First Time in Paris (Complete)

It was in the afternoon, after our last german-class from the month in the Volkshochsschule, that I walked together with a fellow student from Norway, Liver, through the Bergheimstraße to the Bismarkplatz. He came to Heidelberg for vacation and he wanted to take advantage of this occasion to learn on the german language. He hadn’t another interest, he didn’t want to study in Germany like me, who sought doing a postgraduate study by laws. Like everybody he was disappointed about the days in Heidelberg, because by all appearance it wasn’t like he had thought it. He felt like doing a horse of another color. - What do you do the next week – Liver asked me – do you go on the vacation or you stay here in HD? - Actually I haven’t plans for the vacation week – I said sadly – I guess that I’m going to stay here to learn. The true was that I was completely broke and I had face up to it bravely and stay home. - And What are you gonna do? – I asked him. - I go to Paris, I have never been there and I think that now it’s a good chance to go there, you known, Paris is near to here and until I come back here again it’s better if I visit the big city now. - Do you go to Paris? – I asked him almost speechless. - That’s right, at the beginning I thought that it would have been good if I stayed here to practice and follow studying the German language. But after that I considered a sad idea don’t go to Paris from here to still more when I had my car with myself. - Do you have a car by you?- I almost screamed because of the impression of the news. - Yes, I do, I came from Norway to here with my car. Suddenly I felt a shame perception as though I were only a scarecrow, a blunt clown, somebody without personal materialization, that is to say, simply shit. - Actually – followed Liver – inclusive in this way I’m not sure, because to go alone is a little silly, but on the other hand, as I said by you, now is the only opportunity to do it, because, after this travel, I have to start to work in a music company in Norway. My hope was a dead loss, I assumed that my die was cast, maybe I would go to Paris, but I thought that this day wouldn’t achieve successful. - Do you want to go to Paris? – asked Liver me and changed my life forever – I mean, if you don have another important thing. - Are you kidding? – I reacted inappropriately, but “to hell with it” “ to hell with the formalities” it was Paris – I’ m prepared to go to Paris every time, it doesn’t matter if I have to do something. - Great! – Liver said me with this typical Scandinavian cheerful without mock and happiness, as though he would be finishing to taste a salmon with wine. We started walking in the direction of Die Hauptstraße when suddenly I met a friend from Iran, C, who was at that time already 8 years in Germany and studied Biology. I met her sometimes to practice German and she practiced with me English ( at that time fluid, nowadays absolutely rusted). She looked like every woman from Iran, big eyes with pitch dark hair, thin like a fad and curious like an epigram. I was in a high condition, so I didn’t doubt ask her about the travel. - But, I don’t have any money, I’m current stony broken – said me C – but next week I get money concerning a job. - But you don’t pay! – I say her – he has a car and he drives in this way anyway. Come on C! it’ll be very funny. We agreed each other join up at 9:00 A.M. on the main station in Heidelberg. The next day Liver came with C together at the Main Station. They didn’t packed a lot things, only a bag and a little bag pack. The Auto of Liver was a Sedan, grey color and with a big and strong radio. We left Heidelberg behind us and while Liver and C talked about easier and faster way I saw with the head on the glass how the streets stayed behind us and the buildings showed their frontages as though they were a big foresail. - We are coming to Paris – said Liver – we are near the gate number 2 of the city. Effectively it was so. The curious thing for me then was that I couldn’t see nowhere the famous gates described by Victor Hugo. It was sad to start up admit that the sign of Paris which I had built and conceived was absolutely false. The traffic jam was horrible in the surroundings of the city. During waited that the jam slackened we felt that from the sides a sound like hornet arose threatening to crash our car. It was produced by a group of motorcycle. Then I found strange that every driver of the motorcycles were Arabs. Nowadays I can understand very well what I saw there. Actually the saddest present of the city that has already stolen my heart forever. The next problem come immediately: no place to parking the car. A line of cars in every street without place to use for Liver’s car. We drove from street to street round on round 3 hours without we finding anyplace. Finally we found a place in the yard of the church dana-picassa in the junction from Rue Monge and Rue de Bernardins and near here, there was a youth hostel, “ Bureau de voyages de la jeunesse”, where we got into for 2 nights. After that we took a shower and changed the cloths we went out to walk on the street. It was the first time and it had to be absolute especial. We drunk a coffee in the Café Brasserie in the Boulevard Saint Germain , where we asked someone to take a picture of us ( unfortunately I lost this picture) to immortalize the moment. Afterwards we walked on till the river Seine. From then on we could already see the church of Notre Dame with its magnificence and decoration that penetrated in the eyes from everyone who stood in front of it. We took pictures here ( unfortunately I lost this pictures too) in several postures and with different forms to gesture and gesticulations. - Do you know something – said Liver at a moment in which C was contemplating the big cathedral – I like C and I would like to get her like girlfriend, help me please. It was very impressing and still more because he said me it with certain hopeful that I could right do something for him. Nowadays I think that he hadn’t idea what imposing he looked like, the suction of his blue eyes and his posture with 1.90cm, true impressing. - Of course Liver, I’ll give it one’s best shot. I wasn’t able to say another thing, I wanted help him, but what would happen I couldn’t have foreseen not even in my worse nightmare. We were walking all the day and once that we finished to see the places of interest in the city, we come back at the youth hotel to take a shower and go out again to drink the wine that we bought with a strange predilection on a store whose chef was a guy from Pakistan. At the night we went out from the youth hotel, one by one, Liver had the bottle in the hand and I turn on the first cigarette of the night. We sat down on the shore of the Seine, C in the middle of us who dressed shorts and a white blouse. On the Boardwalk of the river there was a lot groups of people who sang with a guitar or simple chattered enjoyable. - Cheers – I said my pals – to us! And our first time in Paris, the light city! To remember it in this moment these words sounds ridiculous, but there seemed to have palate for me, moreover Liver and C accepted to chink glasses with me. The time passed by and the wine and the cigarettes broke our repressions and gave us harmony, solidarity, and of course, madness. - Do you know what’s the problem with the German men? – said C with certain effusiveness – they have power in the mind but considerably less in the dick. - Hahaha – I laughed loudly – I have it heard, but is not possible that every man in Germany is bad in bed, it is outrageously. - You have to believe me, it’s true, and that is the advantage that I have over you, I can take, feel, catch and touch a dick, an experience that you couldn’t get anymore. - Ok, stop telling it, I believe you - I said a few angry about – although I think that it has to exist an exception, but I could say, you have experimented it firsthand. Liver stayed quiet. I think that he was involved because of our conversation because he was Norwegian and they had the same reputation. Then C turn on the side towards Liver and I stayed behind her. Liver started talking her about his life in Norway, the problems with his parents because of his love for the music, the bad experience that he ever had in every relationship and the incomprehensibility of every women that he had tried lo love, on my part, I was busy drinking the wine bottle and smoking my cigarette with great delight, because, what’s matter! I was in Paris. - My last girlfriend said me – told Liver – that I had a contempt way to understand the word enjoyment. After that she didn’t never answered the cell phone again. - Fuck bitches – C said Liver – forget this whores Liver in the world there is enough girls, and you have not to forget, you are Norwegian, do you have an idea how many girls would like to get married somebody from Norway? Don’t worry Liver, you’re going to find somebody, and somebody very beautiful. I think that it wasn’t a riddle for C and she knew what would possibly happen, but it is only a conjecture that I had then. I stared Notre Dame with rupturing holding on from the bottleneck the wine bottle and bearing the night Parisian in mind. I don’t know where from, but I suddenly felt a violent and high-strung sensitive impetus that filled my body with wish to experiment new things and forbidden happenings. I poked slowly my hand into her pant and touched the insinuation of the crevice of her derriere making little circles on her skin with my ring finger. C continued talking with Liver trying to simulate the job of my hand although I could perceive her shake an vibration which hit and got rid if her in my intention. I wanted to be romantic, delicate and tactful, but my excitation was very hard to wait a lot time to satisfy my requirements. - When du manage touch the heart of a girl – C said Liver – you’ll see what easy everything happen. - But, what do they want? – asked Liver – I have ever given everything that I was able to give them. In the midst of this conversation I checked out more and more the intimate parts of C. In a audacious decision I left jump up my hand over her buttock till her tame and obedient line of her vagina, it was another beginning in our friendship, a new haven for tonight, an adventure that steered me into the unknown. - You are special man Liver, unfortunately it’s not visible for the women, they needed time to see that, for this reason you have to try to tempt them in any way, like a spider, and I ensure you, if somebody got fall in your cobweb, won’t get go out of there. Meanwhile the wine was over, I had only jabbed her pussy two times und we had already to go home because all store in this time were closed and it was impossible for us to find wine to follow the party ( at that time we didn’t know the Pakistan-stores, which abound in Paris and are known because they normally worked all night, how I shall put it! We hadn’t been there so far). I stood heart-rendingly, to go too long, so far away for nothing, I didn’t want to come back in the youth hostel, it was incongruous, it was summer and everywhere you could see people on the riverbank that either almost died laughing or absolute overcome by the moment while they hoisted a brew, I didn’t want to fritter away my time on a bed sleeping whereas the life walked out there flirty, coy, so easy and soft like a little spoon that slowly dive in a yogurt, so frenetic like could be a jongleur in the purgatory. I staggered ahead during my head swam feverishly. I felt that humiliating to gain knowledge of quitting this edenic moment to go back at the hotel. Finally I had to put up with the situation and I must sadly go to bed. I laid on the bed in a room with thousand people together, as is the custom in almost every youth hostel in Paris. In front of me I heard a couple unscrupulous, unrestrained, unbridled and incontinent fucking that I had problems to think that everybody in this tide room was sleeping. - Öh, öhh, öhh, … - moaned a girl in English – don’t stop, don’t stop, I kill you. - No, no, je ne peux plus supporter – said the man in French - je me viens, je me viens. - No, dawn, not yet, not yet !!! This sounds were alluring and excitant. I was so prurient that I had masturbated myself there if I hadn’t thought that I, like the Frenchman that the American fucked, had a female in order to attempt the sin-taste too. I pulled myself together, I stood up again and I went to the next room, to the girls and of course to C. I sneaked in the bed of C without finding at the beginning resistance, actually some