Santiago Eximeno: Días de peste, José Hernanpérez

Siempre he sentido predilección por los géneros literarios considerados menores —entre ellos, por ejemplo, la ficción mínima, que tan a menudo he cultivado—, lo que me ha llevado una y otra vez a bucear en un mar poblado de cardúmenes de letras en busca de esa pieza especial, ese coral oculto que me ofreciera algo distinto, sugerente, alejado de las corrientes literarias más recorridas.

En esa búsqueda me he topado con todo tipo de obras y autores, pero si existe un autor cuya obra me ha marcado profundamente ese es, sin duda, José Hernampérez. No encontrarás nada de él en la red, me temo, pues sus libros apenas se han distribuido más allá de la provincia que le vio nacer, Soria. José Hernampérez, oriundo de Castillejo de Robledo, un pequeño pueblo perdido en la confluencia de las provincias de Segovia, Burgos y Soria, escribió toda su obra en el silencio del que se sabe querido por los suyos pero teme abrirse a otro público quizá más exigente, quizá menos preparado para lo que él quería mostrarles. Me imagino al autor con su pequeño teatrillo a cuestas, recorriendo en su carro el camino de tierra que conducía a Maderuelo, deteniéndose sobre el puente que hoy cubre el agua a contemplar el pueblo y preparar su obra, y siento nostalgia de tiempos y personas que no he conocido. Falsa nostalgia de un pasado que no es el mío, pero que me hubiera gustado compartir. Porque José Hernampérez llevó una vida tranquila, oculta tras bastidores y títeres, ajeno a glorias y famas pero siempre ofreciendo a su público fiel lo mejor de sí mismo.

La obra de José Hernampérez abarca desde el poema hasta el relato —nunca cultivó la novela, al menos yo no he logrado encontrar referencias ni textos en el exhaustivo recorrido que he realizado de su obra—, si bien la mayor parte de su creación se centra en los títeres. He recorrido los pueblos de la zona que frecuentaba para hablar con los más ancianos, aquellos que quizá recordaban su carro y su teatro (el Teatro de la Tía Norica lo llamaba), pero no he tenido fortuna. Apenas una sonrisa a medias, un comentario fugaz, una recomendación para hablar con otro parroquiano. Cuando les he mostrado el legajo con parte de sus obras he visto el brillo del reconocimiento en sus ojos, pero nada más me han dicho. Yo siempre les preguntaba lo mismo: ¿han visto a José Hernampérez representando estas obras?

Porque los papeles que yo poseo, encontrados bajo uno de los bancos de la pequeña iglesia románica de Castillejo de Robledo cuando realizaron las obras de restauración, muestran obras escritas que, francamente, no veo cómo un hombre pudo representar. Y no me detengo a valorar su temática, ya de por sí extremadamente grotesca e inusual para la época, sino a su estructura alejada de las formas clásicas, a sus diálogos faltos de ritmo y a la gran cantidad de personajes y decorados que algunas de ellas implican. ¿Fue capaz José Hernampérez de representar estas obras, tal y como nos cuenta en su diario de viaje? Si fue así, ¿por qué nadie le recuerda? ¿Por qué parece haber sido olvidado?

Incluso en Castillejo de Robledo poco o nada saben de él. Visité el viejo cementerio, situado en una colina a poca distancia del pueblo, y allí encontré su tumba, apenas una cruz oxidada y un pequeño túmulo perdido junto al muro de piedra desmoronado. Algunos le recordaban, o habían oído hablar de él. Un ermitaño, un hombre de pocos amigos que nunca pisó el único bar del pueblo. Ahora, claro, es distinto.

