traducións de Cunqueiro, Rosalía e Otero Pedrayo son outra faceta dun traballo académico imprescindíbel, que axudou á proxección da literatura galega no ámbito anglosaxón. Nos anos 80 fundou e presidiu a Galician Studies Association (a actual Asociación Internacional de Estudos Galegos), que se revelou como unha utilísima ferramenta para impulsar os estudos galegos na academia norteamericana e, posteriormente, no ámbito internacional. Muller radicalmente comprometida coas súas ideas, a partir do ano 2000 — tras varias décadas de docencia universitaria — Kathleen March comezou a desenvolver nas aulas un método de ensino estruturado como un servizo aberto á comunidade, o que a levaría a traballar, xunto ao seu alumnado, en Honduras, desenvolvendo diversos proxecto sociais, culturais e pedagóxicos. Sempre inqueda, é tamén doutora en Creación Literaria pola University of Maine dende 2002, e recentemente comezou a publicar, baixo o formato de libro de artista, as súas versións ao inglés de Las literatas e Lieders de Rosalía de Castro. Nos últimos anos Kathleen Nora March está a recibir numerosos galardóns e recoñecementos polo seu labor, como o Premio da Cultura Galega no apartado de Proxección Exterior, que lle foiconcedido en 2015.
Como citar: Kathleen N. March. Publicado o no Álbum de Galicia (Consello da Cultura Galega) https://consellodacultura.gal/album-de-galicia/detalle.php?persoa=2406. Recuperado o 21/01/2026
DOCUMENTACIÓN DE
Traditional songs.
Pull it up
Pull it up, all you pullers, then
Give the flax to the threshers,
For spring has now sprung
And I am looking for love.
Oh, you men who are the threshers
You’re not doing much threshing
Judging from what I see
Today the flax won’t get retted.
The flax is still in the stream,
The flax husks thrown on the hay;
And now, my lovely young lady,
We’re going to play the tambourine.
The Pulling
Pull, all you pullers
Pass the flax to the threshers
It’s just about time now
For finding other loves
I’ve already pulled up my flax
And delivered it for spinning
And you, such a lazybones
You haven’t pulled up a thing
Oh, dear woman, don’t drink wine
1.
Oh, dear woman don’t drink wine
I’ll buy you clogs instead
Oh, no, my dear husband, no
You know crooked feet
Don’t need clogs
We need wine for our bodies
2.
Oh, dear woman don’t drink wine
I’ll buy you stockings instead
Oh, no, my dear husband, no
Dark legs
Don’t need stockings
And crooked feet
Don’t need clogs
We need wine for our bodies
3.
Oh, dear woman don’t drink wine
I’ll buy you underpants instead
Oh, no, my dear husband, no
Underpants are nothing but tricks
Dark legs
Don’t need stockings
And crooked feet
Don’t want clogs
We need wine for our bodies
4.
Oh, dear woman don’t drink wine
I’ll buy you a blouse instead
Oh, no, my dear husband, no
A smooth belly
Doesn’t need a blouse
Underpants are
Nothing but tricks
Dark legs
Don’t need stockings
And crooked feet
Don’t want clogs
We need wine for our bodies
5.
Oh, dear woman don’t drink wine
I’ll buy you a corset instead
Oh, no, my dear husband, no
Little breasts don’t need…
A smooth belly
Doesn’t need doesn’t need a blouse
Underpants are
Nothing but tricks
Dark legs
Don’t need stockings
And crooked feet
Don’t want clogs
The flea and the straw
1.
The flea and the straw
Wanted to marry
They were so rich
That they had no bread
Ai la la la…
2.
The ant came out
Of its anthill
Let the wedding begin
I’m the breadmaker
Ai la…
3.
And now my love
We’ve got some bread
We still need wine
Where’ll we find some?
Ai la…
4.
The mosquito came out
Of its window screen
Let the wedding begin
For I’m owner of the tavern
Ai la…
5.
Now my love
We’ve got some wine
We’re missing the meat
Where’ll we find it
Ai la…
6.
The wolf came out
From behind the stone fence
If it’s meat you need
Just send me a message
Ai la…
7.
And now my love
We’ve got some meat
We’re missing the maid of honor
Where might she be?
Ai la…
8.
Out came the froggy
Out of her ditch
Let the wedding begin
I’ll be the maid of honor
Ai la…
9.
Now my love
We have a the maid of honor
We need the best man
Where will we find him
Ai la…
1o.
The little mouse came out
From inside his hole
Let the wedding begin
I’ll be the best man
11.
Now my love
We’ve got a best man
We need a bagpiper
Where will we find him
Ai la…
11.
The cricket came out
From behind the clump of dirt
Filling his mouth with air
Letting his bag go empty
Ai la…
12.
And now my love
We’ve got a bagpiper
We just need some fire
Where shall we find it
Ai la…
13.
The cat came out
From behind the stone cross
Let the wedding begin -
I’m the fireworks maker
Fu fu fu…
Let me go, mother
1.
Let me go, dear mother,
To dance in the village square,
For I want to marry
A shoemaker man.
2.
A shoemaker, no,
He hammers the sole;
Find a mule driver,
Your marriage will prosper.
3.
A mule driver, oh no,
For he comes and goes;
I need a nice barber
Who’ll shave me close.
4.
A nice little barber, no,
For he just shapes beards;
Find a tailor who stitches
Who can make you a skirt.
5.
Not a tailor, no,
For he’s very greedy;
I want a scholar
Who’s much more needy.
6.
No, not a scholar,
For he’s really likes eating;
Find yourself a planter
He’ll plant you some wheat.
7.
No, I don’t want a planter,
For he’ll live long;
I want a farrier
Like they have in town.
8.
A farrier, not one of those
For he treats the horses;
Find a basket maker
Who’ll carry your basket.
9.
No, not a basket maker,
He’s always pounding;
I’ll have a lay brother
Like those of Saint Bernard.
About Water and Other Mirages.
The Memory of Water
1
The Shadow
Just when I think you’ve left,
dark shadow that creates a dark maze
beside my pillow,
you return, making fun of me.
~ Rosalía de Castro, New Leaves
The rain running through the troughs that were supposed to hold it, runs down the walls of the house. My steps along the hall blend with the rain pounding on the stone slabs of the roof. In the end, there are two of us and we are only one. I am water or I have all the water in the world running through my veins. My footsteps don’t know that. My veins don’t know that either.
My father doesn’t know that and that’s why he picks me up with the help of my brother Pedro to take me to the doctor. As if a river could be picked up and held. The doctor, who was very intelligent, doesn’t know that, so he prescribes pills that in my stomach full of water, even though they’re white, turn into colored fish with fins and scales. I hardly ever take the pills; I pretend I do and afterward I spit them out without being caught. All those animals swimming around inside me sometimes make me nervous and other times they tickle, I break into gales of laughter.
My mother and my sisters, Rosalía and Xiana, don’t know about this. They say my bursts of laughing frighten them. I wake up at night and am amazed to find the sheets are dry and warm, as if I weren’t really water, the kind that gets things wet and makes puddles that freeze afterward if there’s a cold wind. Then I clap my hands and cry “Hurray!” Because it’s a real miracle. Then they just complain about how I wake them up and it’s all a nightmare.
One nightmare is about how they think I’m crazy and put me in an insane asylum. They tell me if I don’t behave and don’t let the rest of the family sleep it’ll be a long time before they let me out of there. They did that a lot.
I don’t tell them I am water because that’s my biggest secret. I don’t tell them that one day I lost the keys to the door to sanity of that a person who thinks the way she’s supposed to has. I don’t reveal that my type of sanity is different and they don’t have the key to that door.
Everything happened that evening when I gave my loneliness a name. You had gone, leaving your shadow like a snake sheds its skin and leaves it behind several times a year. From that time on I was transparent and couldn’t sleep. And - another miracle! - I can’t wash away the shadow that’s always with me and isn’t mine and I didn’t manage to leave with you and is yours.
The psychiatrist looks closely into my deep eyes when I tell her I’m shadowy. Shadowed as in having a shadow, not as dark or shaken. She gets upset with me, tells me that’s superstition, has nothing to do with scientific theory, then doles out endless prescriptions. Let her write all she wants, because I’m not going to swallow pills that are going to turn into colored fish in my stomach afterward.
One thing is insanity; having a shadow is very different. Uncle Pepe, my great-grandfather’s uncle, they never called him crazy. They simply said he had been affected by the darkness. Everything had turned into fear and caution with him since some maragato<7em> mule drivers from León, men with a whip, as my grandmother used to say, threatened to throw him headfirst into the river. He had been coming back from the country fair always held in Lalín on the 18th, showing off his youth and independence.
The fellow was walking along, humming a happy tune, in Ponte das Pedras on the Arnego River, when he ran into those three bullies whose skin was reddened by sun and frost. Each of them had a team of mules laden with merchandise they’d been peddling around towns and villages. They spoke in low voices among themselves, most likely hatching a plan to make fun of the lad and, grabbing him by the feet, they threatened several times to throw him into the river. At that spot the river grows wider among the rocky outcrops and the stones that stick up out of its bed. Pepe knew full well that a fall there would be fatal.
When he got home, the boy who’d left a few hours before was utterly changed. He wouldn’t let them cut his hair and after the priest grabbed him he swore he’d get back at them, and in his own brutal way. He walked right into the middle of mass playing the drum and instead of confessing to the priest he confessed himself. He kept his silverware in a niche in the wall. He didn’t want store-bought buttons for his clothing, only the cloth ones the seamstresses back then made. In fact, he avoided everything that reminded him of those men who had come from somewhere else.
I too have my own darkness and have turned into transparent water. It’s my way of reaching the sea where you died. Because your death is a sea and you are floating in it like a bottle with a message inside. I don’t want anybody to take me from this shadow. I don’t want pills and much less the electric shocks they supposedly apply to some people and that fortunately my father forbid them to use to treat me.
I was different before I became water. I was studying agricultural engineering and I don’t know if it was a choice or a premonition; I was determined to study hydrology, the subject you taught.
You talked about water with such passion that I wanted to be water so you would run your hand along me that way. You admired the drops of mist on the roses in the morning and the rainstorms that surprised you without a raincoat or umbrella.
I wanted to be water and wrote that to you in the last letter I sent you from this side. The letter I’m writing today will have to cross over to the other shore. In that other one I confessed the plan I had to throw myself into the river at the spot where the current drags everything out to the sea. You know exactly what happened. You rescued me, yes, but nobody was able to rescue you.
After that they put me in the asylum the first time. They were convinced I wanted to commit suicide and nothing could be farter from the truth. However, I didn’t tell them what I really wanted to do, so I was successful. I know full well that the price of your losing your shadow and taking mine with you, is having our story, one that never ends.
When I sob in the middle of the night, the threats return. When love is that strong they call it madness. They don’t know that it’s actually shadow. Shadow, that dark room where transparency hides so mystery's face can be covered once more.
They installed new troughs and hid the shotgun so I wouldn’t put holes in them again. Now the rain doesn’t lick at the walls, turning the house into a waterfall. Everything just keeps happening as if I weren’t water. Maybe I’m water because I drank an entire river.
2.
Another island, another boatman
I was sitting by the shore of Saint Simon
and the waves surrounded me
how high they were,
there I was, waiting for my friend.
~ Mendinho
She’d come to the southern part of Galiza from Romania a week ago. He was from Râmnicu Vâlcea, in the region of Oltenia, the one that was the worst off in that country. The young fellow, named Velkan, picked her up in a fancy all-terrain Mercedes to take her to the Sibiu airport.
Nobody was surprised there to see her get into the car with her small suitcase; it was a common occurrence. First a good-looking young man would roam the streets looking for a pretty girl. Soon they’d be strolling along together and kissing when people couldn’t see them. Once the courtship was established, the girl went away with the illusion of finding a good job and waiting for her lover, who would follow her a few days later.
Just as planned, Velkan’s Romanian friend Dragos had picked her up. Maybe he was an agent for models who would take her to an academy where she’d learn to walk on fashion runways. Once on the road, Alina watched the man out of the corner of her eye. He looked more like a boxer than someone involved in the niceties of fashion. He didn’t speak. He merely replied in monosyllables to the girl’s questions and uncertainties. Even so, she didn’t distrust him at all; it was true he didn’t seem like her friend at all, like the one who’d stayed behind in Romania and would soon travel to be with her.
In the hour and a half drive from the airport she learned that she would be spending some time with a Romanian woman who ran a place of lodging and would teach her the language of the country so she could communicate without much difficulty.
They left the highway and, after driving along a side road they took a route marked by an illuminated arrow. Below the arrow it was also illuminated, with the word Club and a heart that blinked on and off. The building was an island in the very center of a hollow. On the front was another sign with the twinkling word Paradise.
Once inside, Dragos took her to Lenuta, the woman in charge of the establishment, like someone delivering a letter, and after bidding farewell with a grunt, he left the coworker’s office.
The woman’s welcome didn’t bode well in Alina’s opinion. Already on alert after seeing the interior of the place, she listened to the woman’s monologue as if it were the music in a nightmare, wondering if all that was happening to her.
“I suppose ,” the woman told her, “that you’re not so naïve as to think that a young friend of Râmnicu Vâlcea would come here to start a modeling career. I’m not saying you won’t be able to become a model, but you’ll have to follow the same route as all the others. Even I… well, you’ll have to wait and see. For the time being, you’ll have to face the facts and the fact is there’s the club here where you can learn the language and the profession.”
“What profession?” she asked quickly. “As a waitress?”
Lenuta looked her from head to toes with an ambiguous smile and spoke without answering the question:
“Well, you have to have a bit of supper. You can rest in an easy chair in the living room and when the customers leave you’ll sleep in the basement where the bar is, on an inflatable mattress. For the time being you’ll only do cleaning because they don’t understand Romanian. It’ll earn you enough to pay for your basic expenses. After that, yes. After that, the more you work, the sooner you’ll pay off your debt and even save some so you can rent an apartment.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, on the verge of tears. “I only owe Velkan, who paid for my trip.”
“Velkan? Who’s Velkan? Dragos and I paid for your trip and you’re not leaving here until you’ve paid back every euro, unless you want to end up dead, in a garbage heap,” she concluded, her tone menacing.
Then Alina was certain she’d fallen into a trap, like so many other girls from her country they talked about, saying very sad things. In fact, she thought her boyfriend was the one who’d been fooled and that the one who called himself his friend, Dragos, had told him a terrible lie. That night, when she found herself alone and shut up in the basement with its gratings, she tried to speak with him using the cell phone he’d given her. The phone didn’t even have a signal when she dialed his number the first time, and then other numbers that were in the contacts. Even so, she couldn’t - or wouldn’t - believe that Velkan had deceived her.
Drowning in her own tears, she ended up falling asleep due to weariness and the tension she’d had to endure. She didn’t wake up until mid-morning, when she heard someone entering. She thought it must be Lenuta, but it was Dragos. He turned on the light to see where the very precarious bed had been installed and once he’d located her, he turned the light off again and hurled himself on top of her. Without a word, he used the difference in strength to carry out his conquest.
Only a week had passed, but it had been a series of moment like train cars filled with misfortune. That doubt regarding whether her boyfriend had acted to gain her trust and then deliver her to that fate. The need to trust him, and to do that, to imagine something bad had happened to him. The beatings because she refused to eat or cooperate to learn the language. The inopportune visits of the madman, bent on taming her and forcing her to submit. The disgust at cleaning the rooms and picking up the trash left behind. The longing for all she’d left behind. Constantly wracking her brains to find a way to escape, both literally and figuratively. If they made her sleep in the bar in the basement, it was precisely because there were gratings on all the windows that escape was impossible.
That night, when she was all alone in the club, she made the bed and laid down immediately. That was when she felt best, curled up in a fetal position, perhaps in search of that first soft feeling.
Then there was thunder; it moved closer and closer. It sounded like an army approaching the battlefield. Alina drew her head under the blanket she used to warm the sleeping bag. That way she couldn’t see the flashes of lightning and the thundering was less.
After a few hours, she awoke suddenly and saw she was completely drenched. The water level kept rising. Although she knew right then there was no escape, she tried, even smashing a few chairs against the door without making it budge. But the water kept filling the space as if it were a closed-in swimming pool, except with a ceiling.
Tired and about to give up, she went to the bar planning to drink a whole bottle of vodka or any other alcoholic beverage she could find on the shelves. She wanted to black out. Then she saw a small line of light flickering on and off. It was a cell phone left behind by someone among the half-empty bottles. And the water kept rising without stopping.
Luckily the phone was on. She needed to call home, but stopped when she thought of her grandmother, not wanting her to suffer. It was better to let her think she’d escaped by slipping into a crack in the earth and had been living in a cave since then, like the magical creatures in the stories she’d heard as a little girl.
Instead, she called her friend Nicoleta who, although she was in Romania to spend time with her family, was working in a geriatric center in Madrid.
“Get up on the bar, don’t wait a minute to do it,” ordered her friend when she learned of her desperate situation. I’ll do everything I can to let them know where you are so they can help you. Stay calm and tell me all you can about where you’re located and text me the coordinates.”
It took her a while to carry out the instructions. The electricity had gone out some time ago and it was hard to make things out with only the screen of the phone. Once she’d done that, she dialed Velkan’s number. She didn’t expect to get out alive. Maybe it was the best thing that could happen to her. Still, she wanted to know before she died. On the other end, the young man’s voice told her who the phone’s owner was and also answered the questions that tormented her the most.
How’s it going, Dragos? Why are you calling at this hour? You must have forgotten it’s an hour later here. Did anything happen with the material I sent you? Can’t you tame her?
When the firefighters arrived, Alina had been swallowed up by that deadly flood of rain.
The next day the paper reported the news, saying she was a prostitute who was undocumented and thereby had no work permit. Nobody knew her name. The owners of the business declared she wasn’t one of their employees, they’d just let her sleep there to help her out since she was, after all, from the same country as they were. The authorities who were involved didn’t know there were mafias that tricked careless young women, despite the continuous accusations they received. But the fact was, her executioner, like the executioner of so many other women, had been the monster with a thousand heads.
3.
From Water’s Memory
The water’s soul spoke to me in shadow of the holy spirit of water
and I listened to it in seclusion and peace
Amado Nervo
I don’t want to sound arrogant, but I need to clarify something regarding my mineral nature: insensitivity, that primary characteristic of those of us who belong to the kingdom considered to belong to those who are not living. Not living, yet I am their source! If those who speak of me followed the principles of phenomenology, the school of philosophy that analyzes the nature of objects according to their observable phenomena, their opinion would be quite different. And no, I don’t want to sound pedantic by quoting things from books. But my philosophy derives from experience, the one that comes from the clear water of the pure soul and the one that comes from dark, poisonous water that has no soul.
Be that as it may, I am one and I am many, I’ve been spoken of in many different and contradictory ways. It doesn’t surprise me. In the end I’m used to not having a set shape. It’s part of what I am to be able to adapt myself to the person who takes me in. Even to the temperature that plays with me at will. Don’t call it instability, call it resistance.
I am not responsible for my meek or violent nature, my bitterness or sweetness. Nor for turning dark and losing my soul. These things are the consequences of not being the only inhabitant of this ancient planet. To live and live together has those risks.
Love and I make the world go round. We make the world go round and are also its mechanism of time. We measure time and are the palimpsest on which history is written and rewritten. A writer from New Zealand who died very young, said that writing without passion is like writing on water. I know she was defending the need for passion in order to insert one’s soul into words, but to think that words die in me or become just wet paper is just a fallacy.
Many writers, women and men, wrote their last page on my skin and I can tell you they weren’t erased. Just like the memory of so many people who, by chance or by their own choice, heard the lullaby of farewell in my sound, was never erased.
I recall with sadness and anger the deaths of many men and women who perished in the attempt to reach a promised land. I weep for all the shipwrecks reflected in the eyes of seagulls who drink the sea and transform it into tears.
I keened, I wailed, I gave birth to myself, as rain or infinite weeping, but I gave them motherly embrace, in my immense breast.
I know my call is difficult to turn a deaf ear to, like the call of the sirens that beckon to sailors so they will drown. The great Galician writer Rosalía de Castro explained it well when more than once she sang of the waves’ call. She wrote with the knowledge of one who lived it in her own body. I can testify to the way she looked at me thoughtfully, a black spark of sadness shining in her eyes. This is her confession: ‘with its voiceless, constant murmur/the wave of that wild sea calls to me,/like the call of the sirens’ song./ “In this cold, mysterious bed of mine/-it says to me- come softly to your repose.”// He is in love with me… this curse!,/and I am in love with him./So let us go forth to our goal,/since if he summons me without ceasing, I have a mortal desire to rest in him’.
I remember that other one, the one by the Ouse River in Sussex, England. Those were days of terror, bombs, threats, of unbelievable thunderings in the brain. She her filled my pockets with stones before moving forward to become part of my current. I loved her and I loved the legend of her days, patrimony in the mist. Her name was Virginia.
I’ll never forget the other one, Alfonsina, the one who had small feet and an wound that couldn’t be healed. There where I am Atlantic and Argentinian, far south of the Tropic of Capricorn, she arrived fragile and unprotected, like a little girl looking for a mother’s embrace. She spoke of the wet nurse, of seahorses, the lamplight, and a blanket of moss on the bed. I won’t say whether she fell from a high rock, whether she sunk into me like a cetacean, or whether she went away leaving footsteps in the sand, to submerge herself slowly into the water. I won’t say because she too is a legend that disappears into her own cerrazón, as they call the fog there.
Again in the Atlantic, this time in South Africa, in Three Anchor Bay in Cape Town, a new woman came to me, full of scars and humanity. A poet. It was during apartheid, which she fought against. However, her father was authoritarian, racist, and also a poet, if one can say poetry can go along with a heartless person and, what’s more, acts as a censor. After twenty-nine years of absence, the first black president of the country, the one who spent so many years in prison, inaugurated the democratic parliament with one of her poems: “The child who was shot dead and killed by soldiers of Nyanga.” Just before she threw herself into the sea when, like a parade, the darkest moments of her short life came to her, the same ones that had built the wall of her desperation the most painful memory, the one of that little black boy, appeared. Running away from the demonstration, he had been hunted down by a white soldier. Carrying the dead boy in her arms, his mother was desperate. The echo of her weeping still pounded in her ears like mad hammers at the moment of farewell.
Her name was Ingrid and her surname was Jonker. His father, Abraham, when her the news of the death, said: “As fas as I’m concerned, they can toss her into the sea.”
How can I not be bitter most of the time when I receive so much pain and so many tears? The rain goes into the rivers and the rivers flow into the sea to feed the most powerful metaphors of life. Maybe I am the real end, life itself. I repeat. I, along with love, the measure of time. I could keep saying this without ever stopping. To look into my memory is to look into many deaths. Even so, it’s worth doing. Where I am - forgive the lack of modesty, but it’s an unquestionable truth - , wherever I am, a paradise can blossom and the music of the world competes with the stars.
Soccer in the Stars
Old Pedro kicked at a can of Coca-Cola that somebody had tossed from a car. “You pig!” he shouted, but the driver kept going, the music going full blast on his radio. The birds that were pecking at the fruit on a cherry tree flew off.
Shuffling along, leaning on a long walking stick, perhaps a cattle prod that had been made into a staff, then walked toward the can that was a few feet up ahead and, rather than giving it another kick as he felt like doing, he picked it up so he could throw it in the trash container.
He’d always dreamed of being a soccer player. When he was a boy, he’d never had a real ball, one made of leather, the ones that have an empty space inside, like all the cars. He and his friends played with a bundle of rags tied in a knot that maybe didn’t bounce, but at least would soar toward the goal they’d fashioned out of two sticks stuck in the ground with a horizontal one that served as a crossbar.
He was the best and he knew it, which was why they called him Pelé, like the player from Brazil who won three world cups and was considered to be the best soccer player of all time by a lot of people. When Pelé was a boy, he and his friends played barefoot in the vacant fields and the streets of Três Corações city.
Pedro had a photo of his idol and some of other players. They were stuck on the back of some hand mirrors that a ragpicker from Vilares de Guitiriz gave them in exchange for odds and ends, scraps of cloth, or a few pennies. They were his treasure and he kept them hidden away in a rusty pepper box. Even now, as an old man, he’d go to the shed where they used to store the hay just to make sure they were still there, as if his childhood were still there inside it, held fast in a dream that had never come true.
From Barcelona his grandchildren told him on the phone that they played on their school team. When they came back to the village in the summer, they brought a real soccer ball with them, but it was the modern one that didn’t have an air chamber inside. They’d tell him how they’d seen Messi play, their amazement as great as if they’d seen an alien. Their grandfather, who also knew that player from television, told them he’d never seen his hero Pelé play, but he’d followed a lot of his accomplishments on the radio in the tavern, ones reported by Matías Prats Cañete, father of Matías Prats who was a reporter now on television.
But Old Pedro never kicked the ball that belonged to his grandsons. Instead, he’d kick he’d kick all the objects he could find that could take the place of what the sports announcers called “the sphere.” It was as if he knew something inside him would die if the toe of his shoe were to touch a real soccer ball.
Then that idiot in the car had thrown the Coca-Cola can out the window and frightened the birds with the music that was blasting. He felt the weight of his years was so strong that he decided the time had come to fulfill his dream. He said to himself, “It’s now or never.”
The village was empty now. If it wasn’t too far for them to travel, a few people who’d restored some of the houses came to stay for a couple of days, but only on weekends. The ones who lived far away, among them members of his own family, came during summer vacation. Only the ghosts of Old Pedro’s memories would return to the houses that were in ruins. Old Pedro resembled the last inhabitant in the world, supported by an invisible stake that wobbled in the wind.
The afternoon was nearly over; over the hill to the west, the Sun lay like a big golden ball. “It’s your gold ball,” the man heard, and the voice a dream would have if it could speak. “Walk toward it, and don’t stop.” And Old Pedro walked in a straight line toward that trophy nobody had ever offered him. He couldn’t feel his feet and didn’t need the staff, as if wings had sprouted on him somewhere. At last he had reached it, he was there. He reached it and grabbed the Sun with his hand. For the first time ever he hugged a real soccer ball and now, on the playing field of the galaxies, he’s now playing and endless match with the stars.
Marica Campo was born in O Incio (Lugo) in 1948. She is a frequent recipient of awards, in different genres such as: Prize for Poetry of the Concello de Vilalba in 1998, Prize for Narrative of the Concello de Vilalba in 2001, Prize for Poetry Fiz Vergara Vilariño in 2001, o Premio for Children and Young Readers of the Association of Writers in the Galician Language in 2007 and for Poetry in 2008. In 2021 she was awarded the Follas Novas prize for best-edited book. In 2022 she won the Galician Woman of Letters and in 2023 she was named Lucense of the Year. The actual list is much longer.
Thus Campo is a skilled writer of verse, theater, and narrative - short story as well as narrative - for both adults and children. Her wide range of creativity is testimony to a writer who draws from more than one source - her native sierra of Lugo - and also the Galician context with its history. In her writing we see a faithfulness to the autochthonous, to the mythical-legendary-historical-spiritual world of Galicia, all with the foundation of a commitment to women’s reality, often expressed through the intimate and an amazing resistance.
These four stories were chosen by the author; they include the elements just cited in this brief presentation - elements that ensure the cultural heritage offered to us by Marica Campo and that she will continue to offer us in the future. It is the writing of a good and generous person that is required reading for those who wish to understand Galician literature.
«Galicia a través dos ollos das viaxeiras angloxasoas» nova na que a RAG da conta da participación de Kathleen March no curso Galego sen Fronteiras, organizada por dita institución, cunha palestra centrada nos primeiros textos sobre Galicia de viaxeiras de fala inglesa (xullo 2015).. Ver Documento
Fonte: academia.gal [data descarga 21/01/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «De Irlanda a Iberia: notas para a tradución de Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin do inglés ao Galego», Madrygal. Revista de estudios gallegos, v. 18 (2015), p. 59-72.. Ver Documento
Fonte: https://revistas.ucm.es/ [data de descarga: 21/01/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Eran as palabras ou a roupa que levaban?. As literatas do Atlántico no XIX». Relatorio presentado no XI Congreso da AIEG celebrado en Bos Aires, 2015.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Arquivo de Kathleen Nora March
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «D’A tiranía rosa e branca. Unha novela de sociedade (1871) HARRIET BEECHER STOWE». En GARCÍA NEGRO, María Pilar (ed.): No tempo de ‘Follas Novas’. Unha viaxe pola literatura universal, Alvarellos, 2015, p. 95-99.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca Ánxel Casal.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «De máscaras e disfraces: as literatas van así. (Flavio e mais o Cabaleiro vestidos de inglés)». En ÁLVAREZ, Rosario; ANGUEIRA, Anxo; RÁBADE, María do Cebreiro; VILAVEDRA, Dolores (coord.): Rosalía de Castro no Século XXI. Unha nova ollada,. Ver Documento
Fonte: Web do CCG [data de descarga: 01/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen: «Pola porta do portugués», Sermos Galiza (29/01/2013). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: http://www.sermosgaliza.gal/ [data de descarga: 08/02/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «María Susanna Cummins e Rosalía de Castro», Abriu: estudios de textualidade do Brasil, Galicia e Portugal, n. 2 (2013), p. 95-108.. Ver Documento
Fonte: revistes.ub.edu/index.php/Abriu/ [data de descarga: 02/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Serían as súas verbas ou as súas vestimentas?. Literatas de ambas as dúas orelas do Atlántico», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 194 (2012), p. 34-41.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Presentación». En FERNÁNDEZ RODRÍGUEZ, Áurea; GALANES SANTOS, Iolanda; LUNA ALONSO, Ana; MONTERO KÜPPER, Silvia: Traducción de una cultura emergente. La literatura gallega contemporánea en el exterior, Peter Lang; 2012, p. 11-15. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca Xeral, USC
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Limiar da tradutora», RODRÍGUEZ FER; Claudio: Tender Tigers, Toxosoutos, 2012, p. 6-9.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca Ánxel Casal.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A Galiza dos séculos XIX e XX: a ollada anglosaxona». En FERNÁNDEZ PÉREZ-SANJULIÁN, Carme (ed.): Viaxes e construción do pensamento: viaxes e viaxeiros na Galiza anterior a 1936, Universidade da Coruña, 2011, p. 127-145.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://hdl.handle.net/2183/13180 [data de descarga: 09/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Voces disidentes. O imperio americano», Terra e tempo , n. 147-148 (xaneiro-xuño 2010), p. 153-154.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://www.terraetempo.gal/ [data de descarga: 03/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Rosalía de Castro, travesti da literatura?», Galegos = Gallegos, n. 10 (2010), p. 109-113.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Prólogo». En CAMPO, Marica: Confusión e morte de María Balteira, Baía Edicións, 2010.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A nova esquerda nos Estados Unidos. Onde está?», Terra e tempo, n. 147-148 (xullo-decembro 2008), p. 69-76.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://www.terraetempo.gal/ [data de descarga: 03/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Flavio ou a democracia feminina». Publicado no apartado novas achegas da entrada biobliográfica de Rosalía de Castro no Álbum de mulleres (2008).. Ver Documento
Fonte: Álbum de mulleres.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Os Límites de Borges, traducións e interpretacións», Moenia: Revista lucense de lingüística & literatura, n. 14 (2008), p. 125-135.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://hdl.handle.net/10347/5679 [data de descarga: 03/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Nación e xénero na poesía de Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin», Festa da palabra silenciada, n. 24 (2008), p. 167-173.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Hemeroteca Feminista Galega A Saia.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Reflexións sobre a tradución de María Mariño Carou ao inglés», Anuario de estudios literarios galegos (2006), p. 62-71. Reedición en poesiagalega.org. Arquivo de poéticas contemporáneas na cultura (2011).. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://www.poesiagalega.org/uploads/media/march_2006_marinho.pdf [data de descarga: 07/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «De onde procede o apoio popular de George Bush?», Terra e tempo , n. 131 (setembro-outubro 2004), p. 7-8.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://www.terraetempo.gal/ [data de descarga: 01/05/2016]
«MARCH, Kathleen Nora», Gran enciclopedia galega, Silverio Cañada, v. 27, El Progreso-Diario de Pontevedra, 2003, p. 237.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Limiar con arelas antigas», Unión libre. Cadernos de vida e cultura, n. 7 (2002), p. 147-148.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «As pegadas de Manoel Antonio na poesía de Ricardo Carvalho Calero». En SALINAS PORTUGAL, Francisco; LÓPEZ, Teresa (ed.): Actas do Simposio Ricardo Carvalho Calero Memoria do Século, UDC (23-25 de novembro de 2000), Universidade da Coruña, 2002, p. 171-181.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://hdl.handle.net/ [data de descarga: 09/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Arela», A poesía é o gran milagre so mundo. Poetas galegos no PEN, PEN Clube, 2001, p. 140-143.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Anacos d’a vida d’unha muller galega: silencio e historia (As memorias de Mª de los Ángeles Tobío)», Actas do Congreso Internacional o Exilio Galego, Consello da Cultura Galega, 2001, p. 1788-1796.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://consellodacultura.gal/ [data de descarga: 09/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Viaxeiras inglesas por Galicia». En KREMER, Dieter: Un século de estudios galegos. Galicia fóra de Galicia. Actas do VI Congreso Internacional de Estudios Galegos Universidad de La Habana, Facultad de Artes y Letras, Cátedra de Cultura Gallega (17-21 de abril de 2000). Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A repelente de Lesley Gore que non se entera de nada», Unión libre. Cadernos de vida e cultura, n. 5 (2000), p. 387-389.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Rosalía de Castro: escritora de su tiempo». En ZABALA, Iris: Breve historia feminista de la literatura española (en lengua catalana, gallega y vasca), v. 2, Anthropos Editorial, 2000, p. 161-174.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Xurdimento e natureza das vangardas en Galiza». En RODRÍGUEZ FERNÁNDEZ, José Luís: Estudos dedicados a Ricardo Carbalho Calero, Parlamento de Galicia & Universidade de Santiago de Compostela, v. 2, 2000, p. 415-423.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A verdadeira Rosalía», Terra e tempo, n. 6/7 (setembro 1997-abril-1998).. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar de Mariám Mariño Costales.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A política da tradución». En FERNÁNDEZ SALGADO, Benigno (ed.): Proceedings of the 4th International Conference on Galician Studies, University of Oxford (26-28 September 1994), University of Oxford e Oxford Centre for Galician Studies, 1997, p. 383-395.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar de Begoña Tajes Marcote.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Poemas». En Mil primaveras máis . Taboleiro virtual creado a iniciativa de Vieiros con motivo do Día das Nosas Letras, 1997. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://vello.vieiros.com/ [data de descarga: 26/05/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Pilar Pallarés. Livro das devoracións», Anuario de estudios literarios galegos (1996), p. 248-250. Reedición en poesiagalega.org. Arquivo de poéticas contemporáneas na cultura.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://www.poesiagalega.org/[data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Rosalía de Castro, novelista do seu tempo», Unión libre. Cadernos de vida e cultura, n. 1 (1996), p. 37-44.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Traducir Arredor de si», Viceversa. Revista galega de tradución, n. 2 (1996), p. 189-194.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Dialnet [data de descarga: 09/06/2016] .
