"Mi dolor de exilio es tan grande que cubre todo mi cuerpo.

Muevo un dedo del pie y sufro".

Lejos de casa


Carlos Giménez, el último rapsoda en un fractal desorbitado del Paradisi: Rapsodia IV / por José Augusto Paradisi Rangel, Ciudad de México, 3 de septiembre de 2021

 




 

Rapsodia IV


Déjala bailar en paz o Caracas escenario del mundo


La hambruna, la efervescencia política de Polonia, la realidad de aquel país negada en la hegemonía roja de los medios de comunicación erigió en mi memoria los versos de nuestro poeta Francisco Lazo Martí:


“Es tiempo de que vuelvas,

es tiempo de que tornes…

Que tu pecho varonil exornes…”


Un día en medio de una propuesta cerca del Palacio de la Cultura y la Ciencia de contestatarias remeras azul cobalto con las siglas E y A por la espalda, y por delante a nivel del corazón la leyenda: Element Antikomunisticzny tomé la dolorosa decisión de dejar mi amada por siempre Polonia. La multitud de corifeos de un teatro libertario rodeando la horrenda copia stalinista del Empire State Building me envalentonó.


Aeropuerto Okencie de Varsovia vuelo a Frankfurt, de ahí a Nueva York, a Caracas en las extintas alas de Pan American. Nuevo parto. La letra del himno nacional polaco como salmo y renunciable en el corazón cuya posible traducción sería ¡Todavía Polonia no muere mientras estemos vivos! (Misma que me aplico cotidianamente como dosis de opio soñando la reconstrucción de Venezuela después de la pesadilla roja que nos trocó en judíos errantes y diáspora hidrocefálica.


Muy delgado, exuberante melena, sandalias, overol malos olores desdibujando al niño de residencia universitaria del Opus Dei que, increíble pero cierto, fui,  un tesoro en el pecho forjado por mis viajes por Europa; y aquella procesión de verano a Grecia, descubrimiento de nuestra naturaleza cósmica mas allá del mal y del bien y la revelación, una noche báquica observando la grandilocuencia marmórea del Partenón desde el Ágora de Atenas, en palabras de Armando Rojas Guardia: de quién era yo al fondo de mí mismo.


Aterrizo en Caracas con un nido de cuervos desordenados en la cabeza, melena más escandalosa que la del actual Dudamel, medusa de mil sierpes sin oficios, beneficios ni proyectos. En el aire una gran expectación. Muy pronto se realizaría el V Festival Mundial de teatro de Caracas. Olimpíada de histriones del mundo entero. Era inevitable, la inclinada pendiente de mis asombros me empinaba finalmente al encuentro con el rapsoda para solicitarle empleo como traductor y guía en lengua polaca. El último rapsoda del teatro del siglo XX era mi destino; el oráculo de Delfos habló en el recuerdo del abrazo de la Gambaro en Maracay y su Teatro de la Ópera. Me esperaba en las oficinas de Rajatabla.


Quizás la encendida pasión que revelaron mis ojos más abiertos que nunca por la cultura polaca y mi periplo lo asombró. Lo cierto es que el bello rapsoda me tomó de inmediato para guía, traductor, asistente y cicerón del portento de Cracovia: Tadeus Kantor. Quizá vio en mi un San Jorge con lanza y armadura para vencer al dragón cuyos requerimientos y fama de difícil eran bocanadas de fuego en las orejas de los productores y realizadores de festivales de teatro del planeta.


Caracas, nuestra amada Caracas en democracia y libertad era una fiesta descomunal y Carlos visionario, con enorme justicia lo repito, la transformó en EL ESCENARIO DEL MUNDO.


El Decano de los rotativos de Venezuela: EL NACIONAL, nos bombardeaba con el arribo de los atlantes del teatro mundial. ¡Maravilla, a diferencia de otros festivales del mundo, todos alojados en hoteles contiguos: El Caracas y el Anauco Hilton cerca del novísimo Ateneo de Caracas, frente a nuestro Teatro Teresa Carreño en construcción! ¡63 teatros en activo en toda la ciudad en extensiones al interior de la República! Al finalizar las funciones cada jornada la gran rumba para festejarlos en el Teatro Permanente también muy cercano, en la antigua sede de la Cervecería Caracas: ¡un night club felliniano y tropical donde la alegría era Alka Seltzer de inextinguible efervescencia!


El soundtrack de ese festival fue sin duda la icónica producción de un auténtico “trabuco” musical en la triada de Chico Buarque de Holanda de Brasil, Willie Colón de Puerto Rico y la cereza del pastel en la voz de nuestra Soledad Bravo. Producción discográfica que produjo el milagro de romperles las férulas que ataban las caderas de cualquier histrión del mundo no nacido en nuestra desorbitada zona tórrida de las síncopas caribeñas.

..

No es por estar en presencia tuya, mi querido rapaz, pero tú estás mal, estás de lo peor. ¡Son las 10 y el baile está caliente y sigue llegando la gente y tú no la quieres dejar bailar…!


El Ateneo un geiser hiperactivo en pleno corazón de Caracas. Las noticias a todas horas y a deshoras: ¡Ovación de 45 minutos al Piccolo Teatro de Milano por su bellísima producción en comedia del arte de Arlecchino servitore di due padroni, dirigida por Giorgio Strehler, Goldoni soberbio en el Teatro Nacional; Katzuo Oono de Japón a sus 80 baila en la lentitud minimal de la danza Buhto su homenaje a Antonia Mercé en “Admirando a la Argentina” en el Teatro CANTV;  cuarenta y pico de brasileños desnudos estremecieron sambando cuatro horas Macunaíma bajo la batuta de Antunes Filho; que Wozzeck será afeitado en medio del público en la Sala Rajatabla con el Studio K de Budapest con el galanazo de Csaba Oszkay de soldado decepcionado de la Primera Guerra; que Argentina presenta del polaco Tadeusz Rózewicz Boda Blanca con Marilina Ross y Rubén Szuchmacher dirigidos por Laura Yussem ; que Inglaterra presenta una obra sobre los amores de Vaclav Nijinsky y Serguéi Diáguilev llamada “Chinchilla” sobre una cama de arenas de los Médanos de Coro; que llegan de invitados Clive Barnes del New York Times, que Hellen Steward de la Mamma de Nueva York, Skármeta de Chile; que Manuel Puig muy bahiano de gasas y sandalias griegas metedeo y para colmo en el Poliedro va a estar Sting y POLICE, y El Teatro La Candelaria de Colombia con todo y Enrique Buenaventura, Andrzej Wajda y su versión del Príncipe idiota de Fiódor Dostoyevski con Jerzy Radziwiłowicz y Jan Nowicki, y pronto, muy pronto, el ogro mayor Tadeusz Kantor, CRICOT 2 en coproducción con el Teatro Toscano de Firenze.