caresses were replied to as though she would have been waiting me. Nevertheless she wasn’t Potiphar and her first excitement changed in a crude refusal. - Que-est que tu crois que tu fais trou du cul? – said somebody while he took me from the shoulder – toi, du balai! The fellow was a worker of the youth hostel and he kicked me straightforward out. For all my begging and entreating, I did not ménage to gain entrance once more. The last possibility for me was the Liver’s car. I’m Peruvian and for that reason I gave me few hopes to find the car open, because I know how the Peruvian people close their cars, with extreme measure of security, but Liver wasn’t Peruvian but Norwegian and it was an generous advantage for me. I tried out to open the door of the car and hallelujah! The door was open. I fell like a log on the backseat and dropped off. Only somebody who was sometime drunk can understand how delightful and pleasant is get sleeping after a jag. In my drunkenness I could hear tiny sounds that came from the distance like waves, echo sounder, tides of voices that looked for stimulating me, tearing from my sleep condition to obligate me to enter in the reality again. My eyes were half open and even so it was enough to notice what was happening outside. - Tu conard! reveille-toi! reveille-toi – screamed a group of old people out of the door of the car. They knocked the window glass of the car as though they would slap flies or somebody would play a drum roll. - Que-est que passe – I said sleepy and shattered yet – je ne faisais rien, c’est erreur. After that I sat down orderly what was happening there. Liver parked the car in the courtyard of a church, specifically on the doorway of the church with what the entrance stayed closed and blockaded for the parishioners who want to attend to the Sunday’s Mass. ………………………………………………………………………… I managed to go out from there among the people through jostles and shoves, I had a portentous hangover and actually I wanted to go sleeping again. But I knew that this day we are going to come back to Germany and I hadn’t visited the popular “cementière du Paris”, actually I didn’t have time to visit everyone, but at least I had to visit the cemetery fo “Père Lachaise” where I could find the grave of Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Balzac, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Delacroix, Max Ernst, Moliere, Proust, Asturias, amongst others. It was a little complicate to get a good explanation about the way to reach the cemetery because at this time wasn’t my French very good like nowadays and the French people didn’t speak another language than French. It was so difficult to meet somebody who talks English. Here I could establish really what said already a good friend of me, Juan Carlos, that the French people think that everything in France is the best around the world, their cooking, their country, their culture and of course their language. Finally and against my wish I got in the tram till the station “Pére Lachaise”. The cemetery lays immediately after going out the entrance of the tram station. In the corner came upon a seller of postcards, she was American female who hardly could speak French. I was coming her and asked her: - Are you American? - Yes I do – she answered me with a friendly smile. We was talking a while till came a girl with black cloths, as though she would be a punk fan because she moreover dressed tie shoe. She wanted to buy a postcard of Jim Morrison in his tomb and expressed it with a foible voice and almost shy whisper in French. The American female smiled only and repeated persistent: un euro, un euro. It was clear that she didn’t speak the language and the girl with the dark clothes noticed it too. - Si je te peux aider, je le ferait enchanté – I said her intervening in the situation – je crois qu’ elle ne parle pas la langue. - Clair, je compris – she answered me - bien que je croie que toi non plus. In this moment the American female started laughing as though she had understood something about the words that the dark girl had said me. Well, whatever it was, I found the situation funny too and I laughed together with her. - Viens tu òu? – I asked her - De la Normandie, et toi? - De Perou, est que tu a écouté un jour sur mon pays? - Oui, naturellent, J’aime Perou. - Et, qu’est –ce que tu feras maintenant?, je veux aller à le cementière, peut-etre nous voudrions aller là-bas ensemble? - Oui, pourquoi pas? - Je m’appelle Oscar, et toi? - Je suis Louise. We went in the cemetery while we talked about our lives and personal matters. She told me she fell out with her boyfriend and for this reason she finally was there, because he earlier, when she was still with him together, wasn’t able to leave her home city. We came to the grave of Jim Morrison and I noticed that this grave for her had a especial meaning because it was seen her nervous when we were approaching there. Around the grave were a lot people, mainly American people who looked like old hippies und put down flowers on the tomb of the singer of “The Doors”. - Thanks Jim, thanks so much – started saying loud a fortyish girl – you gave my life a meaning, a significance, everything that I’m at the present day I owed you, thanks. - Merd, cette meuf est insupportable – said Louise – Jim ne devait pas avoir fait beaucoup pour elle. - Attention Louise, c’est possible qu’elle parle la langue. - Allons donc! en tout cas, ça m’est égal, en plus, cette Américaine viennent solement pour baiser, ils sont aucune intellectuelle, ils sont traînée. - What did you call me fucking frog eater! – said the crazy and wintry aged American female – I wanna kill you, I wanna kill you! Welcome to the club, she understood French. We spirited away and ran out of there laughing and seeing diverse grave of various artists, taking pictures next everyone and every odd place from the cemetery. ( Unfortunately I keep still from every pictures only a picture that we took with the grave of Edith Piaf). I went out talking about the some artists whose existences in many cases were miserable and absurd. I could see her wince in her eyes, the emotion and happiness in every part of her body animated my interest and wished to continue the talk with her, I got satisfaction of this. We went to a Restaurant to eat something and of course to follow talking about everything that was coming into mind. I knew that it wasn’t right what I were there, I should be with Liver and C together, because they wanted to come back to Germany and maybe they would be thinking, after they would have noticed my absence, what the fuck? Where did he go to? But, to be an honest, I didn’t care. They could start with the comeback to Germany and just abandon me in Paris, without money, without accommodation, I was at the mercy of them. But it was all the same to me, Louise got bewitch me, every logic in my head was simply dissipated. - Look at the back – said me – there is a piano, I would give everything to listen a piano piece now, everything! Since a long time I hadn’t played the piano, a practice that I used to do in my adolescence when my mother encourage me to play a piano to get listen the piano piece of Richard Clayderman alive, a pianist that she loved a lot. Then it was my moment, I wanted to impress her, and I had the opportunity and the talent to do it. I started playing “ Honesty” by Billy Joel, my fingers were wobbly, like a butterfly whose wings have been done ash because of the hardness to touch them. Nevertheless my interpretation was well-disposed and good praised when I finished playing it. I didn’t dare to see at her direction because I was fear of being scoffed by Louise, whose voice I wasn’t able to realize in the middle of all the persons present in the bar. Somebody puts a bier on the piano like a pay of a good moment, maybe for him it was an improvised feast that I spread in the air managing that he forgot problems and gifted a piece of time in which he only was able to fly. Louise took the initiative in view of my clumsiness and seated down next to me like a pained goodness, her alabaster skin gleamed and her knees kissed each others. - No one had ever sung a song for me, nobody, and in this circumstances, like a recital – said me Louise in suspense, showing her eyes as though they were a lighthouse over the sea. I had no time to answer because in just this moment the hit of a heavy presence interrupted my idyllic abstraction, above all because this presence was something that I knew very well. - You fucker! What the hell do you think that you are doing there? Are you dumb? C stood before the entrance door and came up to me threateningly. - Damn it all! You had no clue, that we today early in the morning had to make for Germany, didn’t you? – C said in German. - Be quiet C I was just ready, I wanted just come back to you, before I returned to Germany I wanted only visit this cemetery in where so many popular artist were buried, that is all. - You were just ready? You were just ready? Well, I see the things completely different – said me ironically staring directly at Louise. Louise, who looked like confused, stood up arms akimbo and looked at me inquisitively waiting maybe for the explanation that I wasn’t able to give her, because there was no explanation possible, everything was obvious, although it wasn’t yet. Fuck! what complicated are sometimes the things. - Que-est que passé à la nana ici? Est- que tu le connais? Est elle ta copine? – asked me Louise. - Oui et no, merd! Comme est que je te peux expliquer…- answered nervously. - Pouquoi? Tu n’as pas besoin de le faire, je comprends tout, je voulais y aller de toute façon égale – said me hard. In my life it was one of the few opportunities in where I just saw get slowly away something that I wanted absolutely retain for me, she was by all means anyone. When she walked on the entrance, she turned around me and blew on me a kiss with the forefinger and I could read her lips saying, “Adieu”. I returned to the youth hostel with C together. On the way we talked scarcely anything. When we are coming in the hotel I could see Liver with arms akimbo and with an expression of don’t satisfaction. I spoiled our timetable to come back to Germany, my irresponsibility and passion for the writer that I admired and whose graves I under all circumstances wanted to get to know, put us on a difficult situation and at risk, it doesn’t exploit the day and to take a room in an hotel even for a day, which it would mean that we should spend more money. Silly. Liver stood on front of me, with tense face and jittery hands and said me the following. “You! You are the most unreliable person that I ever knew, why did you do it? Why?” I kept silence. It would have been useless saying something against. I actually deserved it. When we were on the road to Germany, we slowly started talking again. Liver was not a resentful guy and I noticed that he wasn’t angry with me anymore. With C was different. We stopped at a gas station in the middle of the nothing to buy feed and drinks. I preferred sat down on a lawn close to there. Shortly afterwards appeared C with a coke in the hand and sat down on the same lawn too. She was on the lookout for me, but furtive, as though she followed the flight of a fly that flew in my way. - Are you always so stupid like today? How dare you doing that? You don’t have any excuse, you have lucky that we didn’t abandoned you in Paris, and it only was due to me- said C severe. - Could you please stop reproaching it? I know, I put it on, but it’s over, don’t grumble on, I fed up of yours blames. Liver appeared in this moment with food in the hand too, he seemed pleased that we appearance had reconciled with each other. - It’s crazy the feeling here, for a considerable time I cherished this idea, the gas station in the middle of nothing involves the on the road feeling, as though it would be a fog bank that moves about freely without a unknown aim – said Liver indulging. - Yes, that’s right, you are right - answered C – it is a good place to give a rest. - Yes, a good place to make up with somebody – added I smirking. We laughed as thought we were close friends, the strain was maybe dissipated on the road, in this rough body that contemplates a thousand driver over its back every day and whose feet are different and equal in the same time like an hermaphrodite. - Obtuse mind forgot adjusting a telephone booth in this place, I feel like calling my ex-boyfriend in this moment- said C - And, why do you want to do now?