THREE WIDOWS

THREE WIDOWS

«Dicen acá que

loque se lleva de esta vida

es la vida que se lleva«

 

(«We say here that when you die

the only thing that you take with you from the life you had,

is the kind of life you had»)

 

 

 

Lutgarde

They couldn’t have been more different: she was blonde, overwhelmingly talkative and expressive, hyperactive and nervous, always a bit angry (or so I thought because her language: Flemish sounds abrupt to Latin ears). He was dark, upright, calm, invariably silent although his curious eyes recorded and collected everything he saw; cautious and shy he replied to his wife’s long speeches with a laconic ‘yes’ or, worse, an ‘uhum’.

It was their first big trip abroad, to Peru from their distant Flanders, and although he seldom smiled -to his hosts’ concern- his agile mind carefully translated all the explanations and he videotaped the images of such an alien, exotic and incomprehensible world.

And so what had to happen happened, in Iquitos riding on a moto-taxi (a trip that probably seemed more surreal to them than the extravagant modern paintings in Belgian museums) the blonde nurse and the dark haired mechanics teacher got separated from the rest of their group. As always happened with this couple of extremes, she wanted to look for her group in Belen market walking towards the river, while he stubbornly tried to take his chances by walking in the opposite direction.

This drama had a happy ending and today we can laugh about it, but I shall never forget the face of their hostess, my 14 year old daughter, who sensibly suggested they take a taxi and go back to the hotel while both characters insisted ongoing their own ways.

At that time I did not know that Herman had cancer, that he had undergone terrible treatment and that his doctors thought he only had five more years to live. Only a challenge as definitive as this could take him away from his safe routine, his narrow limits and well-known territory to go on such a long trip.

Although in public his rigid silence made him look like his talkative wife’s subordinate, he was really a very hard working man, who worked like a devoted ant, quietly organising, planning, regulating and implementing a series of routines and rituals at home that had his house functioning perfectly. But in that efficient network of solutions, that seemed to appear effortlessly and unprompted, was his wife, taking it all for granted and enjoying life and love with him.

I was near them when cancer struck again, its predictable pain was so great that his doctor, with brutal frankness, told him his real chances: they could process him again, isolate him and bomb him with chemotherapy or leave him alone. With great strength she uttered the only sentence capable of shaking him out of giving up: he had to fight for his family. And that is what he did.

In the subsequent months we saw him bloat and lose weight, lose his hair and suffer greatly, but he took some breaks during the non-treatment periods and enjoying a Pisco Sour he remembered Machu Picchu while his wife talked to him.  We went out together, for dinner and for walks, he never left his job, his routine, his jogging or his students. As his brother rightly said, Herman fought death in the same way he always lived, with an agenda in his hand.

I could not possibly identify the voice that phoned one night. The husky whisper of an exhausted animal could not have seemed more alien, and yet it was Lutgarde. There had been some very severe unforeseen complications in the treatment, and her husband would die at any moment.

It is not easy to describe how couples in Flanders live, I have lived here for 12 years and am still surprised by it. It is charming to see couples, of all ages, always hand in hand, white-haired accomplices, absolutely egalitarian in their relationships, sharing their money -so hard earned- on small luxuries and pleasant outings together, on carefully planned trips, on bike tours, in theatres and parks, giving themselves completely in this exclusive type of love; always together.

There is no place for widows in Flanders, their solitude knows no bounds, and they do not have the extended family network that we Latin-Americans do. They bring up their children to be strong and self-sufficient and when they fly the nest their independence is total, with their parents and their parent’s parents before them.

The funeral proceedings really surprised me. All the detailed decisions of the ceremony were made serenely, in front of an undertaker armed with a modern laptop and an elegant catalogue. The widow and her daughters carefully and imperturbably chose the type of coffin, the text that would be on the cards and letters, the flowers, the crematorium, the location and date the funeral would be held.

I remembered a warm afternoon many months earlier when my cheerful husband had explained to me that because of the busy lives led by people in Flanders, funerals usually take place long after a person has passed. When I asked him what happened then, if the widow or the children wanted to accompany the dearly departed, he raised his enquiring eyebrow in astonishment and asked me: «why?! Why would they do that?!” – “To be with him!”–“… … well” (not very convinced that such a thing should happen) “then I guess they would go to the mortuary, take him out of the freezer, look at him and put him back in the freezer.” I mentally compared this with the Latin-American wake where the whole family accompanies the dearly departed, we touch him, we caress him, we pray for him, we look at him while in the background the gathering gets underway and becomes worldlier as the night draws on.