Después de cada premier una rumba y va de nuez  Soledad Bravo:


Detrás de un hombre triste hay siempre una mujer feliz y tras esa mujer hombres gentiles siempre hay mil…


Y yo desorbitado esperando a Kantor que ya había hecho de las suyas intentando detener un vuelo en el Aeropuerto Internacional de Milán produciendo un cataclismo en el departamento de logística que dirigía Giorgio Ursini Ursic. Carlos preocupado me veía, pero, con fe de que yo podría capotear el toro miura polaco. Faltaba poco para ese thriller que protagonizaría. Mientras me iba al Teatro Permanente a desestresar, mucho ron y Coca Cola y al centro de la sala cantando:


Son las seis y el baile revienta deja a esa negra contenta ¡déjala bailar en paz!

 

José Augusto Paradisi Rangel

Ciudad de México, 3 de septiembre de 2021.

 


Carlos Giménez, el último rapsoda en un fractal desorbitado del Paradisi: Rapsodia III / por José Augusto Paradisi Rangel, Ciudad de México, 3 de septiembre de 2021

 

 


Rapsodia III

Saulo tenía que caerse del caballo otra vez…


La inestable geografía de mis juveniles años procuraba cataclismos cotidianos en los grados más altos de la escala Richter de mis asombros. El mundo era cofre de sortilegios y, aunque suene cursi, estudiar siempre fue una aventura para mi en todos los ámbitos que alcanzaba a descubrir. Estallé al mundo del dibujo y la pintura con gran precocidad; después, en mi adolescencia, los estros armónicos, el olor de las librerías, los libros la eterna aventura. Todos esos asombros construyeron una sólida cámara negra de la memoria que considero mi mayor bendición. De acuerdo totalmente con Jorge Luis Borges que no se vanagloriaba de su literatura sino de lo que había leído. Todavía mis alumnos de la Universidad de la Comunicación de la Ciudad de México se ríen de mi aserto en una clase de Estética:


¡Si te vas a meter una línea que sea de poesía!


Toda esa pasión devino en crisis vocacional de un laureado bachiller en ciencias. Todos apostaron que terminaría en la NASA. En primera intención entré a la Universidad Simón Bolívar para estudiar Química. Cambié para Arquitectura. La facultad estaba muy cerca de uno de sus teatros provisionales. Casi pierdo un examen de Geometría Descriptiva en una representación de Acto Cultural de José Ignacio Cabrujas con el Nuevo Grupo de Caracas. Cátedra del mejor teatro venezolano donde me convencí del exactísimo concepto de nuestro crítico y científico del drama Leonardo Azparren Giménez: EL TEATRO, ESA PALABRA VISUAL.


En paralelo mis estudios musicales en el Conservatorio Juan José Landaeta a donde me escapaba con regla T, escalímetro y planos en desarrollo. Era inminente después de 4 años de estudios universitarios un nuevo cataclismo.


Siempre el aire límpido de Caracas rezumaba en medios impresos, audiovisuales y chismes de Radio Bemba los triunfos y hazañas estéticas de Carlos Giménez y su más bella proeza: la consolidación de la Compañía de Teatro adscrita al Ateneo de Caracas: Rajatabla, la del nombre atronador de aplausos y ovaciones de pie. La itinerancia de Carlos Giménez y Rajatabla por Venezuela, nos recuerda La Barraca de García Lorca y su meteórica carrera de éxitos teatrales desde la precocidad nos transportan de la vida musical del niño austríaco llamado Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart a la de este niño cordobés de nacimiento. El tsunami de representaciones se expandió rápidamente al continente y su fama en Venezuela eclipsaba la Beatlemanía.


Que Tu país está feliz  de Antonio Miranda causó un cataclismo que comenzó la construcción de un público voraz y de enormes amplitudes mentales;  La Orgía de Enrique Buenaventura  fue prohibida por la testa coronada de la decencia venezolana : el Presidente Rafael Caldera, quien al perdonar a Chávez y traicionar a su partido fundacional COPEI nos metió el caballo de Troya del comunismo habanorréico causante de la destrucción de mi país; Venezuela Tuya de Luis Britto García Ortiz también está en pico´e zamuro y peor Jesucristo astronauta del mismo Antonio Miranda; que toca el turno a Fiebre de Miguel Otero Silva y Las Lanzas Coloradas de Arturo Uslar Pietri; que Valle Inclán dirigido por Carlos presenta sus Divinas Palabras, ahora viene Miguel Ángel Asturias y su Señor Presidente escatología de los tiranos del continente ¡qué arrecho Carlos Giménez ya en el Espacio Cardin de Paris extendida su gira por quince días de ovaciones en principio de tres!; que la sátira de Enrique Buenaventura El Candidato nos restregará en la cara nuestra realidad de repúblicas bananeras eternas y como colofón inevitable La Muerte de García Lorca de José Antonio Rial dónde todavía lloramos la pérdida del bardo universal  y de toda la furia poética del duende gitano  nacido en Fuentevaqueros para gloria del universo. ¡Todos esos registros llegaban a mis oídos producidos y dirigidos por un cuasi adolescente argentino prodigiosamente incrustado en nuestra cultura nacional!