Vincent O'Sullivan: When I was dead

"And yet my heart
Will not confess he owes the malady
That doth my life besiege."
All's Well that Ends Well

That was the worst of Ravenel Hall. The passages were long and gloomy, the rooms were musty and dull, even the pictures were sombre and their subjects dire. On an autumn evening, when the wind soughed and ailed through the trees in the park, and the dead leaves whistled and chattered, while the rain clamoured at the windows, small wonder that folks with gentle nerves went a-straying in their wits! An acute nervous system is a grievous burthen on the deck of a yacht under sunlit skies: at Ravenel the chain of nerves was prone to clash and jangle a funeral march. Nerves must be pampered in a tea-drinking community; and the ghost that your grandfather, with a skinful of port, could face and never tremble, sets you, in your sobriety, sweating and shivering; or, becoming scared (poor ghost!) of your bulged eyes and dropping jaw, he quenches expectation by not appearing at all. So I am left to conclude that it was tea which made my acquaintance afraid to stay at Ravenel. Even Wilvern gave over; and as he is in the Guards, and a polo player his nerves ought to be strong enough. On the night before he went I was explaining to him my theory, that if you place some drops of human blood near you, and then concentrate your thoughts, you will after a while see before you a man or a woman who will stay with you during long hours of the night, and even meet you at unexpected places during the day. I was explaining this theory, I repeat, when he interrupted me with words, senseless enough, which sent me fencing and parrying strangers, — on my guard.

"I say, Alistair, my dear chap!" he began, "you ought to get out of this place and go up to Town and knock about a bit — you really ought, you know."

"Yes," I replied, "and get poisoned at the hotels by bad food and at the clubs by bad talk, I suppose. No, thank you: and let me say that your care for my health enervates me."

"Well, you can do as you like," says he, rapping with his feet on the floor. "I'm hanged if I stay here after to-morrow I'll be staring mad if I do!"

He was my last visitor. Some weeks after his departure I was sitting in the library with my drops of blood by me. I had got my theory nearly perfect by this time; but there was one difficulty. The figure which I had ever before me was the figure of an old woman with her hair divided in the middle, and her hair fell to her shoulders, white on one side and black on the other. She as a very complete old woman; but, alas! she was eyeless, and when I tried to construct the eyes she would shrivel and rot in my sight. But to-night I was thinking, thinking, as I had never thought before, and the eyes were just creeping into the head when I heard terrible crash outside as if some heavy substance had fallen. Of a sudden the door was flung open and two maid-servants entered they glanced at the rug under my chair, and at that they turned a sick white, cried on God, and huddled out.

Ángel Olgoso: Extremidades

Iban a demoler el viejo hospital y citaron a los ciudadanos interesados en reclamar sus antiguos despojos corporales, objeto de observación y estudio durante decenios. Fue la curiosidad lo que me llevó a solicitar la pierna que me amputaron, por encima de la rodilla, cuando aún no había cumplido veinte meses. A aquella tragedia le siguieron años de trato preferente con el mejor artífice de piezas ortopédicas, apéndices más apropiados para la vida en sociedad, y no demasiado molestos; por lo demás, mi muñón y todo mi organismo aceptaban de buen grado cada nueva incorporación, como si se supieran regenerados al entrelazar su borde de carne ya endurecida con esos tejidos fríos, inertes, metálicos. Ahora, frente a mis ojos, en el formol de un recipiente de cristal, flotaba la extremidad sorprendentemente diminuta, blanca e infantil de un hombre de cuarenta y nueve años. Su visión resultaba más tierna que grotesca: los dedos del pie como migajitas de pan, la rodilla sin señales de hueso, el revoltillo de cabello de ángel de las arterias seccionadas del muslo. Este espíritu gemelo, en su soledad, en su meridiana inocencia, había permanecido inmutable, intacto, a salvo de la carcoma del cansancio, libre del veneno que todos los seres llevamos dentro. Yo crecía, mientras tanto, ajeno a la entereza de mi extremidad cercenada; me desarrollaba con la indiferencia de la mala hierba que se reconoce inútil, destinada a una absurda vida de sacrificio y condenada a la fumigación final. Cuando días después comencé a observar desapasionadamente aquella extremidad mínima, a pesar del insondable vínculo que nos unía, a pesar de su plena indefensión, a pesar de todo, me pareció de pronto un objeto inconcebible, casi monstruoso. Bastaba imaginar su mórbido tacto —tan distinto del tranquilizador pulimento de mi pierna ortopédica— para sentir una cierta inquietud, un temor originado más allá de las fantasías de suplantación. Alojé al ente y a su receptáculo de cristal en las baldas más altas del sótano. Allí lo espiaba día y noche, sintiéndome observado. Seguía sus delicadas pero obsesivas evoluciones, meciéndose imputrescible en su mundo de infusión, maligno, ignominioso, como esas hienas que al saberse heridas devoran sus propias vísceras.