Until the day of the funeral Lutgarde went by train every day to the mortuary of the hospital to be with her husband, to ask him why he had gone like that, why he had left her so alone, why hadn’t he told her how much he loved her before he died, why had he not left her instructions to follow for this eventuality, why, why, why, why? ………

In the mass my husband paid his brother of 55 years old a precious, just and sincere homage. She was there, shrunken in her tragedy, with her blonde hair shining over the sorrow of black, she stood there, straight and solemn, emitting few but precise words of greeting and thanks, ethereally calm and wrapped up in that veil of the brewing storm that you perceive around a woman being strong in the face of fatality. Because Flemish women pride themselves on their strength, they despise the shame of crying in public, they appreciate the moral value of hiding their sorrow, and they scorn self-pitying tears. They are brought up to be stoic; they withstand great blows with the strength of a man.

After the funeral, sorrow was unleashed at home and she became ever more shrunken, while the husky whisper settled in her throat. She dragged her feet around her empty house, trying to find Herman’s voice, his footsteps, smelling his clothes, invading his side of their bed with relentless hope during the sleepless nights. At night her ice-cold house remained dark, during the day the curtains remained drawn and the living room was black, her plants wilted, dust began to settle and the kitchen was almost never lit.

Soon enough problems started arriving and he was not there. Then she understood the depth of her solitude. She could not regulate the heating while the temperature reached 10 degrees below zero; she had no idea where the bills were, where the cheque book was, how much she should pay for the funeral nor where that money would come from. She could not even change the recorded message on the answer phone where Herman’s voice astonished the callers with his short, precise message. The refrigerator began to stop working, bills kept coming, she began to panic.

Until the day she decided to light the fire in the fireplace. A titanic task that she had seen the efficient Herman undertake each winter. Xmas was getting closer and, almost lost behind the wheel of his car (a car she never drove before because Herman was her driver); she went to search for firewood.

We went to see her at Xmas. Her house was shining, so clean and cosy, with cushions decorated with Xmas drawings, the phone message had been changed, all the bills had been paid. She had beautiful Xmas decorations and she proudly invited us to sit near her fire where huge blocks of wood were burning.

All evening she combined nice, friendly chat with spirited trips for more firewood and she tended to the fire with professional style and a huge asbestos glove. Her golden hair fell over a fuller face, back was her assertive and lively voice, and she calmly showed us her duly paid and filed bills. Whenever she asked for an opinion it was always to confirm her own judgment over possible savings and bank transactions.

Sometimes sadness returns in all her strength and I know it from her exhausted whisper which conveys her sorrow to me. In the intermediate language in which we communicate she encourages me to travel more with my husband: dear friend, life is too short, I know -she says and her voice breaks down. But Lutgarde is a wonderful Flemish woman, she is a fighter and has taken the reins of her own life in her hands; besides, she now has a grandchild.

IONARA

When we travelled to Rio we were asked to visit my sister’s brother in law who was about to marry a Brazilian girl, and it was a pleasure to see them together. She was lively, talkative, with an internal beauty that escapes through her eyes and greets life with a big smile. He looked at her adoringly and, although smiling and calm, sometimes he said something ironic about her or women in general. She was always the engine that moved him to study; she set him goals and encouraged him to meet them, always with a cheeky smile and always offering him the shelter of her great love.

When they visited Lima together with their little children the looks they gave each other were magnetic, the slightest touch of their hands when near each other sent vibrations that everybody could feel. In front of others she adopted a secondary place, saying ‘yes’ to everything he said, proposing topics that showed him in a good light. Very rarely did she crack a joke but when she did it was in a spirit of tenderness and love. When she chatted with other women his eyes followed her with passion and with the shining love that in more than 20 years together never lost its lustre.

We admired her so much! A full time gymnastics teacher, she also travelled to buy handicrafts in Peru and always found admiring buyers for them in Rio de Janeiro; she bought a little wagon to take tourists to the main sites in Rio too. She was always active with at least two jobs but she never left her children unattended and she was always there for her husband. She was ever happy and unaffected.