El nuevo cataclismo se produjo a los 4 años. Espantosa crisis vocacional. Abandoné los estudios, me enrumbé con beca de estudios del gobierno de la entonces República Popular de Polonia. Nuevo binomio de intereses: música y cultura cinematográfica. Mi memoria de asombros me facilitó el aprendizaje del idioma haciéndome orgánico y cotidiano con la cultura y el gentilicio del país. Iba tarde, mal y nunca a clases al Instituto de Lengua Polaca para Extranjeros en Lódz. La vida crepitaba en las calles lejos de cualquier guetto de nostálgicos latinoamericanos. Me incrusté en todo y más aún en teatros, cines, salas de concierto, operas. Voracidad inaudita con 20 años. Mi organicidad fue laureada con las más altas calificaciones y ramos de claveles rojos en los exámenes finales de una lengua con nueve casos de declinaciones. Y hasta allá el rumor egeo de los triunfos de Carlos Giménez, su Rajatabla en Wroclaw, Varsovia, Cracovia. Tales noticias encendían mi orgullo y trocaban el rudo invierno en la eterna primavera de Caracas, lejana y más presente todavía.


Durante mi residencia polaca se sucedieron el colosal repiqueteo de campanas en toda la nación anunciando: ¡Mamy Papiezem, on jezst polakiem y Karol Wojtyła al trono de Roma; los funerales del Cardenal Wiszynski en la Plaza del Triunfo de Varsovia; visitas a Oswiencin (Auschwitz) y otros “campos”, Encuentros Internacionales de Ballet donde vivencié la compañía principal del Bolshoi con todo su convoy de 500 personas: ¡250 gentes de la KGB!; el surgimiento de Solidaridad, Lech Walesa, la hambruna hasta la triste ley marcial del tirano Wojiech Jaruzelski.


El día que Saulo se volvió a caer del caballo sigue muy presente en mi vida. Salía del Conservatorio de soplar un oboe. Hambre y frío me acompañaban. Los adoquines azules húmedos. Súbito, los tanques rusos apostados frente a un KINO (cine). Diatriba: si llamo a mi madre a Venezuela todo cagado y con 22 años le da un infarto. ¿Qué hago? ¿Para donde apuntan los tanques? Respuesta: al KINO. Y como en “Balada para un loco” de Astor Piazzola me dije: ¡Coraje, Che, volá que duro el oficio de vivir! ¡Si voy a morir que sea de un solo coñazo nojoda! Entré a la gélida sala de sillas rudísimas de madera. En la pantalla: Stalker de Andrei Tarkovsky. Versión íntegra de 4 horas. Al develarse la joya cinematográfica mi hambre y terrores mermaron. Los tanques jamás dispararon. ¡Tarkovsky sí, una bazooka a mi corazón! Encontré finalmente el sentido de mis afanes estéticos en su depuradísima mística: ¡me caí del caballo! Fui Saulo enceguecido por tan portentosa luz. Lo que siguió es apostolado, evangelios que busco en los poetas del mundo desde ese día.

 

José Augusto Paradisi Rangel

Ciudad de México, 3 de septiembre de 2021.

 





Carlos Giménez, el último rapsoda en un fractal desorbitado del Paradisi: Rapsodia II / por José Augusto Paradisi Rangel, Ciudad de México, 3 de septiembre de 2021

 





 

Rapsodia II

In illo tempore

Como oleaje del Piélago Egeo de los histriones del mundo llegó al recién inaugurado Teatro de la Opera Maracay, mi escenario de la adolescencia, una extensión del Primer Festival Internacional de Teatro de Caracas, cerca de 1973. Tenía 13 años número cabalístico perfecto para cualquier acto iniciático. La oferta era muy seductora para un agreste casi niño de los Valles de Aragua. Me atreví. Crucé el umbral de nuestro novedoso teatro Arte Decó de las artes multidisciplinarias. La obra que representaba a la Argentina: “El Campo”. No era un campo florido como el de nuestros redimidos paisajes en la canícula voraz del trópico. Era un campo de concentración a que nos invitaban los artistas de Teatro San Martín. Al centro del proscenio, escasas sillas y un círculo de tiza caucasiano. La noche triste de los milicos borraba en pesadilla jamás perentoria el brillo consubstancial de las márgenes del Plata, como ahora, aquí las márgenes de nuestro Orinoco. Comprendí licuados mis ojos, mi aliento acelerado, que el teatro era el más bello ritual. Las plegarias, los holocaustos emergían de una diminuta vestal de la dramaturgia continental: Griselda Gambaro. Descubrí en sus parlamentos que la más elevada virtud de la raza humana es la compasión.

Al terminar la función salido como de una gaveta a propulsión, me abracé de los histriones si mal no recuerdo, y si es imprecisión me permito la fábula, el adorado Rubén Szuchmacher me presentó ante la Gambaro, con mis abiertísimos ojos azules iridiscentes de asombro y agua. Comprendí la letra del tango “A un semejante”, mientras la abrazaba susurraba: “es un asombro tener tu hombro y es un milagro la ternura…”

Por primera vez escuché el nombre del arquitecto de nuestros festivales mundiales de teatro: Carlos Giménez. Todavía no leía La IlíadaLa Odisea, no sabía que era un rapsoda ni mucho menos el nombre de Homero, el poeta, sólo sabía del Homero aquel de Los Locos Adams y su amor desenfrenado por Morticia, cada vez que pronunciaba una frase en perfecto francés.

Carlos Giménez iniciaba el órgano barroco de mis asombros; una Tocata y Fuga en efervescencia constante de un Bach sin polvereada peluca. Todavía el volcán de mis contradicciones vocacionales estaba en franca erupción como la tenebrosa mano del acné que desgarraba mi rostro. No estaba preparado para leer la partitura de un genio.


José Augusto Paradisi Rangel

Ciudad de México, 3 de septiembre de 2021.