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A obra de Rosalía de Castro: Cantares gallegos». En ASENDE ESTRAVIZ, Alberte; SÁNCHEZ IGLESIAS, César (ed.): Historia da literatura galega, Asociación Socio-Pedagóxica Galega, v. 2, 1996, p. 323-352.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca de Galicia.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Compromiso e ética da traducción», Boletín galego de literatura», n. 14 (1995), p. 7-46.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://hdl.handle.net/10347/1852 [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Agradecimientos», «Limiar», «Introducción» e «Conclusións». En MARCH, Kathleen N.: De musa a literata: el feminismo en la obra de Rosalía de Castro, Ediciós do Castro, 1994, p. 7-28 e 339-340.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «¿O que é a crítica literaria feminista?: unha perspectiva norteamericana», Festa da palabra silenciada, n. 10 (1994), p. 71-75.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Hemeroteca Feminista Galega A Saia.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Galiza nos poetas hispanoamericanos». En MARCO, Joaquín (coord.): Actas do XXIX congreso del Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana (Barcelona 15-19 de junio de 1992), 1994, v. 3, p. 399-408.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca Xeral, USC.
MARCH, Kathleen N: «A poesía de Pilar Pallarés». En MARCO, Aurora (coord.): Simposio Internacional Muller e Cultura, USC, 1993, p. 789-799.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://hdl.handle.net/10347/8743 [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Kathleen Nora March». En Polos camiños da literatura: escritores galegos do PEN, Xunta de Galicia & PEN Clube, 1993, p. 72-75.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca Ánxel Casal.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Literatura galega de muller. Carmen Blanco. Literatura galega de muller. Edicións Xerais de Galicia, Vigo, 1991», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 113 (xaneiro, febreiro, marzo 1992), p. 150-152.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «O enterro da galiña de Domitila Rois. Helena Villar Janeiro. O enterro da galiña de Domitila Rois. Galaxia, Vigo, 1991», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 115 (1992), p. 431-432.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A muller e a literatura galega». En Actas do I Congreso Internacional da Cultura Galega (Santiago de Compostela 1990), Consellería de Cultura e Xuventude e Dirección Xeral de Cultura da Xunta de Galicia, 1992, p. 437-443.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar do CDSG.
Boletín da Asociación Internacional de Estudios Galegos, n. 7 (outubro, 1991). No apartado «Reseñas», nas páxinas 6 a 13, Kathleen Nora March presenta as recensións dos libros Álvaro Cunqueiro e Herba aquí ou acolá de Luz Pozo Garza; Álvaro Cunqueiro: os artificios da. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Elizabeth A. Meese, (Ex) Tensions: re-figuring feminist criticism, Urbana e Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1990». Boletín galego de literatura, n. 5 (maio 1991), p. 119-120.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Presentation», MARCH, Kathleen N. (ed.): An Anthology of Galician Short Stories. Así vai o conto, The Edwin Mellen Press, Ltd., 1991. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Las figuras femeninas en El trueno entre las hojas», Cuadernos hispanoamericanos, n. 493-494 (1991), p. 177-186.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/ [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «El exilio gallego en Lorenzo Varela y Luis Seoane». En NAHARRO CALDERÓN, José María: El exilio de las Españas de 1939 en las Américas; ¿adonde fue la canción?, Anthropos, 1991, p. 318-339.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca Ánxel Casal.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Na procura dun Eros galego: os contos eróticos de Xerais», Festa da palabra silenciada, n. 8 (1991), p. 39-43.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Hemeroteca Feminista Galega A Saia.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A memoria redimida. Silvio Santiago. O silencio redimido. Galaxia, Vigo, 1989», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 112 (1991), p. 621-623.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
CARVALHO CALERO, Ricardo: «Introduction», en MARCH, Kathleen (ed.): An Anthology of Galician Short Stories, The Edwin Mellen Press, Ltd., 1991, p. 1-8.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Limiar». En MARCH, Kathleen N. (ed.): Homenaxe a Ramón Martínez López, Publicacións do Seminario de Estudios Galegos, 1990, p. 5.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar do AEG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Lieders: ¿Primeiro manifesto feminista na Galiza?». En MARCH, Kathleen N. (ed.): Homenaxe a Ramón Martínez López, Publicacións do Seminario de Estudios Galegos, 1990, p. 13-22.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar do AEG.
March, Kathleen N. «Gioconda Belli: The Erotic Politics of the Great Mother.» Monographic Review/Revista Monográfica, n. 6 (1990), p. 245-257.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca da Facultade de Filoloxía, USC.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Susan Kirkpatrick Las Románticas. Women Writers and Subjectivity in Spain 1835-1850, University of California Press, Berkeley e Los Angeles 1989. 367 pp., US$40.», Boletín galego de literatura, n. 2 (novembro 1989), p. 125-126.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «¿Unha novela feminista?. Ursula Heinze. Anaiansi. Ir Indo, Vigo, 1989», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 104 (outubro, novembro, decembro 1989), p 563-567.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A representación na narrativa de Castelao». En BERAMENDI, Justo G.; VILLARES PAZ, Ramón (ed.): Actas do Congreso Castelao (Santiago de Compostela, 24-29 novembro 1986), USC, 1989, t. 2, p. 137-145.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar do AEG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Introduction», Festa da Palabra. An Anthology of Contemporany Galician Women Poets, American University Studies, Peter Lang, 1989.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca de Galicia.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Prolegómenos a un estudio das novelistas galegas». En CARREÑO, Antonio (coord): Actas do segundo congreso de estudios galegos, (Brown University novembro 10-12, 1988), Editorial Galaxia, 1991, p. 367-377.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.; MARTUL TOBÍO, Luís: «Ejes conceptuales del pensamiento de Horacio Quiroga», Cuadernos hispanoamericanos, n. 443 (1987), p. 73-88.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/ [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A patria de Xohana Torres», Festa da palabra silenciada, n. 4 (1987), p. 25-27.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Hemeroteca Feminista Galega A Saia.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Códice Calixtino de Luz Pozo Garza: umha leitura concêntrica», Agalia Publicaçom internacional da Associaçom Galega da Lingua, n. 12 (1987), p. 395-405.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do ILGA.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Arte y arte de la narración en el cuento Sabela de Castelao», Cuadernos de estudios gallegos, t. 36, n. 101 (1986), p. 367-376.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Rosalía de Castro como punto de referencia ideolóxico-literario nas escritoras galegas». En Actas do Congreso internacional de Estudios sobre Rosalía de Castro e o seu tempo ( Santiago 15-20 de xullo de 1985), CCG e USC, t. 1, 1986, p. 283-292.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Evolución y supervivencia del indigenismo (notas en torno a Porqué se fueron las garzas)», Anales de literatura hispanoamericana, n. 14 (1985), p. 143-150.. Ver Documento
Fonte: ucm.es [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
Estudo da obra de poetas galegas da posguerra con influencias de Rosalía de Castro. Entre elas, Xaquina Trillo. Ver Documento. Artigo
March, Kathleen N.: «Rosalía de Castro como punto de referencia ideolóxico-literario nas escritoras galegas». En Actas do Congreso Internacional de Estudios sobre Rosalía de Castro e o seu tempo. (Santiago, 15-20 xullo de 1985). Santiago de Compostela: USC, Consello da Cultura Galega, 1986. Vol. 1, 283-292.
Fonte: Consello da Cultura Galega. Biblioteca.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «El bilingüismo literario y la verosimilitud», Anales de literatura hispanoamericana, n. 13 (1984), p. 195-184.. Ver Documento
Fonte: ucm.es. [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Rodríguez Fer, Claudio»; «Varela Vázquez, Xesús Lorenzo»; «Villar Janeiro, Helena». En CAÑADA, Silverio (ed.): Gran Enciclopedia Gallega, 1984.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplares da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «La conflictividad lingüística en Arredor de si de Ramón Otero Pedrayo», Cuadernos de estudios gallegos, n. 99 (1983), p. 363-390.. Ver Documento
Fonte: exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «A figura femenina na poesía de preguerra de Ricardo Carballo Calero», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 75 (xaneiro, febreiro, marzo 1982), p 18-34.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Crónica de una muerte anunciada: García Márquez y el género policíaco», Inti. Revista de literatura hispánica, n. 16-17 (1982), p. 61-70.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://digitalcommons. [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Espacialidade e temporalidade na poesía de Manoel Antonio», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 68 (abril, maio, xuño 1980), p. 129-143.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «As invariantes creacionistas na obra de Manoel Antonio», Grial. Revista galega de cultura, n. 63 (xaneiro, febreiro, marzo, 1979), p. 1-17.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar do CCG.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: «Lenguaje y lucha social en El zorro de arriba y el zorro de abajo, de José María Arguedas», Anales de literatura hispanoamericana, n. 8 (1979), p. 145-168.. Ver Documento
Fonte: ucm.es. [data de descarga: 09/06/2016]
MARCH, Kathleen N.: Curriculum Vitae. Ver Documento
Fonte: Kathleen Nora March
MARCH, Kathleen N.: Sea words /De mar a mar. Tese de doutoramento presentada na Universidade de Maine en 2002.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Arquivo de Kathleen Nora March.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: Entre dúas augas, Noitarenga (Amaranta Press), 2003, p. 13-23.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca Ánxel Casal.
MARCH, Kathleen N.: The Open Hand / A mao aberta, iBook, 2010.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Arquivo de Kathleen Nora March.
Tres instantáneas da obra Tecín soa a miña tea de Kathleen Nora March baseada no poema do mesmo titulo de Rosalía de Castro e con versión en galego e inglés (2014).. Ver Documento
Fonte: Arquivo de Kathleen Nora March
The pines.
What do the murmuring pines say
there by the greening coast
in the transparent gleaming
of the placid moonlight?
What do the lofty crests
of dark, serrate needles say
speaking with their cadence
in monotonous whispers.
Girded by your greenery
and by your gentle stars
oh you, land of verdant hillforts
and a courageous earth
you must never forget
the hard anger of insults
awaken from your slumber
oh hearth of Breogán.
The good and the generous
they understand our words
and they're listening, enthralled,
to our cavernous sound.
Because only the ignorant
the iron-clad and the rude
the imbecile and the obscure
don't understand us, they don't.
The time has finally come
for the bards of all ages
for your doubt and uncertainty
is soon coming to an end
because our great voice is everywhere
crying out the proclamation
demanding redemption for the good
nation of Breogán
Lieders.
Oh, I refuse to be bound by the rules of art! My thoughts run free, my imagination wanders, and my soul only finds satisfaction in ideas.
My soul has never been ruled by the hope of glory, and never have I dreamed of having laurels grace my brow. My lips have only uttered songs of independence and freedom, even though while still in the cradle I might have been aware of the sound of the chains that would forever imprison me, because the shackles of slavery are the patrimony of women.
Nevertheless, I am free, free as the birds, free as the breeze, like trees growing in the desert and the pirate who sails the sea.
My heart is free, my soul is free, and my mind soars heavenward then descends once more to the earth, as haughty as Lucifer and as gentle as hope.
When the rulers of the world threaten me with a glance or try to brand my countenance with the taint of disgrace, I laugh the same way they laugh and – it would certainly seem – create an iniquity of my own which is greater than their iniquity. Yet my heart is essentially kind, although I do not obey the orders of my peers and I must believe they are made of the same stuff as I, that their flesh is the same as my flesh.
I am free. Nothing can detain the forward march of my thoughts, and they are the law that determines my destiny.
*
Oh woman! Why, when you are so pure, must the hideous shadows of the world’s evils come forth, casting a pall over the pure light that shines from your eyes? Why do men defile you, dirtying you with the filth of their excesses, scorning and later despising their own horrible disarray and feverish delirium while you lie exhausted, near death?
All the thick, dark matter that settles in your eyes after the first spark of your innocent youth, all of this stains the garments of purity in which the earliest moments of your childhood clad you and it all extinguishes your fragrant scent and erases the images of virtue from your thoughts, all these are what infected you with this, all of this… and still they would condemn you.
*
Remorse is the inheritance of weak women. It corrupts their existence with the remembrance of pleasures that were bought today at the expense of happiness and tomorrow will weigh upon their souls like molten lead.
Sleeping specters that lie limply in a lap prepared to receive an object that is not the one they offer us, and embraces that receive other embraces – ones we have sworn never to accept.
Sharp, wrenching pains caused by what is no more, fleeting changes, eternal affirmations of guilt, useless repenting, and a desire to be virtuous in the future, to have an honorable, unsullied name that can be surrendered to the man who makes us a sincere offer of a life bereft of wealth, yet rich in kindness and new sensations.
These are the struggles, always provoked by the remorse that keeps vigil over our sleep, our hopes, our ambitions.
And all of this is caused by just one weakness!
*
The songs belonged to the homeland.
1.
The paths, the mountain forests,
the hearty dreams, the fields,
the nostalgic songs, the night air’s cold,
the pastures, the pines, the streams,
the promises, the triumphs, the movement,
the sweet expectations, the trails;
everything offers nostalgia and diligence,
everything brings bright memories.
My departed youth, dear
friends, and my childhood as well,
for you to be forgotten by me
grief has no power, distance means nothing;
cold iron is useless, so too the years,
They can’t erase my memories, my loyalty:
because in this world all love perishes,
don’t forget the one who doesn’t forget you.
2.
This is the land of Xallas,
this is Arantón Bridge,
these are the fields, these
are the same solitudes, yes;
they’re all, all the same,
but I am not, not the same.
These are the same places;
these are the same lands
These are the same paths;
this is the bridge, this the river,
this is its desolation:
these are are the same heather plants,
but I am not, not the same.
When I arrived here
my heart was happy;
now it’s become sad,
because everything’s over for me,
it’s all changed, it’s all changed
from what it once was!
Everything, everything has changed,
except you, bridge of Arantón:
of course, you are the same as ever,
but I am no longer the same.
3.
Souls that are slaves,
to ideas that are not great,
Are thinking about womanly things,
soft and dreadful;
forging a thousand dreams
that exhaust the spirit,
dragging horrible chains,
like weak serfs;
soft spirits,
women’s spirits,
sedentary, slowly consumed
by morbid fever.
But the soul of the bard,
energetic, daring,
that bold freedom
the only thing he dreams of and loves,
thinks of ironclad goals
that constructed the nation!
4.
Ragged
and good Galicians,
you are the example
of suffering,
children of the Celts,
children of the Swabians
you were excluded
from the banquet,
while your
wretched relatives,
clumsily burping,
hfat and full,
sharp barbs
they hurled at you
Injured and placed in a ring
like starving dogs
awaiting the sound
of a miserable breadcrust
say with me,
rebuked and rough hewn Galicians,
say with me:
“Either honor or death!”
Robust children
of the harsh wind
that makes Castilians
lose their minds
on cold
winter days;
children of the fog,
children of the northwesterly wind,
of whom it was said,
in an idiotic saying,
“They were weak
lacking in glory,”
say it with me
maligned and rude Galicians,
say it with me:
“Either honor… or iron!”
The people who
in an ancient time
were the noble support
of the weak Goths,
because fleeing
out of clumsy fear
facing the dark
Hagarene band,
the rushing feet
showing the wind
they met resistance
in your steel,
and you showed them,
face toward them,
how the homeland
is defended,
say with me,
indomitable and rough-hewn Galicians,
say it with me:
“Either honor… or iron!”
Oh! I wish I had
the fierce tones
of the rough cords
of bold *Tirteo;
the noble songs
of good Cheochenko,
the servant Ukrania*
eminent offspring;
the simple pesma songs
of the Serbian band;
from mountainous Cernagora
the great feats ,
to inspire you
to great efforts,
like the nation’s
fields and the
high pines of Corcoesto said:
“Say it with me,
stubborn and rough-hewn Galicians,
say it with me:
Either honor… or death!”
5.
When the hard axes
wound the tall pines
and fall with thunder
on the ground of Bergantiños;
they don’t fall in vain, no,
like giants on their feet,
without glory and without fame,
in their wild fields.
But when they fall, freeing
the fragrant pine cones
that spread through the woods,
among the native trees
and rise again from the seed.
Descendants with pride.
So, when they fell,
those fearless ones
with noble ideals,
their good hearts full:
they didn’t fall without reason
into humiliating oblivion;
like most men,
extinguished in darkness.
But soaking the earth
with their bright blood.
The fields of Suevia,
noble asylum of the Celts;
did not surrender to death,
and proudly left
the undying seed
of children to take revenge.
Irrational despots,
forge, forge shackles:
iron can oppress,
a weakened body, its strength gone.
But noble ideas
and glorious instincts
Those… neither hard iron, nor death
can cut them down.
6.
The time of the Celtic bards
has arrived,
it has come from your
peaceful fields.
Don’t be headstrong,
ignorant and slow-witted;
show your strong,
intrepid hearts:
sharpen your scythes,
sharpen, Galicians.
The golden shafts
of the Celtic fields
flutter and moan,
with the wind that blows.
Face the battle,
and use good judgment,
and don’t fall short
in the great efforts
The noble examples
of your ancestors:
harvest with strength,
harvest, Galicians.
Don’t look back,
harvest altogether;
don’t turn
your dark faces away.
Let people say,
when they see your effort:
“Surely those men
are like devils.”
Harvest with strength,
harvest, Galicians.
Turn your scythes,
turn them with agility,
let them loose a thousand wild
bolts into the air.
Spit on the handles
with the spit of hell,
bend your bodies
of oak and steel…
Harvest with strength,
harvest, Galicians.
7.
They thought their language
was a language of slaves.
They had forgotten how the nation spoke,
longing and gentle.
They were ashamed
of their own speech;
when children they spoke like
serfs and helots.
They’d erased the soft,
happy tones because
they were odd servant words
ignorant and unknowing.
The mother suffering so
with her somber misery,
thought her own people
were strangers,
and heard her children speaking
the language of servants.
8.
What do the murmuring pines say
there by the greening coast
in the transparent gleaming
of the placid moonlight?
What do the lofty crests
of dark, serrate needles say
speaking with their cadence
in monotonous whispers.
Girded by your greenery
and by your gentle stars
oh you, land of verdant hillforts
and a courageous clan
you must never forget
the hard anger of insults
awaken from your slumber
oh hearth of Breogán.
The good and the generous
they understand our words
and they're listening, enthralled,
to our cavernous sound.
Because only the ignorant
the hardened and the rude
the imbecile and the obscure
don't understand us, they don't.
The time has finally come
for the bards of all ages
for your doubt and uncertainty
is soon coming to an end
because our great voice is everywhere
crying out the proclamation
demanding redemption for the good
nation of Breogán.
You have wandering sons
Whose hearts hear the call of honor
to go boldly into combat,
their hearts facing forward;
let your own strength free you
from wretched servitude
and disgraceful soubriquets
oh, region of Breogán.
Open arms of friendship
to noble Lusitania
to the most ancient farmlands
with determined desire;
and answer the uncertainty
of your murmuring pines
with their marvelous destiny,
oh, nation of Breogán!
The love of green land,
of green lands that are ours,
ignites the courageous race
of Ouside and Froxán;
there where clad in strong
bodice, lightly defined,
are the sweet, white breasts
of the daughters of Breogán;
let them teach their noble offspring
to speak with the strongest of sounds,
not with the softened harmonies
that are befitting only of virgins;
but instead, the robust echoes
- well you remember, oh homeland! -
of the melodious strings
of the harps of Breogán.
Respect cannot be gotten
with a soft and weakened moan,
begging for what they desire
in a voice to be forgotten;
a giant clamor is necessary,
sublime and resembling
the courageous sound
of the arms of Breogán.
Galicians, you must be strong,
ready to accomplish great feats;
harness your bodies
to a glorious desire;
sons of the noble Celts,
strong, on your pilgrimage,
you must fight for the future
of the lands of Breogán.
The She-Wolf.
We all know that in Galicia there have always been legends about wolves, werewolves and people under the spell of a wolf, but there were also some about she-wolves. For example, they told me the story of the one, cursed at birth by an envious individual, who was said to run about the hillside with a pack of wolves and who, on nights when there was a full moon, was transformed into a she-wolf and mated with them. She had seven children, only two of whom survived her, but she never married nor lived with any man.
From a young age her children went to work in a quarry not far from home, although the youngest emigrated to America at a young age. The youngest one got married, settled in the closest village and had a daughter, Ruth, whom he taught to speak the Latin of the stonecutters, the argot used among themselves by all the members of the trade. But an accident left him buried underneath some stones and his wife sent their daughter to her grandmother’s house while she looked for a way to earn a living. Time went by and the widow got married again, to another stonecutter, who drank a lot and from the beginning was fond of making remarks about the figure of his stepdaughter, who had returned to live with the couple. When he came home drunk he liked to rub his hands over her and often her mother had to make him leave her daughter alone.
One day when the girl was alone, her stepfather locked the kitchen doors and forced her into a corner, but when he was tearing her clothing from her breast, she bit him on the neck so fiercely that he had to let go of her, shouting from pain and fury, while he looked for a rag to staunch the blood gushing from the wound. Ruth fled from the house, breathless, listening to her stepfather screaming at her and cursing:
Be a wolf! Be a wolf, you savage beast! Be a she-wolf just like your grandmother! Be a wolf!
She ran, shaking and sobbing, breathing in the liberating fragrance of rosemary that grew along the path and cleansing herself of the taste of filth with which her stepfather had sullied her. She was going to take shelter in her grandmother’s house and swore never to return to her mother’s because her mother had allowed the two of them to live under that torture. Because it was already very late, that night she slept beneath a magnolia tree in the patio of the house belonging to an indiano (an emigrant who had returned from America), completely surrounded by foxgloves. It was the first night she’d ever spent without a roof over her head and it surprised her that she couldn’t see the moon. An explosion of dynamite in the quarry awakened her, so she set out for the hills, looking for her former home.
She walked all day and finally, as the sun was setting, almost exhausted, she spotted her village from a high rise. Then she noticed something that left her unable to move. She felt as if there were eyes of fire searing the back of her neck and it felt as if a warm, strong vapor were enveloping her completely. Then she fainted and fell to the ground, right onto some brambles where her curly hair got entangled, forming a mass of entwined labyrinths that she would forever associate with her loneliness.
Gradually she regained consciousness, trying to settle her gaze on a long object she couldn’t identify. Slowly she managed to make out its cone-shaped form, its indistinct color, its resemblance to bone, until to her horror she realized it was the fang of a wolf. But her grandmother, who was wearing it around her neck and was standing in front of the girl, quickly calmed her down and they both headed to the house.
Her grandmother had to care for her for three days and three nights until the wounds from the brambles and gorse were healed. But in truth she was consumed by her memories and the most painful part was the abuse she’d suffered in her own home. To raise the girl’s spirits, her grandmother gave her the fang while she told her:
“With this for protection, you’ll have more strength than seven she-wolves.”
When she had recovered, the old woman took her up into the hills in the opposite direction she’d come from, and when they reached the high area where she had fainted, the girl felt something extraordinary, intense, almost supernatural, in her grandmother’s strength and in her gaze. She remembered the shiny light and the haziness she’d felt the night of her escape, but she was not afraid now. The old woman searched around in the brambles and found the opening to a cave, which she entered, agile and determined. The girl followed her between the smooth, narrow stones of the cavern, completely covered by wolf pelts.
Finally the path widened and they reached a clearing where water was flowing without going anywhere. She saw blurry objects around the nearby rocks, and she didn’t dare ask about them, but she knew where they had come from and their destiny. Outside the cave, in the high part with brambles, the long, ancient howl, telluric and wild, could be heard as if it came from the very center of the earth. Then the whole mountain was covered by a wolfish blackness.
Trying to escape her memories and feeling confident, it didn't take her long to decide she would go to America, as soon as her grandmother promised to pay her way with what she'd taken from the cave. Her uncle, who worked washing the windows of skyscrapers in New York, had offered to find work for his brother many times, so certainly he could find a job for her, since she was his daughter.
Ruth began the trip with just a backpack, but her enthusiasm was boundless. In the plane she talked with all the travelers she could, was interested in everything, and didn't sleep a wink. The elevation seemed to really excite her. She felt like her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets and her heart was swelling. It shocked all the passengers when, while playing with a girl who had a stuffed wolfdog, she began to howl more and more loudly and intensely, as if she were crazy.
She arrived in New York with a tourist visa, valid only for a short visit, but like many other emigrants, she planned to stay and then try to get a resident card. Her uncle could only arrange a place for her to sleep in the cobwebby kitchen of the small rented flat he shared with other emigrants in Wolfside, Queens, and for her to work illegally washing windows with him. Yet, despite this precarious situation, Ruth thought it was fabulous just to have a bed and work all covered with dust on the façades of the skyscrapers.
Even though all her coworkers feared she'd be scared or get dizzy the first day of work, the girl seemed more sure of herself and determined than they were. The truth was, looking out from the scaffold over the impressive panorama of Manhattan, the height made her feel so euphoric that she howled again with a frightful force, after filling her lungs with air and opening her arms wide. From between her breasts, slightly open in the drizzle, a spider appeared, forced by their sudden tensing to come out of its nocturnal haunt.
Besides her uncle, two Puerto Ricans and three Galicians lived in the flat, one of them Ruth's age. He was the one she got to know best and every night she went to pick him up in the Argentinian restaurant where he worked. Whether it was because of her taste in food or because of her relationship with the fellow, the girl's enormous appetite for meat grew drastically during the long waits, during which she consumed dish after dish of grilled meat: thick pork chops with chimichurri sauce, gizzards with gut cuts called chinchulines, stuffed pork loin, creole sausage, suckling pig or kid. She hardly ate a thing during the day, waiting for the moment, which she enjoyed with growls of satisfaction and ferocious gestures, and which then seemed to continue with the constant nips she gave her companion on his neck and tongue.
When they were on an excursion to the Catskills, the young man asked her to marry him and Ruth, feeling a horde of vipers slithering down her chest, refused. They stopped at a high point on the mountain ridge where there were deer and when she got out of the car they ran off down the slope, terrified, their sense of danger similar to what Ruth felt when her suitor proposed to her. He didn't understand her need to preserve her independence and couldn't help telling her with teeth gritted in fury:
"You're going to die alone, like a she-wolf."
From then on he became aggressive and sarcastic, while Ruth tried to avoid him. Skittish as a squirrel, the lad's insistence aggravated her as he tried every trick to pressure her, from trying to convince her uncle to act as a go-between to, finally, threatening her with all sorts of violence. The situation became so intolerable that Ruth decided to love and went to live by herself in Brooklyn, on the other side of the city, even though she had to put almost all her earnings into paying the rent. But that was exactly where her pursuer's corpse appeared.
The fact is that one night, probably sneaking around the area where she lived, he met a strange, never resolved death, because there were no other signs of violence except for the needle marks of two incisors in his heart. One witness testified that before finding the body, there had been a kind of animal roar coming from high up, but it hadn’t been clear exactly where it was coming from, because in New York nobody ever looks up.
After that death, Ruth finally achieved the independence she was looking for and told herself she'd never again have such dangerous relationships. When she came home from work, she always bought pounds and pounds of meat, stuffing herself, until she became famous for her purchases in the butcher shop. On the nights when there was a full moon she would go out to walk through Brooklyn Heights, her arms open to the breeze and, when there were no people nearby, howling proudly at the shiny windows of the skyscrapers in Manhattan, washed by her very hands.
Although the owner of the butcher shop quickly noticed her, Ruth wouldn't allow him to get close for quite a while. Finally, he was the one who guaranteed her survival in the city when she lost her job due to downsizing and with that the ability to achieve residency in the country. He was the one who got her the resident's visa and also fed her for months, especially meat. He loved watching her eat like a wild animal and she loved it when he arrived home after work, laden with food, saying:
"More meat for my she-wolf."
After their lengthy banquets, and to the tranquility and satisfaction of Ruth, he left to go home, where he lived with his wife, who was a vegetarian, and a *passle of foul-mouthed kids. Many times Ruth would walk to Queens to take leftover meat to her uncle, who was also unemployed, until with no chance of finding work and refusing to accept handouts from anybody, the lonely old man in Wolfside left the modest rented flat and disappeared, homeless, in the labyrinth of the subway.
Thanks to the butcher, Ruth began to work at a meat distribution service for Manhattan restaurants, but at that moment familiar problems reappeared in her life. Whether it was because she had recovered her financial independence or because her new employment took up all her time, the butcher knew she had changed and barely had time for him. For that reason he told her about his plan to leave his wife and children and proposed that they live together. At the same time he urged her to leave her job and devote herself entirely to him.
Ruth saw the proposal as a new trap. She saw the butcher as a skilled hunter who could only be beaten with his own methods. Thus, when the day after his proposal, he appeared at her house with a roast kid like a person carrying bait, ready to fatten her up before devouring her, she licked her fleshy muzzle, clicked her tongue way back in her mouth and, curling her lips back, showed him her sharp, enormous teeth. Then she literally threw herself on the raw meat, tearing it apart with her hands while she devoured the innards. Terrified, the butcher fled down the stairs. Along the back of his neck he felt a pull toward the bloody fangs of a wolf that seemed to be at his heels. When he reached the front door he wasn't sure if he should stop it or try to drive it away, but he must have felt something more terrible pursuing him because he preferred to risk running in front of a pizza delivery scooter that was zipping by and hit him full on.
After his death, she again decided not to have any more relationships, especially knowing that the truth was, practically no man accepts a woman’s independence. Walking along Brighton Beach, where her wild public hair caught the attention of the Russians in the area because it extended from her pelvis upward and downward from her thighs beyond her bathing suit, she felt she could only get along with the lone wolf type, but that it would also be difficult to find one in that pack of pet dogs. Now she understood the repressive effect of her old fear of running into the unsettling presence of the wolf from her old childhood fears in the city at night.