“Carlos has cancer and we have come to look for any medicine”, she told us. Having exhausted chemotherapy, the expert doctors, the hospital corridors of formal nightmare, they were searching for anything that could give them hope. In Peru they found Cat’s Claw and others suggested homeopathy, Carlos took everything and did everything he was told to do; thus he lived for many years.

Last year at a luncheon in Lima he looked so well! He was even a touch overweight and he spoke to us of their plans: their children were grown up and had their futures clearly mapped out. He and Ionara were building their house and they wanted many guests, that was their life dream. In the midst of her ever-active life she was planning the decoration of their nest with things bought on all her trips, while he did the drawings for the layout of the house, decided on the spaces he needed to do his hobbies late in life.

Some months later my niece phoned me to say that she was travelling to Rio, her uncle Carlos was dying in hospital. Thanks to her I learnt the details. I wrote to Ionara, I phoned her, but nothing could replace the sisterly hug that I needed to give her.

I learnt that when Carlos was in the hospice/hospital for the terminally ill, Ionara had enrolled as a volunteer to be closer to him and take as much care of him as possible. In spite of her active and restless personality, she managed to organize her jobs of director, instructor and trainer very well in order to be able to devote all her time to him. She put herself in the hands of her faith and felt peace because Carlos never complained of pain.

Carlos’s whole Peruvian family was there. With their strong northern male voices and their eternal jokes they all tried to alleviate his departure, as men do, as should be done.  Carlos was 55 years old. When he passed away, back came his childish features and they all had photos taken with him. They tried to help with the paper work while Ionara decided where the immediate funeral should take place and took care of her many guests, stealing a few minutes, here and there, to be alone with her husband, hold his hand, touch his hair, and bathe him in the tenderness of a happy life together.

Worried for her children and her guests and praying to San Expedito to give her resignation she stumbled through those hours, somehow through the mist of all the tiny tasks that had to be done. Ionara answered my letter with a beautiful letter in Portuñol (half Portuguese, half Spanish) and I share it here with you: «We say here that the only thing you have from life when you die is the kind of life you had» ……… «Carlos is no longer with us and this is something that you feel all the time. I think of him many times a day, things remind me of him, of all the things we did together and now things are different, it is no longer the way it was before. I still cry a lot, at home, at work, when am driving or walking in the street, it is not easy, it is not easy. Now I take care of the paper work at home and am taking over the construction of our house. I have to do what Carlos used to do: buy the building materials, talk with the construction workers, study what is best to do at home, that is, everything that is needed to complete our house … … … I think … … … I am going to work a lot, I am going to finish our house, I am going to do this, I am going to do that and everybody thinks I am very strong, that I am a strong woman that can bear it all. But it is not so, my friend, inside my body I am broken up into tiny pieces. Some days I wake up and wonder, why? What is the reason? Why can’t I enjoy the grace of life anymore? Why don’t I have the will to do anything? Why? Why? Why? And why?

If I did not have the company of my family, the family of Carlos and my friends, all of them so marvellous, I would be like an idiot right now, because it is a feeling that is stronger than me. I could not control myself ……………… I was lucky to have so many members of our families near me, they gave me strength, and I hope that all the Peruvians that were here also felt that we wanted to take care of them with love, friendship and hospitality. We had dreamt so often of the inauguration of our home with all our family and friends and see! See! How it was that we could get them all here together!

Thus, my friend -she said to me- enjoy yourself as much as you can with your husband. Don’t waste time on silly fights, a minute lost in life is a minute lost forever. Life is too short, now I know it well.

Ionara’s children left to start their adult lives and I know that Ionara has visited my country looking for formal trade contacts to export handicrafts. I long to see this strong woman, who is so tender, who is so vital, that can cry in public because she knows that tears help wash sorrow from your heart.

CRISTINA

I grew to know her year by year and each time I admired her more. Full of dreams and armed with the strong will to reach them, she spent her days painting life and drawing passions. She seemed so unreachable; when boys flirted with her she baffled them with her replies, in a language so personal that nobody could understand her. Her body was so fragile but her spirit was so strong and we all knew that she was destined to have a future that would break all moulds. If anyone could make her dreams come true, it certainly was Cristina.

When she introduced me to her husband I felt a dense cloud around him, he was not a good man, and I could feel it. But he was a very bright man who understood her language and guided her through dark mazes in life.

It was painful to see this evolve, my friend was vanishing, losing her light, her mediaeval armour of fairy and knight became rotten and sour, she lost confidence in herself, she rejected her old dreams.