- asked Liver - Because I would like to tell him, how much I feel like to fuck now- said C with the half open mouth. Her words got me turned me on, somehow I was reminiscent in this moment of the soundtrack’s Amélie, because, in the same way like the incompatibility between music and plot, her behavior and her words were idle. We drove on towards Luxembourg because Liver wanted to use the occasion to full up the tank of the car here, the oil prices apparently were there cheaper than in Germany. I was so absorbed in a chatting with C that when Liver announced that we was arriving in Luxembourg I stayed surprising how the time pass by. Luxembourg lies on a steep hill that, like a grumpy monarch together with his cohort of legend and transparent , from there to, looked at every vassal on the shore of his sovereignty to try overcoming the height, behind which are situated the rich secrets of his forebears. Liver parked the car on a terrace where there was already others bad parked except for Liver, who showed thereby his idiosyncrasy of Norwegian: well-ordered even though none requested it or had waited this conduct. We went to the half-empty streets in search maybe for panem et circenses or something similar where we could let the matter rest. We bought two wine bottles and sat down in front of the city hall. C told us that somebody was obsessed by her and she was constantly annoyed with letters of this person. As a consequences of that she had with lightning speed her address and just in case her telephone number. Nevertheless, after a short time, she missed this feeling, to be chased. Liver opened his eyes wide and didn’t move of his place, it was visible that he needed help to go out of this surprising feeling. I gave a nudge in his arm and gave him in the wine bottle. - I once read about that, tell me, it’s true that the first feeling of the molested person is disgusting but when this person stops doing it, is the feeling rather sexual requirement?- I asked her. She giggled with night cap eyes while she sucked her cigarette. Her sleek body cut the background and her gesture showed flatly the confirmation of my assertion. - Didn’t you know that everything being fun is either immoral, illegal or make you fat?- she said flirty. Liver, actually an honest man, maybe overly honest to love, turn pale when he got to know it. Rapidly he suggested to go to buy more cigarettes even though he didn’t smoke. C found the idea terrific because she was situated in a highly strung condition and to hold this feeling she needed not only wine but also cigarettes. Liver was up to go with me to buy it, meanwhile C stayed there and waited of us. I was busy drinking up the wine bottle and actually I didn’t want to go nowhere. - Come on! It’ll take only a couple minutes – he asked me- let us go to do it, alone is depressive. I came grudgingly along, I had no break, he didn’t say, but I thought that if I didn’t go, he could leave me stranded there. When we were on the way und turn the corner, Liver pushed me on the wall and, like somebody who wants to keep quiet about something, told me like a rumor. - Hey man, I have a problem, I need to do something, but I don’t have the courage to do it, you know, I need help!- said Liver with torn open eyes. - What’s matter man? Don’t worry, everything has a solution. Well spit out and let us see what we can do then- I said him trustful. - I’m falling in love- he stammered. Trying to explain the situation would be as useful as a hole in the head, in this way, because of the picture of the situation it only remained me to say the following. - I’m sorry man, but I’m not a jock strap snoop, but a fucking lingerie savorer , I love pussies! I dream of chochas! I yearn for cunts! – I said him, nervous that he didn’t believe me. - What do you say asshole? I don’t mean you, but C, I fall in love with C. - Aha! I see man – I answered lightened – but, I don’t know what place it is of mine to crash the party? - What? What are you getting at it? You are Latino, you know what I can do to have got it. - True that! I’m Latino. I had no idea how I could help him, this stupid reputation about the Latinos that we were professionals in the love affairs got in my nerves. So what? I had only a tactic, to talk the girl, take her, try to kiss her and enough! Basta! In this way I was so successful like unsuccessful. In case of need I grope everything that I could like legs, tits, belly and abdomen, and if I had lucky the pussy too. - Well, what am I to do?- asked Liver on. - Maybe, blow your feelings in front of her? - No, no, I don’t want to be so direct, it looks like as though I wouldn’t want to her. - Yes, but you want, don’t you? - Yes, but it is a secret. - I thought that I was the expert. - Of course, but the secrets ought to seem so until the arrival of the right time. - And when would be it? - Soon. - Alrighty! This point is done. And now, do we buy more wine? - And cigarettes too. We came back to the place where we had left waiting to C. She talked with anybody and it seemed that she delighted the conversation. It certainly didn’t like Liver who went quickly to C and the acquaintance. He was an American who lets down temporary in Luxembourg. One of the typical pain in the neck who hangs a lantern on himself saying what great is he and his country. A gadfly person who thinks that his country is the best visiting card around the world and with which they can pick up every woman. The saddest about this story is that in so many cases it is true. Some Women tumbled on the floor, shortly after they heard the word “United states”, this nationality has a exuberant and tempting power over women. - He is David, he is from Utah United States- said C. We greeted him, Liver did it reluctantly. We had apparently no problem with him, for this reason we let stay with us and the most important thing, drink our wine. When we were a little lubricated, the American, according to his style, started blabbing. - Yeah men! we could do a party here, in this fucking park Liver took it down the wrong pipe, above all because he saw him like a rival in love that he as fast as possible had to diss. He would have loved to put him over his knee, I was able to see it in his eyes, but he reserved every sign of chagrin and grudge. - Have you ever anybody seen who gets down in the park?- said liver caustic. - Come on buddy, don’t be so Norwegian, take it easy, the life is beautiful – said the American. - The life is beautiful, but without you- answered Liver convincing. The American stared him deeper, his hate devoured him bit by bit and slowly he started to boil with rage. Liver’s idiosyncracy was not prepared to flare up a brawl, the people in Scandinavia are very pacifist, they don’t binge and don’t look for problems, no matter if they drink or celebrate something, they always are in control of everything. - Are you a girlfriend in the Usa David?- I asked. - Of course, a really chick, maybe twenty years ago wouldn’t have been so beautiful like nowadays, but with the immigration, very ugly people basically, she got with every day most beautiful than yesterday, in this way, the more immigration, the more beautiful she gets. C didn’t like this comment, above all because she was alien too. It was so inappropriate of him, dawn, what a common little hussy! He was absolutely tactless. Actually Liver is supposed to be afraid of him, because he messed self up completely. He noticed that and few minutes after that he said that he had into mind come that he had forgotten to turn off the electric stove in his apartment. A couple hours later we saw him with another group in the same situation. - David was drab- said C – the Americans guys are always identical. - You’re all right – said Liver. - Cheers –said I. We continued drinking, smoking and chatting until C laid on a park-banc and dropped off. Liver didn’t appreciate exactly what it could mean, because he started with the harass again. It was clear that he didn’t want to leave it in the lurch. - It’s time, it’s time, now What can I do to get her? – said Liver. - Initially, you shouldn’t have left that she dropped off. Tell me, what do you think that you or me could do with her now? She is in Morpheus’ realm. - Dawn! We have to wake her up, now. - No, what do you want to do with her now? She is drunk, and to tell the true, me too. I didn’t understand why he bugged me continuing with that and left it go at that. I wasn’t able to do nothing, he had screwed it up. Under these circumstances you can notice that you don’t have always a lot time to get a girl, the opportunity is wise to give you the possibility, but if you don’t do nothing over this short time, It’s going to go down like a lead balloon forever. Nevertheless I soon could prove that it is a usual male conduct, something that he early didn’t know, although my reader didn’t believe me. Like carrion eater were bit by bit appearing and approaching slowly to the bank on where C was sleeping. Disgusting men scuffed careful to the place of C, men who had the knack of leaving the lonely and whose only knowledge of moral was their compulsion to satisfy. Liver lifted her and go to the car direction. I tried to help him but I was so drunk that I had help me self. I remembered that I got in the car and I shortly after had a black out. When I regained consciousness we were on move somewhere in the highway and maybe on route to Germany. I was in the back seat and by me, on the one hand lying, was C. I had even alcohol in my blood and a hard appetite anybody to fuck. Without thinking I slid my hand on her leg and caressed it sweet and soft. I was hot and his complete lay body, unprotected and defenseless made my mouth water. Liver didn’t seem to notice nothing, he drove on the car into silence. I grabbed then her thigh and she suddenly quivered and turn around to me, our eyes touched in the air and like a door that is opened after that the key turn into the lock, she opened for me the infinite possibilities her acceptation through a wide and conspiratorial smile. I slowly got her jeans and briefs down and started to do the same with mine. I only got it until the knees because when I saw her vagina I went mad. Her vagina looked like a shy child with lip gloss and burning that expelled frost palpitation of breath. I turn her body around so that it lay on her back, I put my body over her in missionary position and penetrated her slowly. My movements were silky and thoughtful, like a cradle that the wind left on the move. It was fantastic the picture in the car, me and C fucking in the back seat and Liver in the driver’s seat calmly and comfortably driving the car towards Germany. Then is occurred. I was so hot that I gradually lost the composure. I took of her thighs and drew from there to me so that she looked like a baby whose mother took the pamper off and waited for getting the new one. I gave a little jump up and I rested my body upon her back of the thighs from the front so that both hollow of the knees lay on and over my shoulders. Then I started hopping. The sound produced between the contact of my pelvis and her vagina through the penetration was as though you would click your tongue, which perturbed the passivity of Liver at driving. - What the fuck are you doing asshole! – yelled Liver whereas he drew from my t-shirt trying that I stopped to fuck C – go down! Down! - No! stuff it! – said C with dizzy voice – go up! Up! - Fuck you! – screamed Liver – I said down! Down! - To hell with him! – said C – up! Up! - Down! Down! - Up! Up! I was in a messy situation and I didn’t know to who I had to pay attention. Down! Up! Down! Up! Actually I didn’t want to lost the friendship of both and looked for satisfying both too, for this reason I continued with the same dance: Down! Up! Down! Up! But a human decision didn’t solve this problem better than the fate. Because of a sharp curve Liver had to do a dangerous maneuver with the car what produced that I were “uncoupled” from her and were thrown against the car door. I sat down there with the head hung forwards, with the pants downs and with the wetted penis, full of the fluid of C. Then I flaked out. When I dawned again, I lay on a bed in a room that I knew, the place was dark and somebody talked out of there in the hall. I was even drunk and I had a terrible headache. Suddenly I heard that a door was closed and the light in the hall turn off. Then a silhouette came into the room without I could see the face, walked slowly until the bedside by the window. Thus, through the moonlight, I could recognize this face, it was C, she smiled me, and during this beautiful natural light advanced over her body I could noticed that she was absolutely naked.