“The wolf is my shadow when I’m alone,” she murmured.
Ruth left her job as a distributor because she didn’t want to work anymore in anything that had to do with meat and now she’s working in the covered garden of the Ford Foundation in the center of Manhattan. That explains why, among the carefully tended-to vegetation growing in tiers, there’s a thorny plant, perhaps brought from her village, trying to acclimate to such a strange environment, urban nature. Those who know about it say that beneath the brambles is a cave and Ruth hides her secrets in it, but the poor folks along 42nd Street think a strange animal lives there - someone saw it at night, licking the enormous glass panes that line the place.
Nearby, in the middle of the huge Central Station, a crazy beggar is asking for handouts, growling unintelligibly in stonecutters’ Latin that beneath the thorny bush planted in the garden of a New York skyscraper there is a cave so deep that it crosses the Atlantic Ocean and comes out beneath another bramble high up on a mountain in Galicia. Ruth crosses the entryway every day and seems to want to say with the conspiratorial glow of her deep gaze that in fact both brambles are one and the same.
Then she moves off, slinking like a gondola and trailing her long hair, with doll shoes just like the ones that, on nights with a full moon, often turn up tossed away in some high part of the city. Behind them, there’s always the vague, mysterious echo of the howl that every passerby at night has heard at some time in New York.
Beauties and beasts.
The she-wolf
We all know that in Galicia there have always been legends about wolves, werewolves and people under the spell of a wolf, but there were also some about she-wolves. For example, they told me the story of the one, cursed at birth by an envious individual, who was said to run about the hillside with a pack of wolves and who, on nights when there was a full moon, was transformed into a she-wolf and mated with them. She had seven children, only two of whom survived her, but she never married nor lived with any man.
From a young age her children went to work in a quarry not far from home, although the youngest emigrated to America at a young age. The youngest one got married, settled in the closest village and had a daughter, Ruth, whom he taught to speak the Latin of the stonecutters, the argot used among themselves by all the members of the trade. But an accident left him buried underneath some stones and his wife sent their daughter to her grandmother’s house while she looked for a way to earn a living. Time went by and the widow got married again, to another stonecutter, who drank a lot and from the beginning was fond of making remarks about the figure of his stepdaughter, who had returned to live with the couple. When he came home drunk he liked to rub his hands over her and often her mother had to make him leave her daughter alone.
One day when the girl was alone, her stepfather locked the kitchen doors and forced her into a corner, but when he was tearing her clothing from her breast, she bit him on the neck so fiercely that he had to let go of her, shouting from pain and fury, while he looked for a rag to staunch the blood gushing from the wound. Ruth fled from the house, breathless, listening to her stepfather screaming at her and cursing:
Be a wolf! Be a wolf, you savage beast! Be a she-wolf just like your grandmother! Be a wolf!
She ran, shaking and sobbing, breathing in the liberating fragrance of rosemary that grew along the path and cleansing herself of the taste of filth with which her stepfather had sullied her. She was going to take shelter in her grandmother’s house and swore never to return to her mother’s because her mother had allowed the two of them to live under that torture. Because it was already very late, that night she slept beneath a magnolia tree in the patio of the house belonging to an indiano (an emigrant who had returned from America), completely surrounded by foxgloves. It was the first night she’d ever spent without a roof over her head and it surprised her that she couldn’t see the moon. An explosion of dynamite in the quarry awakened her, so she set out for the hills, looking for her former home.
She walked all day and finally, as the sun was setting, almost exhausted, she spotted her village from a high rise. Then she noticed something that left her unable to move. She felt as if there were eyes of fire searing the back of her neck and it felt as if a warm, strong vapor were enveloping her completely. Then she fainted and fell to the ground, right onto some brambles where her curly hair got entangled, forming a mass of entwined labyrinths that she would forever associate with her loneliness.
Gradually she regained consciousness, trying to settle her gaze on a long object she couldn’t identify. Slowly she managed to make out its cone-shaped form, its indistinct color, its resemblance to bone, until to her horror she realized it was the fang of a wolf. But her grandmother, who was wearing it around her neck and was standing in front of the girl, quickly calmed her down and they both headed to the house.
Her grandmother had to care for her for three days and three nights until the wounds from the brambles and gorse were healed. But in truth she was consumed by her memories and the most painful part was the abuse she’d suffered in her own home. To raise the girl’s spirits, her grandmother gave her the fang while she told her:
“With this for protection, you’ll have more strength than seven she-wolves.”
When she had recovered, the old woman took her up into the hills in the opposite direction she’d come from, and when they reached the high area where she had fainted, the girl felt something extraordinary, intense, almost supernatural, in her grandmother’s strength and in her gaze. She remembered the shiny light and the haziness she’d felt the night of her escape, but she was not afraid now. The old woman searched around in the brambles and found the opening to a cave, which she entered, agile and determined. The girl followed her between the smooth, narrow stones of the cavern, completely covered by wolf pelts.
Finally the path widened and they reached a clearing where water was flowing without going anywhere. She saw blurry objects around the nearby rocks, and she didn’t dare ask about them, but she knew where they had come from and their destiny. Outside the cave, in the high part with brambles, the long, ancient howl, telluric and wild, could be heard as if it came from the very center of the earth. Then the whole mountain was covered by a wolfish blackness.
Trying to escape her memories and feeling confident, it didn't take her long to decide she would go to America, as soon as her grandmother promised to pay her way with what she'd taken from the cave. Her uncle, who worked washing the windows of skyscrapers in New York, had offered to find work for his brother many times, so certainly he could find a job for her, since she was his daughter.
Ruth began the trip with just a backpack, but her enthusiasm was boundless. In the plane she talked with all the travelers she could, was interested in everything, and didn't sleep a wink. The elevation seemed to really excite her. She felt like her eyes were going to pop out of their sockets and her heart was swelling. It shocked all the passengers when, while playing with a girl who had a stuffed wolfdog, she began to howl more and more loudly and intensely, as if she were crazy.
She arrived in New York with a tourist visa, valid only for a short visit, but like many other emigrants, she planned to stay and then try to get a resident card. Her uncle could only arrange a place for her to sleep in the cobwebby kitchen of the small rented flat he shared with other emigrants in Wolfside, Queens, and for her to work illegally washing windows with him. Yet, despite this precarious situation, Ruth thought it was fabulous just to have a bed and work all covered with dust on the façades of the skyscrapers.
Even though all her coworkers feared she'd be scared or get dizzy the first day of work, the girl seemed more sure of herself and determined than they were. The truth was, looking out from the scaffold over the impressive panorama of Manhattan, the height made her feel so euphoric that she howled again with a frightful force, after filling her lungs with air and opening her arms wide. From between her breasts, slightly open in the drizzle, a spider appeared, forced by their sudden tensing to come out of its nocturnal haunt.
Besides her uncle, two Puerto Ricans and three Galicians lived in the flat, one of them Ruth's age. He was the one she got to know best and every night she went to pick him up in the Argentinian restaurant where he worked. Whether it was because of her taste in food or because of her relationship with the fellow, the girl's enormous appetite for meat grew drastically during the long waits, during which she consumed dish after dish of grilled meat: thick pork chops with chimichurri sauce, gizzards with gut cuts called chinchulines, stuffed pork loin, creole sausage, suckling pig or kid. She hardly ate a thing during the day, waiting for the moment, which she enjoyed with growls of satisfaction and ferocious gestures, and which then seemed to continue with the constant nips she gave her companion on his neck and tongue.
When they were on an excursion to the Catskills, the young man asked her to marry him and Ruth, feeling a horde of vipers slithering down her chest, refused. They stopped at a high point on the mountain ridge where there were deer and when she got out of the car they ran off down the slope, terrified, their sense of danger similar to what Ruth felt when her suitor proposed to her. He didn't understand her need to preserve her independence and couldn't help telling her with teeth gritted in fury:
"You're going to die alone, like a she-wolf."
From then on he became aggressive and sarcastic, while Ruth tried to avoid him. Skittish as a squirrel, the lad's insistence aggravated her as he tried every trick to pressure her, from trying to convince her uncle to act as a go-between to, finally, threatening her with all sorts of violence. The situation became so intolerable that Ruth decided to love and went to live by herself in Brooklyn, on the other side of the city, even though she had to put almost all her earnings into paying the rent. But that was exactly where her pursuer's corpse appeared.
The fact is that one night, probably sneaking around the area where she lived, he met a strange, never resolved death, because there were no other signs of violence except for the needle marks of two incisors in his heart. One witness testified that before finding the body, there had been a kind of animal roar coming from high up, but it hadn’t been clear exactly where it was coming from, because in New York nobody ever looks up.
After that death, Ruth finally achieved the independence she was looking for and told herself she'd never again have such dangerous relationships. When she came home from work, she always bought pounds and pounds of meat, stuffing herself, until she became famous for her purchases in the butcher shop. On the nights when there was a full moon she would go out to walk through Brooklyn Heights, her arms open to the breeze and, when there were no people nearby, howling proudly at the shiny windows of the skyscrapers in Manhattan, washed by her very hands.
Although the owner of the butcher shop quickly noticed her, Ruth wouldn't allow him to get close for quite a while. Finally, he was the one who guaranteed her survival in the city when she lost her job due to downsizing and with that the ability to achieve residency in the country. He was the one who got her the resident's visa and also fed her for months, especially meat. He loved watching her eat like a wild animal and she loved it when he arrived home after work, laden with food, saying:
"More meat for my she-wolf."
After their lengthy banquets, and to the tranquility and satisfaction of Ruth, he left to go home, where he lived with his wife, who was a vegetarian, and a *passle of foul-mouthed kids. Many times Ruth would walk to Queens to take leftover meat to her uncle, who was also unemployed, until with no chance of finding work and refusing to accept handouts from anybody, the lonely old man in Wolfside left the modest rented flat and disappeared, homeless, in the labyrinth of the subway.
Thanks to the butcher, Ruth began to work at a meat distribution service for Manhattan restaurants, but at that moment familiar problems reappeared in her life. Whether it was because she had recovered her financial independence or because her new employment took up all her time, the butcher knew she had changed and barely had time for him. For that reason he told her about his plan to leave his wife and children and proposed that they live together. At the same time he urged her to leave her job and devote herself entirely to him.
Ruth saw the proposal as a new trap. She saw the butcher as a skilled hunter who could only be beaten with his own methods. Thus, when the day after his proposal, he appeared at her house with a roast kid like a person carrying bait, ready to fatten her up before devouring her, she licked her fleshy muzzle, clicked her tongue way back in her mouth and, curling her lips back, showed him her sharp, enormous teeth. Then she literally threw herself on the raw meat, tearing it apart with her hands while she devoured the innards. Terrified, the butcher fled down the stairs. Along the back of his neck he felt a pull toward the bloody fangs of a wolf that seemed to be at his heels. When he reached the front door he wasn't sure if he should stop it or try to drive it away, but he must have felt something more terrible pursuing him because he preferred to risk running in front of a pizza delivery scooter that was zipping by and hit him full on.
After his death, she again decided not to have any more relationships, especially knowing that the truth was, practically no man accepts a woman’s independence. Walking along Brighton Beach, where her wild public hair caught the attention of the Russians in the area because it extended from her pelvis upward and downward from her thighs beyond her bathing suit, she felt she could only get along with the lone wolf type, but that it would also be difficult to find one in that pack of pet dogs. Now she understood the repressive effect of her old fear of running into the unsettling presence of the wolf from her old childhood fears in the city at night.
“The wolf is my shadow when I’m alone,” she murmured.
Ruth left her job as a distributor because she didn’t want to work anymore in anything that had to do with meat and now she’s working in the covered garden of the Ford Foundation in the center of Manhattan. That explains why, among the carefully tended-to vegetation growing in tiers, there’s a thorny plant, perhaps brought from her village, trying to acclimate to such a strange environment, urban nature. Those who know about it say that beneath the brambles is a cave and Ruth hides her secrets in it, but the poor folks along 42nd Street think a strange animal lives there - someone saw it at night, licking the enormous glass panes that line the place.
Nearby, in the middle of the huge Central Station, a crazy beggar is asking for handouts, growling unintelligibly in stonecutters’ Latin that beneath the thorny bush planted in the garden of a New York skyscraper there is a cave so deep that it crosses the Atlantic Ocean and comes out beneath another bramble high up on a mountain in Galicia. Ruth crosses the entryway every day and seems to want to say with the conspiratorial glow of her deep gaze that in fact both brambles are one and the same.
Then she moves off, slinking like a gondola and trailing her long hair, with doll shoes just like the ones that, on nights with a full moon, often turn up tossed away in some high part of the city. Behind them, there’s always the vague, mysterious echo of the howl that every passerby at night has heard at some time in New York.
The rain bear
The she bear comes down the sierra from the mountain, raining like it rains on taciturn stones, among trees of life and trees of death, as if she were dancing the dance of all of nature, with drums of thunder, lightning bolt trumpets, a howling like a song over the stones that are so many, explosions of an orchestra of branches, descending and immersed in the symphony of the libertarian mountain ridge. The centuries-old oaks know her, as do the yew trees in season, the chestnut trees embracing the apples and the apple trees the chestnuts, the first birch full of thousand-year-old lichens like the granite and the slabs of slate where the lizards skitter about as she goes by. The birds that fill her head dig in the dirt looking for the holes of the miner worms, constantly rooting beneath the surface inhabited by the herds of bulls and cows from before the concept of a herd existed and before there were oxen.
It was the time when she bears were learning to bark like wolves and when bears grazed alongside foxes. The ursids wandered about in grand form, like prehistoric deities, through the nutritious forests where there was space and food for all. The great she bear was respected then for her strength and courage like those from ancient myth, with honorable ancestry. Perhaps humans learned from her to copulate lying down and in an embrace, just as female and male bears do. Her irrepressible sexual impulse led her to enjoy the many males there were then, night and day, not interrupting any of the endless couplings for any pretext beneath the incessant rain when she had orgasms like carrousels.
Then she was the forest’s mouth devouring fruit, swallowing green fountains of juice extracted from the leaves offered by trees and bushes, a grove where she healed her wounds and scratched her back. Then she became bees swarming about the fields until she could joyfully sink her muzzle into the honey after overturning hives, knocking down shed walls, breaking apiaries apart. But whenever she came down the terraces she flooded meadows, marshes, forests, oak groves, always raining from above to below. And when she hibernated beyond the rough branches in the far-off den of the mountain she dreamed about rolling around, frolicking, running freely across the plain from the sunup to sundown, catching trout swimming upstream in her hands, dancing on the rooftops that were joined and covered by snow in the direction of the mountain abyss, where it was pouring and the fallen snow was melting.
But while the she bear dreamed of paradises she knew, humans were inventing nightmares: the theorists of hell were certain bears could recreate humans with women, but she bears could only beget monsters with men, perhaps because they believed the vaginal fury that overtook them was demonic, a natural instinct they felt was improper even in wild animals. And so the persecution began, in an effort to kill the flame of desire, fire against ardor, the spear against the vulva, the arrow of poisoned iron against the burning that burns in the heart.
Then they said she was a witch who’d fled the mountain when she was young, like a wild foal, and she lived in a cave, covering herself with a bearskin. They said she ate grass, eggs from wild birds, and even raw animals, especially eels and hares. And they howled and gossiped and had a good time making a lot of noise, saying she attracted men with a mad dance and then paralyzed them with bellows and spit. - She left the village roaring and spitting foam from her mouth, the old folks said, insisting that once back in her cave she spit on men and peed on their faces and genitals so they would do whatever she wanted.
To the people who watched her coupling endlessly in the fall she was the bear who rained, filling the country lanes with mud and quagmires. For those who imagined her hibernating, she was the witch in the cave, let it rain, let it rain, perhaps in order to gather up erotic energy for spring. For those who were desperate she was the wise one who knew the herbs for healing and love growing above the boulder of her den in exchange for a jug of wine, if it was an illness of the head, or a jug of milk, if it was a chest malady; for a chestnut roaster full of chestnuts if it was a stomach problem; for a string of chourizos, if it were a sexual problem; for a flask with oil or vinegar, if it was a problem with the arms or legs; or a pot of honey for a love problem.
One night when the village had been battered and covered with chestnuts by a bad storm that knocked over the chapel, destroyed the mill and set fire to houses and haystacks, many villagers blamed the witch in the cave and went up the hill to look for her, taking sticks, cattle prods, and hoes. - It was the meiga, the witch, who did it, because the hills were roaring, the river ran fast, and the clouds were spitting like she did, they were saying as they watched amid the destruction. Some recalled hearing vague, ancient curses of damn you all to hell when she fled, nearly naked, bleeding between her legs after they raped her behind a grist mill. - She was like a she wolf in winter and like a snake in the summer, the old rapists still proclaimed years later with the silence of the eternal accomplices, their feet mired in the marsh. They came back drunk, saying they couldn’t find her because she’d disappeared in a fountain like a meiga, yet they came back with a great bear pelt covered with blood.
Before autumn had a name, the forest was full of bears eating all they could to get fattened up enough for winter. The she bear, the great bear, came raining down over the marshes with clouds on the peaks that were rounded and bursting. Behind her came other ursids, perhaps descendants of that protean womb of all wombs, swaying like green twigs while following her trail through the valleys not divided by property walls. Later on, when there were houses and a village, when everything had a lock, wall, gate and door, and people got together to hunt bears both male and female, she only came down in the form of hail or rain, to eat and drink, but staying out of sight of humans, because since she’d encountered them throwing stones, later arrows, then bullets, she knew for sure that a human was the worst thing she could encounter.
That was because she never knew that the cubs taken from her when they were small ended up like humans after being trained as clumsy dancers or pitiful clowns in the humiliating spectacles promoted by religious leaders in order to desacralize, ridicule, and completely discredit the beast who had once been venerated for its savage physical strength and its excessive lustful sexuality. And around the world they were tied up, dragged, beaten, and muzzled with muzzles of wicker, rope or wire on their snouts and mouth guards made of Portuguese oak rods restraining their instinct, forever imprisoned in a muzzle.
The she bear also never imagined she would end up being the last one, that the bear who entered her among the grapes on the hill above the riverbank would do so for the last time and would himself enter a night that was red from the blood or the wine on the high plain where the wine cellars were. He had come back down happy and satisfied, without noticing he was coming near the men who’d done the grape harvesting and, drunk on the she bear, had entered an open wine cellar. He died on the spot with a cluster of red sobs on his chest, because life had gone out of his heart, while she remained alone in the hills without the last male ursid of the mountains.
But something happened that those who kill call time and the she bear once again felt the call of the seminal drive and pure ecstasy. Like hunger and thirst, it was unbearable. She looked and sniffed and saw things and licked, but never found him again. She only discovered the fancy metaphor of the rod, for example the point of the *estadullo over the oxcart beside a mill that whirled in the water like the blood in her head when she mated with those of her kind. And also the meat of the chourizos that she found in the rough, tightly-woven basket of unscraped black alder that a hiker had left on a path after seeing her, running away down the rough path. It was a different flesh, with tight skin and the salty taste of seminal and sowing blood, stuffed full of life, enough to store inside herself for the entire winter, now that her womb could not be impregnated except by the spermatic memory of pleasures shared from the beginning of time. In that region she was the last practitioner of the language of love of bears and with her a whole world of instincts and pleasures, beautiful and beastly, was extinguished.
Accepting the change, little by little she noticed the wolves that she’d avoided in the past and with whom she now coincided at night on the hills that were increasingly barren due to the fires being set. Lusty and alone, she drew near them with less horror of a different species than fear at sharing a fatal destiny, for she’d seen many deadwolves around the hills, some of them dying in quagmires where they’d gotten stuck when they were wounded. Sometimes she herself was attacked by wolves after she got stuck in a grotto in the middle of the swamps.
Her old adversaries began to accept her with curiosity and caution, and together they began to go down to the villages in search of food, together they escaped from dogs and rifles, they licked their wounds together, they licked one another. The phallus of the wolves, who smelled her and sometimes bit her, coming close then scampering off in fear, gradually became habitual and necessary in her life, because the instinct and pleasure of living beings change when their world changes.
The pair of wolves that frightened the group of hunters that had come up beating the brush copulated sometimes in front of them, and the she bear felt the long hairy tails rubbing beneath her belly while it rained until reaching an apotheotic extasy new to the species. They rained a lot together, howling and roaring until they were hoarse, growing damp and melting until they were dry. And it was the mad free wolf who rained in solidarity with their rain, was the trembling, fearful wolf who began to give in and be controlled, the she wolf who looked at the horizon dampened by the rain of desire without her knowing. She never felt alone again and once more began to voraciously devour the fruits of life that life itself satisfied in her: cherries on the cherry trees of the valley, blackberries near the clearings, apples on the grassy meadows.
But the wolves were also disappearing like black shadows being chased by green silhouettes, ones that saw her as a Lupa Partisana or whore of the hills and companion to a band of fugitives after being kidnapped by the bandoleers with her consent. - She allowed the kidnapping and lives like everybody’s whore in all the bear dens, they all said. Others said she was a free young woman whose family had been killed at the start of the war and who had fled to the hills following her partner, who belonged to the guerrilla fighting there.
Even so, many believed that the torrential shouts of animal pleasure they could hear on nights in the middle of the downpour came from the red bear dens, as they called the implacable caverns where those irredeemable ones took refuge. - It’s raining like a bear, they said. And they also talked about how she mounted the man, raining on the combatants, because that flow gave them the valor and vigor they needed in a very uneven battle for freedom. For that reason when the black clouds signalled rain, those below would prepare for imminent raids or movements.
Fenced in and starving, the guerrilla fighters were able to resist because of the crags and underbrush of the mountain, but they fell one by one when being chased, trying to flee along the wetlands of the wilderness. Nothing more was heard of her, because the pursuers said that when they set fire to the thick growth that surrounded the entrance to the grotto, they didn’t hear or see a thing. - She disappeared inside the cavern like a witch, like a meiga, they’d say, hiding their faces like those of foxes in heat, raked by huge scratches.
Nevertheless, the she bear had rained over those woodlands long before her supposed human incarnation: she had rained when there were many bears in the hills and rained with the wolves when she was the only inhabitant of the grotto. In fact, in time the resistance faded, but she kept appearing in the hills, her flat footprint was still visible in the mud, the remnants of her fur continued to be seen among the treacherous brambles and places she rubbed her back could still be spotted on the bare trunks of strong trees.
She must have been desperate at not having another partner like her since she was young, like not knowing where to slake her hunger and thirst. One day she came down following the plume of smoke from a shed where a low fire was smoking chourizos, in a hut sitting on the other shore of the river that tan through the village. She slowly, cautiously, drew near, and began to sniff with her long nose through the smoke-filled holes that smelled like the seasoned pork meat curing there. Finally she knocked part of the entrance to the ruined building down and when several slabs of slate fell from the roof onto her head, she ended up sprawled on the floor wearing dozens of red strings of chourizos stuffed into greasy casings and with others hanging over the fire that was going out. Instinctively, she got up and leaned backward, then suddenly saw some strings of chourizos around her neck like a necklace and others slithering between her open legs.
At that moment of confusion she felt that everything was spinning and once more felt the erect phallus of the bears of her tribe entering her, the stiff rod that she licked like a totemic organ, the erect tails of the wolves rubbing her fur, and she felt drunk with joy and desperation amid the vertigo of the red sticks.
It was then that she threw herself voraciously over the chourizos, furiously gnawing on all she could reach, pulling down the strings, clawing at the row of hooks where the best sausages were, trying to eat the enormous things with her mouth open wide, while the hot taste of the paprika and arugula excited her even more with their cannibalistic associations, because she had the vague impression that everything she’d shared, desired, and loved in her life had been reduced to that lean red meat that fed all the passion that existed in the world, and she wanted to enter that passion forever, furiously, frenetically, as if she were devouring herself.
The spoken word isn't enough .
The spoken word isn't enough
to close the book of memory,
in the end something always goes unnoticed
as if read on a page that is sealed.
A word isn't a written thing, it's dreamed
inside the dream of sound, colorless
among the colors of meaning, an accessory
like indispensable absence and nothingness.
Looking for that face that is cut out
of the space created between verse and verse
I ascended the stairs to a door
to a room where immense echoes of the word,
which is dead, are vibrating,
in the orphan light where they will float and flitter.
***
Be only being, be body
simple and infinite unit
that outlines the density of emptiness.
Feel only the life
that fuses silence with silence
offering its heartbeat to infinity.
***
And the path to travel will be a verse
like all the paths that begin
and keep going. Because a verse
is nothing more than what breaks
and continues on
that runs and hides
and is there and continues
and articulates the dark rhythm of meaning
and moves about alone, and stops, and ends the day
falling headlong into the light for the next
page and endless ones that follow, an inherited river,
book by book, like century after century.
***
The page that will never be written
is before me, behind me, spreading out
like the endless dawn of memory:
in the empty word an echo is tucked in.
***
Thinking is a dark thing
like a a wall with shade it doesn't deserve:
on the other side the sun, always on the other side,
distant, infinitely distant
from this window where shivering uncertainty
of the air that I've caused is beating,
and the absences I project like shadows
of some self I haven't identified.
Thinking, thinking like a legion
of frightful creatures that wrench
the simplest explanations from madness.
And it's like that because reason is tragic,
like every final ending is tragic,
no matter which direction life takes.
***
And we will be alone
sea and silence.
When night comes to remove my blindfold
with a promised and slow-moving love,
from these eyes that saw so much nothing,
the leaves that fell at my feet
will be crushed.
And absence will complete its oracle
when night is background,
when the sea itself is night,
and silence
pronounces the final word.
Belas e bestas.
A muller loba
Todos sabemos que en Galicia houbo sempre lendas sobre lobos, lobishomes e alobados, pero tamén as houbo sobre mulleres lobas. A min mesmo, por exemplo, contáronme a historia dunha da que, maldicida no momento de nacer por motivos de envexa, se dicía que andara de moza libre cunha grea de lobos polo monte e que, nas noites de lúa chea, se volvía loba e se apareaba con aqueles. Chegou a ter sete fillos, dos que só a sobreviviron dous, pero nunca casou nin viviu con ningún home.
Dende moi novos, os seus fillos puxéronse a traballar nunha canteira non moi alongada do lugar, aínda que o maior marchou axiña para América. O máis pequeno casou, estableceuse no pobo máis próximo e tivo unha nena, Ruth, á que lle aprendeu a falar no verbo dos arginas, a xiria que utilizaban entre eles os do gremio. Pero un accidente deixouno sepultado baixo pedras e a muller mandou a nena para a casa da avoa mentres buscaba como gañarse a vida. Andando o tempo, a viúva volveu casar con outro canteiro, que bebía moito e que dende o principio se dedicou a facer comentarios sobre o corpo da súa fillastra, a cal viñera vivir co matrimonio. Cando chegaba borracho a casa adoitaba apalpala e, moitas veces, tiña que intervir a nai para que a deixase en paz.
Un día no que a rapaza estaba soa, o padrasto pechou as portas da cociña e reduciuna contra un recanto, mais cando xa lle estaba esgazando a roupa polo peito, ela mordeuno con tal fereza no pescozo que tivo que soltala cun berro de dor e de rabia, mentres buscaba un pano para deter o sangue que manaba abondosamente da ferida. Ruth fuxiu case sen alento, escoitando como o padrasto lle berraba e a maldicía:
- Loba te volvas!, loba te volvas, fera furiosa!, loba te volvas coma túa avoa!, loba te volvas!
Correu presa de axitados saloucos, aspirando con fruición liberadora o recendo a romeu das beiras do camiño e desfacéndose do sabor a pólvora con que a impregnara o padrasto. Pensou en refuxiarse na casa da súa avoa e xurouse non volver nunca á da nai, por consentir aquel suplicio infernal no que as dúas vivían. Como xa era moi tarde, aquela noite durmiu debaixo dun magnolio que había no adro da casa abandonada dun indiano, toda arrodeada de estalotes. Era a primeira noite que pasaba á intemperie e sorprendeuna o feito de non divisar a lúa. Espertouna un estoupido de dinamita da canteira, tras o que se puxo a andar cara ao monte, en busca do vello lar.
Andou todo o día e xa, co crepúsculo, case sen forzas, divisou dende un alto a aldea orixinaria. Entón notou unha presenza que a deixou paralizada. Sentiu como se lle cravaran na caluga uns ollos de lume e como se un bafo cálido e poderoso a envolvese por completo. E caeu desmaiada no chan, xusto encima dunhas silvas nas que se lle enredaría o seu cabelo crencho formando unha engrela de dédalos trenzados que para sempre asociaría á súa soidade.
Recobrou a consciencia pouco a pouco, tratando de fixar a vista sobre un obxecto alongado que non podía identificar. Lentamente conseguiu apreciar a súa forma cónica, a súa cor indescifrable, o seu aspecto óseo, ata que comprendeu, con arrepío, que era un cairo de lobo. Pero a súa avoa, que o levaba colgado do pescozo e que se encontraba diante dela, tranquilizou axiña o seu desacougo, e xuntas marcharon para casa.
Tres días e tres noites tivo que recibir coidados da súa avoa mentres lle ía baixando a febre e mentres lle curaban as feridas das silvas e dos toxos. Pero, en realidade, o que máis a consumían eran as lembranzas e o que máis lle doía era o maltrato padecido na súa propia casa. Para darlle ánimos, a avoa regaloulle o cairo mentres lle dicía:
- Con esta defensa vas ter máis forza que sete lobas.
Cando se repuxo, a vella levouna polo monte na dirección contraria á que viñera e, ao chegaren ao alto no que perdera o coñecemento, a moza notou unha intensidade extraordinaria, case sobrenatural, no alento e na mirada da súa avoa. Lembrou a refulxencia e o embazamento que sentira a noite da fuxida, pero agora non tivo medo. A vella remexeu nas silvas e dou co burato dunha cova, por onde penetrou áxil e decididamente. Ela seguiuna entre as paredes estreitas e pulidas da caverna, cubertas por completo de pelellos de lobo.
Finalmente, o vieiro ensanchouse e chegaron a un relanzo onde a auga fluía sen marchar para ningures. Acumulados polas rochas do entorno, viu obxectos indicibles, sobre os que non se atreveu a preguntar, pero comprendeu as súas orixes e o seu fado. Fóra da cova, no alto das silveiras, podía escoitarse o ouveo longo e antigo, telúrico e feraz, como se viñera do mesmo centro da terra. E todo o monte ficou cuberto por unha negrura loba.
Tratando de fuxir das súas lembranzas e segura de si mesma, non tardou moito en decidir a súa marcha para América, unha vez que a avoa lle asegurou o custo da viaxe con aquilo que collera na cova. O seu tío, que traballaba limpando cristais nos rañaceos de Nova York, ofrecérase moitas veces para buscarlle traballo ao seu irmán, de modo que seguramente tamén podería buscarllo a ela, que era a súa filla.
Ruth emprendeu a viaxe tan só cunha mochila, pero levaba un entusiasmo sen límites. No avión foi conversando cos viaxeiros que puido, interesada por todo, e non adormeceu nin por un momento. A elevación parecía sobreexcitala. Sentía que se lle desorbitaban os ollos e que se lle inchaba o corazón. Por iso todos os pasaxeiros quedaron sobrecollidos cando, xogando cunha nena que levaba un can lobo de peluche, púxose a ouvear cada vez máis aguda e intensamente, como fora de si.
Chegou a Nova York cun visado de turista, válido só para unha curta estancia, mais, como tantos outros emigrantes, levaba a intención de quedar e tratar logo de conseguir o permiso de residencia. O seu tío só puido conseguir que durmise na cociña, chea de telarañas, dun pequeno piso alugado que compartía con outros emigrantes no Wolfside de Queens e que traballase ilegalmente limpando cristais con el. Pero, malia a tan precaria situación, a Ruth pareceulle fabuloso poder dispoñer polo menos dun leito e traballar empoleirada nas fachadas dos rañaceos.
Aínda que todos os compañeiros temeron que tivese medo ou sentise vertixe o primeiro día de traballo, a moza parecía máis segura e decidida ca eles mesmos. De feito, mirando dende a estada o impresionante panorama de Manhathan, a altura púxoa tan eufórica que volveu ouvear cunha forza sobrecolledora, tras encher de ar o seu peito e abrir os brazos liberada. Entre os seos un pouco descubertos á poalla puido verse unha araña impulsada a saír pola súpeta tersura do seu recinto nocturno.