From his almighty height he started to build fences all around her and at the beginning she fought them back but at some point in time during their life together she stopped fighting. I don’t know how he did it but our plastic Cristina started to abandon herself, like a beautifully decorated purple candle with golden angels and curls that burns and gets gradually flat, melting in wrinkled grotesque mouths, that expand until they are plain and dead, it was so sad.

She gave in to all his whims, he alone was always right, she avoided accepting the truth, she isolated herself. She put metal plates on the fences that he built around her. She lived only for him and she discarded her inner self.

She would follow no advice, she would accept no encouragement to leave him, and her sense of duty was as hard as oak, That man was her husband and she would never leave him. She would not understand that love is about making each other happy, nothing more, and nothing less.

Maybe our culture celebrates uncritical and blind obedience, and we are unaware that it can castrate; a machista upbringing that emphasises sacrifice -almost always in only one direction- and promotes serfdom; a sadistic education that blackmails a child ‘who probably does not eat because he does not love his mother’ or feeds children in excess because ‘there are so many children who suffer hunger’ and in that way we bring them up among the slimy sense of guilt, red shame caused by others and grey endeavours to be punished. But forever, depending on our supreme maternal power to solve their problems, curtailing their free choice day after day and we continue this chain with our daughters, generation after generation, one after the other and the next, until the infinite shout of anger.

And then we wonder awake: why are we like sheep? Why don’t we rebel? Why do we take all this humiliation? Why? Why? Why? Why?

The roles of Cristina and her husband followed a well trodden path. He ruled, she pleased him; he shouted, she begged; he ordered, she prayed. When, on very few occasions she seemed to wake up, their personalities crashed with the same intensity but it was always she who gave up.

When I urged her to leave him, to fight for her own happiness she repeated, with a monotone voice, the wise sentence of a general: We are trained for everything in life, my friend, except for the most important things: to be happy, to be parents, to get old, to become pensioners, and to die.

One day, as had happened so often before, her husband did not come home, but this time the voice of a woman called her from a hospital to announce that after a serious accident he was in the emergency ward.

Tormented by doubt and sorrow she arrived just in time to see him die and then she locked herself up in silence and blackness. She refuses to see any friend, she does not answer the phone, she does not reply to any letter. It has been more than a year now and nobody has seen her, not even once.

I was not close to her then and am sorry for that, a woman with such sensitivity needed her real friends around her at that time. I wonder if at 55 she still has the time and strength to break down the metal fences around her and to recover her mediaeval dreams and I hope she does ………… because life is very short as Ionara knows; as Lutgarde knows.

I hope that she will embrace what Marti once said: «we are all born to be happy».

Being happy is not a sin.

Friend

Tres Viudas

TRES VIUDAS

 

«Dicen acá que

 lo que se lleva de esta vida

es la vida que se lleva«

 

 

 

LUTGARDE

 

No podían ser más disparejos: ella rubia, un poquito patichueca, abrumadoramente hablantina y expresiva, hiperactiva y nerviosa, siempre ofuscada (o quizás me lo parecía porque su idioma flamenco tiene tonos exabruptos). él moreno, erguido, pausado, muy sereno, impenetrablemente callado aunque sus ojos curiosos todo lo registraran y acopiaran; cauto, tímido, respondía a las arengas de su mujer con un lacónico sí, o peor, con un ujum.

 

Era el primer viaje grande que hacían -nada menos que al Perú desde su lejana Flandes- y aunque él esbozaba escasas sonrisas, para zozobra de sus anfitriones, su ágil cerebro traducía con cuidado las explicaciones y con un video registraba las imágenes de un mundo tan ajeno, tan exótico, tan incomprensible.

 

Y ocurrió lo que tenía que pasar, en Iquitos subidos en una taxi-moto (cuyo viaje les parecería más surrealista que las extravagantes pinturas abstractas de los museos de su país) la rubia enfermera y el moreno profesor de mecánica se separaron de su grupo y se perdieron. Como siempre sucedía con esta pareja de extremos ella quiso ir en busca de su grupo por el mercado de Belén, rumbo al río, mientras que él se empecinaba en probar suerte tomando el camino contrario.  El drama tuvo un final feliz y hoy nos evoca una carcajada, pero nunca olvidaré la angustiada cara de su cicerone, mi hija de 14 años, que les proponía sensatamente tomarse un taxi y regresar al hotel mientras ambos personajes pugnaban por escapársele en direcciones opuestas.