Lateinamerika als Präsentationsgesellschaft

Ein Mensch wird in Lateinamerika geboren und bekommt möglicherweise gleich zu Beginn ein paar Status-symbole mit auf die Welt. Diese verleihen ihm gute Ausgangsmöglichkeiten, im anderen Fall prophezeit ihr Feh-len ein hartes Leben (einen Kampf). Dieses Symbol ist die Hautfarbe und die Schicht, in die er hineingeboren wird. Wird es ein weißes Kind, erhält es von Anfang an eine andere Erziehung, in der ihm, kurz gesagt, einge-trichtert wird, dass es viel wert ist (auf Grund der Hautfarbe) und v.a. mehr wert ist als jeder, der dunkler ist. Ein dunkles Kind lernt das gleiche, nur in diesem Falle, dass es nichts wert ist, v.a. weniger als ein weißes. Nun kommen im Laufe der Kindheit und Jugend immer mehr Erfahrungen hinzu und das Kind lernt weitere Status-symbole kennen, teilweise über die Familie und Freunde, teilweise über Fremde und die Medien. Es lernt Men-schen kennen bzw. sieht diejenigen, die in der Gesellschaftspyramide schon weiter aufgestiegen sind bzw. ganz oben stehen. Das wäre ja nun alles schön und gut, möchte man meinen, es gibt immer andere, die mehr haben als man selbst. Doch nun kommt der Punkt, dass es diesen Menschen nicht genügt, einfach höher zu stehen, sondern sie wollen es allen anderen präsentieren, sozusagen unter die Nase reiben. Es läuft immer auf die un-terschwellige Aussage hinaus „Ich habe mehr als du, ergo bin ich über dir, ergo bin ich ein besserer Mensch“. Dabei bezieht sich das „haben“ auf den Besitz von Statussymbolen. Nun sind die meisten Menschen so gepolt, dass sie im Anbetracht eines solchen Verhaltens nicht gefühls- und regungslos bleiben. In ihnen regen sich nie-dere Gefühle wie beispielsweise Neid, verbunden mit dem daraus erwachsenen, alles umfassenden Verlangen, dem brennenden Wunsch, dies ebenfalls sein eigen nennen zu können. Nachdem dies das weiße oder Indiokind von den Menschen um es herum gelernt hat, beginnt nun sein eigener (Leidens-)Weg, die Suche nach dem hei-ligen Gral, das Befriedigen dieses Wunsches, der zum einzigen Lebensinhalt wird. Doch befindet sich das „Start-feld“ in diesem Spiel an unterschiedlichen Stellen für das weiße und das Indiokind. Auf Grund der Tatsache, dass ersteres bereits ein Symbol hat, startet es weiter oben als das zweite. Sie beide treibt nun Tag und Nacht der Gedanke an das Ziel um, stets überlegend, wie es denn zu erreichen sei. Und sollte eines einmal vom Wege abkommen und sagen, es strebe nicht mehr danach oder es habe erkannt, dass dieses Ziel das genaue Gegenteil der wahren Lebenserfüllung sei und es folglich die ganze Zeit in die falsche Richtung laufe, so gibt es dankens-werterweise genügend Familienmitglieder oder „Freunde“, die es wieder zurückführen wollen und es an das ursprüngliche Ansinnen erinnern. Doch wie sieht nun dieser Weg aus? Auch wenn er für jedes Individuum an einer anderen Stelle beginnt, sind die Symbole, die sie sammeln wollen, für alle die gleichen. Neben Farbe und Gesellschaftsschicht sind dies: -Geld -Besitz -Titel (eigene oder die anderer Familienmitglieder) -Partner (v.a. blonde, weiße Männer oder Frauen) -Aufenthaltsort (Europa, USA…) Für so manchen mag es auch noch andere Dinge geben, jedoch sind die genannten die wichtigsten. Das weiße bzw. Indiokind, das inzwischen erwachsen geworden ist, versucht nun, auf die Art und Weise, die am wenigsten kraftaufwändig ist, diese Trümpfe einzusammeln, oft auch mit unlauteren Mitteln wie Betrug und Lügen. Alle Register werden gezogen um dieses fressende, nagende Bedürfnis, das sich tief in der Seele eingenistet hat, zufrieden zu stellen. Nun sind manche Symbole für den einen leichter zu erreichen als für den anderen. So ge-hen die weißen, die ja bereits einen erheblichen Vorsprung haben, in die Öffentlichkeit ihres Landes und trach-ten dort nach Geld, Ruhm und Titeln. Aus diesem Grunde sind im Bereich der Politik und der Medien ausnahms-los weiße Lateinamerikaner zu finden. Erscheint ein Indio auf dieser Bühne, arbeitet er für die Weißen, bei-spielsweise als Chauffeur, Informant, Aktenträger oder dient dem Circus Maximus entsprechend zur Belusti-gung der Weißen. Denn welch einen Antrieb, welch eine Genugtuung verspüren diese beim Anblick eines ar-men, dummen oder in Tränen aufgelösten Indios. Ist es einem Weißen gelungen, in diesen Bereichen Fuß zu fassen, ist sein Weg im Grunde genommen schon am Ende. Die einzige Aufgabe, die ihm nun bleibt, ist es, seinen Status zu genießen, die Quelle nicht versiegen zu lassen, es geht nur noch um die Vermehrung dessen, was er „erreicht“ hat und darum, dies schlussendlich an die eigenen Kinder und Enkel weiterzugeben, um ihnen wiederum den Weg zum Ziel zu erleichtern. Dieser Mensch kann es sich sogar gönnen, über seinen Weg und seine Symbole zu schreiben, im Fernsehen davon zu erzählen und die Tugend zu präsentieren, die dem gierigen Be-streben grundsätzlich entgegensteht – die Bescheidenheit. Sie ist der Luxus desjenigen, der alles erreicht hat und der letzte Schritt, denn indem er sie nun verkündet (obwohl er sie in Wahrheit nie lebt!), wird er nun end-gültig in den Olymp der Gesellschaft erhoben. Welchen Weg geht nun ein Indio, alle diejenigen, die nicht lupenrein sind? Zunächst muss er versuchen, seinen Nachteil auszugleichen, den des ersten Symbols, der Hautfarbe. Doch wie gelingt ihm dies, wenn er nicht zufäl-lig Michael Jackson heißt und viel Geld besitzt? Als erstes versucht er, sich mit fremden Federn zu schmücken, d.h. er sucht einen Partner, dessen weißer Glanz ein wenig auf ihn abfärbt. Doch ist dies ein meist wenig aussichtsreiches Unterfangen, denn die Weißen kennen ihren Wert und wissen nur allzu gut, dass sie nicht nur geben, sondern auch nehmen (müssen) und das Dunkle auch in der entgegengesetzten Richtung auf ihnen seine Spuren hinterlässt und ihre makellose Fassade beschmutzt. So wenden sich die Indios einer anderen Möglich-keit zu, denn Not und Technik machen erfinderisch. Wenn die eigenen weißen Mitbürger sie nicht erhören, so doch vielleicht diejenigen aus anderen Gefilden dieser Erde. So kommt es, dass sie ihre Fühler nach Norden, Süden, Ost und West ausstrecken, auf der Suche nach einem geeigneten Opfer, das ihnen praktischerweise ne-ben der Tatsache, dass es weiß ist, auch das Statussymbol des besonderen Aufenthaltsortes zu geben ver-spricht. Und auf einmal eröffnen sich dem Suchenden ungeahnte Möglichkeiten, das Beste jedoch daran ist, dass er sie bekommt, ohne sich groß anstrengen zu müssen. So beginnen sie, über ihre Ländergrenzen hinaus zu blicken und die Lösung an anderen Orten zu suchen. Förderlich für ihr Vorhaben ist zudem, dass die Opfer komplett ahnungslos sind und sogar mit einem Lachen auf den Lippen in die Falle tappen. Denn sie sind es ge-wohnt, dass man ihnen die Wahrheit erzählt, und wenn nun ein Indio über seine tiefen Liebesgefühle für sein Opfer spricht, glaubt es ihm und nimmt bereitwillig das Verderben in seinem Schoße auf. Hat der Indio diesen ersten Schritt erfolgreich bewältigt, beginnt sich nun sein Gift nach und nach vom innersten Kern seines eige-nen Hauses aus zu verbreiten. Glücklich derjenige, der über Aufenthaltsort und weißen Partner hinaus noch Geld aus ihm heraussaugen kann und all dies, ohne sich jemals an einen Schreibtisch gesetzt zu haben, vor ein Buch…Doch manche Verbindungen sind nicht so stabil, wie zunächst angenommen, so trachtet der Eindringling danach, seine Symbole zu versichern. Die Lösung liegt in Fleisch und Blut, ein Kind als ewige Verbindung zur Quelle. Eine geschädigte Psyche und fatale Kindheit eines solchen kleinen Wesens ist dabei nur Nebenprodukt und für den Verderben bringenden Indio absolut unwichtig, denn es geht ausschließlich um ihn und das Errei-chen seines Zieles. Was er nicht ahnt, ist, dass über sein Blut, das in den Adern seines Sprösslings fließt, das Unheil weiterleben und um sich greifen wird. So hat nun der Weiße in seiner Heimat das Ziel erreicht und der Indio außerhalb. Doch darf man nicht vergessen, dass das Ziel nicht das Erreichen besagter Symbole ist, son-dern der Moment in dem der Lateinamerikaner (sei er nun hell- oder dunkelhäutig) einem anderen Menschen seiner Kultur gegenübersteht, um ihm alle seine Trophäen zu präsentieren (die bei den „neuen Nachbarn“ wir-kungslos sind) und sich dadurch zur gleichen Zeit über diesem zu positionieren. Denn alles hat nur dann einen Wert, wenn es einen Lateinamerikaner gibt, der einen dafür erhebt und von unten zu ihm aufschaut, den puren Neid im Blick und mit den Gedanken, die man beinahe hören kann: „Er hat es geschafft, er ist besser als ich, ich möchte das auch."

First time in Pairs (part 1)

It was in the afternoon, after our last german-class from the month in the Volkshochsschule, that I walked together with a fellow student from Norway, Liver, through the Bergheimstraße to the Bismarkplatz. He came to Heidelberg for vacation and he wanted to take advantage of this occasion to learn on the german language. He hadn’t another interest, he didn’t want to study in Germany like me, who sought doing a postgraduate study by laws. Like everybody he was disappointed about the days in Heidelberg, because by all appearance it wasn’t like he had thought it. He felt like doing a horse of another color.
- What do you do the next week – Liver asked me – do you go on the vacation or you stay here in HD?
- Actually I haven’t plans for the vacation week – I said sadly – I guess that I’m going to stay here to learn.
The true was that I was completely broke and I had face up to it bravely and stay home.
- And What are you gonna do? – I asked him.
- I go to Paris, I have never been there and I think that now it’s a good chance to go there, you known, Paris is near to here and until I come back here again it’s better if I visit the big city now.
- Do you go to Paris? – I asked him almost speechless.
- That’s right, at the beginning I thought that it would have been good if I stayed here to practice and follow studying the German language. But after that I considered a sad idea don’t go to Paris from here to still more when I had my car with myself.
- Do you have a car by you?- I almost screamed because of the impression of the news.
- Yes, I do, I came from Norway to here with my car.
Suddenly I felt a shame perception as though I were only a scarecrow, a blunt clown, somebody without personal materialization, that is to say, simply shit.
- Actually – followed Liver – inclusive in this way I’m not sure, because to go alone is a little silly, but on the other hand, as I said by you, now is the only opportunity to do it, because, after this travel, I have to start to work in a music company in Norway.

My hope was a dead loss, I assumed that my die was cast, maybe I would go to Paris, but I thought that this day wouldn’t achieve successful.

- Do you want to go to Paris? – asked Liver me and changed my life forever – I mean, if you don have another important thing.
- Are you kidding? – I reacted inappropriately, but “to hell with it” “ to hell with the formalities” it was Paris – I’ m prepared to go to Paris every time, it doesn’t matter if I have to do something.
- Great! – Liver said me with this typical Scandinavian cheerful without mock and happiness, as though he would be finishing to taste a salmon with wine.
We started walking in the direction of Die Hauptstraße when suddenly I met a friend from Iran, C, who was at that time already 8 years in Germany and studied Biology. I met her sometimes to practice German and she practiced with me English ( at that time fluid, nowadays absolutely rusted). She looked like every woman from Iran, big eyes with pitch dark hair, thin like a fad and curious like an epigram. I was in a high condition, so I didn’t doubt ask her about the travel.