Ademais do tío, no piso moraban dous portorriqueños e tres galegos, un deles novo como Ruth. Con este foi co que máis intimou e todas as noites ía recollelo ao restaurante arxentino no que traballaba. Fose polos seus gustos gastronómicos ou fose pola súa relación con aquel mozo, a voracidade carnívora da rapaza incrementouse desmesuradamente durante as longas esperas, nas que consumía, prato tras prato, toda clase de carnes á grella: chuletóns con chimichurri, moegas con chinchulines, matambre, chourizos crioulos, leitón ou cabrito. Apenas comía nada polo día agardando aquel momento, que gozaba con gruñidos de satisfacción e acenos de ferocidade, e que logo parecía ter continuación nas constantes mordeduras con que trababa o pescozo e a lingua do seu acompañante.
Foi nunha excursión polos montes de Catskills cando o mozo propúxolle casar e Ruth, que sentiu unha tromba de víboras descendendo en fervenza polo peito, non quixo. Pararon nun alto da serra onde había cervos e ao saír ela do auto botáronse a fuxir espavorecidos monte abaixo, cunha sensación de perigo semellante á de Ruth diante das propostas matrimoniais do pretendente, que non comprendeu o seu desexo de preservar a independencia e que non puido evitar dicirlle con raiba contida:
- Has morrer soa como unha loba.
Dende entón, el volveuse agresivo e sarcástico, mentres Ruth trataba de eludilo. Esquiva como unha esquío, agora resultáballe agobiante a insistencia daquel mozo que recorría a todo subterfuxio para presionala, dende convencer ao tío para que mediase entre eles a, finalmente, ameazala con toda clase de violencias. A situación resultou tan intolerable que Ruth decidiu mudar de casa e ir vivir soa a Brooklyn, no outro extremo da cidade, aínda a custa de empeñar no aluguer practicamente todas as súas ganancias. Pero xusto alí foi onde apareceu o cadáver do seu perseguidor.
Efectivamente, unha noite, suponse que axexando pola zona onde ela moraba, encontrou unha morte estraña e nunca esclarecida, pois, sen outros sinais de violencia, o seu corpo presentaba tan só dúas incisivas punzadas no corazón. Unha testemuña asegurou que antes de bater co corpo escoitara unha especie de berro animal que proviña dun alto, pero que non reparara de onde procedía exactamente, porque en Nova York ninguén mira nunca para arriba.
Tras aquela morte, Ruth conseguiu por fin a independencia que buscaba e prometeuse non volver manter relacións tan perigosas. Cando chegaba do traballo, aprovisionábase de libras e libras de carne, da que seguía ateigándose, ata o punto de ser xa famosa polo seu gasto na carnicería. As noites de lúa chea saía a pasear polos Altos de Brooklyn, abrindo os brazos ao bris e, cando non había xente preto, ouveando orgullosamente cara ás vidreiras translúcidas dos rañaceos de Manhattan, limpadas coas súas propias mans.
Aínda que axiña se fixou nela o propietario da carnicería, Ruth tardou moito en admitir relacións. Finalmente, el foi quen garantiu a súa supervivencia na cidade cando por causa dunha remodelación laboral quedara sen traballo e sen posibilidade de regulamentar a súa permanencia no país. Foi el quen conseguiu que obtivese o dereito de residencia e tamén quen a alimentou durante meses, sobre todo de carne. Encantáballe vela comer como unha fera e a ela que lle dixera, cando chegaba a casa, despois do traballo, cargado de viandas:
- Máis carne para a miña loba.
Logo dos interminables festíns, e para tranquilidade e satisfacción de Ruth, el marchaba para a súa casa, onde moraba coa súa esposa vexetariana e cunha numerosa prole de fillos e fillas malabocas. Moitas veces, Ruth viaxaba a Queens para levarlle carne sobrante ao seu tío, que tamén ficara no paro, ata que, sen posibilidade de atopar traballo e sen querer aceptar axudas de ninguén, o vello solitario de Wolfside abandonou o modesto piso de aluguer e perdeuse sen fogar polos labirintos do metro.
Grazas ao carniceiro, Ruth comezou a traballar nun servizo de distribución cárnica aos restaurantes de Manhattan, pero neste momento reapareceron na súa vida problemas coñecidos. Fose pola independencia económica acabada de recuperar ou polo absorbente do novo labor, o carniceiro aseguraba que cambiara e que apenas tiña tempo para el. Faloulle por iso da súa pretensión de deixar a familia e propúxolle viviren xuntos, incitándoa a abandonar o traballo e dedicarse tan só a el.
Ruth entendeu a proposta como unha nova trampa. Figurouse ao carniceiro como un cazador experto que só pode ser vencido coa súa propia intriga. Por iso, cando ao día seguinte da súa proposición compareceu na casa cun cabrito como quen leva un cebo, disposto a cebar a presa antes de engulila, ela relambeu o seu carnoso fociño, chasqueou coa longa lingua dende o máis escuro da boca e, arregañando os beizos, amosou a súa dentamia incisiva e enorme. Entón lanzouse literalmente sobre a carne crúa, despezándoa coas mans ao tempo que devoraba as súas entrañas. O carniceiro fuxiu arrepiado escaleiras abaixo, sentindo sobre a caluga unha tensión imantada aos sanguinolentos cairos de loba que parecían perseguilo de preto. Ao chegar ao portal titubeou entre o freo e a escorrentada, pero algo máis terrible debeu sentir tras de si que preferiu arriscarse a esquivar unha motocicleta de pizzas a domicilio que pasaba a grande velocidade e que o atropelou de cheo.
Tras esta morte, volveu decidir non ter máis relacións, sobre todo sabendo que, chegada a hora da verdade, practicamente ningún home acepta a independencia dunha femia. Paseando pola praia de Brighton, onde a súa incontible peluxe púbica abraiaba aos rusos da zona estendéndose pelve arriba e coxas abaixo por fóra do traxe de baño, pensaba que só podería entenderse cunha especie de lobo solitario, pero tamén que sería difícil atopalo dentro daquela manda de cans domésticos. Agora era cando comprendía o sentido represivo do seu vello temor a encontrarse na noite da cidade coa inquedante presenza do lobo traído dos terrores da súa infancia.
- O lobo é a miña sombra se estou soa, murmurou.
Ruth deixou o posto de distribuidora porque non quería volver traballar en nada que tivese que ver coa carne e agora ocúpase do xardín cuberto da Fundación Ford, no centro de Manhattan. Así se explica que entre a coidada vexetación do pequeno parque escalonado poida verse unha silveira, acaso procedente da súa aldea, tratando de aclimatarse a tan estraño ambiente de natureza urbana. Quen a coñece di que baixo a silveira hai unha cova e que nela agacha Ruth os seus secretos, pero os pobres sen fogar da rúa 42 pensan que nela mora un animal estraño que alguén viu de noite lambendo as enormes vidreiras acoutadoras do lugar.
Preto de alí, en medio da inmensa Estación Central, pide esmola un mendigo tolo rosmando inintelixiblemente no verbo dos arginas que, baixo a silveira plantada no xardín dun rañaceos de Nova York hai unha cova tan profunda que atravesa o Océano Atlántico e ten saída baixo doutra silveira no alto dunha montaña de Galicia. Ruth cruza a antesala diariamente e parece querer transmitirlle co fulgor cómplice da súa profunda ollada que, en realidade, as dúas silveiras son a mesma.
Logo alóngase, sinuosa como unha góndola e seguida da súa longa cabeleira, cuns zapatos de boneca iguais aos que nas noites de lúa chea soen aparecer abandonados nalgún alto da cidade. Tras eles, queda sempre a vaga e misteriosa resonancia dese ouveo que todo transeúnte nocturno escoitou algunha vez por Nova York.
A osa que chove
A OSA QUE CHOVE
Baixa a osa do monte serra abaixo, chovendo como chove entre rocas impasibles, entre árbores da vida e árbores da morte, como quen danza a danza de toda a natureza, tambores de trebón, alustros por trompetas, ouveos que son cantos polos cantos que son cantos, estalidos dunha orquestra de ramallos, descendendo inmersa na sinfonía da cordilleira libertaria. Coñécena os carballos seculares, os teixos do tempo, abrazándose os castiñeiros das mazás e as maceiras das castañas, o primeiro bidueiro cheo de liques milenarios como a pedra de gran e as lousas de xisto por onde foxen e foxen os lagartos ao seu paso. As aves que lle enchen a cabeza escarvan baixo a terra na procura das covas de miñocas mineiras, que fozan incesantes baixo o chan atravesado polas mandas de touros e de vacas anteriores ao concepto de rabaño e á existencia dos bois.
Era o tempo das osas aprendendo a ladrar cos lobos e dos osos apacentando vacas coas raposas. Os úrsidos vagaban maxestosos, como deuses prehistóricos, polas fragas nutricias nas que había sitio e alimento para todos. A gran osa era entón respectada pola súa forza e coraxe de mito antigo e ancestro venerado. Quizais dela aprenderon os humanos a copular deitados e abrazados, precisamente como osos e osas. Os seus irrefreables impulsos sexuais levábana a gozar dos entón abondosos machos noite e día e a non interromper con pretexto ningún os incesantes apareamentos baixo aquela chuvia chuviosa cando tiña orgasmos como dioivos.
Daquela foi a boca do bosque mordendo froita, inxerindo verdes fervenzas de zume extraídas das follas que regalan árbores e arbustos, arboredo onde curou feridas e rascou as costas. Logo fíxose abelleira enxameando polos eidos ata enzoufarse no mel gozosamente tras derrubar alvarizas, deslousar cortizos e desfacer colmeas. Mais sempre que baixou pola gradaría asolagou veigas, lameiros, soutos, carballeiras, sempre choveu de arriba a abaixo a osa que chove. E cando hibernaba tras a esgrevia ramallada na arredada oseira da montaña soñaba que se tiraba a rebolos por cavorcos, que corría libre pola chaira dende a loaira ao luar, que collía troitas coas mans fervenza arriba, que danzaba polos tellados unidos e nevados cara ao abismo montés, que chovía a cachón desfacendo a nevarada.
Mais mentres a osa soñaba paraísos vividos, os humanos dispuñan pesadelos inventados: os teóricos do inferno aseguraron que os osos podían procrear persoas coas mulleres, pero que as osas só procreaban monstros cos homes, quizais porque consideraban demoníaco o furor vaxinal que as posuía, un instinto natural que xulgaban improcedente mesmo para as bestas. E comezou a persecución, para matar a cifra do desexo, do lume contra o ardor, da lanza contra a vulva, da frecha de ferro envelenada contra o fervor que ferve no corazón.
Así deron en dicir que ela era unha bruxa fuxida ao monte de nova, como unha poldra brava, e que vivía nunha caverna cubríndose cunha pel de oso. Afirmábase que comía herbas, ovos de aves silvestres e ata animais crus, sobre todo anguías e lebres. E latricaban e laretaban e leriaban baduando que atraía os homes cunha danza louca e que logo os paralizaba con ruxidos e cuspe. –Foise da aldea ruxindo e botando escuma pola boca, contaban os vellos, insistindo en que unha vez na cova cuspíalles e mexáballes aos homes na cara e nas súas partes co fin de que fixesen todo o que ela quería.
Para a xente que a vía aparearse sen fin durante o outono era a osa que chove enchendo de lama e de bulleiro a corredoira; para quen a imaxinaba hibernando, era a meiga da cova, que chova, que chova, acaso co fin de acumular enerxía erótica para a primavera; para as persoas que padecían de desespero, era a sabia das herbas de curar e de namorar sobre o penedo da oseira a cambio dunha xerra de viño, se o mal era da cabeza; dun teteiro de leite, se o mal era do peito; dunha castañeira furada e chea de castañas, se o mal era do abdome; dunha ola de chourizos, se o mal era da entreperna; dunha ámboa con aceite ou con vinagre, se o mal era dos brazos ou das pernas; dunha meleira con mel cristalizado, se o mal era de amores.
Unha noite na que a aldea quedou desfeita e chea de bugalla por unha gran treboada que derrubou a capela, arrastrou o muíño e incendiou casas e palleiros, moitos veciños culparon á meiga da cova e fórona buscar ao monte con paus, con aguilladas e con sachos. –Foi cousa da meiga, porque o monte ruxía, o río corría e as nubes cuspían coma ela, escoitábase dicir en medio da desfeita. Algúns lembraban antigas maldicións imprecisas de mal raio vos parta cando fuxiu case espida con sangue entre as pernas despois de que a violasen detrás do muíño. –Era como loba no inverno e como cobra no verán, berraban aínda os vellos violadores pasados os anos ante o silencio dos sempre cómplices cos pés fundidos no tremedal. Volveron bébedos, dicindo que non deran con ela porque desaparecera nun illó como unha meiga, pero traían unha gran pel de oso manchada de sangue.
Antes de que o outono tivese ningún nome, a fraga estaba chea de osos engulindo víveres no período do engorde para resistir o inverno. A osa, a gran osa, baixaba chovendo sobre as brañas coas nubes dos cumes redondeadas e rebordantes ata rebentar. Tras ela pasaban outros úrsidos, quizais descendentes daquela proteica matriz de matrices, cimbrando como varas verdes mentres seguían o seu rastro polos vales libres de valados. Despois, cando houbo casas e aldea, cando todo tivo atranco, muro, cancela e porta, e a xente se xuntaba para cazar osos e osas, só baixaba como sarabia ou chuvia, por comer e beber, pero evitando ser vista por humanos, pois dende que os coñeceu disparando pedras, logo frechas, logo balas, soubo sempre que unha persoa era o peor que se podía atopar.
E iso que nunca soubo que os seus fillos arrebatados sendo osiños acabaron facendo o humano tras ser adestrados como torpes danzantes ou tristes pallasos nos humillantes espectáculos que o poder relixioso fomentaba para desacralizar, ridiculizar e desprestixiar definitivamente a besta antigamente venerada pola súa salvaxe potencia física e pola súa lúbrica sexualidade exacerbada. E polo mundo foron atados, arrastrados, vareados e embozados con bozos de vimbio, corda ou arame no fociño e buceiras de verga de caxigo no instinto, para sempre preso nun vetillo.
Tampouco imaxinou nunca a osa que unha vez ía ser a última, que o oso que penetrou nela entre as uvas no outeiro que había sobre a ribeira ía ser a derradeira ocasión que a penetrase para penetrar el mesmo nunha noite vermella polo sangue ou polo viño no altiplano das adegas. El baixara feliz e satisfeito, sen decatarse de que se poñía ao alcance dos homes que fixeran a vendima e se introduciu ebrio de osa nunha adega aberta. Alí mesmo morreu cun acio de saloucos vermellos polo peito, pois saíalle do corazón para fóra a vida que levaba, mentres ela quedaba soa polos outeiros sen o derradeiro úrsido macho das montañas.
Mais pasou algo que os que matan chaman tempo e a osa volveu sentir o instinto do alarido seminal e da vertixe extática. Era como a fame e a sede, insoportable. Buscou e cheirou e avistou e lambeu, pero nunca máis atopou. Soamente descubriu a relambida metáfora da verga, por exemplo a punta do estadullo sobre o carro de bois á beira dun muíño que daba voltas na auga como o sangue na cabeza cando se apareaba cos da súa especie. E tamén a carne dos chourizos que atopou no esgrevio e tupido cesto de ameneiro sen pelar que deixara un camiñante nun carreiro tras avistala e botarse a correr pola congostra abaixo. Era unha carne outra, de pel tersa e salobre sabor a sangue seminal e sementeira, embutida de vida para ter dentro de si por todo o inverno, agora que o seu ventre non podía quedar preñado máis que da memoria espermática duns praceres compartidos dende o principio dos tempos. Por aqueles pagos ela era a última practicante da linguaxe de namorar dos osos e con ela extinguíase todo un mundo de instintos e praceres belos e bestiais
Aceptando o distinto, pouco a pouco reparou nos lobos que antano evitaba e cos que agora coincidía de noite nos outeiros cada vez máis ermos polos incendios provocados. Lúbrica e soa, aproximouse a eles sen máis horror á diferente especie que temor a compartir fatal destino, pois vira mortos moitos lobos polo monte, algúns rematados nos trollos onde quedaran entalados ao seren feridos. Ás veces ela mesma fora atacada por lobos tras ficar entullada nun groto en medio dos lamazais.
Os antigos adversarios fórona admitindo con curiosidade e con cautela, e xuntos comezaron a baixar cara ás aldeas en busca de alimento, xuntos libráronse de cans e de escopetas, xuntos lambéronse feridas, xuntos lambéronse. O falo dos lobos, que a cheiraban e que ás veces a mordían achegándose e alongándose de súpeto e con medo, foise facendo habitual e necesario na súa vida, porque o instinto e o pracer dos seres vivos mudan cando muda o seu mundo.
A parella de lobos cos que espantou a partida de cazadores que subira de batida copulaba ás veces diante dela, e a osa sentía os peludos rabos longos fretar baixo o seu ventre mentres chovía ata alcanzar un apoteótico éxtase inaugural na especie. Moito choveron xuntos, ouveando e ruxindo ata enrouquecer, mollando e licuando ata secar. E foi a loba louca libre que chovía solidaria coa súa chuvia, a loba tremente e temerosa que se ía abandonando e deixándose levar, a loba que ollaba ao lonxe mollada pola chuvia do desexo sen sabelo. Nunca máis se sentiu soa e volveu devorar voraz os froitos da vida que a propia vida saciaba nela: cereixas nas cerdeiras do val, moras nas paradas dos montes, uvas nas ribeiras dos ríos, mazás nos prados do pasto.
Mais os lobos foron tamén desaparecendo como sombras negras perseguidas por siluetas verdes, aquelas que a imaxinaban a ela como unha Lupa Partisana, puta do monte e compañeira dunha banda de fuxidos tras ser raptada polos bandoleiros co seu consentimento. –Aceptou o rapto e vive como a puta de todos nas oseiras, aseguraban. Outros dicían que fora unha moza libre a quen lle mataran a familia ao comezo da guerra e que se tirara ao monte seguindo ao seu compañeiro, loitador na guerrilla resistente.
Aínda así, moitos crían que os torrenciais berros de pracer bestial que escoitaban polas noites en medio do trebón proviñan das oseiras vermellas, como entón chamaban ás irredutibles cavernas onde se refuxiaban aqueles irredentos: -Chove a osa, dicían. E tamén relataban que ela sempre se poñía encima, a chover sobre os combatentes, porque aquel fluxo lles infundía o valor e o vigor necesarios na desigualísima loita pola liberación. Por iso cando as nubes negras anunciaban chuvia, preparábanse os de abaixo para inminentes incursións ou movementos.
Cercados e famentos, os guerrilleiros resistiron protexidos polo rochedo e polo mato na montaña, pero foron caendo un por un cando, acosados, trataron de fuxir polas gándaras dos ermos. Dela nunca máis se soubo, pois os perseguidores contaron que ao prenderen lume na mesta matogueira que pechaba a entrada da cafurna, non escoitaron nada nin nada viron logo. –Desapareceu na espenuca como unha meiga, relataban ocultando as caras de raposos en celo sucadas por grandes rabuñadas.
Non obstante, a osa chovía por aquelas devesas moito antes que a súa suposta encarnación humana: chovera cando os osos eran moitos polos montes e choveu cos lobos cando era a única habitante da gruta. De feito, co tempo acabou a resistencia, pero ela seguiu aparecendo polo monte, a súa pegada plantígrada seguiu sendo vista sobre a lama, o rastro da súa pelaxe seguiu atopándose polas silvas garduñeiras e seguiu percibíndose o paso do seu lombo sobre o tronco pelado das árbores rexas.
Debeu desesperar de non volver ter par dende moi nova, algo como non saber onde saciar fame e sede. Un día baixou seguindo o rastro do fume dun pendello onde o lume manso afumaba chourizos, nun casopo ergueito á outra beira do río que pasaba pola aldea. Chegou paseniño, con cautela, e comezou a fisgar co seu longo fociño a través dos buratos fumegantes e recendentes a carne adobada de porco que alí se curaba. Finalmente, derrubou dun golpe parte da entrada daquel pardiñeiro e, mentres varias lousas do teito lle caían na testa, viuse debruzada entre decenas de restras vermellas de chourizos enfundados en tripa graxenta e pendurados sobre o fogo que afogaba no chan. Instintivamente, ergueuse e inclinouse para atrás, mentres, de súpeto, viuse cunhas restras de chourizos cal colar arredor do pescozo e con outras serpeando onduladas entre as súas patas abertas.
Naquel momento de visións confusas sentiu que todo daba voltas e outra vez percibiu o falo erecto dos osos da súa tribo penetrando pola vulva, o teso fungueiro que lambeu como un órgano totémico, o rabo ergueito dos lobos rozando a súa pelaxe, e sentiuse ebria de ledicia e de desesperación entre a vertixe das vergas vermellas.
Foi entón cando se lanzou voraz sobre os chourizos, mordendo con furia os que alcanzaba, derrubando as restras ensartadas, abaneando a ringleira de ganchos onde penduraban as pezas maiores, tratando de inxerir os enormes abrindo moito a boca, mentres o picante sabor do pemento e da ruca aínda a excitaba máis e máis nas súas asociacións caníbales, pois tiña a vaga impresión de que todo canto compartiu, desexou, amou na vida quedara reducido a aquela carne magra e vermella que alimentaba toda a paixón que aínda existía no mundo e coa que quería fundirse furiosa e freneticamente para sempre, como quen se devora a si mesma.
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Textos por xentileza de Claudio Rodríguez Fer
Silver bullets.
1
BIRTHDAY POEM
Birthday poems are like fruit that’s left over from one season to another, lying beside the tree, embedded in the frost, elliptically. They have a goal, to be the first and the last, and to cure your hunger if that should occur. They might be small and don’t provide shade or slake your thirst, but they leave the mark of their rind on your tooth with the crunnchh of ice. Let them.
Let them send up shoots the second year and prejudice take over, they’ll know how to shake themselves loose in a single second and disappear. But they’re no bother.
If you know about the cherry you must also know about the black pear that likes to be cut in two, its shape hard to get lips around it. Or about the apples that grew very close to the bank of the river and have skin like a pear, the flesh of reinettes, and the deep pineapple. You probably know about the strawberry among the pebbles and fungus and that blackberries are done when the figs appear and December is mineral and navigates floods or droughts, a coming and going, a decaying.
It’s the same, exactly the same, birthday poems are an absurd way of not having any fruit to give, no card, clumsy at knitting a scarf, lighting candles, decorating a cake with firecrackers, leaving the bicycle in the ditch and continuing to run in the right direction.
Jump on your bed, smash your phone, peel the skin off your house, bury the skeletons of your old toy cars, blow on where you’ve been hurt. Female poets don’t pull on ears. Poets don’t write emails or sing in key. Poets always forget to add baking soda to the cookies or they burn the crepes and end up in tears when they ruin or are ruined by fire and rice.
Poets don’t know how to iron shirts but they can count stains on your mouth and put words ending in eira and the tip of the tongue there, halfway between a kiss and a cure. They make birthday poems that taste like maps and didn’t know how to pick fruit that lived for this day to make you a dance of whipped cream, jams, syrup. The whole party. Silence. Useless poets write poems like this one. And absolutely nothing happens because a real poem, which is like air, is just another periphery and is unspoken.
2.
Twin sister/brother, you’re hanging from the lapel of sadness. I cover myself with chalk and you mix up your feet when you try to put on rain boots ten sizes smaller than you wear. We don’t know now who needs to pay to jump around in the puddles because it’s been so long we are like two old, fat people trapped in our communion clothes. Now thirst is a dry, white bat hanging from the uvula. Like a tiny, deaf bell. Like the welt of a dead kiss, a bit of sleep in the corner of the mouth.
3
AUGHA
(FACELO POR TODA A CASA)
From your mouth to mine, the stream.
Tube-shaped thing that moves, piercing, seeking - magnetically - that light.
It doesn’t matter if it’s with the tongue, the hands, or little divining rods.
We sack the land, we hold off thirst so we can drill,
allowing the tongue that mineral contraction at the point
in the back. Something as delicate, like what worms do.
To savor, my love, the taste of the first pore of the water versus the first one of thirst.
4.
Hands stab, they stab. We found the smell of old potatoes under the kitchen floor because you were as thirsty as a river and you laid on the stone slabs, sniffing, and nails are something else when they tear the boards off and find dirt with rat bones and cement.
Look, you say, somebody buried their treasures here. And you open the rusty tin box and pull out its innards. You paint your lips with coins and nibble on a bouquet of dry flowers held together with pins.
You offer yourself up to thirst. You know of no other ritual to call/swallow the rain.
You want the liquid to bite.
5.
We didn’t turn the light on again because there was no water to put it out. We didn’t peel hazel moths to make jam. We also didn’t make it worse by stabbing with scissors and needles and we cleaned it all off with saliva: our bodies, our sad teeth, we braided our hair like plaited onions and garlic and we greeted new births, boiling the skin of the placenta. You know our frogs died and it all went back to milking, tears, and semen, to decanting dawn's echo into beakers of shale, mowing dried fruit, to bitterly kissing, as if we were pickles. No water now. Bubbles of dust beat on the pipes and the faucets cough like dogs. We wrapped dawn in mackerel skin or clover so we could swallow it. We painted a hopscotch court or we smeared blood on the blanket and the stain is still there because no storm is coming.
6.
Underneath that tattered mass of dry branches lies our dead car. If there's a northeasterly wind, we can see its rear view mirror. If it's southerly, the doors flap and it looks like the last dying dragon.
7.
Take off your tongue, the souks taste like tobacco and rancid chocolate. In the caravans there's still a trail of soap bubbles and there's a white mouse in my armpit. Move all the lamps out of the way with the curve of a fingernail, sew the curtains together so the neighbors won't see any hope in our hunger. Ruined skin falling like flakes of salt on the dry wooden floor. It swirls in the tiny breeze we create when we put on rouge. The thread no longer covers us. The cold can no longer defeat us. Thirst makes in the mouth and a crik-crak of tiny broken branches in every bone. Ants march along, led on by fever and mercury, and we will keep rubbing because working up a sweat is like gunpowder and, just maybe, through the stream of spit and kiss, the rain might catch fire like a flame burst from the wick.
8.
Sheets can be washed with sun.
Even if they burn.
You wash your skin of sweat and smoke too.
Scorpions and serpents became slow dermatitis.
I ate each scale like black sunflower seeds.
We can live until there's nothing to make us clean
9.
And what if I cry?
If you cry, we’ll have one extra day.
10.
CITY WITHOUT SKIN
I
We decided our ritual would take place here - and like this -
drawn by the indestructible nature of shadow and stones
and because here we mean nothing to anyone; the only thing
the names chiseled by one no longer here.
Everything here would be an act of sacrifice, our cold bodies
a tall glass of skin created beneath a silvered moon,
two young mouths turned into pools to quiet the city’s dark torrent.
Thrusting toll, strike thirteen for me
and open your talons to the evening
but first
you must catch me.
II
From Belvís to San Pedro skipping over stones I set out soft, mossy poems
pushing my fingers between the cracks of every gran of stone.
Like my finger between your chest and armpit tries to turn on your light,
the one that doesn’t shine yet burns,
like the quick, rough brush of flint over schist lights a tiny flame.
Come find me.
III
Drifting along Agalia Street you sense the perfume of centuries.
It mingled with the remains and despite not stopping to rest against the walls
you could taste me, like the scent filling the hair on my body.
If you run your hands over the painted surface of Saint Salomé
you can tell better what has burned than what is burning
and light a torch with what flew from my skirt as I whirled.
I am no longer there, you can tell by the cold and the chaste silence where your pores burst
and one by one I walk over the white slabs of the dead souls of Bonaval.
My steps hopping on every three slabs to lead the way
in case you don’t know that of the twelve gates to the old city
you’ll never leave by mine
if you enter.
IV
In Mazarelos I kneel to drink from the rough lichens as if I were a black cow.
Haunches lowered, santas compañas decide to make the sign of the cross on my neck.
Sinner. Witch.Won't you repent?
At the top of my back end a true full moon glows and I make a figa and a circle with my tongue
and the souls go on toward the capela das Ánimas. None burns lie I burn.
None has this trail of powdered stone
trailing behind
so you can put me together again.
V
Tránsito dos gramáticos. The song of a whale shivers on my tongue,
it's not words calling to you. That alley without a name holds steps
or the crack of a whip and creaking beast. Something is coming. Puddles tremble.
Even the one draining from inside me.
VI
If you face the Fonte de Cervantes you can see
feet and the exact curve where I wash my arms and breast
and scales of mica start to appear around my mouth, the cold
and your silhouette shimmering on the water's surface.
In the intimate angle by Sampaio, the one that twists in a dark triangle,
your hand on my elbow.
On the seventh step of the Quintana your left hand on my waist.
In Platerías water is running oddly over the four horses, your lap
and mine, Daniel's smile has changed.
At the Porta do Paraíso, the door to paradise,
we strike nine waves and enter.
VII
Now your fingers are covered with quarry dust,
that same blood of the one who first split the stone open.
And I, crossed by the sign of my crevices,
on my mouth, your entire city without skin.
Let me explain
at the tip of my love there's a hole of fear and
right in its very center, savage me. Voracious, I devour it all
and all the spaces it occupies.
I strip the air clean and now
you cannot reach me.
I am not a victim of anything
I am danger.
Contos.
I.
A SEREA
—¿E logo que hai de novo señora Delfina? ¿Quen é ese hóspede que ten no cuarto grande do balcón? —preguntou o sarxento da Garda Civil, pousando o vaso de Ribeiro e enxugando cun branco pano, dobrado en catro, os grandes bigotes de regramento.
—Pois a penas lle sei o nome —respondeu a dona da pousada, grande matrona de tres papadas, ventre cupular, mans mimosas de taberneira grasa que aínda gardaba da liviá mocidade un fondo verdecente nos ollos e baixo o pano colorado un loiro fructuoso de carrolo e orellas feitucas—.Mais ser élle de boa caste. Vostede ben o debe coñecer ¿Non se lembra do pazo da Mirteira, aquela casa grandísima con cinco alciprestes mouros e unha cheminea linda, aló, xa na montaña, por riba da regata das Fervenzas? Xa se me esqueceu o nome da parroquia... Vese ben o pazo dende a revolta da carreteira, pasada a ponte do Frouxán... ¡Xa fai anos que non pasei por alí! Sendo nena, iamos miña tía e mais eu a mercar as peras do pomar... Aínda hoxe acertaría coa nespereira que hai no medio dunhas carreiriñas de mirtos ben xeitosas... Pois ese señorito élle daquela caste. Din que vén de lonxe. A penas fala con ninguén. Poida que sufra dalgún mal de amores...
—Si, si. Ben me decato. Naquela parroquia, San Breixo das Touzas, hóubolle, aínda non vai para moito, unha boa niñada de rapineiros... Xa teño merendado no pazo.
Había un señor, velliño, moi divertido... El mesmo baixaba á bodega... Había tamén unhas señoras quentándose na cheminea. Ese mozo será neto do vello... Como é xente que nunca baixa á vila...
O sarxento sacou un pito do bolsillo da guerreira, considerou un instante a caída dos pantalóns grises sobre as botinas de elástico negras, facendo xogo co hule embazadodo tricornio e marchou pola rúa abaixo co contoneo un pouco grave e pintureiro de quen axiña será tenente.
A Delfina seguiu trasfegando a unhas botellas poliédricas que gardaban etiquetas de anisados o licor café oleoso e lixoso dunha xerra panzuda. Disfroitaba naqueles momentos da soidade da casa, sentíndose máis raíña que nunca, tralo mostrador de carballa roxa, remendado con folla de lata; entre as pipas de viño, postas como morteiros de guerra sobre pés cruzados, os caixóns de tabaco, libritos e fósforos, as medidas de capacidade para os líquidos, os estantes onde se ordenaban un mundo de cousas clasificadas cun inconsciente criterio decorativo os paquetes de velas, luxo das veladas longas das aldeas; os botes de especias lucindo etiquetas de violentas cores; as botellas tráxicas de borracheira de pesadelo e asasinato do ron; as inocentes de anises coas súas paisaxes xeadas do norte; o muiñiño nigromántico do café; as libras do chocolate postas coma volumes ou ladrillos, as pobres pastas de sopa; os carteis das compañías de navegación; as baterías de Skodas das graciosas; a pipa po derosa do aceite; a bronca melancolía do sal. Mais, na tenda, non só se despachaban adxectivos e epítetos de comer, beber e arder, ademais do verbo do viño e aceite.