 Foto: Miguel Gracia

 

 

 

Carlos Giménez, el último rapsoda en un fractal desorbitado del Paradisi

 





 

Rapsodia I


De cómo el éter cibernético rescató a Mnemósine en un like


Ya no apuesto a las redes sociales como foro para mis denuncias libertarias sobre el sudario en que la geopolítica y las guerras ideológicas han trocado mi país: Venezuela, en Tierra de DesgraciaSexalescente como soy, mi país conserva el esplendor primigenio de su gente y geografías exultantes, aquí irrenunciable en el músculo gestor de todas mis sístoles y diástoles. A cada instante paso revista a los protagonistas indelebles de mi querencia, aquellos otros, en la otredad de Octavio Paz que me dan plena existencia. Los busco y rebusco a cada instante tanto presentes como transfigurados de tantas luces que pueblan mi recuerdo, y más aún, mis pasos en este medioevo apocalíptico del Siglo XXI. A esa exploración constante ha concurrido como brújula, o más actual, como GPS incuestionable, la invención de Facebook de Mark Zuckerberg.

 

Hace unos días en mi rígida cuarentena de Coyoacán, revisando las redes sociales me encuentro en Facebook con una tablilla cuneiforme de mensajes de antiguas fisiones nucleares de mi adolescencia: ¿CARLOS GÍMENEZ, PREGUNTA QUÉ TE GUSTA DE SU PÁGINA? Y yo que vengo a este exilio renovado mexicano tras tantas marchas, contramarchas, bombas lacrimógenas, crímenes de lesa humanidad, asesinatos violentos que rebasan ya las 300 mil víctimas y toda clase de invasiones y felonías totalitarias de rojo tinte bermellón: ¡Sangre vertida no sólo en las calles sino en la vasta geografía  deVenezuela!

 

¿CARLOS GÍMENEZ PREGUNTA QUÉ TE GUSTA DE SU PÁGINA? El túnel del tiempo y regreso súbito a la mejor memoria de mi país: la Venezuela República Democrática de futuro luminoso y sistema político en perfeccionamiento federativo descentralizado. País inocente y alegre donde fuimos los más felices del continente y gozamos un imperio: el de la alegría.

 

¿CARLOS GÍMENEZ PREGUNTA QUÉ TE GUSTA DE SU PÁGINA? ¿Orfeo triunfó, durmió a los cancerberos de mi memoria, rescató a Eurídice de las fauces del Hades? Mi respuesta tajante y súbita: ¡TODO DE PIE A CABEZA!


¿Pero, quién trae a  mis encanecidas sienes al punto de ebullición más egregio de mi juventud pletórica de asombros? ¿Quién trae de nueva cuenta la accidentada geografía de mis contradicciones de un acné incisivo, canino, molar y galopante?


Seguí dándole likes a esta página hasta que un día luego de publicar una nota sobre la hija hidrocefálica del bardo comunista Pablo Neruda surgió la respuesta: Viviana Marcela Iriart de Escritoras Unidas desde Argentina.


El placer cibernético, geográficamente extremista, fue mutuo en la memoria de quien para mi fue el último rapsoda del teatro del Siglo XX: Carlos Giménez. Mi Maestro regresaba como Odiseo a la Ítaca ferviente de mi querencia. Ese carajito inquieto: carbón de Rosario, sometido a altísimas presiones en la Córdoba argentina para convertirse en cristalino diamante de la cultura de Venezuela; encendedor de faroles lo llamaría Rómulo Gallegos en su primera novela jamás editada y más aún único venezolano en justicia por decreto presidencial de Carlos Andrés Pérez.


Entramos en diálogo ferviente. Aquí tenés Viviana querida mi WhatsApp. Che, José Augusto, te propongo escribás algo para la página de Carlos. Mi respuesta súbita: Che, querida, vos desataste una tormenta cuya intensidad me sheva en éxtasis, sin referencias a drogas duras, sino orgánicas: las más saludables y pletóricas de endorfinas, serotoninas y dopaminas a escribir un nuevo y más vasto episodio de mi saga autobiográfica: Fractales del Paradisi. Vos, en venezolano radical hija ilustre de Choroní y mis selvas nubladas del Pittier, me contestaste con el desparpajo de un delincuente actual venezolano:


-¡Dale plomo, que el plomo me nutre!


Amanuense hoy por el sensible fallecimiento de mi laptop vintage HP, Sha no soy más amanuense: tengo laptop nueva pero la frase me gusta, ¿Viste? en delirio e insomnio intento este fractal de quien como mancebo núbil órfico cambió el destino del desarrollo cultural de Venezuela y más aún con corajes reforzados desempolva la memoria, troca al daguerrotipo de “instrumento de la muerte” como lo llamara mi maestro Tadeusz Kantor en un instrumento para celebrar la vida cuyo periplo fantástico palpita inherente por nuestras venas.

 

Viviana, gracias por este insomnio, por estas bienaventuranzas luego de un año trágico de murciélagos coronados chinos, Atilas espantosos contra Occidente, con batallones de nuevas cepas fermentadas en pandemias que niegan las ternezas, abrazos, besos y todas las cercanías que como seres gregarios nos son indispensables. Aspiro que mi pluma sea capaz del enorme reto. Gracias porque en esta apuesta he vuelto a Jaime Sabines, a su poemario Doña Luz, elegía a su madre y por permitirme parafrasearlo en el recuerdo de Carlos Giménez:


“Acabo de desenterrar a nuestro Carlos Muerto hace tiempo. Y lo que desenterré fue una caja de rosas frescas, fragantes como si hubiesen estado en un invernadero. ¡Qué raro es todo esto!”


(Continuará...)


José Augusto Paradisi Rangel

Ciudad de México, 3 de septiembre de 2021.


A door open to the sea, play by Viviana Marcela Iriart, August 2021

 





The stage is barely lit. “Porque vas a venir” (Because you’re coming), a song by Carmen Guzmán and Mandy, sung by Susana Rinaldi, is played until the characters speak. 

Dunia enters from the right side. She is excited and nervous. She sits down, stands up, walks from side to side. She is thrilled. She can barely hold her laughter. 

Sandra appears on the left side. She is nervous and excited, but she moves slowly, in a controlled way. She stops at the large window, which is softly lit with a warm glow. She looks inside but sees no one: Dunia has left the stage at that point. She moves towards the proscenium. Dunia enters and does not see her. She goes to the proscenium. 

Until indicated, Sandra and Dunia behave as if they were in a dream. They never touch or look at each other. When they speak, it seems like they are talking to themselves. 