Algernon Blackwood: The House of the Past

One night a Dream came to me and brought with her an old and rusty key. She led me across fields and sweet smelling lanes, where the hedges were already whispering to one another in the dark of the spring, till we came to a huge, gaunt house with staring windows and lofty roof half hidden in the shadows of very early morning. I noticed that the blinds were of heavy black, and that the house seemed wrapped in absolute stillness.

“This,” she whispered in my ear, “is the House of the Past. Come with me and we will go through some of its rooms and passages; but quickly, for I have not the key for long, and the night is very nearly over. Yet, perchance, you shall remember!”

The key made a dreadful noise as she turned it in the lock, and when the great door swung open into an empty hall and we went in, I heard sounds of whispering and weeping, and the rustling of clothes, as of people moving in their sleep and about to wake. Then, instantly, a spirit of intense sadness came over me, drenching me to the soul; my eyes began to burn and smart, and in my heart I became aware of a strange sensation as of the uncoiling of something that had been asleep for ages. My whole being, unable to resist, at once surrendered itself to the spirit of deepest melancholy, and the pain of my heart, as the Things moved and woke, became in a moment of time too strong for words…

As we advanced, the faint voices and sobbings fled away before us into the interior of the House, and I became conscious that the air was full of hands held aloft, of swaying garments, of drooping tresses, and of eyes so sad and wistful that the tears, which were already brimming in my own, held back for wonder at the sight of such intolerable yearning.

“Do not allow this sadness to overwhelm you,” whispered the Dream at my side. “It is not often They wake. They sleep for years and years and years. The chambers are all full, and unless visitors such as we come to disturb them, they will never wake of their own accord. But, when one stirs, the sleep of the others is troubled, and they too awake, till the motion is communicated from one room to another and thus finally throughout the whole House…. Then, sometimes, the sadness is too great to be borne, and the mind weakens. For this reason Memory gives to them the sweetest and deepest sleep she has and she keeps this old key rusty from little use. But, listen now,” she added, holding up her hand: “do you not hear all through the House that trembling of the air like the distant murmur of falling water? And do you not now… perhaps… remember?”

Salvador Elizondo: El grafógrafo

Escribo. Escribo que escribo. Mentalmente me veo escribir que escribo y también puedo verme ver que escribo. Me recuerdo escribiendo ya y también viéndome que escribía. Y me veo recordando que me veo escribir y me recuerdo viéndome recordar que escribía y escribo viéndome escribir que recuerdo haberme visto escribir que me veía escribir que recordaba haberme visto escribir que escribía y que escribía que escribo que escribía. También puedo imaginarme escribiendo que ya había escrito que me imaginaría escribiendo que había escrito que me imaginaba escribiendo que me veo escribir que escribo. 

Clifford Donald Simak: Over the River and Through the Woods

I

The two children came trudging down the lane in apple-canning time, when the first goldenrods were blooming and the wild asters large in bud. They looked, when she first saw them, out the kitchen window, like children who were coming home from school, for each of them was carrying a bag in which might have been their books. Like Charles and James, she thought, like Alice and Maggie - but the time when those four had trudged the lane on their daily trips to school was in the distant past. Now they had children of their own who made their way to school.

She turned back to the stove to stir the cooking apples, for which the wide-mouthed jars stood waiting on the table, then once more looked out the kitchen window. The two of them were closer now and she could see that the boy was the older of the two - ten, perhaps, and the girl no more than eight.

They might be going past, she thought, although that did not seem too likely, for the lane led to this farm and to nowhere else.

They turned off the lane before they reached the barn and came sturdily trudging up the path that led to the house. There was no hesitation in them; they knew where they were going.