No escaparate soñaban, coma nun aquarium, roxas langostas,complexas e finas, grandes pescados decorativos, de pintura veneciana, e todo o que Deus criou no mar, na mariña e na montaña: queixos frescos bos, amigos das camiñadas; perdices cor de serra; con solpor no colo; untos coma panzas; restras de chourizos, rosarios das devocións pantagruélicas; esfolados años virxinais de gusto primaveral; cachuchas de fociño curioso; orellas acenando pola gula, poderosas, feas e inquedantes coma os monstros do Pórtico da Gloria compostelán; xamóns pendurados, trofeo das campañas do inverno, consolo da vista, lembranza da lareira chea e afumada. Tódalas sazóns da campía, tódalas sazóns do mar e da praia sucedíanse, conforme o decorrer do Zodíaco, no escaparate, rei da rúa encostada, laxeada e resoante. A casa, grande, cómoda, esparramada, tiña renxente escaleira, grandes habitacións avigadas, con fiestras verdes, e as da parte traseira un espaciado balcón de pao sobre a horta mol, e a paisaxe dos montes, e un chisco de mar folgado en areais marelos, cinguidos por fatos de piñeirais.
O novo hóspede —don Leonardo— chegou xa tardeiro no serán chuviñento de outono. Viña mollado, e a esguía figura, apoiada nun caxato, cruzou entre as mesas dos bebedores na taberna. Xa no cuarto, don Leonardo, sen dar luz, deitouse no leito. Disfroitaba coa loita das patas de araña da choiva, teimando agarrar nos vidros a derradeira mariposa, lucente e asentada, do día. Pelexaban nel dous xéneros de impresións: paisaxes e xentes esperanzadas, un esforzo aldeán, un ensoño de vaguedades e confianzas de barcos con visións de malicia labrega, porcallada voluntaria de xentes e de ideas. O casino, o xulgado, o palco da música, os señoritos, o viño, a augardente. Forzas iguais que o afundiron nun morno equilibrio: “¿Sempre será así a miña Galicia?”, pensaba. “¿Terei que refuxiarme no narcisismo e na torre de marfín?”
Había libros encol da mesa, cuartillas brancas, unhas cartas de letra e posta lonxana. As mans da noite pesábanlle nos ombreiros, afundíndoo nun desespero tranquilo, xa preto da renunciación. Non se atrevía a confesarse derrotado, e por fuxir desta urxencia, agardaba con ansias a hora de cear a pesar da súa timideza.
Abaixo, os hóspedes tomaban a chiquita con amigos da vila. Pequenos curiais, amigos de debullar unhas latas de conservas, regando con viño as murmuracións de escribanía; señoritos irónicos, a forza de se decatar, sen valor e sen forza; comisionistas cantaruxando anacos de couplets destinxidos, de parva canallería. Outros, alí preto no casino, cumprían o deber de ler os xornais desérticos e espiñentos da provincia, ou cos dedos e os beizos lixados polo cigarro amargo, xogaban o dominó e ás cartas. As fiestras, outas ou baixas, na noite, deixaban translucir, cada unha, o seu pesadelo diante do inverno. Na vila, daquela hora, só había dúas cousas nobres e puras: un balbordo de mar e algunha cantiga mariñeira no peirao, no fantástico arboredo dos paos dos barcos.
No comedor dispuxéronse, arredor da longa mesa, os fixos e os de paso. O notario rosmaba coa criada porque lle cambiaran a servilleta. El ben coñecía a impresión dos seus beizos viñentos. Dous ou tres comisionistas comentaban, sen vergonza, as pernas das rapazas vistas no paseo dos arcos, con moita satisfacción do capitán de carabineiros, tamén el, home de mundo, afeito ó vivir libre. Unha rapariga da aldea, que viñera co seu pai, por un preito, comía con requintada cortesía, agarrando o pan coa servilleta. Había outras xentes enxoitas pola avaricia, a envexa, o mando, o negocio. Don Leonardo comía axiña, molesto ó sentir pousados nel ollos esculcadores, e non podía romper coa verba que quixera dicir. Entre cullerada e cullerada de sopa, pensaba a frase que aínda non saíra, cando o membrillo facía a volta da mesa e as mans manexaban enerxicamente o crebanoces e viña a ronda de cigarros de 0,60. “De fixo, son un desgraciado”, cavilaba don Leonardo, voltando ó seu cuarto. Mais, pola mañá cedo, tremaba de emoción pensando nas descubertas do día.
E chegou o cordoazo de San Francisco, os Santos, o inverno. O vento peiteaba a contrapelo os piñeirais; os charcos da praza gardaban todo o día un reflexo morno de luzada tristeira. Novenas. Un grande crego tronaba na eirexa, alumeada, contra as faldras curtas. Chegaban os autos de liña navegando na lama, cos motores acatarrados e os paquetes de xornais, cun ritmo lonxano de mundo. No casino, algún fidalgo da montaña emperrábase en perder a cotío. A curia rasgueaba letra porcesual nun bafo de tinta, friaxe, mala fe e porco piso salivado. O Notario non se falaba co Rexistrador. O xuíz dáballe esquinazo ó cacique. Un rapaz do pobo publicou un libro nunha imprenta de lonxe, e as tertulias do casino detiveron un instante o seu xogar para arrincarlle o pelexo ás tiras. Polas noites, estrondaba a farra dos esmorguistas: cambiaban os letreiros das tendas, arramplaban cos licores da Delfina para se emborracharen, nunha barca, no mar perigoso. A xente xa non se fixaba no don Leonardo: saía tódolos días polos arrabaldes e afixéronse a ouvir contar como se baña nunha deserta praia. Provisionalmente cualificárono de tolo, e ficaron satisfeitos.Gastaba horas largas ollando para o mar. Na tertulia máis empingorotada das señoras finas que non baixaban ó cine, un fidalgo vello falaba del:
—Ese rapaz leva algo en si e xa falará co tempo. Eu sei un pouco da súa traxedia. Ama, como eu amei, os labregos e os mariñeiros, as lendas antigas, e un porvir para Galicia. Eu amolecín neste noxento vivir. El non. Triunfará, pois sabe calar, desprezar e agardar. A min matoume este meu falar sen tino e o gusto do viño e da preguiza.
Houbo unha tempada de temporal duro salferido de naufraxios e mulleres despeiteadas e chorosas no peirao. Máis ben amolecía a indiferencia da vida. Ata que un día, á noitiña, dende a pousada da Delfina ata o salón das señoras e o despacho da rectoral correu pola vila unha nova estraña, inquietadora.
¿De onde xurdiu? A penas se podía determinar. Os feitos eran poucos, raros, mais sen explicación doada para a lóxica dominante da vila. Todo se sufincaba no que vira a criada da Delfina, a pousadeira.
Don Leonardo faltaba dela ía para tres días. ¿Morrería no mar? Ninguén cavilou nel. Mais, pola noite, despoixa de cear, baixo a chuvia desfeita, apareceu traendo nos brazos un longo vulto estraño, deitando auga, brillante como un ser mariño na pouca luz da taberna. El traía a cabeza espida, os cabelos apegados pola auga salgada, os ollos lucentes, outra voz e outro mando. Pechouse no cuarto e reclamou café e ron, baixando el mesmo a recollelo no mostrador. A criada ficou chea de asombro. Daquela hora non chegaba coche nin barco. Don Leonardo, o tolo que xa tiña unha lenda entre os pescantíns, traía aquilo da praia. E da conferencia entre a Delfina e a criada xurdiu a sentencia inapelable: don Leonardo trouxera á pousada a serea dos mares. De fixo estaban citados. Algúns mariñeiros ouvírana, con medo, cantar nas rocas verdes e perigosas. A especie, a pesar das risas de rúbrica do casino, foi percorrendo a vila. Había, dende os tempos lonxanos da navegación a vela, dos patróns heroicos, dos fidalgos temerarios e dos cregos carlistas, unha gran necesidade de marabilla na pequena poboación embestada. O sentido común e ata a cultura xeral quedaran vencidos. Ademais, elo explicaba o carácter de don Leonardo. El conquerira o amor da serea fermosa e cruel, só rendida pola tola adoración do mozo calado. El contaríalle cousas marabillosas nas furnas dos roquedos, entre o tecer e destecer dos brancos veos da escama batida. El non tivera medo, das augas traidoras, ó lucir dos ollos verdes do abismo, nin ó xogar enganoso da cabeleira salferida coma un mollo de sargazos, no curvar instantáneo da onda. Unha estrela tremando entre as néboas sinaloulle con dedos de luz o pazo mariño da súa amada. As píllaras celebran os esponsais voando en nube desfiada e os mouros corvos, asembleados no areal, contaban que o home pálido roubara a terrible deidade para se casar con ela e iren vivir xuntos no pazo da montaña.
O xefe dos carabineiros sospeitaba un alixo, o sarxento da Garda Civil un crime, o casino non sospeitaba ren, o abade, home lido, furaba os miolos lembrando cousas dos Santos Padres, lendas dos nobiliarios, páxinas do P. Feixoo. ¡Quen o sabe! ¿E con que rito será bautizada? Pois don Leonardo, fillo de boa caste, non se pode casar cun ser cáseque diabólico. E por un día enteiro, unha febre de misterio e unha quentura anterga fixeron subir o termómetro moral da vila, e un interese angustioso cinguía a habitación da solaina na pousada da Delfina. Tódolos hóspedes soñaron ou pensaron nos seus leitos ir nun barco negro e sen guía, levados por un vento invisible cara a un arquipélago de illas que, coma testas de monstros, xurdían das augas tempestuosas, ou cara a un Mäelstrom, circular abismo estrondoso de salaios de morte e naufraxio. Todos, máis ou menos, tiñan algo do mar, por máis que no seu vilego vivir o desprezaran, e agora, coa presencia da serea, racháballes o soño un cantar de fillas da onda salgada, fermosas e crueis. Cantiga doce de ouvir sen se ir decatando que chamaba á viaxe que non ten volta senón no tráxico tombar das ondas, cuspindo na praia espantallos de cadáveres de afogados... Nas señoras vellas xurdían anacos esquecidos de historias ouvidas ás súas avoas e ós capitáns do largo do tempo do escorbuto, das calmas chichas e dos pulpos que pechaban os estreitos e agarraban as naos. O notario, un pouco poeta, premiado nos seus anos mozos, sentía no pesadelo un decorrer de barcarola. Os cregos pregaban que a man de Deus, rachando as nubes, aquietara as augas. Do pobo —da Delfina, das criadas, dos mariñeiros, dos patróns, dos carabineiros, dos labregos...— non hai que falar. Todo el sabía con gozo, mesturado de medo, como a serea estaba alí, nun cuarto da pousada, collida nas redes do amor, ela que fuxía das máis fortes redes mariñeiras, abrazada cos brazos de escuma, cinguindo o corpo tentador, envolvendo en cabelos fresqueiros e recendentes, ollando coa luz das profundidades mariñas e azoutando apaixonada coa cauda de prata, sensual e xogantina, un home que era dono de namorala e tirala dos seus palacios de coral e xoias nas cavernas do fondo. O pobo sentía a marabilla e a satisfacción de ver cumprida realidade unha crenza súa. E todo o pobo, griseiro, indiferente e servo, pasaba unhas marabillosas horas mitolóxicas, das que só se experimentan algunha vez en moitos séculos, como se o mundo volvera ser novo e falara o mar, as pedras e as aves. Había outras estrelas no ceo e o mar saloucaba nos praiais a dor de verse privado —el, gran vello sinxelo e terrible— da súa raíña harmoniosa e belida.
—A sereíña non canta —dicían baixiño as mulleres nas portas— porque ten os beizos atafegados en bicar.
Mais, chegando a luzada do día, chegou con ela o sentido común, o tío serio e enloitado que corta os ensoños azados dos nenos, o enxoito dono da esperanza vulgar, o profesor de texto oficial, o tío Paco das rebaixas, o libro de contas da emoción. E tamén esbirrou solemnemente a cultura xeral, facendo o seu razoamento: serea non está nos libros de Odón de Buen, ergo, a serea non está clasificada porque non a hai. Cada un volveu ó seu oficio, e a pagar o seu trabuco ó goberno do costume. Só as masas mariñeiras tiñan ollos de noite e de misterio. A Delfina xa cavilaba a maneira de cobrar a entrada ós que quixeran ver a húmida contralto do mar. De paso farían gasto, pois, coa novidade, afróuxanse os bolsos, e podería despachar moitas botellas de dubidosas apócemas.
Conforme decía a mañá, houbo gran movemento nas outas esferas; o alcalde curado de espantos polo telegrafista, que non lle quixera cursar un parte, comunicando a nova ó Goberno Civil, axuntou as forzas vivas. O crego, os médicos, o boticario, o mestre deron os seus informes verbais un pouco confusos, e o do boticario, home sospeitoso de nigromancia, deixando marxe a tódalas interpretacións. Resultado da reunión foi o avanzamento do sarxento da Garda Civil, do de Carabineiros e do xefe dos villeus, en grande uniforme e andadura marcial para a pousada da Delfina: a serea non se suxeita ás leis nin sequera á xurisdicción do comandante da Mariña. É, en certo modo, cousa dos homes do mar e ten dereito a se namorar cando queira. Mais os tres, co oficio do alcalde e a autorización do xuíz, domeando a resistencia da Delfina, entraron na pousada e petaron, un pouco pálidos, na porta de don Leonardo. Fóra quedaba a enorme emoción da xente, tódolos oficios parados, baixo a chuvia terca do inverno.
Pouco durou a agarda. Abrindo calle pola xente saíron os tres uniformes e un trono de mil voces saudou a aparición de don Leonardo e da serea collida do seu brazo: loiros e clariños os cábelos anoábanse nun rodete sobre o colo branquísimo e facían un pórtico oxival alongado pola raia ó medio, a fronte, o doce debuxo da cariña na que ardía a tranquila luz verde dos grandes ollos sosegados e fondos. Un impermeable, como de algas mariñas, cubría e moldeaba un corpo lanzal e apoiaba a man engantada nun bastón claro de puño de marfín. O berro trasformábase en aplauso pechado que xa invadía a praza dos arcos denantes de chegaren os dous ó consistorio. Mil ollos asombrados procuraban a cauda e só atopaban o andar grave e firme dos pés calzados de fortes botinas de “sport”. Indiferente á chuvia, camiñaba cun ollar lonxano. Non se apagaran os aplausos cando os dous xurdiron no balcón do Auntamento. Don Leonardo fixo un gran ademán pedindo silencio e falou:
—¡Meus veciños! Eu non sei se esta muller que vos presento é ou non a serea dos mares. Eu faleille en terras afastadas, máis aló do circo polar onde as augas carrexan escintilantes icebergs e o sol brilla no horizonte ás doce da noite do verán. Ó falarlle e procurala pensaba nesta pobre terra de Galicia. Eu quíxena redimir da súa miseria moral, mais para elo non tiña forzas. Precisaba o apoio dunha fada ou serea do norte frío, do norte duro, sempre novo e purificador. Ela escoitou os meus rogos e veu cabo de min. Somos esposa e esposo. Imos vivir no pazo da Mirteira non para folgar na baixeza dos señoritos, senón para loitar pola felicidade da montaña e da mariña. Entre os dous darémosvos a forma dun novo vivir. Guiaremos e aconsellaremos ó labrego e ó mariñeiro, teimaremos ceibar a vila dos malos costumes noxentos e envilecedores. Quizais agora non comprendades o que vos quero dicir. Xa o veredes andando o tempo e o exemplo noso. ¡É preciso que nesta terra brille tamén o sol da media noite!
¡Viva a Serea! ¡Viva a Serea! —clamaba a voz infinda do pobo.
O certo é que dende aquela noite trocaron moito as maneiras da vila. Os señores da Mirteira baixan e ensinan “sports” novos, fan e dirixen escolas, traen conferenciantes, aconsellan outros tipos de vivenda, imprimen o seu ronsel nos mariñeiros e nas industrias do mar e do agro. Para a xente do mar ela segue sendo a serea, e un fato de rapaces que xa bolen moito presentan a candidatura do señorito da Mirteira para as próximas eleccións de Deputados.
II.
A CRIADA
Despoixa de tantas dicusións, incomodos, rifas, saloucos, contas e exemplos, a Balbina tivo licencia dos pais para baixar a servir na vila. Ben pensado, non lle faltaba razón á rapaza. A casa contábase entre as medianamente acomodadas do lugar. De outo e baixo, con bo servicio de curros e palleiras, vagantío de cortes (había unha onde daba a volta o carro baleiro collido pola cabezalla), dous anacos de nabeira e horta, algunha larganza de herdade onde cáseque tódolos anos, agás dos moi secos, rendía o froito o seu, unhas cavaduras de bacelos ben asoellados, e por remate touticeiras de bo roído para o gando e uns pés de carballo e castiñeiro no campo da festa. Só había escaseza de herba e sobra de renda. Aproveitábanse os cadabullos e regos das nabeiras para apañar mantenza boa, mais era cativo sitio e no inverno co chan queimado polas xeadas moi demorantes nas nabeiras sombrizas, pasábanse negras para xuntar un pouco de vianda. Ás veces, esgotada a palla e algún seco mercado ó vinculeiro, apelábase ata ó cosco dos xergóns para aviar polas longas noites as vacas e os bacoriños. A rapaza como ser, non podía ser máis dada cos pais, pero aquela comezón de envexa ó ollar as campas que a Xuliana da Encroba, as dúas netas do sacristán, a Maripepa da Costa, lucían nas festas e tamén os aforros que algunha mandaba para a casa, facían razoable o desexo da Balbina e a licencia dos pais.
E unha mañá baixou coa súa nai á carreteira. Custáballe bágoas despedirse das dúas ovellas, e o can vello e tristeiro, porque non lle cheiraba ben aquel madrugar, foi coa nai e coa filla ata o comezo da costa. Non conviña que fora soíña a coroa da casa. Ía a nai cavilando: “¡Despoixa de todo, para o que gana con nós! Fartarse de sachas e non poder botar un farrapo novo. Os irmáns xa dan abasto ás cunqueiras e aínda que o maior camiñara para servir o rei, xa o pequeno bota tanto corpo coma el”. Baixaban a modiño, moi curiosiñas as dúas levando cada unha o seu queipo de ovos para facer un pouco de rianxo. Enriba xogaba o sol no orballo dos novos cen teos. Mais a ribeira estaba calcada de néboa. Aínda non espallara o día cando pé tras pé entraban polas rúas da capital. A Balbina estivera nelas poucas voces. Marabillábase dos grandes saldos que se anunciaban nos escaparates dos tendeiros e dos guapos mozos que vestidos de militares lle botaban ó pasar olladas de brincadeira e fiadeiro. Xa na porta de cidade, despacharon o rianxo a unha regateira gata e desvergoñada coma unha corza. Logo, foron procurar á señora María a Prisca. Era da súa parroquia e vivía dunha tendiña ou posto agarimado baixo a arcada orgullosa dunha casa de señores na praza. Era vella, alta, espatelada, peito de táboa rasa, ollos pequeniños e negros furadores e implacables, pel desa cor indiferente das vellas criadas solteiras e enxoitas e maduras dos cóengos e das vellas señoras de porqué. Como sufría moito dos pés que levaba embanastados en grandes zapatelas cuadrículas, de orillos, as señoras solteiras, beatas e ricas a quen servira moitos anos, puxéranlle aquel posto ó que lle baixaban tódolos días a taciña do caldo e algunha lamberetada. Un pouco porteira e un pouco comerciante de agullas, fíos, espelliños, alfineteiros, dedais, fitas, navallas, tixeiras, caixas de xabón de olor e outros humildes artigos de luxo para criadas e mozas con tendencia a imitar as costureiras, a señora María Prisca era sobre todo o repertorio de tódalas casas da cidade no tocante ás relación de amos e criadas, a conselleira, guía e sibila de tódalas serventas, o estanque onde vertían tódalas murmuracións, a oficina de colocacións e de información e por máis unha especie de embaixadora e de correo para os seus veciños na cidade, sen que se lle puidese achacar ningún recoveco de alcaiotería, polo menos segundo os datos recollidos para composición desta verdadeira historia. Sabía o xenio de tódalas señoras, as rarezas de tódolos solteiros con casa aberta, o que se guisaba en tódalas cociñas de leña e de carbón, os estilos de cada interior, onde mandaba o señor ou a señora, os despotismos das amas de cría, as preferencias dos antigos criados que aínda dispoñen nalgunhas casas, o contido de tódalas cestas que ían da praza, o ciclo evolutivo de tódalas criadas segundo os seus remates: de criadas vellas, de casadas, de doncelas de hotel, de mozas da vida, de casadas con amos viúvos ou solteiros serodios, sen contar as que volven a desaparecer na aldea e das que van para as Américas.
Aconsellaba costureiras, noivos e confesores segundo os gustos das súas clientes que eran tódalas criadas agás algunha pizpereta doncela modernista ou algunha sabia cociñeira técnica e especializada. Por primeira providencia a María Prisca soltoulles á nai e á filla o consabido sermón de rúbrica sobre o mal estado da profesión, as esixencias das señoras, o crecedeiro número de casas con cera, sen esquecer, pois era boa cristiá, os perigos de perdición representados polos noivos, os señoritos, as terceiras, os bailes, o cine e a sombra das arboredas municipais. Logo, baixando ó asunto concreto, remexeu nos fastos arquivos da memoria e presentou a psicoloxía, a lóxica, a ética e a economía de tres casas vacantes de servicio. Nunha había nenos, noutra eran de tropa e sempre andaban de aquí para acolá, na terceira só había dous rapaces e a Balbina estaría ben de neneira e de camiño, coa señora que era moi dada, podía aprender en poucos meses o oficio de criada para todo namentres non se especializaba como cociñeira ou serventa de sala andando o tempo e se a rapaza tiña pao para elo.
E alí quedou a Balbina vestida cunha blusa cor cereixa, zapatiños duros que lle mancaban os pés e un delantaliño dado pola señora. O primeiro serán perdeuse co neno nos brazos ou da man polas rúas da vila e morta de sono morría porque chegara a hora de cear. Despoixa de ben examinada pola criada antiga que lle lambeu as mellores porcións que deixaran os amos nas fontes e non lle deixou pingo do vaso de viño que trouxo da mesa, a rapaza deitouse nun catre nun cuartiño a carón da despensa, de onde saía un cheiro podre de patacas e os ratos traballaban toda a noite. A Balbina era linda, pequeneira, feituca, loiriña rizosa, branca coma unha estriga nas partes non queimadas polo sol que eran docemente meladas como unha froita temperá. Cecais soñou e chorou coa hora do empardecer na aldea cando voltaba da fonte coas compañeiras cruzando polas pedras esvarantes do regueiro e na sombra das nogueiras onde sempre había dúos de paxaros, agardaba por ela un mozo serio e lanzal que lle falaba de camiñar xuntiños para as Américas, cecais tivo unha saudade do baril lume da lareira na grande cociña e do pracer de sentir apegadas á cariña as azas molladas da noite ó saír cun candil de aceite a darlles ás vacas un mangado de trevo apañado por ela, ceibe e cantariña, no fresco cadabullo da nabeira. Espertou dúas ou tres veces cun pesadelo acrecentado polos ruídos de borrachos e autos que viñan da rúa, e só tardeiro lle enxoitarían os ollos nun sono de pedra.
E foron decorrendo meses e anos. A Balbina rubindo de neneira a criada completa pasou por moitas casas e só subía á súa parroquia na festa do Patrón. Figuraba unha señorita. Mantiña a distancia ós mozos da aldea e na capital despachaba noivos soldados e artesáns co xesto de sacudir un alfombrón dende o balcón. Doutorouse nas grandezas e miserias do oficio. Pola mañá, a grande ledicia do mercado, da abacería, das tendas de ultramarinos, coa cesta feituca aganchada no brazo, a verba pronta, a conversa algareira coas amigas, as paseatas e tertulias, falando das casas e dos amos, dos noivados e dos mancebos líricos que despachan o aceite e o arroz cun movemento de poetas premiados de xogos florais, cando a beleza loira e forte dunha moza lanzal ou a gracia de gatiña dunha doncela fina fai medrar a riqueza do ouro mate da balanza de Toledo que figura feita de libras esterlinas. Xa muller granada, no cheo desenrolo do corpo roxo e randeante, e a quente luz do verán nos ollos riseiros, a Balbina, conqueriu o doutoramento da carreira entrando a servir na casa brasonada dos arcos. Asombraba máis de media ducia de casiñas sinxelas de procuradores, empregados e pequenos propietarios na rúa estreita, laxea da de lousas usadas, só enxoitas no cerne do mes de agosto, pola que pasaban coma as figuras cronométricas dos antigos reloxos os cóengos de figura paisana encadernada en Teoloxía, e onde a risada cavernosa sempre asustada dela mesma do tolo veciño atopaba un longo ecoar inquedante. Había na casa un salón belo coma un minué e empoeirado polo tempo coma unha perruca Luís XV, con grande sillería cor de cereixa a madeira traballada, marelo o raso, cos sillóns postos uns diante dos outros como estiveron na derradeira conversa do doutoral e do fidalgo colexial de Fonseca na hora do século dezaoito marcada polo reloxo barroco de bronce sostido en caudas retortas de sereas. Había unha librería disposta en localidades ó xeito dos teatros antigos: os teólogos e xuristas nos palcos, Mad de Sevigné na platea, os científicos (Buffón era o máis novo) consentidos no anfiteatro e enriba no paraíso, algúns novelistas románticos. Presidía unha tese doutoral, latina, imprentada en seda, encol do presentimento cristián en Platón e Virxilio e abaixo noutro cadriño unha carta do autor rematada nestas liñas: “Pois o doce Virxilio foi o cisne compañeiro da miña xuventude”. As habitacións, un pouco campesías polo vagantío, estaban na parte traseira e daban a un xardín de roseiras de pazo, o seu correspondente alcipreste e catro araucarias piramidais facéndose etiqueta arredor do estanque redondo, no que sempre había no fondo un delicado lixo verde de vidro veneciano. Unha sebe de mirtos pedagóxicos e vellos ocultaba a vulgaridade de catro pezas de horta e do tanque de lavar. A señora, había tanto tempo que non saía máis que á misa da mañá e a visitar o camposanto, que non sabía das rúas novas da vila e chamaba cos vellos nomes —Figueiral, Inquisición, Arco da pedra— as alcumadas dende a revolución cos apelidos dos heroes do liberalismo e dos alcaldes de elección popular. Era a Sibila das compotas, a Parca das familias ilustres, a Profetisa do Remate do Mundo, a Porfiroxeneta das elegancias antergas.Só tiña no mundo, agás das cotorras tecidas en cadros pola súa nai morta ó saber o exilio de Carlos X e dun gato que ela coidaba, descendente en liña directa daquel gatiño gris da Umbría que cando morreu o seu dono León XII, Papa, fuxiu e fixo tres voltas de circunnavegación pola cúpula de San Pedro, un neto, o señorito Paulos, dezaoito anos feitos, grandes ollos cor dos pensamentos cultivados á sombra, fillo dunha filla que morrera lonxe, nas colonias, e da que non se podía falar na casa pois fuxira para casar cun oficial de infantería cando na liñaxe os peores matrimonios foran polo menos con Dragóns de Sant-Iago. Por orde dos avós, morto o oficial de vómito, ó pouco tempo da súa dona, fora recollido por un servidor da casa, o señor Ambrosio, que o trouxera de Cuba manténdoo a biberón e agora era porteiro e mordomo da casa gobernándoa con catarrenta voz dende unha especie de confesionario posto no grande portal escuro e fidalgo onde os pobres non se atrevían a entrar por parecerlles a porta do asilo. A Balbina entrou a un tempo de doncela e de cociñeira. Pouco traballo. O señor Ambrosio só comía papas por mor da dentamia, a señora, confituras que ela facía e algún chocolatiño; o señorito, sopa de fideos, emulsión Scott e viños quinados. Mais por gardar o rango da casa, a criada levaba ó brazo unha soberbia cesta de outo bordo e dous pesos para a compra que ela empregaba en mantenzas para si e para mandar polas rianxeiras á casa da nai. Tanto que na aldea os labregos vellos opinaban que a Balbina debía estar cun cóengo, pois ela non voltou ás festas apegándoselle de seguida o señorío da casa e medrándolle a gula das cousas boas: pola noite soñaba coa cesta e como desfacer ó día seguinte os pesos en xamón, chocolatadas, embutidos de ave e boa vitela, manxares nin sospeitados polas mangoleteiras ó uso dos burgueses.
O señorito Paulos coidaba que o autor máis moderno fora Chateaubriand, e consideraba as viaxes do capitán Cook as derradeiras descubertas xeográficas. Sempre moi maliño, nin lle daba o sol, nin tiña amigos. Aprendera cun crego un pouco de Nebrija, e a avoa cavilaba darlle a carreira de Xurisprudencia, xa que a estreitura do peito do mozo e o medo que pillou albiscando unha noite as velas da alcoba dun veciño defunto, facíano pouco doado para a nobre profesión das armas. Mais no Instituto, a revolucionaria Lei Moyano puxera moitas cadeiras de Química, de Historia Natural e doutras ciencias que a señora equiparaba coa Alquimia, coas Bruxerías e nunca tiña arranque para levalo ó exame de ingreso.
O rapaz sufría dunha saudade. El mesmo non se decataba diso. Cando o outono esmorecía as roseiras, sospeitaba bosques salaiantes e triunfais regatos agurgullando nas penedías. Ás veces, un airiño de primavera facíao pensar en campos dourados de centeos e unha vez dende a mansarda da casa chorou ollando, nun raio de sol, a gracia dunha aldeíña co seu campanario e os seus fumes postos na cima dos montes. Coidaba que tódalas pastoras eran inocentes, que os labregos choraban de emoción na hora do solpor e que había lobos e bandidos, pagáns feroces nas serras e sabios vellos falando en fermosos apólogos. A súa saudade precisaba un motivo para estoupar.
Á Balbina deulle un serán luminoso e recendente do abril por lavar a roupa no tanque. Os avións voaban en xiros fantásticos arredor da torre da Catedral. Respiraban un aire tan ledo que daba desexos de chorar. O Paulos, sentindo o bater da roupa no tanque, mirou polos mirtos. A Balbina, despeitugada, cos brazos espidos, fortes, brancos e amimosados, tiña a cabeleira envolta no pano mariñán disposto en roda, e cos ollos brillantes e a faciana colorada coma unha azucrada e doce pavía cantigaba:
Loureiro, loureiro verde
¿onde tendes a raíz?
Debaixo do lavadoiro
onde lava Beatriz.
O Paulos só vira preto de si un labrego: un feo e carraxento cabezaleiro de testa acaracochada, pernas trencas e mans como poutas enrugando os prorrateos. Agora a Musa aldeá cantigaba diante del na figura gloriosa da Balbina e as pompas do xabón voaban a procurar a doce brancura do roibo carrolo e as guedelliñas de ouro que fuxían loucas por baixo do pano. Non tivo o Paulos senón o medo que a avoa escoitara aquel cantar escandaloso. Non era de temer, pois tocáballe aquel día almibarar os tarros de doce de noz. E sen unha dúbida, coa sinxeleza con que un paxaro fuxindo da gaiola pica o primeiro froito do pomar, abrazou á Balbina coméndolle os brazos e as meixelas con bicos famentos.
Ela nin se repuxo, nin se estrañou. Lucía nos ollos do rapaz unha paixón tan nova que foron amantes coa sinxeleza dos pastores dos tempos eglóxicos. Mais nela, muller feita, serena, ordenada cosmicamente na súa podente fisioloxía, o amor tiña o matiz case piadoso de salvar un pobre ser feito para ser acariñado, unha cousa mimosa, doce, delicada, que se podía crebar, que pola súa rica febleza era preciso coidar aínda nos inconscientes momentos dos abrazos apaixoados que facían renxer escura unha acusación os sofás do grande salón etiqueteiro e devolvían cor de vida ás sereas do reloxo e desfollaban na faciana do mociño roxas roseiras de primavera. A Balbina coidaba nas agardas ansiosas que no seu cuartiño de criada ía entrar un príncipe de lenda e cando o Paulos se puña moi pálido, envolvíao coa onda loira da cabeleira despeiteada como nun baño de sol da campía.