- But, I don’t have any money, I’m current stony broken – said me C – but next week I get money concerning a job.
- But you don’t pay! – I say her – he has a car and he drives in this way anyway. Come on C! it’ll be very funny.
We agreed each other join up at 9:00 A.M. on the main station in Heidelberg. The next day Liver came with C together at the Main Station. They didn’t packed a lot things, only a bag and a little bag pack. The Auto of Liver was a Sedan, grey color and with a big and strong radio. We left Heidelberg behind us and while Liver and C talked about easier and faster way I saw with the head on the glass how the streets stayed behind us and the buildings showed their frontages as though they were a big foresail.
- We are coming to Paris – said Liver – we are near the gate number 2 of the city.

Effectively it was so. The curious thing for me then was that I couldn’t see nowhere the famous gates described by Victor Hugo. It was sad to start up admit that the sign of Paris which I had built and conceived was absolutely false. The traffic jam was horrible in the surroundings of the city. During waited that the jam slackened we felt that from the sides a sound like hornet arose threatening to crash our car. It was produced by a group of motorcycle. Then I found strange that every driver of the motorcycles were Arabs. Nowadays I can understand very well what I saw there. Actually the saddest present of the city that has already stolen my heart forever.
The next problem come immediately: no place to parking the car. A line of cars in every street without place to use for Liver’s car. We drove from street to street round on round 3 hours without we finding anyplace. Finally we found a place in the yard of the church dana-picassa in the junction from Rue Monge and Rue de Bernardins and near here, there was a youth hostel, “ Bureau de voyages de la jeunesse”, where we got into for 2 nights. After that we took a shower and changed the cloths we went out to walk on the street. It was the first time and it had to be absolute especial. We drunk a coffee in the Café Brasserie in the Boulevard Saint Germain , where we asked someone to take a picture of us ( unfortunately I lost this picture) to immortalize the moment. Afterwards we walked on till the river Seine. From then on we could already see the church of Notre Dame with its magnificence and decoration that penetrated in the eyes from everyone who stood in front of it. We took pictures here ( unfortunately I lost this pictures too) in several postures and with different forms to gesture and gesticulations.
- Do you know something – said Liver at a moment in which C was contemplating the big cathedral – I like C and I would like to get her like girlfriend, help me please.
It was very impressing and still more because he said me it with certain hopeful that I could right do something for him. Nowadays I think that he hadn’t idea what imposing he looked like, the suction of his blue eyes and his posture with 1.90cm, true impressing.
- Of course Liver, I’ll give it one’s best shot.
I wasn’t able to say another thing, I wanted help him, but what would happen I couldn’t have foreseen not even in my worse nightmare.
We were walking all the day and once that we finished to see the places of interest in the city, we come back at the youth hotel to take a shower and go out again to drink the wine that we bought with a strange predilection on a store whose chef was a guy from Pakistan. At the night we went out from the youth hotel, one by one, Liver had the bottle in the hand and I turn on the first cigarette of the night. We sat down on the shore of the Seine, C in the middle of us who dressed shorts and a white blouse. On the Boardwalk of the river there was a lot groups of people who sang with a guitar or simple chattered enjoyable.
- Cheers – I said my pals – to us! And our first time in Paris, the light city!
To remember it in this moment these words sounds ridiculous, but there seemed to have palate for me, moreover Liver and C accepted to chink glasses with me. The time passed by and the wine and the cigarettes broke our repressions and gave us harmony, solidarity, and of course, madness.
- Do you know what’s the problem with the German men? – said C with certain effusiveness – they have power in the mind but considerably less in the dick.
- Hahaha – I laughed loudly – I have it heard, but is not possible that every man in Germany is bad in bed, it is outrageously.
- You have to believe me, it’s true, and that is the advantage that I have over you, I can take, feel, catch and touch a dick, an experience that you couldn’t get anymore.
- Ok, stop telling it, I believe you - I said a few angry about – although I think that it has to exist an exception, but I could say, you have experimented it firsthand.
Liver stayed quiet. I think that he was involved because of our conversation because he was Norwegian and they had the same reputation. Then C turn on the side towards Liver and I stayed behind her. Liver started talking her about his life in Norway, the problems with his parents because of his love for the music, the bad experience that he ever had in every relationship and the incomprehensibility of every women that he had tried lo love, on my part, I was busy drinking the wine bottle and smoking my cigarette with great delight, because, what’s matter! I was in Paris.
- My last girlfriend said me – told Liver – that I had a contempt way to understand the word enjoyment. After that she didn’t never answered the cell phone again.
- Fuck bitches – C said Liver – forget this whores Liver in the world there is enough girls, and you have not to forget, you are Norwegian, do you have an idea how many girls would like to get married somebody from Norway? Don’t worry Liver, you’re going to find somebody, and somebody very beautiful.
I think that it wasn’t a riddle for C and she knew what would possibly happen, but it is only a conjecture that I had then. I stared Notre Dame with rupturing holding on from the bottleneck the wine bottle and bearing the night Parisian in mind. I don’t know where from, but I suddenly felt a violent and high-strung sensitive impetus that filled my body with wish to experiment new things and forbidden happenings.
I poked slowly my hand into her pant and touched the insinuation of the crevice of her derriere making little circles on her skin with my ring finger. C continued talking with Liver trying to simulate the job of my hand although I could perceive her shake an vibration which hit and got rid if her in my intention. I wanted to be romantic, delicate and tactful, but my excitation was very hard to wait a lot time to satisfy my requirements.
- When du manage touch the heart of a girl – C said Liver – you’ll see what easy everything happen.
- But, what do they want? – asked Liver – I have ever given everything that I was able to give them.
In the midst of this conversation I checked out more and more the intimate parts of C. In a audacious decision I left jump up my hand over her buttock till her tame and obedient line of her vagina, it was another beginning in our friendship, a new haven for tonight, an adventure that steered me into the unknown.
- You are special man Liver, unfortunately it’s not visible for the women, they needed time to see that, for this reason you have to try to tempt them in any way, like a spider, and I ensure you, if somebody got fall in your cobweb, won’t get go out of there.
Meanwhile the wine was over, I had only jabbed her pussy two times und we had already to go home because all store in this time were closed and it was impossible for us to find wine to follow the party ( at that time we didn’t know the Pakistan-stores, which abound in Paris and are known because they normally worked all night, how I shall put it! We hadn’t been there so far). I stood heart-rendingly, to go too long, so far away for nothing, I didn’t want to come back in the youth hostel, it was incongruous, it was summer and everywhere you could see people on the riverbank that either almost died laughing or absolute overcome by the moment while they hoisted a brew, I didn’t want to fritter away my time on a bed sleeping whereas the life walked out there flirty, coy, so easy and soft like a little spoon that slowly dive in a yogurt, so frenetic like could be a jongleur in the purgatory.
I staggered ahead during my head swam feverishly. I felt that humiliating to gain knowledge of quitting this edenic moment to go back at the hotel. Finally I had to put up with the situation and I must sadly go to bed.
I laid on the bed in a room with thousand people together, as is the custom in almost every youth hostel in Paris. In front of me I heard a couple unscrupulous, unrestrained, unbridled and incontinent fucking that I had problems to think that everybody in this tide room was sleeping.
- Öh, öhh, öhh, … - moaned a girl in English – don’t stop, don’t stop, I kill you.
- No, no, je ne peux plus supporter – said the man in French - je me viens, je me viens.
- No, dawn, not yet, not yet !!!
This sounds were alluring and excitant. I was so prurient that I had masturbated myself there if I hadn’t thought that I, like the Frenchman that the American fucked, had a female in order to attempt the sin-taste too. I pulled myself together, I stood up again and I went to the next room, to the girls and of course to C.
I sneaked in the bed of C without finding at the beginning resistance, actually some caresses were replied to as though she would have been waiting me. Nevertheless she wasn’t Potiphar and her first excitement changed in a crude refusal.
- Que-est que tu crois que tu fais trou du cul? – said somebody while he took me from the shoulder – toi, du balai!

The fellow was a worker of the youth hostel and he kicked me straightforward out. For all my begging and entreating, I did not ménage to gain entrance once more. The last possibility for me was the Liver’s car. I’m Peruvian and for that reason I gave me few hopes to find the car open, because I know how the Peruvian people close their cars, with extreme measure of security, but Liver wasn’t Peruvian but Norwegian and it was an generous advantage for me. I tried out to open the door of the car and hallelujah! The door was open.
I fell like a log on the backseat and dropped off.
Only somebody who was sometime drunk can understand how delightful and pleasant is get sleeping after a jag. In my drunkenness I could hear tiny sounds that came from the distance like waves, echo sounder, tides of voices that looked for stimulating me, tearing from my sleep condition to obligate me to enter in the reality again. My eyes were half open and even so it was enough to notice what was happening outside.

- Tu conard! reveille-toi! reveille-toi – screamed a group of old people out of the door of the car.
They knocked the window glass of the car as though they would slap flies or somebody would play a drum roll.
- Que-est que passe – I said sleepy and shattered yet – je ne faisais rien, c’est erreur.
After that I sat down orderly what was happening there. Liver parked the car in the courtyard of a church, specifically on the doorway of the church with what the entrance stayed closed and blockaded for the parishioners who want to attend to the Sunday’s Mass. (to be continued)

Novela

Esta es la primera entrega de mi primera novela la que entregare por extractos en este medio masivo de publicación. Espero su deguste y ensenanza.
Manuel Alberto Valderrama Gonzales.