She stepped to the screen door of the kitchen as they came onto the porch and they stopped before the door and stood looking up at her.

The boy said, "You are our grandma. Papa said we were to say at once that you were our grandma."

"But that's not..." she said, and stopped. She had been about to say it was impossible, that she was not their grandma. And, looking down into the sober, childish faces, she was glad that she had not said the words.

"I am Ellen," said the girl in a piping voice.

"Why, that is strange," the woman said. "That is my name, too."

The boy said, "My name is Paul."

She pushed open the door for them and they came in, standing silently in the kitchen, looking all about them as if they'd never seen a kitchen.

"It's just like Papa said," said Ellen. "There's the stove and the churn and... "

The boy interrupted her. "Our name is Forbes," he said.

This time the woman couldn't stop herself. "Why, that's impossible," she said. "That is our name, too."

The boy nodded solemnly. "Yes, we knew it was."

"Perhaps," the woman said, "you'd like some milk and cookies."

"Cookies!" Ellen squealled, delighted.

"We don't want to be any trouble," said the boy. "Papa said we were to be no trouble."

"He said we should be good," piped Ellen.

"I am sure you will be," said the woman, "and you are no trouble."

In a little while, she thought, she'd get it straightened out.

She went to the stove and set the kettle with the cooking apples to one side, where they would simmer slowly.

"Sit down at the table," she said. "I'll get the milk and cookies."

She glanced at the clock, ticking on the shelf. Four o'clock, almost. In just a little while the men would come in from the fields. Jackson Forbes would know what to do about this; he had always known.

Alfonso Sastre: La bruja de la calle de Fuencarral

Desde que me establecí en este pisito de la calle de Fuencarral he tenido algunos casos extraordinarios que me compensan sobradamente de la pérdida del sol y del aire; elementos, ay, de que gozaba en los tiempos, aún no lejanos, en que desempeñaba mi sagrado oficio en Alcobendas. Y cuando digo que tales casos me han compensado no me refiero sólo, desde luego, al aspecto pecuniario del asunto (tan importante sin embargo), sino también a la rareza y dificultad de algunos de esos casos; rareza y dificultad que han puesto a prueba _y con mucho orgullo puedo decir que siempre he salido triunfante_ la extensión y la profundidad de mis conocimientos ocultos y de mis dotes mágicas.

Pero ninguno de ellos tan curioso como el que se me ha presentado hoya media tarde. Voy a escribirlo en este diario mío, y lo que siento es no disponer para ello de una tinta dorada que hiciera resaltar debidamente la belleza de lo ocurrido, que más parece propio de una buena novela que de la triste y oscura realidad.

Era un muchacho pálido. Cuando se ha sentado frente a mí en el gabinete que yo llamo de tortura, sus manos temblaban violentamente dentro de sus bolsillos. Ha mirado la cuerda de horca _la cual pende del techo_ con un gesto de mudo terror y he comprendido que lo que yo llamo la «preparación psicológica» estaba ya hecha y que podíamos empezar. Después, él ha mirado la bola de cristal; que no es, ni mucho menos, un objeto mágico _no pertenezco a la ignorante y descalificada secta de de los cristalománticos_, sino una concesión decorativa al mal gusto, a la tradición y al torpe aburguesamiento que sufre nuestra profesión, otrora alta y difícil como un sacerdocio, viciada hoy por el intrusismo oportunista de tantos falsos magos, de tantos burdos mixtificadores. ¡Ellos han convertido lo que antaño era un templo iluminado y científico en un vulgar comercio próspero e infame!

He dejado (en el relato, no en la realidad) al joven mirando la bola de cristal. Prosigo.

El joven miraba fijamente la bola de cristal y yo le he llamado la atención sobre mi presencia, santiguándome y diciendo en voz muy alta y solemne, como es mi costumbre: «En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo». «Cuéntame tu caso, hijo mío», he añadido en cuanto he visto sus ojos fijos en los míos cerrados como es mi costumbre, pues es sabido que yo veo perfectamente a través de mis párpados; lo cual, sin tener importancia en realidad, impresiona mucho a mi clientela cuando describo los mínimos movimientos de mis visitantes.