Unha noitiña, a Balbina e o Paulos fuxiron. Foi ela quen o roubou para darlle a vida. A avoa, o porteiro, as mulas vellas do coche, os libros da Biblioteca, desfixéronse como as moblaxes comestas do verme ó franquear as fiestras ó aire ceibe. Eles, os fuxitivos, acoubaron, nun pazo escanastrado da casa do Paulos. De seguida floreceron os eidos e o Paulos debullou con fame de vida a beleza dos agros. Ás veces a Balbina tiña un remordemento. Logo, á súa maneira cavilaba: “As grandes castes fidalgas teñen as súas raíces na terra e á terra han voltar para vivir”. E soñaba ser ela o berce dunha nova tonalidade valente, dun sangue rexenerado que ó longo dos tempos florecía en renovos infindos ó largo das xeracións.
O demais da historia non ten importancia. Quedémonos co choutar decisivo do mozo e da Balbina. Con todo, non estará por demais sinalar o feito de que a Balbina en canto se foi afacendo ó señorío e envellecendo moito máis axiña que o seu home adquiriu, por caso estraño, moitas das manías da avoa de Paulos e procuraba imitala ó seu xeito e ata facía doces e teimaba xuntar tertulias de graves eclesiásticos, e que o Paulos, é moi grande a ingratitude dos homes, andaba coma un can tralas mozas e
foi un dos derradeiros señoritos da aldea, segundo eles son pintados nas novelas de hai trinta anos.
III
O FIDALGO
Unha mañá houbo grande escándalo na rúa silenciosa, parsimoniosa, como poboada de avaros e de costumes ríxidos. Era unha mañá da primavera. Polo aire tépedo, riba dos tellados, únicos que disfroitaban da ledicia do sol endexamais coñecido do zapateiro do soportal, nin das laxes do chan, trazaban circos atolados de chíos as rondas dos avións. Unha gran figura de home rexo e vello apareceu na galería dun pisiño último, unha disforme escopeta apuntou ó ceo, e ¡¡pum, pum!!, os tiros fortes, sonoros, bravos coma no monte, fixeron tremar os pobres vidros lixados dos pisos, o atacado de parálise no seu sillote, as señoras de clases pasivas, os funcionarios diante do chocolate, a vella e a súa calceta, a nena lectora de novelas, os gatos aburguesados e as criadas xubiladas que van á novena e viven dun legado dos amos mortos fai moito tempo. Medo, estrañeza, rebumbio, fantasías. Total, un xuízo de faltas e unha grande escamación na vecindade cando o fidalgo se apeitaba ó sol na súa alta galería.
Imos lembrar en cadriños pequeneiros, feitos segundo as informacións dignas de confianza, a historia daquel señor. Ela xustificará dentro da súa lóxica, para el a única, co seu finar tráxico cumprido, co finar do século XIX. Sen xuízo nin crítica, sen interpretación nin eséxese. Vaian por dediante dúas notas psicolóxicas: só unha vez soubo o que fora unha doenza; endexamais fixo un razoamento. E ninguén dubida que foi un gran señor.
1835. Escena: grande bodega no Ribeiro. Pipas centenarias xa cando o da francesada. Frades cobrando as rendas. O grande sol outonizo vén render preitesía na porta ó viño poderoso, novo, pechado nas panzas disformes. Un fidalgo de brancas barbas e ollos ledos ten no colo un neno xa medrado. Cachicáns, xornaleiros, un capelán da casa fan circo respectuoso arredor. O Fidalgo foi colexial en Fonseca, tivo grandes dúbidas, demorouse moito nos clásicos, turráballe moito a caste. E por todo isto non se quixo ordenar. “Domine, non sum dignus”. Maorazgo gardou unha metódica claustral no pazo de inverno, no pazo de verán, no pazo do outono, no pazo da primavera. Xuntaba sete lugares, presentaba sete curatos. Pazo na rúa Nova. Irmás en Santa Clara. Capitán das xentes dun val na Independencia. Soá ergueita —por caste e por estudos— non foi cortesán con Fernando, nin polo amor ó escano das súas sete cociñas e o pasear maino polas salas resoantes non foi coronel na guerra dos Andes. Casado tardeiro, cando xa os parentes afiaban a dentamia para a farta herdanza, mimaba o filliño cun amor de vello. Con el nos brazos só tiña un medo: a doenza ou a revolución. Para as doenzas tiña os rescritos dos frades do San Francisco, para a Revolución armaría unha tropa de fieis montañeses. Os do Bocelo, os de Friol. Non encetados como o cerne dos carballos. Agora asiste á trasfega do viño. Da maior pipa xorde unha roxa fonte recendente: mans lixeiras levan as olas, e as olas van caendo na boca sen dentes doutras cubaxes. Enche a bodega e o serán o rumor de dous ríos en camiños.
O neno, por raro caso, está quieto. O pai goza con esta atención do rapaz. Olla o neno con pracer o correr da poderosa canilla. Un xogo. Un decorrer que aquece a inquedanza infantil. Logo o cano vai amolecendo, xa non fai aquel forte arco cor de lume, xa se creba e devece. De seguida para. Entón o neno estrala en choros. El quere ollar sempre aquela cousa fermosa que foxe. Se fora grande colleríaa coas mans coma a unha serpe esvaradiza. O pai trema, inquire, logo se decata e manda autoritario:
—Abride tódalas canillas —os homes, asombrados, temendo o castigo divino, dubidan obedecer: non hai outras pipas dispostas. O señor manda enoxado. Todos coñecen o imperio da voz terrible do amo. Coas mans tremerosas, facendo ás escondedelas o sinal da cruz —eles non son responsables—, abren as pipas. A grande palabra do Fidalgo ecoa na bodega:
—Que meu fillo, meu herdeiro, a flor da miña caste disfroite.
E corren as pipas, as do branco, as do tinto, as da Encosta, as do Bacelar, as da Teixugueira, como corrían as fontes de Versalles no Grande Século. Un ruxir de Dioivo na bodega, unha colleita antiga polo chan de sábrego facendo un lago de naumaquia ofrecida á crueldade inconsciente dun Nerón neniño. O viño figura sangue bañado no asombro do sol, emborracha o ambiente da bodega, os homes, o capelán, refoxen os pantalóns, tínxelles o viño as pernas. Pernas de perdiz. O neno ri, berra, bate as mans de gozo. Canso dorme nos brazos do pai cando o enorme suspirar da cubaxe baleira enche a bodega do sentimento dunha fatalidade. Os homes coa noite e co remordemento van para a cociña, camiñan para os lugares, dicindo:
—¡Que gran cabaleiro é don Fulano!
A exclamación na voz do pobo e na envexa do señorío vai dicindo moitas leguas á redonda:
—Que gran cabaleiro, que gran cabaleiro...
1845. Pola cheminea baixa fungando e salferindo as brasas o aire invernizo na luzada. O capelán quenta as mans, pasea inquedo, ás veces asómase á porta da alcoba. Arrodeado de curmáns e irmáns, o fidalgo loita coa morte no grande leito. A brancura da barba mestúrase coa brancura das sabas. Os ollos fixos no crucifixo, mais tamén ás veces cruzados por unha impaciencia e unha dor. A de todos. O capelán —un frade exclaustrado— sobe a quentarse na cheminea e a ollar polos vidros. Penosamente a mañá fría nace nunha paisaxe de cotos brancos. Saíron moitos propios a procuralo. E vén o día, e vén a morte, e don Xohán, só el, non vén.
Todo está amañado nos bufetes do despacho: os pergameos, os títulos, o testamento. El Señor con grande concurso de fieis visitou solemnemente o pazo. Había panos de encaixe en tódalas mesas, altariños dourados, e mangados de flores, por milagre no corazón do inverno e da montaña. Na cociña os caseiros nin se atreven a falar. O Fidalgo nun pulo que ningunha forza puido dominar, ó chegar El Señor, botouse do leito, el tan sen forzas, e comungou axeonllado no chan, cos brazos en cruz, como un Rei cristián. E o fillo non chegaba, derradeiro cáliz de amargura na agonía do fidalgo. Pola media mañá, os pasos mainos da morte cruzaron a sala de volta da alcoba, cando xa fixera a súa angueira. Unha vella mangoleta ollouna, á Morte, de carranchapernas na solaina para baixar ó xardín e proseguir a xeira gadañadora.
Están chamados os cregos de tres arciprestádegos, o señorío de sete xurisdiccións, e virán os pobres de vinte parroquias. Os rosarios enchen o pazo como unha marea suplicante. Coa noite afírmase a chama dos grandes cirios. Como as portas non se pechan, ninguén sente chegar o novo señor. O capelán quérelle rifar, mais cala dediante da lanzal figura do mozo. Chega de botas altas, tabardo montesío, cunha grea de cans que ouvean a coro á morte. O fidalgo salfire chicotazos ós cans, manda que atendan o cabalo na corte e con xesto de gran señor, ispe a cabeza e axeónllase para bicar as manciñas do morto. O capelán lembra a data: “Feira en Monteseixo” e ollando para o fidalgo: “Facies pecaminosa”. Toda a noite vela, rexo, silencioso, ergueito. Polas once cantan o enterro setenta cregos, un pobo de xente bole nos patios, non collen as bestas nos pesebres nin o señorío nas salas. Don Xohán recibe os pésames con triste e sosegada dignidade. Hai nas facianas unha seguridade despoixa da terrible visita da morte, pois o don Xohán será bo seguidor da caste...
O poñente arrempuxado pola noite foxe de seguida cando aínda había xente nas mesas. Trepan mulas e cabalos de cregos e señores polos camiños da montaña. As linguas, ó partir, son outra volta algareiras e bravas. É preciso cruzar chairas temerosas de lobos denantes de se acougar no lume dos pazos. A noite come rosario de probes enfiados polos atallos da serra. Todos sen erguer as mesas déitanse cedo no pazo.
Mais o fidalgo non dorme. Tampouco pensa. Un instante chora pensando máis que na man do pai, na man do amigo que se puña no ombreiro confiada. Logo, ouve remexer na cámara onde morreu seu pai. Érguese e olla dende o escuro da porta. Aínda se queiman cabos de cirios.
Unha rapaza, boa agradecida á casa, filla de caseiros, cos brazos nus, un pouco asustada, levanta as roupas do leito, arregla a habitación. O fidalgo entra como un falcón botándose sobre a caza. Ela, estrañada, non concibindo o sacrilexio, nin se atreve a loitar. Don Xohán, sen escoitar a acusación das pregarias acuguladas na estancia, nin ollar os ollos espantados da mociña, apértaa e bícaa, con gulosidade feudal, sobre o leito aínda gardador da forma dun corpo.
1855. No salón etiqueteiro da Rúa Nova algunhas donas agardan impacientes. O coro das señoras maiores tamén agarda. Mais don Xohán non aparece. Pola porta só entran señoritas coñecidas. As de sempre. Noutro sarao, a elegancia montesía de don Xohán deixou sementadas flores de esperanza polo xardín das vidas femininas. Don Xohán ata a mañá deita onzas e onzas na mesa de xogo. Ouros borbónicos, do tempo das Indias, ouros constitucionais, ouros de cuño estraño. Dous séculos de historia española pódense ilustrar coas redondas pezas de ouro. O seu reflexo fai medrar o afiado dos perfís, sensibiliza as mans pálidas, afonda as meixelas, atiza a lapa dos ollos. Só don Xohán fica impasible, sereno, ledo coma un cazador no monte. Leva trasfegadas moitas xerras de viño pois el despreza os licores finos e as bebidas da cidade. Os parasitos extreman a súa admiración. Don Xohán, gardando unha superioridade sen decatarse diso, vai botan do na mesa, en onzas como soles, centos de tegas de centeo, parellas de bois, ornato dos feirais e pasmo dos labregos, sembraduras, nabeira, toradas de vello carballo dos que rexistran coma arquivos nos fermosos circos do seu tronco o maino e seguro decorrer das sazóns, moios de viño, dereitos de señorío. De súpeto, un home forte, valente de Sar, pousa a farpa na marea das onzas e pasea a ameaza dun pistolón sobre os peitos dos xogantíns. Sangue callado nos corpos. O home ten historial de mortes, é seguro coma un navallazo xitano, a súa historia anda nos carteis dos cegos. Desprezou ó señorito; el só estima ós homes do oficio. Limpamente don Xohán agárrao polo pescozo, aparta o pistolón e o tiro ridículo vaise cravar nunha viga do teito. De seguida, a media ducia de bofetadas de ritual. O valente está no chan e ten olladas de súplica. Moitos pensan acudir á xustiza. ¡Unica
ocasión para collelo! Hai berros:
—Á cadea, á forca.
O brazo de don Xohán debuxa un grande ademán amparador:
—Non se toque un pelo do home derrubado, está baixo o meu poder.
Logo dille:
—Anda, serás meu criado. Boa paga e farra. Mais honradeza, e coidadiño con roubar un chavo nin levar unha faca. Se non, xa sabes quen é don Xohán. O fidalgo ten lenda en Sant-Iago. Vive cos estudantes. Polo día, moi gomoso, pasea polos arcos, dá o brazo a vellas misias moi sabedoras de elegancias que lle gaban o tipo e o maorazgo e lle falan de xenealoxías, rubindo as escaleiras das Praterías. Ten mesa farta, bodega franca, bolsa aberta. Polos atallos da serra, recuas de mulas lévanlle en pelexos os seus viños mellores da Avia. No baixo da casa organízanse as farradas e as tunas, as xoguetas e as falcatrúas contra o sosegado comercio da cidade. O mesmo lle afunde a chistera a un vello canonista que volta da novena ou dirixe a Van Spen nos soportais, que se santa na mesa dos títulos e desenvurulla as pólas das árbores xenealóxicas. No piso da casa hai habitacións reservadas; nelas estarrícase como unha cobra roxa ó quente da cheminea sobre as alfombras e peles de luxo, a criolla das Antillas, preguizosa e sensual, queimada por furiosas agardas que don Xohán amolece cun bico. Roubouna ó seu pai, vello tratante en carne humana en Cuba. A criolla ten tódolos antollos; cando comesta dos celos destroza unha cristalería, ó día seguinte loce na cámara outra máis fermosa. Para ela hai criados que procuran nas vilas as cousas de máis prezo e traen polo aire as flores e os froitos mimosos de Portugal. Algún día o pai lle pasará a conta. Don Xohán pagaralla se non lle fende a testa dun tiro. El é así, e ninguén o discute.
1865. Un medo no coro dos parasitos e no bufón, antigo curial de vila que na borracheira dos máis —a don Xohán non hai viño que se lle suba ós miolos— parodia tódalas eminencias de Sant-Iago, dende o cardeal ata a bruxa da Tafona, un medo no avogado e nos administradores. Don Xohán toma estado. As vodas son de rumbo endexamais ouvido. Don Xohán namorouse dela unha mañá ó entrar na pequena eirexa das freiras para facer algunha barbaridade, desque a viu, sinxeliña e fermosa, tan modestiña e composta, don Xohán impuxo silencio ós seus sicarios e só pensou en servila. Ela tiña medo del. Na primeira conversa, conqueriuna. ¡Non, todo eran calumnias das malas linguas!
Dona Rosina vive e goberna no pazo da beiramar. Algúns pazos foran debullados, enteiriños, por don Xohán. Mais el sempre se reserva as moblaxes; e da montaña e da ribeira, dos pazos vendidos a disbarate, chegan retablos dourados de capelas, leitos taraceados, arcaces de fino labor, armas antigas, retratos de frades estáticos, de terribles señores, de donas de opulenta beleza coma membrillos outonizos. No pazo de beiramar converxen tódolos ríos de ascendencia de don Xohán, e don Xohán no medio das moblaxes preciosas coida ser dono de tódolos pazos herdados.
Nos derradeiros do ano, a carón da cheminea, dona Rosina dá peito ó primeiro filliño. Xa os criados e as doncelas están no leito. ¿A quen se semella o rapaz? ¿A aquel xeneral da sala? ¿Ó mociño lindo que leva un uniforme de dragón da Independencia e afirma as manciñas de doncela sobre un pesado sabre?
Dona Rosina vai percorrendo tódolos retratos da liñaxe para se distraer; fóra, a virazón abanea os piñeirais e vai arrincar o cedro do xardín, que eles trouxeran da súa viaxe de noivos. E don Xohán non chega. Sempre está de caza. Ninguén coma el coñece os montes da Galiza. Conta historias arrepientes de lobos, de porcos bravos, historias ledas de perdices polas costas esvaradizas de penica. O crego vello de Fontefera, en terras de Lugo, gábase de ter morto cincuenta lobos. Don Xohán en poucos invernos sufrindo as inclemencias nivosas, gañoulle o partido matando sesenta e sete. Testas de lobo para o seu brasón como os de Moscoso.
Morre o lume e entra silandeiro don Xohán. Vén pálido, mais determinado. ¿Que lle pasará? Sen bicar o fillo, don Xohán pon á altura dos ollos da dona asombrada unha cousa que trae agarimada no pasamontañas: un neniño, lindo, rosado, branco como un anxeliño, empanado en pobres roupiñas lixadas. Don Xohán di sen vacilación:
—Rosina, é meu fillo. A nai morreu. ¡Entrégocho para que fagas del o que queiras!
Os dous nenos figuran sorrir un ó outro. Diante da espaventada faciana da señora, don Xohán franquea a fiestra á noite negra:
—Aí tes o patio. Están os cans famentos. Se tes corazón guíndao embaixo.
A señora, sen unha fala, axiña, como cómpre, ispe o outro peito e os dous nenos beben, tranquilos, ditosos,do mesmo leite. Ó día seguinte, D. Xohán con cabalgada de criados vai á feira de Pontevedra. Ó voltar pola noitiña vai chamando nas portas dos lugares e deixando nos regazos das doces labreguiñas de ollar rendido, das bravas pescas de falas mimosas, ducias de panos sedáns, dengues de terciopelo, corais e pratas barrocas para os fermosos colos e para as lindas orelliñas, duros ás mancheas para liberar as terras hipotecadas polos patróns, para pagar as menciñas das avoas tolleitas nos leitos.
1875. A xente segue dicindo:
¡Que gran cabaleiro!
Medra cada día a admiración dos cabaleiros e dos cregos, a envexa dos señores da vila, a fame dos curiais e dos prestamistas. Por tódalas carreteiras, as que soben entrenzadas arredor dos montes, as espalladas no vagantío das chairas postas ó sol, as que namoradas da fermosura das rías van seguindo o encaixe da costa, salfiren alegrías gozosos os coches de don Xohán. Séntense de lonxe crebando ben de mañá o ensoño dos piñeirais. Levan catro, seis, oito cabalos, mercados nas feiras de Zafra e de Sevilla e Xerez. Non collen polas rúas de Sant-Iago e ó entrar nas prazas das vilas espállase un aire de festa. Moitas veces vai só don Xohán guiando a xubilosa tropa dos cabalos: leva no pescante a escopeta e unha boa moza, pimpante e orgullosa, ó seu carón.
Nas mesas dos cregos sentado entre os arciprestes e priores mantén o ritmo dos muelles debullando con método probado e con fidalga limpeza, dende a sopa, densa, condesación sabia de causas boas, ata a longa coda dos postres. A gran sinxeleza da alma de don Xohán trasparéntase no falar, no enxuiciar simple e claro das cousas, collendo sempre polo camiño do medio e lucindo en temas de caza, de viños e de trato social, unha mestría completa. Unha boca que endexamais dixo verbas de dúbida e un corazón tan recto que os abades severos, moitas veces escandalizados pola sementeira de pecados que don Xohán facía a rego nas parroquias, non podían por menos dicir:
—Don Xohán peca coa sinxeleza dun neno e de fixo non acouga o mal na súa alma de neno.
Gran neno mimado pola fortuna, polas mulleres, pola saúde. Ningunha emoción, ningún problema. Mellor que cos homes, fala sen palabras nun diálogo de olladas e xestos co can das perdices. Os animais, os pobres e coitados animais, senten por don Xohán un amor particular. O seu asubío e a súa voz poden máis nos cans que o asubío e a voz dos criados. Fixo unha viaxe longa, no medio do inverno, por ver nun pazo da montaña o pobre “Soult” can de palleiro, bo servidor, leal amigo, que estaba a morrer. Deitado no estrume dunha corte, nin tiña azos para se achegar a un consolo de sol que lucía na porta. Cando sentiu trepar o cabalo e percibiu ese olor particular, cecais feito de volátiles esencias de carácter que os cans poden percibir nos homes, de don Xohán, Soult, erguendo as pobres orellas muchadas, meneando un anaco do rabo, chegouse á porta a zorro, sentíndose outra volta cachorro, ouvindo unha harmonía de noites estrelecidas baixo a fiestra do amo, maxinando doces soños, ós seus pés na alfombra da sala. Don Xohán non se afastaba do can, os ollos prisioneiros dos seus nun diálogo non maxinado por ninguén. Caendo a noite e o frío, os caseiros, respectuosos, trouxeron lume, e don Xohán debeuse percatar dunha súplica nos ollos do can, pois sen dubidar meteulle na testa un tiro certeiro.
¡Gran cabaleiro! —murmuraban os labregos sospeitando en don Xohán unha dignidade superior, cando vían o gando dos lameiros parar de pacer e ficar cos ollos extasiados, húmidos da terneza que noutrora inspiraban os grandes xefes pastores, ou as pombas envolvendo en agarimos azados a figura do fidalgo, na solaina, co primeiro sol churrusqueiro da mañá, ou os bois baixándolle a poderosa testa serva para apañarlle na man as roibas espigas, ou o pavo real facéndolle a roda maxestuosa de cortesanía.
Don Xohán percorre no seu coche as carreteiras da beiramar. Non soamente por folgar. Agora son outros os tempos. Don Xohán, que nunca soubera o que tiña nin contaba as voltas dos cartos, fíxose home de negocios. El de por si non se mete en nada. Ten servidores listos, algúns señoritos da vila, que traballan todo o negocio das contratas de camiños. Don Xohán admira eses homes de empresa, calculadores, que saben trazar as curvas, e sufincar as pontes, e engaiolar os enxeñeiros, e entenden das fianzas e dos prazos. Don Xohán sempre pronto a se marabillar, sorrí e paga. Ás veces, as cousas non marchan ben. Ó mellor hai que variar un trazado, hai que mercar a conciencia dun funcionario, pódese perder, non se sabe ben por que, o importe dunha fianza. Os conselleiros do asunto son agora seus amigos. Algúns con moitos fillos e poucos ingresos andan mal de fondos. Don Xohán, con delicadeza, para non ofendelos, failles chegar ós bolsos rolos de billetes. Moita xente ten envexa dos compañeiros de don Xohán; levan gabáns novos, trepan con autoridade denantes descoñecida neles, algúns erguen casiñas novas, outros, máis humildes, póñenlles tendas ós seus familiares. Un serán, por caso raro, don Xohán demora na casa. Está ó fresco con dona Rosina; os rapaces pequenos enredan no xardín. A maior logo haberá que póla nun internado na capital. Dona Rosina fala de algo que lle roe no peito; ela ben quixera aproveitar aquela presencia do seu home na casa.
—Dispensa o que che digo; non me gusta esa xente con quen andas. Non me teñen boa cara. ¿Ti para que procuras negocios? ¿Non estariamos máis descansados coidando das terras? Teño medo a que con tanta cavilación che veña unha enfermidade. ¡Tes unhas canas no pelo...!
Don Xohán escoita, en silencio. E sorrí. Non, os seus amigos son todos boas persoas, homes para se ma tar por eles; é preciso que os cartos bulan polo mundo, hoxe xa non se vive, como denantes, nos pazos. Don Xohán vai ensarillando as súas razóns, sen grande fe nelas e sorpréndese dunha acordanza estraña. Non había moito estivera coa Bibiana, muller xa serodia, boa moza no seu tempo, a quen don Xohán sacara con namoros de sachar leiras e agora, grosa e coidada, rexía un fato de mozas da vida na cidade. A Bibiana gardaba a mellor lei ó fidalgo. E dixéralle máis claramente o mesmo pensamento da señora:
—Eses teus amigos son unha tripulación de ladróns. Fartan a fame á conta túa. Se segues tan parvo deixarante máis pelado que unha pelica vella. ¿E logo non ves
como engordan? Ti es señor, vive no teu e déixate de manter zumezugas e de negocios.
Estraña confluencia de opinións. Chega o mordomo a falar ó señor: mañá feira de Soutoledo. A mellor para mercar a parella de bois. Fan moita falla. Don Xohán bota man á carteira. Logo, escudriña nas gabetas e nos caixóns. Por primeira vez na vida non ten diñeiro. O sol, onza de ouro como as que el sementou ás mancheas, vaise poñer na comba dos montes. O fidalgo cazador sempre olla para o ceo, como o mariñeiro para o mar. No ceo vibra quieto, feroz, dominador, un miñato.O rei no solpor. Adivíñase un medo pechado no branco pombal. Don Xohán agarra a escopeta e baixa polos eidos de millo medrado. Está agora o miñato riba dos grandes piñeiros mansos. O fidalgo admírao un instante. ¡Está tan fermoso! Logo tira. Cae o paxaro dando voltas, un anaco para nunha ponla, derrúbase pesado no chan. Os ollos, o pico, as farpas. Don Xohán ó voltar para a casa vai pensando por primeira vez: “Quizais logo haxa grandes pagos dalgunha obra”. ¿Terá que acceder ás falas melosas do Estornelo sobre hipotecar a casa de Sant-Iago?
1885. Unha oficina polo serán. Chovía nos vidros lixados. Fedor de colillas. Traballo extraordinario. Medo á chegada dun novo xefe. Testas encol das mesas. Don Xohán na súa. Como fidalgo é moi dado. Nin lle parece mal que un antigo zapateiro, que lle fixo nun tempo moi boas botas de caza, lle fale dende a mesa veciña:
—Ola Juan.
Don Xohán tiña unha serra de expedientes riba da mesa. O balduque vai estralar coma as fitas dun corsé de xove posto en corpo de xamona. Don Xohán non sabe por onde comezar. Cecais pensa: “¿Vivirá o Leandro, o meu caseiro de Ribacova? ¿Casaría a Florinda? Xa debe ter vinte anos”. Soña no corpo de palla de centeo da nai da Florinda e no lume, mantido coas leñas de don Xohán, do seu fogar. Tempo das resacas. “¿Como estará a bodega do Ribeiro? O novo amo desfaría aquela pipa vella, de carballo. Bo serán para pasala co estilador”. Trémanlle diente dos ollos as partidas dun reparto. Boeno. Inda hai cigarriños. Agora os seráns do outono son máis longos que denantes.
Don Xohán saíndo da oficina non quere mirar un grupo de rapazas que pasan. El ben coñece a figura da súa filla, a máis elegante. Leva ó seu carón un noivo. Un empregado de almacén. Don Xohán cruzando diante do casino por pouco cólleno os cabalos dun coche. O cocheiro para, baixa, dille:
—Señorito, dispense.
Foi servidor de don Xohán. Dentro do coche a figura do prestamista parece unha sardiña en lata. Fai que non ve a don Xohán. Ten medo dunha labazada.
—Boh, o caso é que teño pazo fidalgo con escaleira de corte e escudos, en Compostela —pensa acochándose coma un zorro.
Don Xohán, con dous retirados, pasea baixo os arcos da rúa. Horas sen remate. Mais el figura non se decatar. As fillas estarán cosendo e non convén estorbalas. Na hora da cea todos están ledos arredor da mesa limpiña. Dona Rosina ten os cábelos brancos. Dille ó seu home:
—Ti figuras un polo ó meu lado.
As rapazas reciben un recado urxente: cómpre rematar os volantes e as mangas dun vestido, para o baile, denantes das once. E sen probar migalla de queixo, póñense a coser. Don Xohán non pode ser dono de contar unha tristura. Non é ren de particular. Na xerriña só fican dous dedos de viño da taberna. No comedorciño hai un oco. Alí estaba o fermoso taburete taraceado. Agora non está. Don Xohán e dona Rosina fálanse cos ollos. Ela ponlle na man un cartucho de pesos. Don Xohán asomado á fiestra considera as luces da cidade na noite. A rúa escura fai unha volta. Máis aló hai un calexón e no calexón unha taberna soa da polos bos calos que prepara. A taberneira foi e aínda é moito de don Xohán. Hai pouco mandáralle unha empanadiña de peixe. Tamén ten para el outros peperetes.
Hai un demo de portuguesi ña que dá xenio vela. Cansouse de servir. Don Xohán sofre cavilando:
—Terei que ir pola outra rúa e rubir polas escaleiras... Non se pode chamar a atención nestas rúas de xente devota.
Don Xohán é moi franco. Endexamais ocultou ren do seu vivir. ¡Quen lle volvería os abertos camiños da aldea! Colle o grande chambergo para saír. Dona Rosina, ó despedilo na escaleira, dille baixiño:
—Lémbrate que mañá hai que pagar os réditos do Estornelo.
Dentro, as fillas cantan, traballando, ó son da Singer. Don Xohán di:
—Tes razón; está a noite moi fría. Voume deitar.
1900. Todos viñan admirados da resistencia física e do señorío de don Xohán. Había cazadores elegantes, políticos, xente de Madrid. Don Xohán no monte e na mesa parecía o convidador. Os seus tiros precisos estraban de perdices a penica das encostas. Os cans facíanlle festas atoladas. Os labregos —xa ningún había do seu tempo— pensaban: “¡Que gran cabaleiro!” O seu vello tabardo impuña un tono na antesala. Estaban nun pazo arreglado e repintado á moda. O amo non sabía ler os escudos. Don Xohán descifrounos e contou historias da casa.
—Por aquí —dicíalle ó amo— estaba o segredo. A forza de rebulir nas paredes dun cuarto escuro, don Xohán puido facer que unha pedra se correse. Gran emoción na compañía. Saíu un bafo de vellez. Mais non había tesouro. Había un mollo de pergameos e un grande tarro cheo de mel. Don Xohán colleuno con respecto e levouno ó comedor. ¡O símbolo dos bos tempos, a honradeza da tradición, o tesouro da casa, o mel suave das avoas, das abellas que zugan nos xardíns antigos e locen como pintas azadas de ouro no fondo de gules dos escudos!
Don Xohán comeu e bebeu como un prior guerreiro.Toda a historia dun século, as liñaxes e as parroquias, as colleitas e as fames, a carlistada e a Revolución, os estudantes clásicos, as farras épicas, as belezas dos salóns elegantes, os comezos dos políticos, os bandidos e os aforcados, Pepa a Loba e Xan Quinto, as flotas a vela e as cazatas feudais, pasou pola súa charla. Algúns que ben o sabían, picábano para que fixera outras confesións. Mais o fidalgo nin tivo unha verba para os falseiros amigos, nin para os rapineiros vestidos cos anacos do seu manto de señor. Cunha ledicia vagamente outoniza figuraba don Xohán unha torre antiga e lanzal onde aniñaran os paxaros da campía.
Nos postres un mozo preguntoulle polo tempo romántico.¿Sería poeta? Non. Coñecera moitos poetas e moitas musas. Mais só sabía unha poesía:
—É a miña poesía favorita —e recitouna—: Y en triste adiós mi juventud perdida / mandaba a mis cabellos /pensando que ya nunca volverían / hermosas manos a jugar con ellos —e todos estaban emocionados, e ninguén pensou en rir da cursilería.
Nos últimos do ano don Xohán fai unha tremenda descuberta: tamén o seu corpo está suxeito á dor. Un dente de rato róelle no estómago. Hai dous días que sente dores feroces na vexiga. Non sabe que cara lle pór ó médico. Só coñecera os médicos en sociedade. Don Xohán só atura dous días no leito. Unha néboa inverniza enterra a cidade doente nunha masa de algodón hidrófilo. Dona Rosina non se arreda do leito. Unha mañá don Xohán está descansado e figura reflexionar. Dona Rosina vai á misa. Cando volve hai xente na escaleira, as fillas berran e choran como tolas, hai un fedor de pólvora no pobre pisiño. Don Xohán fixera o primeiro e derradeiro razoamento sobre si: estaba doente, non podía pensar a dor e pegárase sinxelamente un tiro como fixera moitas veces cos cans vellos ou enfermos. Sen remordemento, sen vaidade, sen pecado. No cemiterio, a lousa humilde de don Xohán, modesto funcionario xubilado, está asombrada polo monumento de mármore do prestamista. En sete parroquias da Galiza aínda o sol do serán bica ó morrer sete alciprestes que de neno don Xohán axudara a plantar.