SUSANA RINALDI

“Because you’re coming my old house

unveils new flowers throughout the railing.

Because you're arriving, after so long,

I cannot tell if I'm crying or laughing.

 

I know you're coming, though you didn't say it,

but you'll arrive one morning.

There's a song in my voice, I'm not so sad,

and a ray of sunlight is coming through my window.

 

Because you're arriving, after a long journey,

there's a different hue, a different landscape.

Everything shines a different light and has changed its way,

because you're arriving after all.

 

Because you’re coming, from so far away,

I've looked at myself in the mirror once again.

And how will they see me, I asked myself,

the eyes of this day I was waiting for.

 

Because you're arriving I wait for you,

because you love me and I love you.

Because you're arriving I wait for you,

because you want it

and I want it too.”




SANDRA (As if she were alone, without noticing Dunia)
And then I thought, will she have changed much? Have I changed so much?

DUNIA (With the same attitude as Sandra)
I was waiting impatiently. I looked at myself in the mirrors and wondered what look you’d give to these wrinkles that have surrounded my eyes without yours. Would you recognize me with these gray hairs I didn't tell you about?

SANDRA
The street in front of your house seemed to be the same. The orange tree in the corner where the greengrocer's was, the paving stones at Don Giuseppe’s store - still broken -, the magnolia tree that would never bloom. But above all, the smell of the orange tree announcing your house was nearby. It all looked the same.

DUNIA

Your voice on the phone, cheerful and teasing, here and not there once again, the same old voice, and I swear I could have eaten up the receiver to eat your voice so that you’d never be gone again.

SANDRA (She turns her back on her)

I admit it - I was scared. The doorbell was there, tiny and glossy. It looks like a nipple, I thought, a nipple inviting the erotic—but no, this little nipple-doorbell was inviting me to the past and I was saying: should I touch it, should I not? I would stretch a finger and stroke it slowly, without pressing, in case I could excite it and make it ring. My finger was bringing you back to my memory.


DUNIA (She turns her back on her)
I looked at you through the peephole, which of us did I see? Years flashed by in the glass eye and did not let me see you.

SANDRA (She comes forward slowly with her back to Dunia)
My finger was still on the doorbell. A door was coughing weakly and I listened to it. The little moaning nipple would not need to be touched. I crossed the doorstep and rested my chest, my whole body, on the door.

DUNIA (She comes forward slowly with her back to Sandra)
I saw you and I pressed my body on the exact same place as you had placed yours. A door divided us and bound us. I was drowning and I thought: there’s no shore near here or any lifeguard in this place.

SANDRA
Your breathing in my ear was suffocating me, it didn't let me think. I was going crazy, I was fainting.

DUNIA
The air from your mouth made me warm, and I was getting filled with sweet old memories. The air from your mouth was burning me, immolating me.

SANDRA (Stands very close to Dunia’s back, without touching it)
Your fingers scratching the wood, scratching and moaning like a stray cat about to give birth to dead memories.

DUNIA
I felt you were sliding down the door to the floor and I reached out to stop you from hitting it.

SANDRA
Your back was sticking into mine, piercing me. I felt pain, I felt pleasure.

DUNIA

You were crying—and you never cried—in a way that was new to me.


SANDRA
You were crying and in your tears was the same old pain I always remembered.

DUNIA
I heard you say: you’re back at last.

SANDRA
And I heard you answer: at last I’ve returned.

(...)

Fragment



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José Pulido, the poet, journalist, writer: “I'm like a castaway clinging to his tongue” / Interview by Viviana Marcela Iriart, Genoa, June 16, 2020



José Pulido. Photo: Vasco Szinetar


José Pulido was part of one of the most beautiful and beloved traditions in Caracas: Sunday, buying the papers, having breakfast at the bakery, going up the Ávila, enjoying the blue butterflies and the singing of Quebrada Quintero, spreading the papers among the stones and then… José Pulido and his interview completed the happiness of the day. It did not matter who he interviewed, because the real pleasure was reading him. And my friends would go: what does Pulido say? Have you read what Pulido said? Pulido is so wonderful! Pulido was the main character. Then came the person being interviewed. Because reading José Pulido is good for you. It gives you joy. It makes you think. Because José Pulido writes with humor, tenderness, compassion, intelligence, love. José Pulido the poet, the writer, the journalist. The interviewer who created a new style. The kind, simple and tender man who creates bridges for people to meet, to cross, to discover the other side of their side.

 

José Pulido, who does not deserve to be exiled like he is today, walking around Genoa while he goes around Caracas.

 

And José Pulido is also Carlos Giménez, who he and I love so much, and that beautiful article he wrote: Carlitos sin olvido (Carlitos without oblivion). And he is that marvelous interview he just made to another wonderful and beloved figure from Caracas: Rolando Peña.  An interview that is like a story written with four hands.  An interview that is like a love letter.

 

And José Pulido is this poem of his, which I find while I'm writing this and then I'm out of words.

 

 

THE OLD SONG

 

Before antiquity arrived

the birds that died

turned into carnelian and tourmaline

John claimed in the Book of Revelation that the face of god was made of jasper and carnelian

birds probably made one of their best graveyards in that face

 

All mountains have been built out of birds' ancestors

 

From a yellow, blue and green bird

who dies when put in a cage and sings in beautiful fury

the mountain of Caracas was born creating ripples of water and branches

 

the Ávila of stones and roots, spit with Pleiades

is our most concrete mountain

 

I wish I could sweep its pathways with a broom of dreams

clean them up of all miseries

 

It is so big it could only fit into the universe once

when the heavens dilated

so that mangos could bloom

 

hummingbirds in the Ávila seem as if they were invented by Borges:

they fly backwards because they care more about the beginning than the end

 

the Ávila is huge but it is not so hard to carry in a bag

it is completely portable when carried as a feeling

especially if you have looked at its mermaid-like curves,

its crests resembling a resting animal

Or if you have ever heard the waters talk in Quebrada Quintero

about how to go down to the Caribbean Sea without having to ask for

directions in the valley

 

In the afternoon the mountain opens its eye made of sun

An eye that falls asleep on the voracious head of dry trees

at night it crouches with its breath of burning plants

ready to jump again on the fearful valley with its rabbit heart

this is the mountain that feeds on looks

that on the beach side is the Ávila of Reverón

deranged by light

and on the Caracas side is the Ávila of Cabré

borrowing the iridescence of the sparkling hummingbird

and all Pleiades sneeze with love when molasses grass stirs,

the delicious herb

and at the top and the bottom it is the Ávila of everyone and no one

a mountain that is like the Virgin of Coromoto and the Virgin of the Valley

like La Chinita and the Divina Pastora

because you do not have to know its pathways

to believe it represents our customs

 

The mountain was a bedroom for clouds a million years ago

and it still is.