El relato del joven ha sido, poco más o menos, el siguiente: «Estoy amenazado de muerte por la joven María del Carmen Valiente Templado, de dieciocho años, natural de Vicálvaro (Madrid), dependienta de cafetería, la cual dice haber dado a luz un hijo concebido por obra y gracia de contactos carnales con un servidor; el cual que soy de la opinión de que la Maricarmen es una zorra que anda hoy con uno y mañana con otro y que lo que ahora quiere ni más ni menos es cargarme a mí el muerto _o séase, el chaval.

Richard Connell: The Most Dangerous Game

"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery--"

"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.

A few comments from the students at Monmouth High School 9th grade class under the direction of S VanArsdale. "The old charts call it `Ship-Trap Island,"' Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--"

"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.

"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."

"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.

"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.

"Bah! They've no understanding."

"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."

"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"

"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."

"Why? " asked Rainsford.

"The place has a reputation--a bad one."

"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.

"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"

"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"

"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'--as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill.

"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."

"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.

Cristina Peri Rossi: El ángel caído

El ángel se precipitó a tierra, exactamente igual que el satélite ruso que espiaba los movimientos en el mar de la X Flota norteamericana y perdió altura cuando debía ser impulsado a una órbita firme de 950 kilómetros. Exactamente igual, por lo demás, que el satélite norteamericano que espiaba los movimientos de la flota rusa, en el mar del Norte y luego de una falsa maniobra cayó a tierra. Pero mientras la caída de ambos ocasionó incontables catástrofes: la desertización de parte del Canadá, la extinción de varias clases de peces, la rotura de los dientes de los habitantes de la región y la contaminación de los suelos vecinos, la caída del ángel no causó ningún trastorno ecológico. Por ser ingrávido (misterio teológico acerca del cual las dudas son heréticas) no destruyó, a su paso, ni los árboles del camino, ni los hilos del alumbrado, ni provocó interferencias en los programas de televisión, ni en la cadena de radio; no abrió un cráter en la faz de la tierra ni envenenó las aguas. Más bien, se depositó en la vereda, y allí, confuso, permaneció sin moverse, víctima de un terrible mareo.

Al principio, no llamó la atención de nadie, pues los habitantes del lugar, hartos de catástrofes nucleares, habían perdido la capacidad de asombro y estaban ocupados en reconstruir la ciudad, despejar los escombros, analizar los alimentos y el agua, volver a levantar las casas y recuperar los muebles, igual que hacen las hormigas con el hormiguero destruido, aunque con más melancolía.

-Creo que es un ángel –dijo el primer observador, contemplando la pequeña figura caída al borde una estatua descabezada en la última deflagración. En efecto: era un ángel más bien pequeño, con las alas mutiladas (no se sabe si a causa de la caída) y un aspecto poco feliz.

Pasó una mujer a su lado, pero estaba muy atareada arrastrando un cochecito y no le prestó atención. Un perro vagabundo y famélico, en cambio, se acercó a sólo unos pasos de distancia, pero se detuvo bruscamente: aquello, fuera lo que fuera, no olía, y algo que no huele puede decirse que no existe, por tanto no iba a perder el tiempo. Lentamente (estaba rengo) se dio media vuelta.

Otro hombre que pasaba se detuvo, interesado, y lo miró cautamente, pero sin tocarlo: temía que transmitiera radiaciones.

-Creo que es un ángel –repitió el primer observador, que se sentía dueño de la primicia.

-Está bastante desvencijado –opinó el último-. No creo que sirva para nada.

Al cabo de una hora, se había reunido un pequeño grupo de personas. Ninguno lo tocaba, pero comentaban entre sí y emitían diversas opiniones, aunque nadie dudaba que fuera un ángel. La mayoría, en efecto, pensaba que se trataba de un ángel caído, aunque no podían ponerse de acuerdo en cuanto a las causas de su descenso. Se barajaron diversas hipótesis.

-Posiblemente ha pecado –manifestó un hombre joven, al cual la contaminación había dejado calvo.