En la penumbra con pesadez subo las escaleras, como ciego novato me guio con las manos, las frías paredes de mayo aguardan inquisidoras, no busco el interruptor, por el contrario, preciso de mas oscuridad aún, el aliento languidece y el corazón me atropella, la puerta, la llave y la cerradura, todo está en su lugar, excepto yo, podrá ser la televisión tan precisa para mostrarme los resultados, o deberé soportar más la potenciación a la N de la angustia, necesito calmarme y racionalizar que yo no soy un criminal, solo soy un sobreviviente, he sobrevivido al fin del mundo, cíclicamente con aburrimiento apocalíptico he oído como este mundo va a acabar, sin embargo, aun estoy aquí vivo y muriendo, casi inerte, con un único conocimiento seguro, que al morir, cuando este en el último segundo nada me diferenciara de cualquier otro hombre sobre la tierra, simplemente se acabo todo ahí en ese instante fugaz la realidad más manifiesta me llevara a dormir entre las sombras, no habrá bien, ni mal, ni oscuridad eterna, simplemente no habrá nada, una vez asumida nuestra insignificancia en el tiempo estamos listos para ser grandes, pero hay de aquellos ciegos que buscan abrigo en un porvenir que no está construido más que de falacias en terreno fangoso, el temor al castigo eterno después de morir fue la mejor herramienta para moldear la conducta, como bestias salvajes que se someten a la inercia y aprenden a comer mirando al suelo por temor al garrote, balan en busca de compasión, el alma le suda frio al sonido del gong, yo ya perdí la piel de cordero y por temor no me probé la de lobo, solo soy un humano desnudo de moral ortodoxa, he sobrevivido también a los gobiernos desastrosos, a la época del terror, al sida y a mis propios vicios, y ¿Cómo lo hice? No lo sé, solo fui barco de papel flotando en la circunstancia, sin pretender ser causa o manipular efecto alguno, la inacción me determino, pero hoy no, no esta noche, hoy hice uso de la probabilidad, esta noche jugué al titiritero, cerrando los canales forme el ducto, y ahora solo espero la confirmación, pero mientras, los sentimientos se contraponen en una guerra civil moral en mi interior, es mi creación, es mi crimen,

Antes que la televisión enciendo la radio, me derrumbo sobre la cama y en breve se filtra por la oscuridad Queen y su rapsodia bohemia, reviso lo acontecido mientras el entresueño me adormece,

Una fiesta patronal en la víspera del primero de mayo, sobre el anda reposa soberana bañada en flores la virgen del chapi, tan carente de culpa, cubierta por una frágil tela, delgada e inma-culada, antes de develarla los hombres comen, beben y bailan, mitigan su dolor viajando por la culpabilidad, combaten el fuego con fuego, y la imagen incólume, los rostros afligidos y los gestos piadosos, las flores, los pétalos, los favores y las promesas, el silencio se impone y todos ensayan su mejor gesto de dolor, mea culpa parece gritar cada poro de su piel, suave y cadenciosa la voz del cura da inicio a la misa en honor a la virgen, una misa al aire libre, la muchedumbre mirando al cielo, al suelo, al padre, se santiguan, la voz cadenciosa habla sobre el amor al prójimo, la perseverancia en la fe, un poco de historia y unas citas bíblicas muy precisamente escogidas, próximo al final la eucaristía milagro de amor, el padre acerca la ostia a los labios y musitando una oración secreta la parte en dos, mirando hacia abajo la coloca sobre la lengua de las que esperan limpiar el alma con la felación inmaculada, con los dientes labios y saliva degustamos la carne milenaria del viejo salvador, como antropófagos apasionados nos unimos en una sola masa y nos sentimos a salvo en la eucaristía orgiástica, los sentidos se abusan, amor y paz, las trompetas, bajos, saxofones y tarolas marcan el ritmo ebrio con que se desplazan los penitentes, todos levantan a la virgen sobre los hombros y avanzan lentos como la marcha al paredón, espectadores ajenos a la ceremonia ven pasar a la virgen que ya perdió el velo, tras varias vueltas y paradas se retorna al lugar de origen y empieza la verdadera celebración, adiós dios de los judíos, bienvenido baco, la noche suelta con goce el rumor pagano a través de los labios ardorosos, la orquesta deja en el olvido aletargantes ritmos y se lanza con las cumbias y los huaynos, orgiástica escena elucubrada en el corazón del infierno, las bombardas y los castillo, fuegos y petalos de rosa, la fe explota y se desborda, todos beben.

En un rincón de la calle, Adán se mantiene encerrado en sí, observando, como observan los viejos edificios a la vida circular, para él su presencia no se debía a razones de fe, ni a preten-siones copulatorias, en su mente tenía planeado culminar unos negocios con un amigo arequipeño, un hombre corpulento pero de estatura menos que mediana, de trato tosco mas que rudo, pero con una sonrisa orgullosa de sus dientes amarillos, se saluda con todos a través de un inesperado abrazo y bebía cerveza con todos los grupos, algunos lo alejaban del grupo para hablarle a solas, pero el pronto de un tirón los llevaba al centro de la fiesta, y como era costumbre de todos los años en medio de la noche hacia su promesa de ofrenda para la virgen, todos guardaban silencio y ponían el rostro serio,
-yo Francisco Matías Huamán Ponte, me comprometo, el próximo año a correr con los gastos de las cerveza, la comida y a comprar un anda nueva para la virgen, - alzaba su vaso y bebía como sellando su ofrenda, Don Pancho le decían los que se creían de su confianza, se dedicaba a prestar dinero a todos sus paisanos en lima, sean estos comerciantes o trabajadores, participaba de sus fiestas y se interrelacionaba con ellos, sus inicios en la capital fueron como la de todo provinciano, durísimo, especialmente por ser de Arequipa, las relaciones entre arequipeños y limeños no siempre fue buena la superioridad se la apropiaban ambos; la familia(según lo que contaban sus amigos) de Francisco en Arequipa era pobre, solo tenían unas tierras que no producían mas allá de la tercera parte de su capacidad, producto de los malos manejos del padre que desaprovecho así los beneficios aparentes de la reforma agraria, compro buenos trajes, buenos vinos y malos tractores, hizo muchos hijos ilegítimos y muchos malos negocios, Francisco creció viendo la decadencia y por orgullo no podía vivir más en Arequipa, su padre ebrio al verlo partir no se atrevió a decirle: no te vayas, llegó a Lima con una misión personal, hacerse de un lugar en la capital y regresar a Arequipa a reflotar las tierras del padre, el terrorismo le quito la necesidad de lo segundo, llegó a vivir a casa de un tío que operaba un almacén de granos en La Parada, éste tío lo empleaba como estibador durante el día y por las noches debería quedarse a dormir en el almacén haciendo las veces de guardián, acompañado por dos perros chuscos fieros como dos capitalistas neoliberales, armado con un machete esperaba todas las noches a los ladrones que nunca llegaban, pero si sostuvo cruentos combates con las ratas que paseaban sus panzas por el frio piso del almacén, el tío de francisco le cogió cariño y le respetaba pero solo le pagaba lo mismo que a cualquier otro estibador con la única diferencia que a él lo alimentaba,
-Panchito, lo que daría por ver a mis hijos trabajando como tú, pero ellos solo quieren estudiar, desprecian este negocio del que comen y visten, del que consiguen esas limeñas flacuchas y pintarrajeadas, tu abuela Panchito, esa si era una mujer daba a luz y seguía trabajando en la chacra, como si nada, a estas mujeres de acá se les caería el brazo si trabajaran la mitad de lo que trabajaba tu abuela,
-no ¿crees? Tío que es bueno estudiar, ser profesional tal vez tus hijos quieran progresar,
-¿progresar? Sobrino, siempre he sido comerciante y tengo dinero a montones, gano más que un doctor o un abogado y ni siquiera la secundaria he terminado, si quieren estudiar que estudien, pero, de ¿de qué me sirve a mí un doctor o un literato? ¿Por qué no estudian algo que sirva para el negocio? Porque no vienen aquí a ayudarme aunque sea con las cuentas,
-tal vez no les guste este lugar,
-lo desprecian sobrino, y sé que en el fondo me desprecian a mi por ser ignorante, y no como los padres de sus amigos, creo que los eduque mal, ahora te veo a ti y pienso que debí traerlos a trabajar acá desde niños, pero bueno, y tu sobrino ¿Cómo estas acá en Lima? Te gusta te acostumbras,
-Es dura Lima, allá en Arequipa las chicas me buscaban, acá ni me miran por ser cargador, el trabajo paga poco y si no fuera porque tú me das donde vivir y que comer estaría tan mal como los demás cargadores,
-¡no sobrino! No es lo poco que ganan lo que los tiene así, es lo mucho y mal que gastan, be-ben a diario y mantienen a dos o más familias incluso, tienen muchos hijos y no valoran el dinero hasta que lo ven agotarse y por ende no se valoran, ellos siempre serán cargadores es su destino,
-¿y el mío tío? crees que deba serlo siempre,
-¿acaso es a lo que viniste? Antes apenas cargabas un saco, pero ahora cargas de a tres como el mejor, ¿es ese tu reto en la vida? ¿Luego que vendrá, demostrar cuanta caña puedes tomar y a cuantas hembras te puedes tirar?
-no, tío eso no,
-entonces, dime ¿Qué ves de acá a diez años? Como crees que estarás
-no lo se
-¿no lo sabes? O no confías en mi ¿Qué quieres? Estudiar ser un comerciante, vivir a la deriva, doblar el lomo hasta que olvides de qué color es el cielo,
-ser profesional supongo,
-ya te me contagiaste del bicho limeño, es el sueño de todo provinciano iluso, te lo repito, son estupideces el poder viene del dinero, todo en la vida tiene un precio y ese precio es en metálico, sé un abogado o un contador y te prometo que estarás haciendo taxi, o trabajando par alguien como yo en el mejor de los casos
-Te digo que no lo sé ,solo no quiero seguir así mas tiempo,
-aprende el negocio sobrino, pronto en uno o dos años, mas abriré un almacén y ahí te quiero a ti, yo no pude hacerlo antes porque no tengo en quien confiar, y mis hijos parecen hacerse los desentendidos, ¿Qué dices?
-tío no te voy a defraudar esa es una oportunidad que no esperaba,
-somos una familia y a la familia se protege y se ayuda, y si algún extraño hace eso por ti tenlo por tu familia y si tu familia no lo hace, tenlos por extraños,
-a partir de mañana te dedicarás a cobrar por las tardes así que cómprate ropa un poco decente, y arréglate.

La luz al final del túnel provenía de su misma sangre, con la promesa del tío Francisco se entrego mas al trabajo, empezó a seleccionar a los estibadores mas fuertes mas agiles para acelerar las descargas más rápidas, despedía a los que descubría robando, así fuese solo medio kilo de grano, muchas veces el asunto terminaba en una pelea, algunos cargadores lo trataban como engreído del dueño, otros lo respetaban y se le mantenían leales,
-joven Francisco, es usted, bien trabajador, como nosotros, pero usted ha tenido una suerte que nosotros no, usted es sobrino del jefe, por eso le envidian, yo también lo envidio pero sanamente, por favor no deje de llamarme para cualquier trabajo,
-está bien Marcelo, no te preocupes, si entiendo cualquier cosa, cualquier cosa que necesites pídemela, dentro de lo posible que sea lo hare,
-la verdad joven Francisco a eso venia, aunque me da un poco de vergüenza decirlo, pero la necesidad me obliga,
-solo dilo, hombre tienes como veinte años más que yo deberías hablarme con franqueza
-está bien, lo que ocurre es que uno de mis hijos, esta enfermo, y las medicinas que ha reco-mendado el médico es carísima y no tengo dinero para comprarlas, solo quería saber si me puede usted facilitar, algún dinero, para comprarla, yo se la devolveré con intereses,
-¿y porque no le pides adelanto a mi tío?
-su tío cree que lo quiero para la cantina o gastarlo con mujeres, además ya lo han intentado otros y nunca acepta adelantar,
-lo mismo pensaría yo, que te he visto hace unos días bebiendo como descocido
-es que usted sabe que la enfermedad se presenta cuando uno menos lo espera, si hubiera yo sabido que esto iba a pasar, pero ni modo las cosa suceden por voluntad del señor , tal vez sea una llamada de atención, vamos si gusta lo llevo a mi casa para que vea usted a mi hijo
-vamos ¿Dónde vives?
-en El Agustino.