-----------------------
De Contos do camiño e da rúa
Ramón Otero Pedrayo
1ª edición, 1932.
Texto de Seara a partir de:
Editorial Galaxia, 2003
Stories.
I.
THE MERMAID
"So what's new, Miz Delfina? Who's that guest of yours in the big room with the balcony?" asked the sergeant of the Civil Guard, setting down his glass of Ribeiro wine and wiping his standard big mustache with a white handkerchief folded in four.
"Well, I hardly know more than his name," responded the lady who ran the inn, a huge matron with three chins, a rounded belly, the soft hands of a stout tavern keeper who still had a youthful green glint in her eyes from her madcap youth and beneath her red scarf an attractive creaminess of nape and well-shaped ears. "But in my opinion, he comes from good stock. You must know him, surely. Don't you remember the Mirteira manor house, that immense mansion with five dark cypress trees and a beautiful chimney, way off in the mountain. above the Fervenzas waterfall? I've forgotten the name of the parish... You can see the manor house quite well from the curve in the road, after the bridge at Frouxán... It's been years since I've been there! When I was a girl, my aunt and I went there to buy pears from the orchard... Today I bet I could still find the medlar tree growing in the middle of some lovely myrtle hedges... Well, that fellow is from that category. They say he's from far away. He hardly speaks with anybody. Maybe it's a problem of the heart..."
"Yes, yes. I can see that. In that parish, San Breixo das Touzas, not so long ago there was quite a passel of thieves... I've eaten in the manor house before. There was a little old man, quite amusing... He'd go down to the wine cellar himself... There were also some ladies warming themselves by the fire. That young man is probably the old fellow's grandson... But it's folks who never come down to the village...
The sergeant took a cigarette out of the pocket of his jacket, thought a moment about how his gray pants sagged over his black elastic boots, matching the dull patent leather of his tricorn, then headed off down the street with the rather serious and picturesque swagger of someone who would soon be a lieutenant.
Delfina kept pouring the oily, dirty coffee liqueur from a round jug into some polyhedric bottles with labels saying anise. She appreciated having those moments in the house to herself, and felt more like a queen than ever, behind the blond oak counter, mended with tin, among the wine barrels, placed like mortars atop crossed feet, cigarette packs, notebooks, and matches, the utensils for measuring volumes of liquids, the shelves where a world of things classified according to an unconscious preference for the decorative: the packages of candles, a luxury of long village nights; the tins of spices with their bright colors; the tragic bottles of drunken nightmares and assassination by rum; the innocent anisettes with their frozen northern landscapes; the wizard of a coffee grinder; the pounds of chocolate sitting like books or bricks, the cheap soup pastas; the posters from the shipping companies; the attractive Skodas batteries; the big barrel of oil; the hoarse melody of the salt. But not only adjectives and epithets concerning eating, drinking, and burning were sold in the store along with the verb of wine and oil. In the window, as if in an aquarium, slept purple, complicated, delicate lobsters, in the style of Venetian paintings, and everything God had created in the sea, the coast or the mountains: good, uncured cheeses, hiking friends; partridges the color of the highlands; sunset on laps; salt pork like bellies; strings of sausages, rosaries of Pantagruelian devotion; skinned virginal lamb tasting like spring; pig heads with odd-looking snouts; ears waving from gluttony, strong, ugly, and unnerving like the monsters of the Portico of Glory in Compostela; hams strung up, trophy of winter campaigns, comfort for the eyes, memory of the wood-filled, smoky hearth. All the flavors of the fallow fields, all the flavors of the valley, of the sea and the beach coming one after another, according to the order of the Zodiac, in the window, king of the sloping street, paved and clattering. The house, large, comfortable, spread out, had a creaky staircase, big bedrooms with beams, with green windows, and the ones in the back area, with a roomy wooden balcony over the simple garden, and the mountain scenery, and a bit of calm sea with yellow sand, ringed by clumps of pines.
The new guest - Don Leonardo - arrived late on a drizzly autumn afternoon. He was soaked when he arrived, and his slender figure, supported by a cane, walked among the tables of drinkers in the tavern. In his room at last, Don Leonardo, lay on the bed without turning on a light. He amused himself with the way the spider-legged rain struggled to grab the last butterfly of the day, colorful and resting on the glass. Two kinds of thoughts battled inside him: landscapes and people with hope, the village identity, a dream for the future and the trust in ships, with visions of farmers' malice, the willful trickery of people and ideas. The casino, the court, the music stage, the well-off young men, wine, homemade brandy. Factors of equal strength that lulled him into a placid sense of balance. "Will my Galicia always be like this?" he thought. "Can I only find peace in narcissism and the ivory tower?"
There were books on the table, blank white writing paper, some letters with handwriting and stamps from a distant place. The hands of the evening weighed upon his shoulders, making him sink into an calm despair, and he had almost given up. He didn't want to admit he felt depressed, and to distract himself from this heavy feeling, he anxiously awaited the hour for supper despite being a reserved man.
Downstairs, the guests were having a glass of wine with friends from town. Little priests, fond of dissecting tins of food, dousing the small talk of notaries with wine; ironic young men, because they had understood it all, weakly, with no courage; commissioners humming bits of outmoded couplets of unscrupulous stupidity. Others, next door in the casino, fulfilled their duty of reading the dry, thorny newspapers of the province or, their fingers and lips stained by bitter cigarettes, played domino or cards. At night, all of the windows, tall or low, allowed the nightmare of winter to seep in. In the town at that hour there were only two things that were noble and pure: the roar of the ocean and an occasional sea chanty on the wharf, from the ghostly grove of the ships' masts.
The regular guests and the ones just passing through took their seats along the long table. The notary complained to the maid about having his napkin changed. He was well aware of the impression his wine-soaked lips gave. Two or three pensioners unashamedly commented on the legs of the girls seen strolling along the archways to the great satisfaction of the captain of the cavalry, he too being a man of the world, accustomed to a free life. A lass from the village who'd come with her father because of a legal case, ate with refined manners, picking up her bread with the napkin. There were other people, skinny from avarice, envy, power, business deals. Don Leonardo ate quickly, bothered by the feeling that there were watchful eyes on him, and he couldn't express what he wanted to say. Between spoonfuls of soup, he was thinking about the phrase that still hadn't come out when the quince jam made the rounds of the table and hands noisily gripped the nutcracker and then came the round of 60-cent cigars. "I am so unfortunate," thought Don Leonardo as he was returning to his room. But early in the morning he was shivering with emotion thinking about the day's discoveries.
Then came the barrage of San Francisco, the month of All Saints, winter. The wind combed the pine trees in the opposite direction; the puddles in the square held the dull reflection of a sad glare all day. Novenas. A big priest blustered in the church, illuminated, against short skirts. The buses arrived navigating the mud, with coughing engines and packages of newspapers, with a far-off rhythm of the world. In the casino, there was a noble from the mountain who insisted on losing every day. A curia scratched a processual script in a fog of ink, cold, bad faith, and a dirty , spit-covered floor. The Notary did not speak with the Registrar. The judge turned a cold shoulder to the local boss. A lad from town published a book in a distant press, and the gatherings in the casino stopped playing for a bit to flay him. At night the noise of merrymakers echoed: they changed the signs of the stores, went off with Delfina's liqueurs so they could get drunk, in a boat, in the dangerous sea. People didn't notice Don Leonardo: he went out of town every day and they got used to hearing him talk about swimming on a deserted beach. They deemed him crazy and were happy with that. He spent long hours looking out at the sea. In the fanciest soirée of the fine ladies who did not go to the movie theater, an old lord spoke of him:
"That young man has something on his mind and he'll tell it in time. I know a little about his tragedy. He, like I, loved the farmers and the sailors, the ancient legends, and a future for Galicia. I became soft because of this worthless life. He didn't. He will triumph, because he knows how to keep quiet, be scornful, and wait. The way I had of speaking bluntly and my liking for wine and laziness has been my downfall.
There was a period of bad storms scattered with shipwrecks and frantic, sobbing women on the wharf. Life's indifference wore people down. Until one day, early in the evening, a new, unsettling piece of news traveled through town from Delfina's inn to the salon of the ladies and the office of the rectorate.
Where had it come from? It was hard to say. There were few facts, odd ones, but without an easy explanation according to the pervasive logic of the town. Everything was based on what Delfina, the innkeeper's maid, had seen.
Don Leonardo had been absent for three days.. Had he perished at sea? Nobody gave him a thought. But at night, after supper, beneath the limping rain, he appeared carrying in his arms a long, strange package, dripping, shiny like an animal from the sea in the dim light of the tavern. His head was bare, his hair was plastered to his head by the salty water, his eyes were bright, his voice was different, his physical strength different as well. He shut himself in his room and ordered coffee and rum, going down himself to get it from the counter. The maid was astonished. At that hour no cars or ships ever arrived. Don Leonardo, the madman who already had a reputation among the local fishermen, had brought that thing from the beach. And from the discussion between Delfina and the maid the conviction arose: Don Leonardo had brought the mermaid of the sea to the inn. They had planned the tryst, for sure. Some sailors had heard her singing on the dangerous green rocks and felt afraid. The story, despite the customary laughter of the casino, spread through town. From distant times of navigating by sailboat by heroic officers, brash nobles and followers of the Carlist priests, there had been a great need for something marvelous in the small dull-witted population. Common sense and culture in general had been lost. Moreover, that explained Don Leonardo's character. He had conquered the love of a beautiful, cruel mermaid, only defeated by the quiet young man’s worship of her. He must have told her marvelous things in the grottoes of the rocks, amid the weaving and unraveling of the white veils of beaten foam. He hadn't been afraid of the treacherous waters, nor the shine of the green eyes in the abyss, nor even the deceptive play of the drizzly hair like a bundle of sargasso, the rapid curving of the wave. A star shimmering in the mist showed him his beloved's underwater manor with fingers of light. The plovers celebrate the nuptials flying on a ragged cloud and the black crows, assembled on the sand bar, told how a pale man had stolen the terrible deity so he could marry her and they would go together to live in the manor house on the mountain.
The head of the cavalry suspected contraband, the sergeant from the Civil Guard a crime, the casino suspected nothing, the abbot, a learned man, wracked his brains trying to recall things about the Holy Fathers, legends of noble lines, pages written by Father Feijóo. Who knows! And what rite was required to baptize her? Because Don Leonardo, who is from a good line, cannot marry an almost diabolical being. And for a whole day, a fever of mystery and an ancient moral fire made the town's moral temperature rise and an anxious interest girded the balcony of Delfina's inn. All the guests dreamed of or thought from their beds about going in a black ship and without a guide, carried by an invisible wind toward an archipelago of islands that, like the heads of monsters, arose from the tempestuous waters, or towards a Maelstrom, a circular, thundering abyss of moaning caused by death and shipwrecks. More or less all of them had something of the sea, despite looking down on it because of their rude village way of thinking. And now, with the presence of the mermaid, their sleep was broken by the song of beautiful and cruel daughters of the salted wave. A sweet song to listen to, not realizing it beckoned to a voyage with no return except in the tragic pounding of the waves, spitting out scarecrow-like cadavers of those who had drowned onto the beach... From the old women came forgotten bits of stories heard from grandmothers and captains from the long period of scurvy, dead calm, and the octopuses that blocked the straits and gripped the ships. The notary, a bit of a poet, who had won awards as a youth, felt a dripping of a boat song in his nightmare. The priests prayed that the hand of God, tearing the clouds apart, would calm the waters. No need to talk about the town - about Delfina, the maids, the sailors, the officers, the cavalry, the farmworkers. Everyone knew, their enjoyment mixed with fear, how the mermaid came to be there, in a room in the inn, captured in the nets of love, embraced by arms of sea foam, encircling the tempting body, wrapping in cool, fragrant hair, her eyes with the light of the deepest sea and flapping her silver tail, sensual and playful, at a man who knew how to love her and take her from her palatial home of coral and jewels from the caverns of the seabed. The townspeople understood the marvelous situation and the satisfaction of seeing a belief of theirs become reality. And the whole town, grayish, indifferent and with a servant mentality, enjoyed some marvelous mythological hours, the kind experienced but once in many centuries, as if the world had been made anew and the sea, the stones, and the birds could speak. There were different stars in the sky and along the beaches by the sea - a great yet simple and terrible old man - sobbed with the pain of seeing that he had lost his harmonious, his lovely queen.
"The little mermaid doesn't speak: murmured the women in the doorways, because her lips are drowned by kissing."
But when the morning light appeared, with it came common sense, the serious uncle dressed in black and cuts short the hopeful dreams of children, the dried-up master of simple hope, the professor of the official text, the uncle Bill of the markdowns, the ledger of emotions. And general culture also sniffed solemnly at this reasoning: there is no mermaid in the books of the Darwinist Odón de Buen, thereby, the mermaid isn't classified because it doesn't exist. They all returned to their professions, in order to pay the tribute to the government as usual. Only the fisherfolk had eyes for the night and mystery. Delfina was already thinking about how to charge an entry fee to people who wanted to view the contralto of the sea. When they did, they'd also spend money, because with novelty, purse strings loosen and a lot of bottles of potions of uncertain ingredients could be sold.
Like it was reported in the morning, there was a lot of activity in other areas; the mayor comforted by the telegraph operator, who didn't want to send a telegram telling the Civil Government the news, called the town leaders together. The priest, the doctors, the apothecary, the teacher gave rather muddled spoken testimonies, and the apothecary's - he was a man suspected of witchcraft - leaving room for all sorts of interpretations. The result of the meeting was the advancement of the sergeant of the Civil Guard, the Cavalry and the head of the local police, in formal dress and marching in military fashion to Delfina's inn: the mermaid isn’t subject to the law even under order by the commander of the Navy. In a certain sense, it’s a matter for the men of the sea and she has the right to fall in love at any time. But the three of them, with the order of the mayor and the judge's authorization, outranking Delfina's resistance, entered the inn and, a bit pale, knocked on Don Leonardo's door. Outside, the great commotion of the people continued, all work stopped, beneath the stubborn winter rain.
The wait was brief. Making their way through the crowd the three uniformed men strode out and the thunder of a thousand voices greeted the appearance of Don Leonardo and the mermaid holding on to his arm: her hair, blond and shiny, was coiled in a knot on her snowy neck and formed a long ogival portico along the center part, her forehead, the sweet shape of her face where the gentle green light of huge, calm, deep eyes was shining. A raincoat that seemed like it was made of ocean kelp, covered and outlined a slender body and a gloved hand rested on a light-colored cane with an ivory handle. The shouting turned into enthusiastic applause that already reached the square with its arches before the two arrived at the consistory. A thousand astonished eyes searched for her tail but found only the serious, firm step of feet wearing sturdy shoes. Indifferent to the rain, she walked along with her expression distant. The clapping didn't stop when the two of them appeared on the balcony of the Town Hall. Don Leonardo made a great sign with his hand requesting silence and spoke:
"Neighbors! I don't know if this woman I'm presenting to you is the mermaid of the sea. I spoke to her in a far-off land, beyond the Arctic circle where the waters carry sparkling icebergs and the sun shines along the horizon at midnight in the summer. When I spoke to her and sought her out I was thinking about this poor land of Galicia. I wanted to save it from its moral misery, but I didn't have enough strength for it. I needed the help of a spirit or mermaid from the cold north, from the hard north, forever new and purifying. She listened to my pleas and came to me. We are husband and wife. We will live in the manor at Mirteira, not to loll about in the useless manner of young masters, but to fight for the happiness of the mountain and the coast. Between the two of us we will give you a new way of life. We will guide and advise the farmer and the sailor, we will devote ourselves to freeing the village from the bad habits it has, repulsive and evil. Maybe you don't understand now what I'm trying to tell you. With time and our example you will understand. The sun must also shine on our land at midnight!
"Long live the Mermaid! Long live the Mermaid!" clamored the people without stopping.
The truth is that from that night on the ways of the village changed a great deal. The lords of Mirteira come down and teach new "sports," they create and direct schools, they bring in speakers, advise them regarding other sorts of housing, leave their mark on sailors and the industries of land and sea. For the seafolk she continues to be the mermaid, and a group of lads with hope for the future already plan to present the lord of Mirteira as a candidate.
II.
THE SERVANT
After many arguments, upset feelings, quarrels, sobbing, reasons, and examples, Balbina got permission from her parents to go down into town to work. When you think about it, the girl made sense. The house was among the better off in the area. It had an upper and a lower floor, was well furnished with corrals and stables, an open space with sheds (there was one where where the empty cart pulled by its beam pole turned around), two plots for turnips and vegetables, a bit of land inherited where almost every year, except for the driest ones, there was an abundance of fruit, vines with bunches of grapes that drank in the sun, and finally, hills with good pastures for the livestock and some oak and chestnut trees in the festivities area. There was only a dearth of grass and an excess of rent. The rich clumps of earth and irrigation trenches in the turnip patches were well-employed, making for good sustenance, but it was a small space and in the winter with the ground burned off by the long-lasting frosts on the shady turnip patches, it was a struggle to produce a little food. Sometimes, when the straw was used up and more dry straw had been purchased from the heir, they even turned to the corn husks from the mattresses to feed the cows and suckling pigs during long nights. As for the girl, she could have behaved better with her parents, but that longing she felt when she saw the new finery that Xuliana da Encroba, the two granddaughters of the sexton, and Maripepa da Costa wore to the celebrations as well as the savings some sent home, made Balbina's desire sound reasonable and she won her parents over.
So one morning she went down to the road with her mother. She wept when saying farewell to the two sheep, and the old dog, sad because he didn't like the smell that early morning had, went with mother and daughter to where the coast began. It wasn't good for the light of the home to go by herself. "It's for the best, considering what she earns with us! Working in the garden all day and she still can't ever get new clothes. Her brothers are already established as potters and even though the older one were to go off to serve the king, the younger one is already as big as he is." They went down slowly, both very clean and neat, each carrying a basket of eggs to make a simple little meal. Above them the sun behind the mist over the young rye. But the shore was lined with fog. The day hadn't begun yet when, putting one foot in front of the other, they entered the streets of the capital. Balbina had only been there a few times. She marveled at the high prices that were listed in the shop windows and at the good-looking lads dressed as officers who sent her playful, come-hither glances as they went by. Now at the entry to the city, they gave the food to a vender, sly and brash as a roe deer. Then they went to look for Mrs. María a Prisca. She was from their parish and had a little shop or stand huddled beneath the proud archway of a house of some rich folk on the square. She was old, high, battered, flat-chested, her tiny black eyes were piercing and implacable, her skin the indifferent color of old unmarried servants, dry and worn out, that the priests and well-off ladies had. Because her feet hurt her a lot she had them encased in big square slippers with side stitching. The religious, rich spinster woman she'd served for so long had given her that stand and every day would take her a cup of broth and something to nibble on. Part doorkeeper and part vender of needles, threads, pin cushions, thimbles, knives, scissors, boxes of scented soap and other humble luxury items for maids and servant girls who tended to imitate the seamstresses, Mrs. María Prisca was most of all the center for information of all the houses in the city regarding the situation of masters and servants, the advisor, guide and sybil of all the servant girls, the repository of all their gossip, the office for employment offers and information as well as a sort of ambassador and messenger for her neighbors in the city, which is not to say she had a whit of the Celestina about her, at least according to the information that was gathered to write this true story. She knew the personality of all the ladies, the oddities of all the bachelors with no woman in the house, what food was prepared in all the wood and coal ovens, the interior decor of every house, where the man was boss and where the woman, the despotic nature of the wet-nurses, the preferences of old servants that some houses still had, the contents of every basket that returned from the market, the evolutionary cycle of all the servants according to how they ended up: as old servants, maids, hotel maids, ladies of the night, married to widower gentlemen or aged bachelors, not to mention the ones who disappear again into the village or those who leave for America.
She gave advice to seamstresses, couples in love, and confessors according to the preferences of her clients who were all the maids except for some modern feather-headed gal or a wise cook with good technique and skills. As her first advice, María Prisca gave mother and daughter the familiar classical sermon on the poor state of the profession, the ladies' demands, the growing number of houses with floors to be waxed, not forgetting, since she was a good Christian, the dangers of going too far in the case of couples in love, the masters, the matchmakers, the dances, the cinema, and the shadows of the town arbors. Then, turning to the matter at hand, she reached into the vast files of her memory and presented the psychology, the logic, the ethics, and the economics of three house that were without service. There were children in one, in another there was a passel of them and they were always running around everywhere, in the third there were only two and Balbina would do well caring for them and at the same time, with the lady - who was quite a good homemaker - she could learn the servant trade in a few months, would be able to do general tasks while gradually specializing as cook or serving maid and if she was cut out for that sort of work.
And Balbina ended up there, dressed in a cherry-colored blouse, stiff shoes that hurt her feet and a little apron the lady gave her. The first afternoon she got lost with the little boy, carrying him or holding his hand while walking along the streets of the town, dead on her feet because it was supper time. After she'd been questioned by the old servant who'd gobbled up the best portions left by the masters on the serving dishes and hadn't left a drop in the wine glass she brought from the table, the girl lay down on a cot in a tiny room beside the pantry, which gave off the smell of rotting potatoes and where mice scrambled about all night. Balbina was pretty, slight, nicely shaped, had curly blond hair, her skin was fair as flax on the parts that weren't burned by the sun and that were as soft and sweet as early fruit. Maybe she dreamed and cried about the sunset in her village, when she would return from the spring with her friends, crossing over the slippery stepping stones of the stream and in the shade of the walnut trees where birds always sang in pairs, and a serious, slender lad waited for her who talked with her about going to America together. Perhaps she she felt a longing for the big warm fire on the hearth of the large kitchen and the pleasure of feeling the night's damp wings on her face when she went out with an oil lamp to give the cows a handful of clover she'd gathered, feeling free and singing, from the cool, fresh earth of the turnip patch. She awoke two or three times with a nightmare made worse by the noise of drunks and cars that went along the street, and only when it had gotten very late did her eyes dry and she slept like a rock.
Months and years went by. Balbina, ascending from child care to official maid served in many houses and only returned to her parish on its saint's day festivities. She looked like a young lady. She kept her distance from the village lads and in the city she refused to accept soldiers or artisans, shaking them off like one shakes a rug from the balcony. She earned a degree in the grandeur and drawbacks of the trade. In the morning, the happiness of the market, the shop, the general stores, with the neat little basket hanging from her arm, quick-witted, happy conversations with her friends, strolls and social gatherings, discussing houses and their masters, engagements and the lyrical youths who dispatched oil and rice with the rhythm of poets who'd won awards in floral games, when the strong, blond beauty of a slender lass or the catlike grace of a lovely maiden makes the wealth of dull gold of the Toledo scales made from sterling silver. Now a fully grown woman, her golden, lithe body at the peak of its development, the warm light of summer in her smiling eyes, Balbina achieved her doctorate when she went to serve in the house with the arched façade. It cast a shadow over more than half a dozen prosecutors, shopkeepers, and small land owners on the narrow street, paved with well-worn stones, only dry in the middle of August, along which clerics with a farmer's build bound in Theology went by like the clockwork figures of antique clocks, and where the cavernous laughter afraid of its own sound of the mad neighbor echoed long and uneasily. In the house there was a salon as lovely as a minuet and as dusty with time as a Louis XV wig, with immense, cherry-colored choir stalls made of carved wood, with yellow tapestry, the large chairs facing one another like they were in the last conversation of the doctoral and the collegiate noble of Fonseca with the time in the eighteenth century marked by the baroque clock made of bronze supported by the twisting mermaid tails. There were bookshelves arranged in different spots like in the ancient theaters: the theologians and jurors in the high boxes, Madame de Sevigné in the orchestra seats, the respected scientists (Buffón was the youngest) in the amphitheater and up above, in paradise, a few Romantic novelists. This was presided over by a doctoral thesis, in Latin, published with silken covers, on the Christian premonition in Plato and Vergil, and beneath it in another small notebook a letter from the author that ended with these lines: "Because sweet Vergil was the swan that accompanied my youth." The rooms, a bit rustic due to their lack of furnishings, were in the back area and looked out on a garden of manor house rosebushes, the usual cypress, and four pyramid-shaped araucaria trees smartly adorning the round pond, at the bottom of which were delicate green specks of Venetian crystal. A hedge of pedagogical old myrtle hid the vulgarity of the four garden plots and the washing tank. It had been some time since the lady of the house went out anywhere except to morning mass and to visit the cemetery; she wasn't familiar with the new streets of the town and referred to them by their old names -- Figueiral, Inquisición, Arco da Pedra --the nicknames given them since the revolution using the surnames of the heroes of liberalism and the mayors elected by the people. She was the Sybil of the compotes, The Parca of the illustrious families, the Prophetess of the End of the World, the Porphyrigenitus of past elegance. The only thing she had in the world, besides the parrots woven in portraits by her mother when she heard about the exile of Carlos X and a cat she had, descendant in direct line of the little gray kitten from Umbría who when its master Pope León XII, fled and circled the cupola of Saint Peter three times, was a grandson, master Paulos, eighteen years of age, with large eyes the color of pansies grown in the shade, son of a daughter who had died far away, in the colonies, and of whom it was forbidden to speak in the house because she had run off to marry an officer of the infantry when according to her lineage the worst marriages were at least with Dragoons of Santiago. By order of the grandparents, when the officer died of the vomit, soon after his wife, the boy was taken by a servant of the house, Mr. Ambrosio, who had brought him from Cuba feeding him with a bottle. He was now doorman and butler of the house, running it with a hoarse voice from a sort of confessional cubicle by the great dark noble entrance where the poor dared not enter because to them it looked the door to the asylum. Balbina entered as both servant and cook. Not a lot of work. Mr. Ambrosio only ate porridge because of his teeth, the lady only sweets that she made herself, along with some chocolates, and the master, noodle soup, Scott's Emulsion (cod liver oil) and wine with quinine. Still, to keep up appearances in the house, the servant hung a proud basket with high sides on her arm and had two pesos for shopping that she used to buy things for herself and to send send things to her mother's house with the women who sold vegetables. She sent so much that in the village people thought she must be working for a priest, because she didn't return to the festivals and became quite fond of good things: at night she dreamed about the basket and how the next day she'd spend the pesos on ham, chocolates, potted chicken and good beef, exquisite items that the fast tongues with bourgeois taste couldn't even imagine.
Master Paulos thought Chateaubriand was the most modern author and that the voyages of Captain Cook were the last geographic discoveries. Always sickly, he never went out in the sun and had no friends. With a priest he'd studied a bit of Nebrija, and his grandmother considered sending him to study Jurisprudence, since his narrow chest and his fear one night when he caught sight of the candles in the window of a neighbor who had died, showed he wasn't cut out for the noble profession of the military. But in the Institute, the revolutionary Law of Moyano had established a number of chairs in Chemistry, Natural History, and other sciences that the lady of the house thought were equivalent to Alchemy and Witchcraft and she never got around to taking him to the entry exam.
The boy suffered from melancholy. He didn't realize it. When autumn dimmed the rosebushes, he thought of moaning forests and gurgling streams on hilltops. At times, a springlike breeze made him think of golden fields of grain and once, from the mansard of the house, he cried while contemplating the beauty of a little villa in the sunlight, with its bell-tower and the smoke arising along the mountain tops. He thought all the shepherdesses were innocent, that the farmworkers cried with emotion when the sun set and that there were wolves and bandits, ferocious pagans on the hilltops and wise old men giving beautiful apologues. His melancholy needed a reason to burst free.
Balbina had a sunny, fragrant April afternoon to do the washing in the tank. The swallows flew in fantastic gyres around the Cathedral's tower. They created such a happy scene that it made one weep. Paulos, hearing the slapping of the clothing in the tank, looked toward the myrtle. Balbina, whose blouse was open at the top and her arms were naked, strong, white and shapely, had wrapped her hair in a coastal style kerchief that went around her head. With her eyes twinkling and her face reddened like a sweet, juicy peach, she was singing:
Laurel, green laurel
where is your root?
Under the washing tank
where Beatriz washes.
Paulos had only been near one farmer: an ugly, angry farmer with a worm-eaten head, bowed legs and hands like claws scratching some accounts on a piece of paper. Now the rural Muse was before him in the figure of Balbina and the soap bubbles floated up in search of the glowing nape of her neck and the golden locks that were escaping at will from beneath the headscarf. Paulos feared that his grandmother would hear that scandalous song. There was nothing to fear, because that day she was adding syrup to the moulds of walnut pudding. And without hesitating, with the simplicity of a bird that escapes its cage feasts on the first fruit of the orchard, he hugged Balbina, devouring her arms and cheeks with hungry kisses.
She didn't resist, nor did it seem strange to her. In the lad's eyes there glowed a passion so youthful that they became lovers like the shepherds of olden times.
III.
THE NOBLE
One morning there was a big ruckus in the silent, parsimonious street, residence of stingy people with strait-laced habits. It was a spring morning. The swallows were tracing mad, twitter-filled circles full of chirping in the warm air above the rooftops; they were the only ones who could enjoy the joy of the sun's joyfulness, which was, never seen by the shoemaker by the doorway, nor by the stones of the pavement. The large figure of a stiff old man appeared on the balcony of the top floor, his clumsy-looking rifle aimed at the sky, and bang, bang!! the loud, echoing, angry shots like the ones heard in the hills rang out, causing the poor, dirty windowpanes of the apartments, the paralytic fellow in his chair, the ladies of the gentile classes, the employees who prepared chocolate, the old woman and her knitting, the little girl reading novels, the bourgeois cats and retired servants who go to mass and survive on a pension left to them by long-dead masters, to shudder. Fear, puzzlement, murmurings, tall tales. For most, a verdict of ill conduct and a great agitation among the residents when the noble stood facing the sun in his lofty gallery.
We're going to recount the story of that man in brief vignettes, told in accordance with trustworthy sources. The logic of the story, and it's the only one that's known, will justify his tragic ending, coinciding with the end of the nineteenth century. No judgment or criticism is intended, no interpretation or explanation. Two notes must be considered beforehand, however: he had only been taken ill once; he never gave any explanation for it. And nobody doubts that he was a great master.
1835. Scene: a large wine cellar in Ribeiro. Barrels that were already were a hundred years old when the Napoleonic invasion took place. Friars collected fees for land rental. The big autumn sun arrives to pay homage at the gate to the strong, new wine imprisoned in the deformed bellies. A noble with a white beard and twinkling eyes holds a child who is no longer a baby on his lap. Foremen, day workers, a chaplain from the house form a respectful circle around him. The noble had studied in Fonseca and had been prone to questioning; he spent a lot of time reading the classics, was drawn to the stories of his class. Even so, he had never wanted to be ordained. Domine, non sum dignus, Lord I am not worthy. Primogeniture maintained a cloistered existence in the winter manor house, the summer manor house, the autumn manor house, the spring manor house. Seven sites were joined, and there were seven curates. A manor house on New Street. The Clarissa Sisters. Captain of the people in a valley during Independence. Strong backbone - because of lineage and studies - not a courtier of King Fernando, not for love of the benches of his seven kitchens and calm strolling through the echoing halls, not a coronel in the Andean war. Married late, when relatives were sharpening their teeth for a fat inheritance, he spoiled his son with an old man's love. With his son in his arms, he was only afraid of one thing: illness or revolution. For illnesses he had the prescriptions of the friar of Saint Francis, for the Revolution he'd arm a troop of loyal mountaineers. The ones from Bocelo, the ones from Friol. Not begun like the core of an oak tree. Now he's watching the decanting of the wine. A fragrant golden fountain spurts from the largest barrel: agile hands carry off the pots and the pots are emptying into the toothless mouths of other volumes. The murmuring of two rivers along the roads fills the wine cellar and the afternoon.
The boy, for once, is still. The father is pleased with the boy's attention. The boy is entertained watching the strong stream flowing from the large spigot. A game. A draining away that excites the child's restlessness. Then the spout starts to slow down, it no longer has that strong flame-colored arc; now it slows down and and weakens. It quickly stops. Then the boy bursts into tears. He wants to watch that lovely fleeting thing forever. If he were grown, he'd catch it in his hands like a slippery snake. His father shivers, is uncertain, then notices and orders:
"Open all the spouts." Frightened, the men, fearing divine punishment, aren't sure if they should obey: there are no other barrels available. Angry, the master orders them to do it. They all know the force of the mater's terrible voice. With trembling hands, surreptitiously crossing themselves - they aren't responsible - they open the barrels, The noble's loud declaration echoes inside the wine cellar:
"Let my son, my heir, the scion of my line enjoy himself."