Era posible. Ahora bien, ¿qué clase de pecado podía cometer un ángel? Estaba muy flaco como para pensar en la gula; era demasiado feo como para pecar de orgullo; según afirmó uno de los presentes, los ángeles carecían de progenitores, por lo cual era imposible que los hubiera deshonrado; a toda luz, carecía de órganos sexuales, por lo cual la lujuria estaba descartada. En cuanto a la curiosidad, no daba el menor síntoma de tenerla.

-Hagámosle la pregunta por escrito –sugirió un señor mayor que tenía un bastón bajo el brazo.

Francis Marion Crawford: The Screaming Skull

I have often heard it scream. No, I am not nervous, I am not imaginative, and I never believed in ghosts, unless that thing is one. Whatever it is, it hates me almost as much as it hated Luke Pratt, and it screams at me.

If I were you, I would never tell ugly stories about ingenious ways of killing people, for you never can tell but that some one at the table may be tired of his or her nearest and dearest. I have always blamed myself for Mrs. Pratt's death, and I suppose I was responsible for it in a way, though heaven knows I never wished her anything but long life and happiness. If I had not told that story she might be alive yet. That is why the thing screams at me, I fancy.

She was a good little woman, with a sweet temper, all things considered, and a nice gentle voice; but I remember hearing her shriek once when she thought her little boy was killed by a pistol that went off though everyone was sure that it was not loaded. It was the same scream; exactly the same, with a sort of rising quaver at the end; do you know what I mean? Unmistakable.

The truth is, I had not realized that the doctor and his wife were not on good terms. They used to bicker a bit now and then when I was here, and I often noticed that little Mrs. Pratt got very red and bit her lip hard to keep her temper, while Luke grew pale and said the most offensive things. He was that sort when he was in the nursery, I remember, and afterwards at school. He was my cousin, you know; that is how I came by this house; after he died, and his boy Charley was killed in South Africa, there were no relations left. Yes, it's a pretty little property, just the sort of thing for an old sailor like me who has taken to gardening.

One always remembers one's mistakes much more vividly than one's cleverest things, doesn't one? I've often noticed it. I was dining with the Pratts one night, when I told them the story that afterwards made so much difference. It was a wet night in November, and the sea was moaning. Hush!--if you don't

speak you will hear it now. . .

Do you hear the tide? Gloomy sound, isn't it? Sometimes, about this time of year--hallo!--there it is! Don't be frightened, man--it won't eat you--it's only a noise, after all! But I'm glad you've heard it, because there are always people who think it's the wind, or my imagination, or something. You won't hear it again tonight, I fancy, for it doesn't often come more than once. Yes--that's right. Put another stick on the fire, and a little more stuff into that weak mixture you're so fond of. Do you remember old Blauklot the carpenter, on that German ship that picked us up when the Clontarf went to the bottom? We were hove to in a howling gale one night, as snug as you please, with no land within five hundred miles, and the ship coming up and falling off as regularly as clockwork--"Biddy te boor beebles ashore tis night, poys!" old Blauklot sang out, as he went off to his quarters with the sail-maker. I often think of that, now that I'm ashore for good and all.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Aullidos / The howling

A la memoria de Paul Naschy

                                                                            Hay un lobo en mi entraña

que pugna por nacer

Mi corazón de oveja, lerda criatura

se desangra por él

Manuel Silva Acevedo, Lobos y ovejas

En la agreste infancia de la meseta burgalesa pedía a mis buenas niñeras del páramo que me contaran una historia de lobos, y con estas historias me dormía.

Félix Rodríguez de la Fuente

“¿Comprendes por qué tenía que ser él? –excitado, el director al productor–. Sus transformaciones son tan convincentes… Y, además, ese físico excepcional. Es único.”

El sudor se condensa en su pelambrera. Aunque ha aprendido a dominar sus instintos, la escena le ha abierto el apetito. Evita la silla con su nombre; se aovilla en el suelo mientras roe una croqueta. Paul recuerda su pasado de atleta: Viena, 1961. Allí coincidió con Nagy, como si una fuerza invisible los hubiese reunido. Apenas se vieron, se reconocieron. Se aproximaron despacio, con cautela, olisqueándose. No hubo rivalidad sino indulgencia, ninguno deseaba marcar su territorio.

