On the topic: The Storm and the Day After. Afterword. Part Three: Other options? When words are not necessary

Oct142024

On the topic: The Storm and the Day After. Afterword. Part Three: Other options? When words are not necessary

On the topic: The Storm and the Day After.

Afterword.

Part Three: Other options? When words are not necessary.

Let’s continue with the community assembly. The person next to you has already declared what he knows, so it’s your turn. And then:

a). – You are moderately intelligent and understand that, in that situation, words are useless. So, you begin to murmur a musical tune, and you stand on your toes, and you spread your arms like branches of a yet-to-be-imagined tree, and begin to spin and jump, to… to… to dance? And the noise. And now a band of girls and boys follow, with little dogs and kittens included, and they start jumping and juggling, and, almost without meaning to, they synchronize. And it happens that there is a bonfire (because there is no electricity and night already covers the town), and then the fire summons and does not destroy. And, without intending to, the involuntary choreography revolves around the bonfire. And the shadows replicate the dance in the people, in the trees, the mountain.

And then, the next day, you discover that boys and girls call you “the one who flies” or “the one who dances very differently.” And someone, one of those never-missing party poopers, corrects them with: “it is said a Dancer.”

And at the next community assembly, when they take roll call to find out if everyone is there, you hear “the dancer” and you realize that all eyes are converging on you and, not without blushing, but smiling, you say “present.”

Of course, the smile doesn’t last long because then they add: «it’s your turn in the vegetable garden with comadre Chepina.»

-*-

b). – You don’t say anything. Because, while the assembly has continued its course, you have taken a piece of charcoal and, on a board, you have drawn something that could well be a portrait of the assembly. Something like a panoramic photo, but without the latest generation cell phone, nor capable operating system, nor AI.

So you don’t say anything, you just pick up the board, give it to whoever is next to you, and they pass it among the assistants, who murmur in an incomprehensible language. Then you barely notice that next to you there is a girl, about 3 or 4 years old, who is staring at you with curiosity. You do what all adults do in an awkward situation with a toddler, and ask, “What’s your name?” The girl doesn’t respond, she keeps looking at you, but not with fear. You ignore it and try to locate where the board with the panoramic picture is. You plan to incorporate it into your “portfolio” or “curriculum”, because, one never knows, you may have to encounter a paradoxical Marx who does not want to pay you for your designs and grants you a diploma instead. The girl next to you already has a small board and a piece of coal and, handing them to you, she says: “my kitten is lost.” You’re taken aback, but you’re fairly intelligent and you assume that the girl wants you to draw her something like a wanted poster, so you ask her, “What does your kitty look like?” The girl smiles because she realizes that you have understood the main thing and explains: “My little dog has a yellow eye.”

What follows is a give and take that leads nowhere: “but you said it was a kitten.” “It’s the same.” “No, it is not the same, cats are one thing and dogs are another.” «It is». «It’s not». The girl, without intending to, gives you a lesson in inclusion and clarifies: “The thigs is that it’s a cat-dog. But not just anyone. My cat-dog has a yellow eye. Like this”, and the girl squints her eyes so that you understand that she is turning her eyes yellow.

As you have already lost sight of your panoramic picture with “La Migaja Operating System. Version 7 to the N power”, you begin to draw the little animal following the instructions of the girl, who also gestures colors, corrects the legs, body, tail and face. When you’re done, you realize that, in fact, your drawing could very well be of a dog… or a cat… or a cat-dog. The girl looks approvingly at the drawing, but you know that what the wanted poster is missing is data, so you ask, “And where was it lost?” The girl laughs as she tells you, “It’s no longer lost. It has already found me. «It’s just that you don’t hurry with the photo.» The girl leaves with a little animal in her arms that, yes, could very well be a dog or a cat… or both.

The next day, there is a circle of girls and boys demanding that their animals be drawn. A child, wearing a T-shirt that reads “Popcorn Commando,” describes a little spotted piglet, a little cub, and he wants a “photo” now that it is little, because then it grows up and won’t want to play anymore. So you are drawing little animals, quite a few that have been dreamed of, and, among the whispering, you hear someone say “well, tell the one who sees.” Another party pooper will correct in due time: “it is said Painter.”

Before the assembly, a group of young girls arrives and asks you to draw them a drawing that identifies their soccer team, because they get confused when they play against other teams and always lose. You ask for the name of the team and the youngest girl tells you convinced: “The Losers.” You understand the logic: they need something that identifies them as parts of the whole, that is, of the team. A logo or corporate image, you don’t remember how to say it. After a while, when they call the list of attendees, you do not hesitate to say “present” when they say “the painter.”

Although then you think “damn my luck”, when they tell you that it is his turn to pick in the cornfield.

-*-

c). – You are part of a musical group. Well, you were part. Of those modern synthesizers, mixers, electronic instruments, special effects and powerful octaphonic speakers, not even the cables are left. You have sat down next to your cronies and, nervously, you look at each other when you realize that, in the presentations, it is almost your turn. You don’t know what to do. But, bless God, you already saw that “the crew” (that is, the support team), also shipwrecked and ended up in that strange place. You don’t need a word. The support team has already foreseen the catastrophe and appears with a broken guitar, with something resembling ponytail hair as strings; an old barrel that, in other times, perhaps served as a container for gasoline, oil or diesel; and a couple of empty, dented cans of well-known cola soda.

You are moderately intelligent, so you understand that all you have to do is improvise. When your turn comes, you grab the guitar – although it is more out of tune than your grandmother, may God rest her soul – and that’s not all; another places the chair in front of the barrel like a drum; yet another takes out a comb (who thinks of rescuing a comb in a catastrophe?), and with a candy wrapper, begins to… tune? Over there, someone put pebbles in the cans. And they start playing “La del moño colorado” (opportunity which the captain takes to sneak away, terrified, from the meeting). In a few moments, the assembly is dancing and asking for “another one, another one.” You smile at each other with complicity, as if saying to each other “we’ve already gotten away with it.” The charm is broken when you are told “you have to help lower the engine of the gray 3-ton truck.”

The next day you hear that they say “the musical compañeros must show up at the workshop to adapt the engine of the red 3-ton truck, to the sugar mill.” You walk resignedly and one of you asks “but wasn’t it gray?” Instinctively, you begin to hum “Todo Cambia” by Julio Numhauser Navarro and thus greet Mercedes Sosa, and you arrive at the self-proclaimed “mechanical workshop.” You are left speechless when you see Monarca with an unfriendly face and wielding, impatiently, a wrench the size of a human skull. On a little recorder, powered by a bicycle with a dynamo, mounted on a wooden structure, Mario Benedetti answers that “cantamos porque suena el río y cuando suena el río, suena el río”, and vice versa.

In the distance, you can see a gigantic, thick brown snake, whipping the horizon line. And, right at that moment, on the tape recorder all the cemeteries seek for Oscar Chávez in Macondo. Two little girls rehearse their best steps because there will be a meeting and, therefore, there will be dancing and cumbias.

And in cumbia, the late SupGaleano once stated, there is the whole and the parts.

To be continued…

From Idem.