 

Entonces yo no sabía que Herman tenía cáncer; que había pasado por un terrible tratamiento y que tan sólo le daban cinco años más de vida. Sólo algo tan definitivo pudo sacarlo de su rutina segura, de sus confines estrechos y terrenos conocidos para hacer este largo viaje.

 

Si bien en público su tieso silencio ante el aluvión parlante de su mujer le daba la imagen de subordinado, él era un hombre-hormiga que en silencio laboraba, organizaba, disponía, regulaba una serie de rutinas y de ritos caseros que permitían que ese hogar funcionara sin falla alguna. Pero en esa red eficiente de soluciones, que parecían brotar sin esfuerzo y por sí solas, quedaba su mujer prendida, dándolo todo por sentado, limitándose a disfrutarlas y a compartir su vida.

 

Me tocó estar cerca de ellos cuando el cáncer volvió a atacar, sus estragos eran tan temibles que el médico con brutal franqueza le planteó la alternativa: volver a procesarlo, aislarlo y bombardearlo con la quimio o dejarlo en paz.  Ella con fuerza propuso el único argumento que podía sacudirlo: tenía que luchar por su familia. Y eso hizo.

 

En los meses que siguieron lo vimos hincharse y adelgazarse, perder todo su cabello y sufrir enormemente, pero se tomaba pausas en los períodos de paz y paladeaba un pisco sour y pensaba en Machu Picchu mientras su mujer hablaba. Salimos juntos a cenar y a caminar, él jamás dejó el trabajo, su rutina, su jogging ni a sus alumnos. Como bien dijo su hermano, Herman enfrentó a la muerte tal como había vivido: con una agenda en la mano.

 

No me fue posible identificar la voz que nos llamó por teléfono, el ronco murmullo de un animal exangüe no podía serle más ajeno y sin embargo era ella. El tratamiento se había complicado y su marido moriría en cualquier momento.

 

Es difícil describir lo que representa la vida de pareja en Flandes, viví en ella 12 años y hasta ahora me sorprende. Es agradable ver andar a las parejas de toda edad siempre unidas de la mano, compañeros de cabezas blancas, sumamente equitativos que comparten el dinero -tan duramente ganado- en pequeños lujos y plácidas salidas, en viajes rigurosamente programados, en giras con bicicleta, en teatros y en jardines, dándose enteros a su exclusivo amor, siempre juntos.

 

No hay lugar para los viudos en Flandes, su soledad es ilimitada, no tienen familia extensa como nosotros los latinos. Crían a sus hijos fuertes y autosuficientes y ellos al independizarse lo hacen del todo, como hicieron sus padres de los suyos.

 

Los preparativos del funeral me dejaron cavilando. Con total serenidad se tomaron las minuciosas decisiones del entierro, ante un empleado de pompas fúnebres armado de una moderna laptop y un elegante catálogo. La viuda y sus hijas eligieron, juiciosamente e imperturbables, el féretro, los textos de las cartas y tarjetas, el color de las flores, el lugar del crematorio, la fecha y el lugar de la ceremonia.

 

Recordé la cálida tarde cuando mi alegre marido me explicó que por la vida agitada de los deudos los funerales se programan para llevarse a cabo varias semanas después del deceso. Y cuando le pregunté qué ocurría si los hijos o la viuda querían acompañar a su muertito, alzó la ceja asombrado – ¡¿para qué?!  – ¡para estar con él!- …bueno entonces supongo que irán al mortuorio lo sacarán del freezer, lo mirarán y lo volverán a meter al freezer. Comparé mentalmente los velatorios latinos donde toda la familia vela a su ser querido, lo mira, lo toca, reza por él y en el fondo también hace tertulia (que se va haciendo profana cuanto más tarde se vuelve).

 

Hasta el día del funeral ella viajó por tren todos los días al mortuorio del hospital para estar con su marido, para preguntarle por qué se fue así, por qué permitió que la enfermedad venciera, por qué la dejó tan sola, por qué no le habló de todo lo que sentía por ella antes de morir, por qué no le dejó las instrucciones a seguir en este predicamento, por qué, por qué, por qué, por qué……

 

Durante la misa mi esposo dedicó a su hermano de 55 años un homenaje justo y sincero. Ella, disminuida por su tragedia, con su rubio cabello brillando sobre la pena del negro, se mantuvo erguida y solemne, con pocas pero precisas frases de saludo y agradecimiento, con esa etérea serenidad envuelta en un velo de tormenta en ciernes que rodea a una mujer en fatales circunstancias. Porque las flamencas se precian de fuertes, desprecian la ignominia de verter públicas lágrimas, aprecian el valor moral de ocultar la pena, menosprecian el autocompasivo gimoteo. Se crían estoicas, resisten embates con fuerza de hombres.