La casa de Marcelo era pequeña y tan miserablemente acogedora, poseída por el espíritu de la pobreza, cuatro niños acostados en una cama listos a descansar asomaban la cabeza por debajo de la frazada para husmear quien era aquel intruso, la esposa de Marcelo daba el ultimo biberón de té a uno de sus párvulos antes de mandarlo a dormir, una televisión a blanco y negro forrada con una mica de colores que recepcionaba mal la señal, la esposa de Marcelo sirvió te y pan con queso, Francisco miró al pequeño enfermo y la esposa corroboro la historia, la mujer no podía trabajar porque alguien debía atender a los niños, y el dinero de Marcelo apenas se asomaba a cubrir las necesidades, los niños en la cama empezaron a pelear, Marcelo se les acercó amenazante con la correa en la mano y los calló, Francisco facilitó el dinero a Marcelo y se retiro al almacén.

Paso el tiempo y Marcelo pago el dinero adeudado insistió por dignidad y orgullo en los inter-eses pero Francisco no acepto, otros estibadores se enteraron del favor que este hizo a Marcelo y tentaron suerte, los motivos eran a veces triviales y otros eran un cuento de desgracias casi inverosímiles, pero, Francisco accedía igual en nombre de la amistad y la amistad no permite el interés más si el abuso y el engaño, Francisco vio como en muchos casos el dinero facilitado se iba en mujeres y tragos, como los demás disfrutaban en banalidades el dinero, que él con una vida ascética había ahorrado, y comprendió lo injusto de la situación, todos esos pobres hombres vivían atrapados por el vicio y una moral decadente, y aprovechándose de él. Le querían y le eran leales, no como a un coronel que guía a sus soldados a muerte en gloria sino como a la res que provee los lácteos.

Transcurrieron prontamente dos años, Francisco conocía las cotizaciones diarias de los granos, el auge de la especulación sostenida apoyada por la hiperinflación, la moneda nacional que caía junto con el orgullo de ser peruano todas las tardes junto con el sol, eran los años maravillosos de los grandes almacenes y de cualquiera que pudiese proveer algo de comida a cualquier costo, pero toda maravilla contiene n su lado oscuro, como si se empeñase siempre en demostrar que el bien y el mal son tan relativos como el ser humano, y el lado oscuro de la especulación eran los saqueos, manifestación del hambre la decadencia y la desesperación, con ello negociaba el especulador, no con abarrotes, no era oferta ni demanda, era vida o muerte, conforme se acaban los recursos y lo derechos del hombre se acaba también su dignidad y pronto nos asemejamos mas al animal que solo tiene en mente comer a como de lugar, la carestía rindió sus frutos, el tío de Francisco reunió el capital necesario para aperturar un nuevo almacén, en el interin de ese tiempo vieron ellos como una masa extraña se apodero de las calles, para vender a la intemperie y mas barato, aquello que ellos protegían en costosas instalaciones, pero aun así el mercado es prodigo para con sus hijos mas desalmados,

Los tratos previos para la adquisición del nuevo local se agotaron, solo quedaba, aportar el efectivo, Francisco acompaño a su tío, a retirar un promedio de cien mil dólares, Francisco conducía la imponente camioneta Cherokee del ochenta y cinco, eran las tres de la tarde y el verano del ochenta y siete se mostraba tan bochornoso como la verdad, de regreso a La Victoria por la avenida Aviación, otra camioneta Cherokee, adelanto a Francisco y freno en seco delante de éste, Francisco bajo del auto a ver que ocurría a pesar de que su tío se lo prohibió, una bala atravesó su cabeza y el sol del verano aquel no volvería a irritarle la vista.

En algún lugar estuvo el alma del tío de Francisco antes de nacer y en otro lugar desconocido habrá de estar al morir, pero su cuerpo quedara confinado bajo cemento y madera, el tiempo demolerá esa estructura humana y la magia será el consuelo a nuestra ignorancia, el final le llego intempestivo y borro su figura de vista alguna, solo en memorias minoritarias y con vaci-lante nitidez se le vera, incluso la tristeza familiar se hará intermitente hasta desaparecer, pero, a la muerte tras muerte violenta le acompaña la ira la venganza y el deseo de hallar al culpable; y los hijos hallaron al culpable, sin más pruebas que el raciocinio, y la figura para ellos estuvo siempre clara y es como se la explicaron a los policías:

Francisco era un hombre pobre sin más esperanzas para la vida que ser capataz de unos cuántos cargadores, joven frustrado proveniente de una familia en decadencia, explotado por un tío lejano, tuvo él desarrollar una envidia y un odio a aquel que prodigaba a sus hijos de algo que él nunca conocería, estatus, el vivía solo como un miserable de la monedas que obtenía por doblar el lomo, pero, cuando el tío cometió el error de abrirle los ojos abrió también la caja de pandora que los hombres llevan por corazón, Francisco no se dedico dos años a aprender el negocio sino a medir la fortuna del tío, a plañera el golpe final, pero, como robar sin perder la dignidad, porque ese arequipeño infeliz era tan pusilánime que ni siquiera asumiría su condición de ladrón, necesitaba disfrazarlo todo y quedar como héroe o víctima, y aunque perdiera parte de lo codiciado no perdería la dignidad, después de todo para eso sirve el dinero; él se puso en contacto con los secuestradores, dio el dato preciso, pero no conto con lo mismo que su tío no conto, la avaricia del otro, los criminales lo traicionaron, mataron al tío y a su desleal sobrino y huyeron con el dinero que encontraron, olvidaron el secuestro y optaron por lo inmediato, tomaron todo y desaparecieron. Era esta la versión del hijo mayor del tío de Francisco y en ello trabajaba la policía, pero no daba con ninguna pista concluyente y teniendo a Francisco en estado de coma tampoco se podía avanzar demasiado.

Francisco dormía en estado de coma, al despertar no, le esperaría sus padres ni esposa alguna, solo unos policías mas preocupados en su declaración que en su estado, a ellos no le interesaba ni siquiera hallarlo culpable o inocente, solo les interesaba terminar con ese trabajo cuanto antes mejor, no había nada que ganar ahí, él no sabía nada y ellos lo sabían, la gran masa de carne y hueso tal vez quede cuadripléjico, y sin saber porque, ni siquiera sabe lo que ocurrió, solo esta vagando por lugares confusos.
El informe final de inteligencia exculpaba al ciudadano Francisco ante la sociedad, pero no ante la familia, la familia nunca aceptaría que se trataba de unos terroristas que pedían cupo a Don José, y que este se negó en varias oportunidades, motivo por el cual fue asesinado, el dinero según algunos testigos no fue cogido por los asesinos sino por diversos transeúntes que fungían de samaritanos, pero, en el fondo eran solo saqueadores, la forma en que dispa-raron al vehículo destrozo la carrocería y el cuerpo e Don José quedo peor aún, no había nada más que pudiera informar la policía, no había a quien encarcelar, no había consuelo, solo fugitivos de un movimiento incomprendido, la policía retiro la guardia entorno al paciente Francisco Huamán, y así la palabra desahucio se aproximaba a rotular al arequipeño.

Al cabo de unos meses Francisco despertó, solo un milagro podía salvarlo, y ese milagro ocu-rrió un primero de mayo, Francisco volvió a nacer ileso en el cuerpo mas no en el alma, la me-moria le volvió rápida y lacerante como una sentencia de dios, recordaba los hombres bajando del auto y como su mirada se perdía en el cielo, el hallarse en un hospital le permitía imaginarse el resto sin mucho esfuerzo.

La belleza es algo extraño que se posa lo mismo en la rosa matutina como en un campo de batalla medieval, y estamos lejos de comprenderla porque no la vemos con ojos mundanos sino que en vana pretensión pretendiendo desprendernos de nuestros defectos acusamos aquello que se nos antoja perfecto de bello, lo fino, lo foráneo y coronando nuestra ignorancia lo incomprensible reinan en los parámetros de belleza, acaso no fue bello el jorobado explicando el porqué de su amor a ella, lejos estamos de comprender la belleza como lejos estamos de comprender la verdadera miseria y la verdadera alegría, el autoengaño en la humanidad es tan grande como el amor de dios, solo nos embarga una vaga idea de sentimiento tan laxa que no llegamos a morir en ello, hay belleza en los nacimientos y en las muertes, lo mismo ambos encierran paz como violencia, solo la ilusión, el querer determina el adjetivo; y así era bello el dolor de Francisco, como violenta era su confusión y era también abrigador su temor, tan reducido, tan expectante en la confrontación de la realidad, tan liviana se hacia su estructura, todo era silencio, pero sin orden, la verdad estaba cerca, ¿y quién la quería saber pronto?, para que ir a la luz si crecimos en la oscuridad, para que voltear a ver la luz que produce la sombra, para matar la incertidumbre, si hay algo que no soporta el hombre es el no saber, lamentablemente a veces el saber se hace insoportable, no era el estado de su tío lo preocupante para él, sino, su propia condición lo que le preocupaba, el tío era un flash vago de dolor, pero el mañana se le presentaba aplastante, solo en un hospital rodeado de enfermos abandonados, solo en-fermedad y desolación le rodeaban, y no resultaba consolante ver más dolor en la cama contigua, su mente vago hasta refugiarse en los confines más lejanos de su niñez hasta tum-barse nuevamente sobre hierba húmeda y sentir los senos cálidos de una madre, un gesto amable cualquiera destapaba el champagne del dolor, invade el ambiente una calma rígida e incómoda, Francisco dirige la mirada a la figura que se le acerca inexorable, y aun sin lograr reconocerla del todo las palabras le alcanzan lacerantes y atropelladas:-¡tu! Asesino, hiciste asesinar a mi padre- y la figura se marcho sellando con su espalda la prisión de tormentos, no había mas que pensar el tío José estaba muerto, lo mejor será dormir o buscar cualquier for-ma de ausencia.