The mountain was there making guacharacas

before anyone even thought of building the wall

that we would call town;

this ancient air is what comforts me.

The Ávila is a bird with apple mint in its wings,

it is the pain of fires kept within a case made of roots.

The Ávila is like saying amen when you pray for Caracas.

 

 

 
José Pulido, Salamanca, España.
 
 Carlos Giménez, Barbarito Diez, María Teresa Castillo,
Pablo Milanés,Miguel Henrique Otero, José Pulido...
"Macondo", María Teresas`s house


José, how has coronavirus treated you? What did you do during the quarantine?

 

I don't think coronavirus has treated anyone well. Fortunately I haven't got it because I'm always shut in writing and I only go out to walk up to the nearest mountain. I visit populated areas when I have to read poetry somewhere.

 

What was the first thing you did when the quarantine was lifted?

 

For me, it hasn't been lifted. I go out to walk but I wear a mask. Here you are fined if you don't wear it in the street. I haven't had any plans for when we get to the end of this. Beer tastes as good at home as it does in the bar.

 

Are you writing anything? What?

 

Poetry. I do some interviews for amusement. Poetry is my constant passion.

 

What are your plans for the mid-term?

 

Not dying yet to see what things have changed.

 

When did you leave Venezuela and why?

 

In 2017. Because violence in the country has become institutional, completely institutional.

 

Did anything in particular happen to you or was it only tiredness after so many years?

 

I spent 17 years enduring the decay, the humiliations, watching so many friends and relatives die. Criminals, who have the green light in Venezuela, killed two of my nephews and a grandson. I no longer had any useful medical insurance for my wife and me. Neither did we have any medical insurance for our younger daughter and her daughter, the little granddaughter that we raised. It was tiredness but also a bit of common sense. We would have died really soon there. You would not be making this interview.

 

Had you ever imagined you would have to leave Venezuela?

 

Never. All the things you can miss are there where you were born and raised.

 

Why Italy? Did you choose it or did it choose you?

 

Our older daughter has been living in Italy for 15 years. And the poets from the International Poetry Festival of Genoa have encouraged me a lot. I've been invited to the event two years in a row.

 

What hurts you most about Venezuela?

 

That Venezuelan people suffer and suffer and there's nothing and no one that can do anything to stop it. That so many citizens still believe there's nothing wrong going on there, even when they see people eating out of trash and they constantly come across corpses, misery and injustice. 

 


“Anita laughs with fear halfway between unconsciousness and reality. 

A guard said he would make gloves with the skin from her buttocks 

and she answered that she would not stand that, 

that she preferred to know they would bind books with her skin.

 She wants to smoke and she wants to die.”

Pelo Blanco (White Hair) (extract) 





José Pulido and his brother Arnaldo


What do you yearn for most?

 

Family, friends, my routine in Colinas de Bello Monte. My cat who died.

 

Are you optimistic about Venezuela? Do you think you'll be able to return in the not too distant future? Do you expect to return forever?

 

I'm not optimistic because my age does not allow me to. I shall forever cherish the hope that Venezuela will someday be a country where decency and justice are something basic.

 

Is it a long time since you've been there?

I haven't been there since I came here. I only talk with friends and family on the phone.

 

 

I don't know any city where people love a mountain so much as Caracas. What is the Ávila for you? When did you begin to love it?

 

Going up the Ávila is like gaining a bit more life. When you're up there, you breathe differently. And then you look at the valley, the vastness. Everything looks so harmless and beautiful. In the 70s we already went up there when very few people did.

Anyway, I'll answer your question with an extract from a long poem I wrote to the mountain:

 

This ancient air is what comforts me.

The Ávila is a bird with apple mint in its wings,

it is the pain of fires kept within a case made of roots.

The Ávila is like saying amen when you pray for Caracas.

 



 
José Pulido and his wife Petruska Simme, journalist


I remember María Teresa Castillo opening the doors of the Ateneo in Caracas (and her home) for Chávez, and how he stole it from her some years after that. Did you fall, like her and most of the Venezuelan people, for his seduction and his anti-corruption narrative, or did you distrust him from the beginning?

 

If you read what I wrote during that whole time, you will know I was one of those who never believed in all that. I was disappointed early on with totalitarianism, with the contempt from both the left and the right for decency, justice, creation, critical consciousness. And it wasn't María Teresa who formed an alliance with Chávez - it was her son, Miguel Henrique. He made a mistake like so many others, and it's difficult to imagine how people can make mistakes with something that is so obvious... María Teresa was already affected by age and loss of memory. She was an extraordinary lady.

 

Don't you feel outraged by the lack of support from left wing people having political power in Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay, Chile, who were exiled in Venezuela in the 70s, who received support from the Venezuelan people and who now turn their back on that same nation? Four million Venezuelan people living in diaspora and those previous victims don't breathe a word; they keep supporting the Venezuelan dictatorship. As if Maduro was better than Pinochet or Videla. As if "El Helicoide" was better than the National Stadium. Does it make you feel outraged? Disappointed? Sad? Or nothing at all because you never believed in those victims? (Personally, I feel outraged)

 

I'm not outraged - I'm grieved by the lack of nobility and solidarity. But I don't understand how a murderous right-wing dictatorship can be any different from a murderous left-wing dictatorship. I stick to Human Rights. I'm not moving away from them.

 

Elisa Lerner said “Solitude is the writer's homeland” (wonderful Elisa). Is that your homeland?