 

Pasado el entierro se desató la pena y ella se iba menguando y menguando, instalando en su garganta aquel ronco murmullo. Arrastraba los pies por su casa vacía tratando de encontrar la voz de Herman, sus huellas, sus pasos, oliendo su ropa, invadiendo con inquieta esperanza en la noche insomne el lado de la cama que él ocupara. Por las noches su casa helada quedaba a oscuras, en el día las persianas seguían cerradas y oscurecían la sala, las plantas languidecían, el polvo se acumulaba y la cocina casi nunca se encendía.

 

Pronto comenzaron los problemas y él no estaba, comprendió entonces el abismo de su soledad. No sabía regular la calefacción y la temperatura llegaba a 10 grados bajo cero; no tenía idea de dónde estaban los recibos, la chequera, no sabía cuánto tendría que pagar por el entierro ni de dónde saldría ese dinero, ni siquiera podía borrar de la grabadora telefónica el mensaje escueto y serio de Herman que sacudía de sorpresa a quien llamaba. La refrigeradora empezó a fallar, los recibos se apilaban, el pánico la sacudió.

 

Hasta que decidió encender la chimenea. Hercúlea tarea que siempre vio realizar al eficiente Herman. Se acercaba Navidad y casi perdida tras el volante del auto de su marido (auto que nunca había manejado porque él era su chofer) partió en busca de leña.

 

En navidad la fuimos a saludar. La casa brillaba de limpia, los cojines de la sala tenían motivos navideños, el teléfono había sido cambiado, los pagos estaban al día, adornaba el ambiente un nórdico nacimiento y, orgullosa, nos invitó a sentarnos cerca de Su chimenea donde ardían grandes troncos.

 

Toda la noche se matizó con sus activos viajes a traer leña y a alimentar el fuego, con aire profesional y un guante de asbestos. Su rubio cabello caía sobre un rostro más rosado, su voz era otra vez fuerte y segura, mostraba con aplomo los recibos debidamente pagados y archivados y se limitaba a solicitar opiniones que confirmaran sus juicios sobre posibles ahorros y movimientos de cuentas.

 

A veces recae en la pena atroz y lo noto porque el exangüe murmullo me transmite su tristeza. En ese idioma intermedio en que nos comunicamos me alienta a viajar más con mi esposo: amiga, la vida es corta, yo lo sé – me dice y su voz se quiebra. Pero Lutgarde es una flamenca; ella es una luchadora y ha tomado su vida en sus manos; además ahora tiene un nieto.

 

 

 

IONARA

 

 

Cuando viajamos a Río nos pidieron que visitáramos al cuñado de mi hermana, a punto de casarse con una brasileña y fue un placer verlos juntos. Ella alegre, hablantina, con esa belleza interna que se escapa por los ojos y le sonríe a la vida. él la miraba con adoración y, aunque sonriente y sereno, de vez en cuando soltaba una cálida ironía sobre ella y sobre las mujeres en general. Ionara fue siempre el motor que lo impulsó en sus estudios; le fijó metas y lo acicateó sin dejar de iluminarlo con su pícara sonrisa y de ofrecerle siempre el refugio de su amor.

 

Cuando visitaban Lima con sus hijos pequeños, las miradas que se dirigían nos magnetizaban, el ligero toque de sus manos al cruzarse lanzaba vibraciones. En presencia de otros ella adoptaba un segundo plano, asintiendo a todo lo que él decía, proponiendo temas que lo realzaran; muy de vez en cuando se permitía una leve broma, con cariño y con ternura. Cuando ella charlaba con otras mujeres los ojos de Carlos la seguían a la distancia, eran miradas de pasión y de ternura que en más de 20 años juntos nunca se opacaron.