Pero, no importa cuánto sufra uno y cuanta desolación cerque a la persona el mundo no se detiene y habían cosas concretas que afrontar, como la hospitalización de Francisco, ello tiene un costo material monetario, y no se basa en un juramento hipocrático, ni en amor al prójimo ni en compasión piadosa, ni siquiera pensar en la ciencia al servicio del hombre, es solo dinero constante, fluyente y radiante, billetes con olor a amoniaco y monedas con bacteria son el motivo del sistema.
Si bien los médicos no concluyen determinantemente si el coma anula todas las percepciones del hombre, al menos los estímulos fuertes no reciben acuse de recibo,

Canary Bay

It is an article about the france-band Indochine and how they played the music in a party in a traditional middle class distric from Lima at the 80's years. I was 11 years old and I hadn't ever been in a party. It was the time in where our group lacked of girls, we were actually only boys. The feminine gender was relegated from our vital sphere. Nevertheless, like everything, it was a continuity that would draw to an end soon. A few started appearing with some girls, which were mainly girlies and leading, with exaggerated manners and carping on about everything. The rest stayed stretching studying meticulously the changes in our little universe. Then it was important to play soccer or marbles anymore, the new distinction in the group was getting a girl like friend not to mention a girlfriend. On that account we had to transmute our proper personality and adapted to the apparent taste from these newcomers. New clothes, haircutter, maybe a little perfume, maybe not, cigarettes to the mouths in order to seem older than we were actually. We were In these incidents when we came to know that a party in our quarter would take place, whereupon finished the patriarchy age and started the matriarchy. Of course I had to go there because it was something new and different than former, where could happen everything, a watershed in life, a turn point in the fortune, or maybe only a theme to talk at the table afternoons. In this way, I couldn’t do something off the cuff, I had to get rid of every old fashioned thing from the past and introduced me as though I would have born again. I should exploit this opportunity! I said myself, event though I had no idea what for. I was very youth, it was no the time to toujours un pied dans la tombe, de l’autre faisant des gambades.
In this day, I dressed a leather-jacket ( oh my god, how I could do it, forgive me please, forgive me), and I took a shower 2 times, every arrangement was inadequate and insufficient, I couldn’t make a blunder, I wouldn’t leave blame me for something. In the evening, the music full every corner from the quarter clattering the windows around the neighborhood. What I found at the door from the party was something new too. My buddies, absolutely transformed, it sucked worse than Gregorio Samsa in the Metamorphosis. Almost everyone has a lighted cigarette to the mouth and smoked without the cigarette more than 5 cm from theirs faces, they did walk anymore, they tramped and were more stone than an anvil( only because of the tension, with drugs we had never intention of doing it). Fortunately it wasn’t the unique with a leather-jacket ( thanks God) because, except from one or three, everybody dressed it. I don’t know, but after a couple years from the party I heard that the some boys inserted a sock in their intimate members with the purpose to simulate a generous splendor and magnitude in the size from their penis. I hadn’t to confirm this rumor but I can take it at face value.
The girls came and entered in the party as though they would be in a fashion show and others sat down on the hood of a car chewing gum. They were absolutely extroverted and we so diffident, real shrinking violets.
- Eh Oscar, you haven’t invited your friends, have you? – asked me my brother Miguel – it isn’t a party from the Kindergarten, well, I don’t want children here, ok?
That’s right, I was 3 years youngster and of course my friends were something “youth”. I got in the place where everybody pushed each other’s. We scrambled through the crowd and came to a place where my brother joined up with his friends. I thought, ok, it’s nice, I became part of the party and even better I became part of my brother’s friends.
- Eh you nuts – said me my brother - we go elsewhere, you stay here and have a nice time. See you in a bit.
Fuck, I said for myself, now I’m alone here like a barn owl, like a initiate. I was so angry about it that I wanted to spit mucus everybody, it was awful, I was so shy and biased that I could just barely hide my stupor. I leaned against the wall and left the others take part of the party while I only stared. It was the time from Indochine, a band from France that even was in Peru one time. Songs like 3ème sexe, Canary Bay, L’aventurier, a l’assaut and tes yeux noirs, were actually hits in the final of 80’s years whereupon could suppose that these songs would be the favorites for the people in a party.
And it happened in this moment. While a song from Pet Shop Boys finished appeared a small girl in front of me with almond-shaped eyes and black-brown hair. She played with a boy Fabrizio who aren’t her official boyfriend even though everybody knew that they had a relationship. They played pulling their bodies back and forth, to and fro, in movement softly and languishing. The were hugged and overlooked all the people in the place. Suddenly …
Ouh- ouh ♪♪
Ouh- ouh ♪♪
Ouh- ouh ♫
Ouh- ouh ♪♪
C'est a Canary Bay Ouh! Ouh!
Des filles qui vivaient en secret
C'est a Canary Bay …
When the girl listened the song jumped and started pulling forwards to Fabrizio to dance, but apparently he didn’t want to. He left hold of her and went away. She stayed there, alone like me, speechless, disillusionment, that’s is to say, it was the chance that I hoped so far and the fate gave me it. But I was a coward, I couldn’t say that I had gotten overcome my fears at this moment. At that happened the unforeseen. She found my eyes and with this feline sight she started to singe mine. I wasn’t more at this party, I was in a soundproof room where her sight dominated my will. Her sight said me, or rather, screamed me, take me to dance, take me to dance, but I didn’t nothing, I should have taken her and danced till to float, I should have taken her out to dance, smelling every pore from her body as though I were a night-blind, but I didn’t nothing. Soon, the strength from her sight waned and I was left out in the cold. She turn to another place and went away.
Her name was Erika and after I took on a life of myself I never heard about her again. I knew, that she became the play-girl from every boy in the quarter. But I may not confirm it. Actually, she had disappeared from my memory, until I found a couple months ago a cassette of Indochine in an antiquarian shop. By this song (canary bay) her figure and image assaulted my thoughts and I called up this chronic that you now know. I have in mind that she doesn’t exist more in my world, but rather in the song, jailed in a tide of lights and sounds from these party and when I listened this song again she arose her wings and flight through the ocean of my memories and reveal me again and again how beautiful were the 80’s years.

Oscar Hidalgo Trabucco
El Libertador.

Loft

since so many years I say for myself always the same story, lavish and like a sucker, ok , ok, you have already time for your dreams, you must finish your obligations and after that you can start to conquer the area that you love, that every dream deserves a punishment, a hero, a heroine and of course a villain too. Good and Bad, either of the ways is acceptable provided that I manage it that I like, after that I pine, even enter a convent, but finally it wasn't proper for nothing. Slowly I understand that I'm clearing away this dream, I understand that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush and dry bread at home is better than roast meat abroad. Now I have a son, a great son whom tells me every day, Papa, ich hab'dich lieb ( papa, I love you), and wenn I see how he makes an effort to give a step in his development, when he cares for deserving his pronunciation in my mother language (spanish)looks for me to play with his cars, I understand that dreams are in good working order when you are alone. In the past I tried to pay off the dreams of others people ( at least I think so now, even though it sounds ugly, but , for my money, it's true) and I forgot mine, in vain I tried to liberate myself from these people, but I couldn't and now it feels me old and tire, I had my opportunity and I wasn't brave, but a coward, a nasty coward. I'm a Fioka, the unique who survived in the time, because the rest disappeared in the air. But every generation must get a victim, whom has to support the shame of the fate and the revange of the envy and its allied, and for this reason I confront all my fears and I spew here all my words, all my breath. Life is what you make it, I make it, that's why I make hay while the sun shines. For everybody that is there, say: only the early bird catches the worm.
Best regards
El Libertador.

Alles ist Mathematik

Ich war am Telefon, als ich sah, wie eine Franse der überzogenen Schutzdecke schwingend ganz langsam runter fiel. Bei allen Schönhei-ten, die ich bisher gesehen habe, war es anders, eine wohltuende glänzende Franse, dachte ich umgehend, die mir aufzeigte, wie Tan-genten und Winkel von dieser Bewegung aufgebrochen werden.
Auf hysterische Weise habe ich in die Vergangenheit zurückgeblickt und es fiel mir eine Erinnerung ein, deren Grundlage aus dem Brunnen meiner Erfahrungen herausgerutscht ist.

Als ich in der Schule war, nach einer überzogenen Pause, in der ich mit anderen, der Literatur überführten, Genossen über Valdelomar gesprochen habe, sind wir zum Klassenraum zurückgegangen, ohne uns vorher um eine Ausrede zu kümmern. Falls der Lehrer uns wegen unseres unartigen Benehmens zur Rede stellen würde, könnten wir ihm immer sagen, dass wir für die bevorstehende Literatur-Prüfung geackert haben. Wir dachten nämlich, dass dies uns schützen würde und wir so gefahrlos die Situation überwinden könnten. Wir haben uns geirrt.

- „Entschuldigung“ – sagte einer von uns – „wir ersuchen ihre Er-laubnis um eintreten zu können.“
- „Wo wart ihr denn?“ – antwortete der Mathematiklehrer – „der Unterricht hat vor einer halben Stunde angefangen, ihr seid zu spät dran, es tut mir Leid, aber ich muss euch darum bitten, den Klassenraum zu verlassen.“

Wir wurden durch die Worte sehr betroffen, das hatten wir überhaupt nicht erwartet. Dann, mit voller Verwegenheit für die damalige Zeit, habe ich es gewagt folgendermaßen zu sprechen.

- „Entschuldigung, dass ich darauf bestehe, aber wir haben die Erzählung „ Herr Carmelo“ von Valdelomar durchgesprochen, die das Hauptthema für die Literaturprüfung ist, die nächste Woche stattfinden wird. Also, wir sind der Meinung, dass wir etwas Nützliches gemacht haben.“

Und, weil nichts ohne Streit abgeht, hat der Lehrer erstmal die Arme in die Hüften gestemmt, als Vorbereitung uns anzupflaumen.

- „In der Tat, ich war im Begriff euch herein kommen zu lassen, aber jetzt muss ich euch etwas ganz wichtiges sagen. Ihr lebt in Peru, einem armen Land, in dem alle Leute ihr ganzes Leben verträumen und gar nichts tun, um es rückgängig zu machen. Also, Literatur? – sagte er mit steigendem Ton – dieses Land braucht Mathematiker, Physiker, Ingenieure, nicht schmierige Schmarotzer, die vor den großen Chefs und Politikern katzbu-ckeln. Alles, junger Mann, ist Mathematik.“

Damals habe ich das nicht verstanden, weil ich zu dieser Zeit einfach so besessen von Literatur war. Seitdem ist viel Zeit vorbeigegangen und ich bin seit langem nicht mehr in der Schule. Heutzutage, nachdem ich den ulkigen Ruhm genossen habe, die Armut umschlungen habe und in jeder Schicht, wo ich gewesen war, ein durchsichtiges Dasein meiner Seele wie Gebeine hinterlassen habe, kann ich mit Überzeugung und mit betrübter Traurigkeit sagen, dass alles, eigentlich, Mathematik ist.