 

My homeland is the memories of what I have lived with other people and the landscapes I have loved and still love.

 

Mother tongue is also a writer's homeland. And when you live abroad, you reach a point when you begin to lose it, when you start to think in the language of the country you live in and then... what language should you write in? Has it happened to you? Are you already thinking in Italian? 

 

I only speak Spanish. I only write in Spanish. Translations are done by poet friends who help me. I can't drift away from Spanish even for a second. I'm like a castaway clinging to his tongue.

 

Don't you speak Italian? How do you manage to go buy bread, have a coffee, ask where a street is?

 

What I mean is that I shelter in my language. That doesn't mean I don't speak other languages. But I don't allow them to change the way I express myself. Of course I handle myself normally in the street, I can communicate with others, but I can't allow myself to forget or confuse words. Not at this stage.

 


José Pulido, Jorge Luis Borges  & María Kodama, Caracas



“An almost transparent little crab, one of those that take on the yellowish color 

of sand, stops just between the thighs, on the round corners

 of the buttocks. It is shaking with fear, or who knows what, at the bottom 

of a cliff and if by any chance its view is wide enough and it can see beyond what 

its tiny size would allow, who knows what it would make of that part

 up there, where a pair of seashell lips open up revealing a cavern.

 The little crab and other creatures skirting the body rush away when

 footsteps gather round. It is an unsettling morning, with 

ants looking for rotten honey and human flesh flies,

 buzzing on every corner about the bad news of a woman 

who the morning found naked, raped and dead 

in the self-absorption of the beach.”

 

El Bululú de las Ninfas (The Nymphs' turmoil) (extract)

 




Carlos Pérez Ariza, Isaac Chocrón, Edward Albee & José Pulido, Caracas. 



 Massive success, massive international recognition has eluded you, and that is terribly unfair. But it's never late. Look at Ida Vitale, receiving the Cervantes award at the age of 94! Well, I hope you can live as long as you like, but that you are awarded and recognized soon, let's say next year at the latest. Are you angry about the indifference of big publishers, big awards? Do you need a Carmen Balcells? Is the Noble Prize one of your dreams?

 

The important thing for me is the pleasure I feel when I write what I want to write. What I value most is a reader who can understand what I do. Even if it's only one. The massive, what represents a lot of money and little sensitivity and consciousness holds no interest for me. I don't even dream about a municipal award. I think I could become the only reader who is connected with me. That does not guarantee creative quality, but I'm relieved by the certainty that I'm producing something that will someday be useful for others who feel like me.

 

Did you have a happy childhood? What were your mother and father like?

 

My mother raised us alone. Well - with her huge family close by. Ours was a happy childhood because there was a lot of honesty and humility. I had tuberculosis and lost one year of primary school, but it was a very nice time - they gave me books and brought me comics.

 

 At what age did you begin to write? And what did you write?

 

When I was eight years old. I haven't stopped ever since. I wrote poems. I learned to write sonnets, very outlandish, but they were good practice. Then I filled several workbooks with tall tales. I got a poem and a short story published in national magazines when I was a teenager.

 

How did you get into journalism? Why journalism and not baseball, for example?

 

I wanted to stay within writing and journalism was the ideal job for that. It's very hard to write something truly valuable if you're a professional baseball player, for example - you have to put all your energy into the game, you can't do anything else. You wouldn't be able to work on your writing, to master the writing skill. And you wouldn't be a good baseball player if you were not passionate about it.

 

Did you study in the School of Journalism or did you learn by working in editorial offices?

 

I'm a member of the professional association, one of those who started to work in newspapers in Venezuela before the School of Journalism was created. I was a national and local executive at the National Association of Journalists.

 

Did you decide to work full-time in journalism, and not in poetry and prose, because journalism provides economic stability, and poetry and prose don't, or because you truly loved journalism?

 

No. Working in journalism as a trade to support my family never prevented me from writing poetry and prose. Actually, it nurtured them in many aspects because in journalism you go through all social misfortunes and connect with the great source of reality itself.

 

You're one of the greatest interviewers in Venezuela and the rest of the continent. Did you have any teachers? Or did your style emerge on its own?

 

The truth is I read a lot of journalistic chronicles written by some of the Irish American journalists who later gave rise to what was known as New Journalism. But my main education was reading the greatest writers. My style was a reaction to cliché, to routine. I wanted to move people and to feel I was doing something moving for me.

 

From all the people you have interviewed, who were the men and women who impacted you most and why?

 

The man who impacted me most was a gentleman that was so nice and modest I could not believe it: I interviewed the spy who deceived Hitler. The spy who serves as an inspiration for so many novels and movies. It was a lesson on humility. García Márquez was also one of my favorites, because he tried to understand my interviewing style, and I took it as a friendly compliment.

 

Once I interviewed a woman who had been raped several times, in different years. She was like a magnet for rapes. Very painful.

 

I also interviewed a theater actress, a red-haired Polish woman - she was gorgeous, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I was very young. And she received me in her dressing room. She was completely naked putting on her make-up and she demanded that I should ask her the questions right there because she could not waste any time. I was in a cold sweat. And I asked her the questions trying not to look at her. I stared at a wall. I interviewed a wall. And her answers were extremely smart. I admired the intelligence of this actress. And I'm still consumed by the frustration of not looking at her directly, even though she never forbid it.



 
José Pulido &  Lindsay Kemp


José Pulido, Italy



When you worked in the media, did you have enough time left for poetry and prose?

 

I've always got up at four o'clock in the morning. I still do. I used to write from four to seven and then I went to the paper. Spending time in the job you need to survive doesn't mean you'll cut or curb your poetry and prose - they're too powerful and vehement. Now that I can write without having to work I really yearn for newsrooms.

 

What distresses you most, a blank question in an interview or a blank page in a novel or poem? Or are you not distressed by anything?

 

I'm not distressed by writing. As Heraclitus would say, thinking is a sacred disease. All this is a sacred disease. What is truly distressing is not having enough time to keep reading and writing until you find something glorious that can shake humanity. Although humanity is already shaken.