 

La admirábamos mucho, profesora de gimnasia a tiempo completo, además viajaba para comprar artesanías peruanas que encontraban siempre entusiastas compradores en su país; también se hizo de una camioneta para trasladar turistas. Siempre activa en dos o más trabajos, nunca descuidó a sus hijos ni mucho menos a su marido adorado y jamás la abandonaron su alegría y sencillez.

 

– Carlos tiene cáncer y hemos venido a buscar algún remedio, nos dijo. Agotados la quimioterapia, los doctores, los pasillos de la formal pesadilla, buscaban cualquier cosa que les diera una esperanza. En el Perú encontraron la uña de gato, otros propusieron homeopatía, Carlos tomó todo e hizo todo lo que le dijeron y así vivió varios años más.

 

El año pasado en un almuerzo en Lima ¡se le veía tan bien! Incluso con sobrepeso, nos habló contento de sus planes, los hijos ya estaban grandes, tenían claro su futuro;   Ionara y él se estaban haciendo una casa para ellos y querían muchas visitas, era el sueño de sus vidas. Ella, como siempre, en medio de su activa vida iba planeando la decoración del nido con adornos acopiados en sus viajes y él trazaba planos y decidía espacios para dedicarse en su vejez a sus hobbies.

 

Pocos meses después mi sobrina llamó para decirme que viajaba a Río, su tío Carlos moría en el hospital. Por ella supe los detalles. Le escribí a Ionara, la llamé por teléfono, pero nada podría remplazar el abrazo fraterno que necesitaba darle.

 

Supe que cuando Carlos pasó al hospital para enfermos terminales Ionara se hizo voluntaria para estar más cerca de él y atenderlo mejor. Pese a su carácter dinámico e inquieto, organizó muy bien sus trabajos de directora, instructora y profesora para darse el tiempo necesario. Se puso en manos de su fe y sintió mucha paz porque nunca oyó a Carlitos quejarse de dolor.

 

Toda la familia peruana de Carlos estuvo con él. Con sus vozarrones norteños y sus chistes eternos intentaron aliviarle la partida, como machos, como debe ser. Carlos tenía 55 años. Cuando falleció y recuperó su carita de niño todos se tomaron fotos con él y pasaron a ocuparse de los trámites mientras Ionara decidía el lugar del entierro y se ocupaba de sus numerosos huéspedes, robando uno que otro minuto a solas con su marido para tomarle la mano, acariciarle el cabello, bañarlo en la ternura de una vida feliz juntos.

 

Preocupada por sus hijos y rogando a San Expedito que le diera resignación pasó por aquellas horas un poco en vilo, un poco esfumada en los pequeños quehaceres. Ionara respondió a mi carta con una carta muy bella en portuñol y la comparto:

 

«Dicen acá que lo que se lleva de esta vida es la vida que se lleva»…… «Carlos no más está con nosotros y esto tú (lo) sientes en todo momento. Pienso en él muchas veces en el día, las cosas traen recordaciones sobre todo lo que hacíamos juntos y ahora ya es diferente, ya no es más como antes. Lloro mucho todavía, en la casa, en el trabajo, manejando o caminando en la calle, en fin, no es fácil, no es fácil. Ahora me ocupo de los papeles y estoy con la construcción de la casa. Tengo que hacer lo que Carlos hacía: comprar material para la construcción, hablar con los albañiles, estudiar lo mejor para hacer en la casa, en fin, todo lo necesario para terminar nuestra casa…… Yo pienso …. Voy a trabajar mucho, voy a terminar nuestra casa, voy a hacer esto, voy a hacer esto otro, y todos creen que soy muy fuerte, una mujer fuerte que todo aguanta. No amiga, estoy en pedacitos por dentro de mi cuerpo. Hay días que me pregunto ¿por qué? ¿cuál es la explicación? ¿por qué tengo que perder la graciosidad de las cosas? ¿por qué no tengo  voluntad para nada? ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué? y ¿Por qué?

 

Si yo no tuviera la compañía de mi familia, de la familia de Carlos, de mis amigos, todos tan maravillosos, yo me quedaría tonta hasta ahora, porque es más fuerte que tú. Yo no podía controlarme …… felizmente estuvieron tantos familiares conmigo (que me dieron fuerza) pero espero que todos los peruanos que aquí estuvieron sientan que todos también querían darles atención. Nosotros que tanto imaginamos  una inauguración de esta casa con toda la familia y ¡mira!, ¡mira cómo fue que conseguimos reunirlos a todos!»