–Lo intuí al verte ganar la medalla el año pasado. ¿Y desde cuándo…?

–¿Soy así? Desde que tengo uso de razón. Supongo que no es tan raro; en mi país abundan los relatos sobre… nosotros. Durante la Edad Media nos cazaban sin piedad.

–Dicen que un mordisco es el comienzo, pero yo tampoco recuerdo ningún hecho insólito. No soy mala persona. Entonces, ¿por qué? –parece atormentado.

–“Incluso un hombre puro de corazón / que  dice sus rezos por la noche / puede convertirse en lobo cuando el acónito florece / y la luna de otoño brilla” –recita–. Olvida los prejuicios ajenos; sólo te harán daño. El lobo es bestia noble. No pidas disculpas.

Aquel orgulloso húngaro, más experimentado, se convirtió en mi mentor. Mitigó mis inquietudes. De él tomé el nombre artístico por el que me conocen los hombres.

Era joven: necesitaba respuestas. Creía en una justicia suprema o, al menos, en una razón que todo lo explica. Con el tiempo he aprendido a convivir en armonía con mi naturaleza. Ahora me sé afortunado: yo aún no he olvidado quien soy. A veces corro por el bosque mientras amanece, con el frescor sobre la piel… Y un día, cuando la parte que más lastra ya no respire, sólo el corazón del lobo latirá. Entonces aullaré para siempre a la luna. Y quizá otro aullido responda. Porque “incluso un hombre puro de corazón”... Y aunque es destino de mi raza el vagar solitario, los lobos somos aún espíritus solidarios.

Conrad Aiken: Mr. Arcularis

Mr. Arcularis stood at the window of his room in the hospital and looked down at the street. There had been a light shower, which had patterned the sidewalks with large drops, but now again the sun was out, blue sky was showing here and there between the swift white clouds, a cold wind was blowing the poplar trees. An itinerant band had stopped before the building and was playing, with violin, harp, and flute, the finale of "Cavalleria Rusticana." Leaning against the window-sill— for he felt extraordinarily weak after his operation— Mr. Arcularis suddenly, listening to the wretched music, felt like crying. He rested the palm of one hand against a cold window pane and stared down at the old man who was blowing the flute, and blinked his eyes. It seemed absurd that he should be so weak, so emotional, so like a child-and especially now that everything was over at last. In spite of all their predictions, in spite, too, of his own dreadful certainty that he was going to die, here he was, as fit as a fiddle-but what a fiddle it was, so out of tune!-with a long life before him. And to begin with, a voyage to England ordered by the doctor. What could be more delightful? Why should he feel sad about it and want to cry like a baby? In a few minutes Harry would arrive with his car to take him to the wharf; in an hour he would be on the sea, in two hours he would see the sunset

behind him, where Boston had been, and his new life would be opening before him. It was many years since he had been abroad. June, the best of the year to come-England, France, the Rhine-how ridiculous that he should already be homesick!

There was a light footstep outside the door, a knock, the door opened, and Harry came in.

"Well, old man, I've come to get you. The old bus actually got here. Are you ready? Here, let me take your arm. You're tottering like an octogenarian!"

Mr. Arcularis submitted gratefully, laughing, and they made the journey slowly along the bleak corridor and down the stairs to the entrance hall. Miss Hoyle, his nurse, was there, and the Matron, and the charming

little assistant with freckles who had helped to prepare him for the operation. Miss Hoyle put out her hand.

"Good-by, Mr. Arcularis," she said, "and bon voyage."

"Good-by, Miss Hoyle, and thank you for everything. You were very kind to me. And I fear I was a nuisance."

The girl with the freckles, too, gave him her hand, smiling. She was very pretty, and it would have been easy to fall in love with her. She reminded him of someone. Who was it? He tried in vain to remember while he said good-by to her and turned to the Matron.