And so the barrels flow, the ones with white wine, the ones with red wine, the ones from Encosta, from Bacelar, from Teixugueira, just as the fountains of Versailles flowed during the Great Century. A roar of diluvium in the wine cellar, an ancient harvest running along the sandy floor, forming a flooded lake offered up to the unconscious cruelty of a baby Nero. The wine resembles blood bathed in the sun's amazement, inebriates the atmosphere of the wine cellar, the men, the chaplain; pants are rolled up, the wine stains their legs. Partridge legs. The little boy laughs, shouts, claps his hands with glee. Weary, he falls asleep in his father's arms when the loud whisper of the empty bottles fills the wine cellar with the sense of fatality. With the arrival of the evening and great regret the men head to the kitchen and walk toward their homes, saying:
"What a grand gentleman Don What's-His-Name is..."
The exclamation in the voice of the people and the envy of the noble class spreads throughout the region:
"What a grand gentleman, what a grand gentleman..."
1845. The wintry air comes down the chimney making the coals hiss and spark in the fire. The chaplain warms his hands, paces uneasily, at times goes to the bedroom door. Surrounded by cousins and siblings, the noble is fighting death in the great bed. The white of his beard blends with the white sheets. His eyes are focused on the crucifix, but at times also reveal impatience and pain. What they all feel. The chaplain, an exclaustrated friar - goes up to warm himself by the hearth and to look through the windows, The cold morning is born, painfully, over a landscape of white mountaintops. Many people went out to look for it. And they see the day, they see death, and Don Xohán, he is the only one they don't see.
Everything is prepared in the chambers of the law office: the papers, the titles, the will. The Master with a large contingent of faithful followers made a solemn visit to the manor house. There were lace tablecloths on all the tables, gilded altars, and bouquets of flowers, a miracle in the middle of winter in the mountains. In the kitchen the farmhands don't dare to speak. The noble gave no sign of movement or effort, but when the Master arrived, he jumped out of bed, despite being so weak, and took communion on his knees, his arms crossed like a Christian king. But his son hadn't arrived. The final bitter chalice for the dying noble. Around mid-morning, the soft steps of death as they left the bedroom crossed the hall, having completed their task. A sinister old woman there saw it, saw Death striding through the sunroom in order to go down to the garden and continue the work of wielding the scythe.
The priests of three bishoprics and the nobles of seven jurisdictions, have been summoned, and the poor will come from twenty parishes. The rosary fills the manor like an obsequious tide. At nightfall the great candles are lit. Because the doors are not shut, nobody notices the arrival of the young noble. The chaplain starts to scold him, but falls silent when he sees the haughty figure of the young man. He's wearing high boots, a rustic overcoat, and is accompanied by a pack of dogs howling in a bloodcurdling chorus. The noble cracks his whip at the dogs, orders his horse to be led to the stable and, with the gesture of a great noble, bares his head, kneeling to kiss the small lands of the dead man. The chaplain remembers the date: It was a holiday in Monteseixo and, looking at the noble, he says "Facies pecaminosa". Guilty expression. He keeps vigil all night long, silent, straight-backed. Around eleven o'clock seventy priests sing the burial hymn, an entire village stirs on the patios, the beasts do not fit in the stables, and the nobility doesn't fit in the halls. Don Xohán accepts the condolences with a sad, tranquil dignity. People's faces look assured, since Don Xohán will do well by his lineage...
The sunset, urged on by the evening, disappeared quickly, when there were still people seated at the tables. Mules and horses of priests and nobles go back up the paths along the mountain. Their tongues as they leave are once more merry and wild. One crosses plains full of wolves before coming to rest by the fire of the manor houses. The evening is like a rosary of the poor strung along the shortcuts in the highland. Everyone, without clearing away the tables, goes to bed early in the manor.
Yet the noble does not sleep. Nor does he think. He cries briefly, pondering, not his father's hand but the hand of the friend that rested affectionately on his shoulder. Then he hears a noise coming from the room where his father died. He gets up and looks from the darkness of the doorway. Candle ends are still burning. A girl, a good family servant, daughter of tenants, her arms bare, a bit frightened, removes the bedclothes, puts the room in order. is cleaning the room. The noble enters like a falcon going after its prey. Caught off guard, not understanding the sacrilege, she doesn't dare resist. Don Xohán, without heeding the prayers filling the room nor looking at the frightened eyes of the girl, embraces her and kisses her with feudal gluttony, atop the bed which still has the shape of a body.
1855. In the fancy dining room of Rúa Nova, some women wait impatiently. The chorus of elderly women awaits as well. But Don Xohán doesn't appear. Only young ladies whom he knows come through the door. The usual ones. In the other soiree, the rustic elegance of Don Xohán had planted flowers of hope in their lives. Until morning Don Xohán places coin after coin on the game table. Bourbon gold, from the period of the Indies, constitutional gold, oddly minted gold. Two centuries of Spanish history can be read in the round pieces of gold. Their gleam makes profiles grow sharper, makes hands grow pale, causes cheeks to become hollow, sharpens the fire in eyes. Only Don Xohán remains impassive, serene, happy as a hunter in the mountains. He has finished off many pitchers of wine because he dislikes the fine liqueurs and drinks of the city. The parasites' interest grows. Don Xohán, with a superior air of which he is unaware, keeps tossing on the table coins as big as suns, fields of rye, pairs of oxen, showy adornments, the astonishment of farmworkers, seeded lands, a vegetable garden, trunks of old oaks whose lovely rings, like an archive, register the gentle, certain passing of the seasons, barrels of wine, the privileges of a noble line. Suddenly a strong, brave man from Sar rests his claw on the heap of coins and points a threatening pistol at the chests of the players. The blood in their bodies runs cold. The man is linked to past deaths, he's as sure in his aim as a gypsy knife, his story is told by the signs of the blind. He looked down on the noble, respecting only men of his profession. Don Xohán deftly grabs him by the neck, pushes the pistol aside and the ridiculous shot is buried in a ceiling beam. Immediately afterward, half a dozen of the usual slaps. The brave fellow is on the floor and his eyes plead for mercy. Many think they should summon the forces of law and order. It's the only chance to have him arrested! There's shouting:
"To jail with him, let him hang."
Don Xohán's arm makes a great protective sweep:
"Let nobody touch a hair on the head of this beaten man, he's under my power."
Then he says to him:
"Come, you shall be my servant. Good wages and diversion. But you must be honorable and make sure you don't steal a coin from me nor carry a knife. Otherwise, you know full well who Don Xohán is."
The noble has a reputation in Santiago. He lives with students. During the day, very slicked back, he strolls along the arches, offers his arm to old spinsters knowledgeable in terms of elegance, climbing the steps of the Praterías. His table is abundant, his wine cellar open, his pockets are for spending. Teams of mules bring him skins full of the best wines of Avia along the shortcuts through the highland. In the lower level of the house gatherings and musical sessions are organized, card games and ways of cheating the everyday commerce of the city. He just as easily removes the cloak of an old priest returning from the novena or turns to Van Spen in the arches, as he sits at the table of the titles and works out the branches of family trees. In the living quarters of the house there are reserved rooms; stretching out in them like a reddish brown cobra beside the warm hearth, on luxurious carpets and furs is the creole woman from the Antilles, lazy and sensual, angry at having to wait but mollified by Don Xohán with a kiss. He had stolen her from her father, an old slave trader in Cuba. The creole has many caprices; when she's driven by jealousy to break a window pane, the next day there's another in its place, even more beautiful. There are servants who go into town for her to get the most expensive items and they bring flowers and delicious fruits from Portugal in the blink of an eye. One day her father will send him the bill. Don Xohán will pay it if he doesn't split the father's head open with a bullet. That's how he is, and nobody disputes it.
1865. Fear of the chorus of parasites and the buffoon, the old curial of the town that is the drunkenness of the majority - there's no wine that gets Don Xohán drunk - is a parody of all the eminences of Santiago, from the cardinal to the witch with her Oven, fear of the lawyer and the administrators. Don Xohán is getting married. The wedding is a decision they never expected. Don Xohán fell in love with her one morning when entering the little church of the nuns to do something barbaric, from the moment he saw her, simple and lovely, so modest and well-behaved, Don Xohán hushed his henchmen and thought only of serving her. She was afraid of him. He conquered her in the first conversation. No, those were all insults of evil-wishers!
Dona Rosina lives and rules in the manor house by the sea. Some mansions were completely dismantled by Don Xohán. He always keeps the furnishings, however; and from the hills and the shore, from the mansions sold for a song, golden altarpieces from chapels arrive, carved bed frames, finely crafted chests, ancient weaponry, portraits of ecstatic friars, terrible lords, ladies of opulent beauty looking like autumnal peaches. In the manor house beside the sea all the rivers of Don Xohán's lineage converge, and Don Xohán in the midst of all the precious furnishings thinks he's the owner of all the inherited mansions.
At the end of the year, beside the hearth, Dona Rosina is nursing their firstborn. The servants and maids are already in bed. Whom does the boy resemble? That general in the living room? The pretty lad who's wearing a dragoon's uniform from the war of independence and is resting his girlish hands on a heavy sword?
Dona Rosina studies all the portraits of the line tin order o entertain herself; outside, the sharp wind makes the pine trees sway and is about to tear up the cedar in the garden, the one they brought back from their honeymoon. And Don Xohán hasn't returned. He's always off hunting. Nobody knows the Galician hills as well as he does. He tells horrifying tales of wolves, wild pigs, gay stories of partridges along the slippery sides of the cliff. The old priest from Fontefera in the area of Lugo brags about having killed fifty wolves. In a few winters, suffering the intense cold, Don Xohán beat his record, killing sixty seven. Wolves' heads for his coat of armor like the Moscoso had.
The fire dies away and Don Xohán enters silently. He's pale but determined. What's wrong? Without kissing his son, Don Xohán holds something he has brought bundled in his overcoat up to the face of his frightened wife. It's a little child, lovely, rosy, as white as a little angel, wrapped in poor, dirty rags. Don Xohán says without hesitating:
"Rosina, this is my son. His mother is dead. I'm giving him to you and you can do what you wish with him!"
The two babies seem to smile at one another. Facing the frightened expression of the woman, Don Xohán opens the window to the black night:
"There's the patio. The dogs are hungry. If it's your wish, throw him to them."
The woman, without a word, as was her custom, quickly bares her other breast and the two little ones drink comfortably, happily, of the same milk.
The next day, Don Xohán with a cohort of servants goes to the fair in Pontevedra. On returning early in the evening he goes knocking on doors of the hamlets and leaves in the laps of the gentle peasant girls with obedient eyes, bold fishmongers with lilting voices, dozens of silk scarves, velvet smocks, coral and baroque silver for lovely necks and sweet ears, coins by the handful to free the lands mortgaged by the masters, to pay the medicines for the lame grandmothers lying in bed..
1875. The people still say:
"What a great gentleman!"
Every day the admiration of the gentlemen and clergy grows, as does the envy of the lords of the town, the hunger of local priests and the loansharks. Along all the roads, the ones that braid up through the hills, spreading through the open spaces of the sunny fields that, enamored of the beauty of the inlets, trace the lacy coast, Don Xohán's contented cars scatter their joy. They can be heard from a distance breaking the sleep of the pines in early morning. They're bringing four, six, eight horses, purchased at the fairs in Zafra and Sevilla and Jerez. They don't take the streets of Santiago and when they enter the town squares they spread a festive air. Often Don Xohán goes alone guiding the spirited team of horses: in the driver's seat he has his shotgun and an attractive, spirited, proud lass sits beside him.
At the tables with the priests sitting between the archpriests and the priors he maintains the rhythm of the loading docks discussing with proven method and the cleanliness of a noble, from the soup, thick, wise combination of good things, to the long coda of deserts. The great simplicity of Don Xohán's soul is visible in his speech, in his simple, clear evaluation of things, always choosing the middle road and impressive in topics of hunting, wine, and social behavior, complete mastery. A mouth that never uttered words of doubt and a heart so good that the hard abbots, often scandalized by the field of sins that Don Xohán spread through the parishes, couldn't help but say:
"Don Xohán sins simply, like a boy, and certainly evil doesn't abide in his childlike heart."
A big child spoiled by fortune, by women, by health. No feelings, no problems. More than with the men, he speaks without words in a dialogue of facial expressions and gestures with the dog who hunts partridges. Animals, the poor, suffering animals, have a special love for Don Xohán. His whistle and his voice control the dogs better than than they do the whistles and voices of the servants. He went on a long trip in the middle of winter to see the poor mutt Soult, a good servant and loyal friend, who was dying, in a manor house on the mountain. Lying on the manure of a shed, he didn't have the strength to crawl as far as a warm ray of sun by the door. When he heard the horse coming up and caught the special scent of Don Xohán, perhaps arising from the volatile essences of character that dogs can sense in men, Soult, sticking up his poor, faded ears, wagging a stub of a tail, reached the door quickly, feeling like a puppy again, listening to the music of starry nights beneath the master's window, imagining sweet dreams by his feet on the living room rug. Don Xohán wouldn't leave the dog, his eyes trapped in the other's in a dialogue nobody could imagine. When night fell and the cold set in, the caretakers, who were kindly, brought fire, and Don Xohán must have seen a plea in the eyes of the dog, because with little hesitation he put a bullet right in its head,
"A great gentleman!," murmured the farmers, thinking that Don Xohán had a superior dignity, when they saw the livestock in the meadows stop their grazing and stare at him contentedly, damp with the tenderness once inspired by the great leaders of the shepherds, or the doves wrapping the figure of the noble in winged affection on the balcony with the first burning sun of the morning, or the oxen lowering their powerful, meek heads to nibble the blond stalks of wheat, or the peacock strutting majestically in courting style.
Don Xohán travels the roads along the shore in his car. It's not only for enjoyment. Times are different now. Don Xohán, who never knew what he had nor counted the change for his money, has become an entrepreneur. He doesn't get involved in anything on his own account. He has intelligent servants, some well-off men from the town, who take care of all the business of the settling up on the highway. Don Xohán admires those businessmen, calculating, who know how to follow the curves, build the bridges and flatter the engineers and understand finances and deadlines. Don Xohán is always ready to be surprised, smiles and pays. Sometimes things don't go well. Maybe a part of a road needs changing, or the conscience of an official needs to be bought, the cost of a down payment might be lost, for reasons unknown. The advisors in the matter are now his friends. Some, with a lot of children and little income are in financial trouble. Delicately, so as not to offend them, Don Xohán makes rolls of bills reach their pockets. Many people are jealous of Don Xohán's friends, who have new overcoats, rise in status with authority like they never have; some build new houses, other, less well off, he gives stores to the members of their families. One afternoon, oddly enough, Don Xohán is at home. He's enjoying the cool air with Rosina; the little boys are playing in the garden. The oldest one will have to be sent as an intern to the capitol. Dona Rosina speaks of something that's been gnawing at her; she wants to take advantage of that presence of her husband in the house.
"Forgive me for telling you this; I don't like the people you're keeping company with. They don't seem like good people to me. Why are you looking for business deals? Wouldn't we be better off tending to the land? I'm afraid that you get sick from so much preoccupation. Your hair is turning gray!"
Don Xohán listens in silence. Then he smiles. No, his friends are all good persons, men he'd die for; money needs to be circulating, nowadays one can't live in manor houses like they used to. Don Xohán keeps offering his reasons, without great faith in them and is surprised by an odd memory. Not long ago he'd been with Bibiana, an older woman now, good-looking when in her prime, whom Don Xohán had taken away from hoeing fields with his sweet talking and now, fat and cared for, she governed a bevy of ladies of the night in the city. Bibiana was good to the noble. And she'd had, more clearly, the same thought as his wife:
"Those friends of yours are a crew of thieves. They're relieving their hunger at your expense. If you continue to be so stupid you're going to end up as fleeced as a sheep. Can't you see how fat they're getting? You're the noble, live like it and stop supporting the bloodsuckers and their affairs."
It was a strange meeting of the minds. The butler comes to talk with the master: tomorrow's the fair in Soutoledo. The best one for buying a pair of oxen. We really need them. Don Xohán gets his purse. Then he looks in the files and drawers. For the first time in his life he has no money. The sun, gold coin like the others he sowed by the handful, is about to set in the curve of the hills. The noble who hunts always looks toward the sky, like the sailor toward the sea. In the sky a buzzard vibrates calm, ferocious, dominant. The king of the sunset. There's a snipe hiding in the white dovecote. Don Xohán grabs his shotgun and goes down through the fields of high corn. Now the buzzard is above the great stone pines. The noble admires it for a moment. It's so beautiful! Then he shoots. The bird falls, spinning, is stopped for a moment by a branch, crashes heavily to the ground. The eyes, the beak, the claws. As he returns to the house Don Xohán begins thinking for the first time: "So maybe there are some big payments due on a construction project." Will he have to give in to the sweet talking of Estornelo to mortgage the house in Santiago?
1885. An office in the late afternoon. It was raining against the dirty window panes. The stink of cigarette butts. Extraordinary work. Fear of the arrival of a new boss. Heads on the tables. Don Xohán's head on his. He's easy-going for a noble. He doesn't think ill of it when an old shoemaker, who once made him good hunting boots, addresses him this way from a nearby table:
"Hi there, Juan."
Don Xohán had a jagged line of files on the table. His dimmed wit breaks like the cords of a corset of a young girl on the body of a fat woman. Don Xohán doesn't know where to begin. Maybe he thinks: "Is Leandro still alive, my caretaker from Ribacova? Did Florinda get married? She must be twenty now." He dreams about the blond body of Florinda's mother and the fire, kept going by Don Xohán, in the fireplace. Time of hangovers. "What's up with the wine cellar in Ribeiro? The new owner must have done away with that old oak barrel. It's a good afternoon for spending it with the distiller." The hands dealt in a card game shimmer before his eyes. Good. There are still cigarettes. The afternoons in the fall are longer now than they once were.
Leaving the office, Don Xohán doesn't want to look at a group of girls who are going by. He's recognized the figure of his daughter, the most elegant. She has a boyfriend at her side. A store employee. When Don Xohán is crossing in front of the casino the horses of a coach nearly run him over. The driver stops, alights, and says:
"So sorry, Sir."
He was once Don Xohán's servant. Inside the coach the figure of the loan shark looks like a sardine in a tin. He pretends not to see Don Xohán. He's afraid of a beating.
"Well, the fact is I've got a noble manor house with a split-level stairway and coats of honor, in Compostela," he thinks, bowing, sly as a fox.
Don Xohán, with two retired fellows, strolls beneath the arches of the street. Endless hours. But he doesn't seem to notice. His daughters must be sewing and it wouldn't be right to disturb them. At suppertime they are all happy around the clean table. Don Rosina's hair is white. She says to her husband:
"You look like a spring chicken next to me."
The girls receive an urgent message: they have to finish the ruffles and sleeves of a dress for the dance, before eleven. Then, without tasting a bit of cheese, they start sewing. Don Xohán is not one to tell a sad story. It's nothing important. In the little pitcher there are only a couple of inches of wine from the tavern. In the dining room there is an empty space. The beautiful inlaid ottoman was there previously. It no longer is. Don Xohán and Dona Rosina give each other telling glances. She puts a roll of coins in his hand. Looking out the window, Don Xohán studies the lights of the city at night. The dark street curves. Beyond it there's a narrow side street and on the street a tavern famous for the good tripe it serves. The woman who runs it was and still is close to Don Xohán. Just recently she sent him a fish empanada. She also has other delicacies for him. There's a devilish little Portuguese lass, it's a pleasure to see her. She got tired of serving. Don Xohán suffers as he thinks:
"I'll have to take the other street and go up the steps... One can't attract attention along these streets with their devout residents."
Don Xohán is very frank. He never hid anything about his affairs. If only he still had the open paths of the village!
He gets his big broad-brimmed hat to go out. Dona Rosina, when she says good-by on the stairs, tells him:
"Remember that tomorrow's the day to pay the interest for Estornelo."
Inside their daughters are singing and working to the sound of the Singer. Don Xohán says:
"You're right. It's cold tonight. I'm going to bed."
1900. Everybody is amazed by the physical resistance and dominion of Don Xohán. There were elegant hunters, politicians, people from Madrid. Don Xohán in the forest and at the table seemed to be the one inviting them. His accurate shots filled the cliff of the coast with partridges. Dogs crowded around him as if they were mad. The farmworkers - there were none left now from his time - thought: "What a great gentleman!" His old heavy overcoat set the tone in the hallway. They were in a manor house that had been fixed up and repainted in the latest fashion. The owner didn't know how to read the coats of arms. Don Xohán deciphered them and told stories about the house.
"Over here," he said to the owner, "is where the secret was."
Making an effort to move shakily along the walls of a dark room, Don Xohán managed to make a stone move. Everybody was excited. A waft of age floated out. Yet there was no treasure. There was a packet of parchment and a big container of honey. Don Xohán picked it up carefully and took it to the dining room. The symbol of the good times, the honor of the tradition, the treasure of the house, the fine honey of the grandmothers, of the bees that drink in the old gardens and shine like golden-winged salamander on the field of gules of the coats of arms!
Don Xohán ate and drank like a prior from the war. The story of an entire century, the family lines and the parishes, the harvests and the famines, the Carlist Wars and the Revolution, the classic students, the epic sprees, the beauties of the elegant salons, the beginnings of politicians, bandits, and those who were hung from the gallows, Pepa the Wolf Girl and Xan Quinto, sailing fleets and feudal hunting, it all was part of his conversation. Some who knew it all well, urged him on to make more confessions. But the noble had no words for his false friends nor for the scavengers dressed in pieces of his lordly cloak. With his slightly autumnal gaiety Don Xohán seemed like a slender, ancient tower where birds from the valley had made their nest.
Finally a youth asked him about the romantic period. Was he a poet? No. He'd met many poets and many muses. But he knew just one poem:
"It's my favorite poem," and he recited it: And with sad farewell my lost youth/sent to my hair/expecting they would never return/beautiful hands to caress it. They were all touched and nobody thought to laugh at the lack of good taste.
At the end of the year Don Xohán makes a tremendous discovery: his body is also subject to pain. A mouse's tooth gnaws at his stomach. For two days he has had a terrible pain in his bladder. He doesn't know how to face the doctor. He has only known doctors in social settings. Don Xohán can only stand being in bed for two days. A wintery fog buries the ailing city in a mass of wet cotton. Dona Rosina doesn't leave his bedside. One morning Don Xohán appears to be resting and thinking. Dona Rosina goes to mass. When she returns there are people on the steps, her daughters are screaming and crying like madwomen, there's the stench of gunpowder in the meager dwelling. Don Xohán had made the first and last decision about himself: he was ill, he could not endure the pain and had simply shot himself in the same way as he had done so often with old or sick dogs. Without remorse, without vanity, without sin.
In the cemetery, the simple tombstone of Don Xohán, modest retired civil servant, is surprised at the marble monument of the loan shark. In seven parishes in Galiza the late afternoon sun still kisses the seven cypresses that Don Xohán helped to plant as it is dying.
DOCUMENTACIÓN SOBRE
EP, Santiago: «A tradutora americana Kathleen March espera ‘non ver a morte do galego’», El Correo Gallego (17/07/2015). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: http://www.elcorreogallego.es/ [data de descarga: 04/12/2015]
VILLAR, C.: «Entrevista a Kathleen March», La Opinión A Coruña (17/7/2015). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: www.laopinioncoruna.com [data de descarga: 04/12/2015]
FREIRE, Adriana: «Entrevista a Kathleen March», La Voz de Galicia (17/07/2015). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: http://www.lavozdegalicia.es/ [data de descarga: 21/01/2016]
FREIXANES, Vitor F.: «Vento nas velas: Kathleen March», La Voz de Galicia (12/04/2015). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: http://www.lavozdegalicia.es/ [data de descarga: 04/12/2015]
CANEDA CABRERA, Mª Teresa: «Tradutora/transgresora: traducir Rosalía ?para os galegos?. Retruque ao relatorio de Kathleen March». En ÁLVAREZ, Rosario; ANGUEIRA, Anxo; RÁBADE VILLAR, María do Cebreiro; VILAVEDRA, Dolores (coord.): Rosalía de Castro no Século XXI. Unha nova ollada, Conse. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
COLMEIRO, José: «Quen somos? De onde vimos? Onde imos?. Reflexións sobre os estudios galegos en Estados Unidos», Madrygal. Revista de estudios galegos, n. 16 (2013), p. 131-138. Ver Documento
Fonte: https://revistas.ucm.es/index.php/MADR/ [data descarga 21/01/2016]
REQUEIXO, Armando: «Tender tigres», Praza pública (16/11/2012). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: http://praza.gal/cultura/ [data de descarga: 21/01/2016]
CASTRO, Olga: «La traducción como mecanismo de (re)canonización: el discurso nacional y feminista de Rosalía de Castro en sus traducciones al inglés», Quaderns. Revista de tradució, n. 19 (2012), p. 199-217.. Ver Documento
Fonte: https://ddd.uab.cat/pub/quaderns/quaderns_a2012n19/quaderns_a2012n19p199.pdf [data de descarga 208/06/2016]
EFE: «Presentan la traducción al inglés de Xente de aquí e dacolá», La Voz de Galicia (30/09/2011). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: http://www.lavozdegalicia.es/ [data de descarga: 21/01/2016]
RODRIGUEZ, Raquel: «Entrevista a Kathleen N. March», La Voz de Galicia (05/03/2010). Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: http://www.lavozdegalicia.es/ferrol/ [data descarga: 05/02/2016]
GONZÁLEZ LIAÑO, Iria: «La traducción feminista como instrumento de difusión del discurso reivindicativo de Rosalía de Castro». En SANTAEMILIA; José: Género, lenguaje y traducción: actas del primer Seminario internacional sobre Género y lenguaje, Universitat de Valencia, 2003.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca de Galicia.
GONZÁLEZ LIAÑO, Iria: «Traducción e xénero: o feminismo de Rosalía de Castro traducido ao inglés», Viceversa, n. 7-8 (2001-2002), p. 109-130.. Ver Documento
Fonte: http://webatg.webs.uvigo.es/viceversa/ [data de descarga 20/06/2016]
BLANCO, Carmen: «De musa a literata: Kathleen N. March le desde Maine a Rosalía», Festa da palabra silenciada, n. 11 (1995), p. 72-74.. Ver Documento
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG.
«Rosalía de Castro puxo en escea a apoteose do romanticismo», El Correo Gallego (16/07/1994).. Ver Documento. Artigo
Fonte: Hemeroteca da Biblioteca Xeral da USC.
CARVALHO CALERO, Ricardo (1991): «Introducción». En An Anthology of Galician Short Stories, p. 1-8. Ver Documento. Libro
Volume editado por Kathleen March, e publicado por The Edwin Mellen Press, Ltd.
Fonte: Exemplar da Biblioteca do CCG
Premios da Cultura Galega 2015. Folleto de man. Ver Documento
Fonte: Secretaría Xeral de Cultura. Xunta de Galicia
Ligazóns de interese
Kathleen Nora March no wed da AELG
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
Kathleen Nora March en worldcat
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
Kathleen Nora March na wikipedia
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
Kathleen Nora March en Dialnet
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
Kathleen March en academia.edu
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
Kathleen March no web da Universidade de Maine
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
Kathleen March en Cervantes virtual
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
O fío de Penélope. O novelo de Kathleen March
Teresa López Fernández fai unha achega a Kathleen March e os seus vínculos e relacións no portal do CCG
[última consulta: 13/01/2023]
Créditos da biobibliografia do “cartografías” do Álbum de mulleres
COORDINACIÓNComisión de Igualdade do Consello da Cultura Galega
DOCUMENTACIÓN
Kathleen Nora March
Susana Guitar Novo
Mariám Mariño Costales
TEXTOS
Teresa López
Dolores Vilavedra
Mariám Mariño Costales
DESEÑO
Miguel Alonso Fachado
REVISIÓN LINGÜÍSTICA
Begoña Tajes Marcote
Andrea Expósito Loureiro
REVISIÓN BIBLIOGRÁFICA
Susana Guitar Novo
Anxos Sumai García
TRATAMENTO DIXITAL DE IMAXES
Teresa Navarro Quintero
Agradecementos da biobibliografia do “cartografías” do Álbum de mulleres
A elaboración da Cartografía de Kathlen March contou coa colaboración das seguintes persoas e entidades:PERSOAS
Kathleen Nora March
Carmen Blanco
María Xosé García Barallobre
Carolina García Borrazás
Teresa García Domínguez
Rosario Pérez Madalena
Francisco Redondo
Claudio Rodríguez Fer
INSTITUCIÓNS
Biblioteca Ánxel Casal
Biblioteca da Facultade de Filoloxía da USC
Biblioteca de Galicia
Biblioteca do ILG
Biblioteca Xeral da Universidade de Santiago de Compostela
Centro de Documentación Sociolingüística de Galicia
Arquivo da Emigración Galega
Secretaría Xeral de Cultura. Xunta de Galicia
Seminario de Estudios Galegos
XORNAIS
El Correo Gallego
La Opinión
Praza pública
Sermos Galiza
La Voz de Galicia
REVISTAS E BOLETÍNS
Abriu: estudios de textualidade do Brasil, Galicia e Portugal
Agália Publicaçom internacional da Associaçom Galega da Lingua
Anales de Literatura Hispanoamericana
Anuario de estudios literarios galegos
Boletín da Asociación Internacional de Estudios Galegos
Boletín galego de literatura
Cuadernos de estudios gallegos
Cuadernos hispanoamericanos
Festa da palabra silenciada
Galegos =Gallegos
Grial. Revista galega de cultura
Gran Enciclopedia Gallega
Inti. Revista de literatura hispánica
Madrygal. Revista de estudios galegos
Moenia: Revista lucense de lingüística & literatura
Monographic Review/Revista MonográficaQuaderns. Revista de tradució
Terra e tempo. Revista galega de pensamento nacionalista
Terra e tempo
Unión libre. Cadernos de vida e cultura
Viceversa. Revista galega de tradución
Videos
Kathleen March recolle o Premio de Cultura Galega de Proxección exterior
Fonte: Secretaría Xeral de Cultura. Xunta de Galicia
70 minutos con Marica Campo, Emma Pedreira e Kathleen March
70 minutos é un proxecto que une literatura e música, organizado pola Asociación Socio-Pedagóxica Galega en colaboración coa Deputación da Coruña. Nesta ocasión, entrevistadas por Kathleen March, Marica Campo e Emma Pedreira analizan as súas respectivas obras. As pezas musicais son de Sole Vidal e Aurelio Viribay.
[última consulta: 22/05/2023]
Lectura feita por Kathleen March no ano 2009 do poema «Rosalía», de Xohana Torres, publicado en Do sulco.
Fonte: AELG / YouTube.com
Artigos Kathleen N. March
MARCH, K. (2/1987) A patria de Xohana Torres | Festa da palabra silenciada. (04), 25 .
MARCH, K. (12/1991) A procura dun eros galego: os contos eróticos de Xerais | Festa da palabra silenciada. (08), 39 .
MARCH, K. (1994) ¿O que é a crítica literaria feminista? Unha perspectiva norteamericana | Festa da palabra silenciada. (10), 71-75.
MARCH, K. (2008) Nación e xénero na poesía de Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin | Festa da palabra silenciada. (24), 167-173.
Libros do ccg sobre Kathleen N. March
Rosalía de Castro no século XXI. Unha nova ollada.
2014 | Rosario Álvarez Blanco, Coordinación. Anxo Angueira, Coordinación. María do Cebreiro Rábade, Coordinación. Dolores Vilavedra Fernández, Coordinación.
Febreiro - Xuño 2013
O exilio galego: actas do congreso e repertorio biobibliográfico.
2007 |
O exilio galego de 1936: política, sociedade, itinerarios.
2006 | Pilar Cagiao, Edición. Xosé M. Núñez Seixas, Edición.
Actas do Congreso Internacional de Estudos sobre Rosalía de Castro e o seu tempo (v.1).
1986 | Darío Villanueva, Coordinación.
Santiago, 15-20 de xullo de 1985