 

Por eso amiga –me dice- disfruta todo lo que puedas con tu esposo. No pierdas el tiempo en pleitos, porque un minuto perdido es un minuto perdido para siempre. La vida es corta, yo ahora lo sé.

 

Los hijos de Ionara ya partieron para empezar sus propias vidas adultas y supe que Ionara visitó otra vez nuestro país buscando esta vez contactos comerciales en artesanía. Quisiera ver pronto a esta mujer tan fuerte, tan tierna, tan alegre que puede llorar en público porque sabe que las lágrimas sirven mucho para limpiar el corazón.

 

 

 

 

CRISTINA

 

La fui conociendo año por año y cada vez la admiraba más. Llena de sueños y con la voluntad para alcanzarlos iba por el mundo pintando la vida, dibujando las pasiones. Parecía inalcanzable, respondía a los requiebros con un lenguaje tan propio que nadie la comprendía. Era tan frágil de cuerpo como robusta de espíritu y todas sus amigas estábamos seguras de que estaba destinada a un futuro ajeno a todo molde. Que si alguien podía lograr sus sueños ciertamente era Cristina.

 

Cuando me presentó a su marido sentí una nube muy densa, no era bueno. Pero era un hombre brillante que entendía su lenguaje y con ardides mundanos la guiaba por oscuros laberintos.

 

Fue penoso entonces verla, mi amiga se fue apagando, su armadura medieval de hada y caballero andante se fue desvaneciendo, se fue volviendo insegura, ya no creía en sí misma, renegaba de sus sueños.

 

Desde su soberana altura él le construía cercos que ella al principio rebatía, pero en algún momento de su historia ella dejó de pelear. No sé cómo lo logró pero nuestra plástica Cristina fue cayendo en abandono, como una hermosa vela morada llena de estampitas y dorados rizos que al arder se va aplanando, derritiéndose en arrugadas jetas, que se explaya hasta ser chata.

 

Asentía a sus caprichos, sólo él tenía razón, esquivaba las verdades y escogió el aislamiento. El levantaba crueles cercos y ella los blindaba. Vivía para él y por él. Se deshizo de su yo.

 

No había consejo que valiera,  ni incitación que la urgiera, su sentido del deber era de roble, el hombre era su marido y jamás lo dejaría.

 

Tal vez es la forma en que criamos a nuestras hijas. Entre resbaladizas culpas, rojas vergüenzas ajenas y plomos afanes penitentes, pero siempre dependientes de nuestro maternal poder supremo para resolverles los problemas, cercenándoles día a día su libre albedrío y repitiendo la cadena con nuestras hijas, una tras otra, tras otra, tras otra hasta el quejido infinito.

 

Para luego preguntarnos, ¿por qué seremos un pueblo de borregos? ¿por qué no nos rebelamos? ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué?

 

Entre Cristina y su esposo los roles se ciñeron a un remanido guión. él mandaba, y ella lo complacía; él gritaba, ella rogaba; él tronaba, ella rezaba. Cuando en muy contadas veces parecía despertar,  las personalidades colisionaban con igual intensidad pero siempre era ella quien cedía.

 

Cuando le di el consejo de apartarse, cuando la exhorté a ser feliz, mansamente indiferente repitió la sabia sentencia de un general: Para todo nos preparamos en la vida, amiga, menos para lo principal: para ser felices, para ser padres, para envejecer, para jubilarnos y para morir.

 

Un día como tantos otros el marido no volvió, pero esta vez una voz de mujer llamó por teléfono para anunciar que tras un grave accidente estaba en el hospital.

 

Ella llegó atormentada entre la duda y la pena para verlo expirar y se encerró en duelo y silencio.  Se niega a recibir amigas, no quiere contestarle a nadie. De ella nada sabemos hace más de un año.

 

No estuve cerca de ella entonces y me pesa, una mujer de su sensibilidad necesitaba a sus verdaderos amigos en ese trance.  Me pregunto si a los 55 años aún le quedan tiempo y fuerzas para romper esos cercos que blindara, para recuperar sus sueños medioevales y sinceramente deseo tanto que lo haga …… porque la vida es muy corta como lo sabe Ionara, como lo sabe Lutgarde.

 

Ojalá que ella haga suyo lo que decía Martí: Todos Nacemos para ser Felices.

 

Ser felices no es pecado.

 

 

Flandes 2001, Lima 2014

Yolanda Sala Báez