 

 

 

“When its time comes the mist descends so much that it brushes the coffee trees. 

Spiders, reptiles, beetles, scorpions, mice, rabbits

 and all bugs go back to their nests and their caves when they hear

 the hissing of leaves being pushed aside: something subtle but overwhelming 

is going through the thicket.”

Los Mágicos (The Magic Ones) (extract), José Pulido

 




How is a poem born in you?

 

I feel something and I look for a word that will make it visible. Every word contains a civilization, a history, a universe. With a single word like water or stone or beer or bell you could write a whole book. Just think about all the things you know and you can think of with the word water.

 

 How is a novel born in you?

I come up with a story which then becomes only an excuse.

 

How is an interview born in you?

 

The moment I become interested in an interviewee.

 

How do you write? Do you sit in front of the screen and wait for ideas to rain down?

 

I'm full of mediocre ideas, like all humanity, but I constantly search for something stunning, which very often lies in simple things. Sometimes I'm asleep and I come up with something in my dreams, so when I wake up I write it.

 

Juan Carlos Onetti said that there are writers for whom writing is like being with their wife or with a mistress. For him, it was a mistress - he only wrote every now and then. What is it for you?

 

There's no point of comparison - I write every day. It's like breathing for me. It's an existential mechanism. Like those who get drunk and can't get away from liquor. If I had loved my wife with the same intensity and persistence and resistance with which I write, I would have made her very happy.

 

Are you writing your autobiography?

 

Never in my life would I write something like that. Poetry is enough for me.

 

Are you a believer? A religious person? Do you believe in reincarnation?

 

I believe that life is extremely beautiful and that death does not care because it has a different job. I believe that in everything you do, you should always start from a moral point of view. Fantasy and truth, fiction and reality contain beauties, and that is enough for me. I believe that language has made us what we are.

 

When you're not writing, what do you like doing?

 

I like reading loads of poetry and strange writers. In Venezuela I was fascinated by horse races and going up the Ávila. Here I walk, I go up the mountain and I wonder why they don't love racetracks in Italy. Watching a race with a beer in your hand is something you cannot beat. I like baseball too.

 

Poets and also many writers are often quite tragic or pessimistic or nihilistic or arrogant - they believe they are above the average just because they write, and some even dare to say that writing is a punishment: “When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip. For self-flagellation”, said Truman Capote, such a beautiful phrase but... really?

 

Without tragedy, we are done for. And what Capote said is a truth that many do not face. It's about being humble to be able to write something important. Because when you're humble you know where you fail, where you make mistakes, and how big you really are. A good creator, one that masters the art of writing, knows that only a reader who does not understand his inner level could take offense. Sometimes a book is too big for the reader, and the reader has to grow in order to enjoy it or understand it. Sometimes the book is too small and the reader has to make the writer grow.

 

Poetry is something different. It's a way of being and living. It is very high-level and requires the reader to have enough humility to accept that he has to climb a slope and that this is not a sacrifice.




"With my love", wrote José Pulido: his wife Petruska Simme


You write with humor, compassion, tenderness. In your writings, you always seem amazed by life. Curious. Reading you is good for people. It gives them hope. You seem like a kid astonished by the big and small things of life. Are you a 74-year-old little kid?

 

Yes. I'm 74 on the outside but, strangely, I got stuck at 18 on the inside. Sometimes I can't understand why I get tired, when not long ago, in 1970, I used to run 20 kilometers every day...

 

I admire the great things of life, like everyone else. Starting with life itself and with language, which reaches its highest point in poetry. But I believe that all the small things I have valued and still value have improved my existence and I'm thankful for that. Being able to look at a beach. Having a mango in my hands. Listening to Myriam Phiro or to Marlene Dietrich singing Lili Marleen with her dark voice.

 

In the pictures from the last years, however, you look... melancholic perhaps? Sometimes you look at the camera annoyed, like saying “But girl, when did Caracas become Genoa?” However, your look does not show the defeat or sadness of exiles - it's defiant.  But there's no joy. Your face is the opposite of your narrative. José, how do you feel? Is it hard to live in Genoa?

 

You're right. You know how to look and you know me. I'm an unrepentant melancholic. But I'm not unhappy. Anything can make me feel joy. A soup, a beer, a coffee, a conversation. I have always been like that because I was raised by women and a simple, large family. I never stop being me, even if it's not much.

 

How would you like to be remembered? José Pulido, the poet, the writer, the journalist, the humanist?

 

I'm a poet. But if they can forget me without resentment, I'll be satisfied. Being remembered is the most relative thing. When all the people that ever knew me have died, it will be difficult for someone to remember me. Unless they come across any of my poems or writings and feel there's something interesting there.

 

What question do you wish I had asked you but didn't?

 

I just like questions from friends. Like you. There isn't a particular question I would like to hear. Things happen and you cannot stop them. I believe in what I do but I can't make people believe in me.

 

In 1979 an exiled Julio Cortázar said in Caracas: “A day in my life is always a very beautiful thing, because I'm really happy to be alive. I have no intention of dying, I have the impression I'm immortal” (wonderful Cortázar). Would you like to be immortal?

 

I'd like to be immortal just not to give a fuck about days. But I'm mortal and that makes every day worth its weight in kisses.

 

Thank you so much, dear José, it was a pleasure talking to you. And let's have the next interview with a cup of joe, either black or with milk, at any Caracas bakery. With a cachito, of course. Stunned by the car horns and the heat. And the Ávila, always our Ávila.  In Caracas. Next time, in Caracas.

 

That would be so beautiful and wonderful I could make it one of my dreams. Thank you, my dear and admired friend.

 

 

©VivianaMarcela Iriart
 June 16, 2020
Translation: Luciana Valente
 
All photos courtesy of  José Pulido
 José Pulido:  Web  / Facebook



 Photo Garcilaso




JOSÉ PULIDO Biography:
 Venezuelan poet, novelist and journalist, winner of several awards in Venezuela and abroad. He currently lives in Italy. He has published various poetry and prose books. He was the editor-in-chief of El Diario de Caracas and he led the art pages in El Nacional (1981-1988), El Diario de Caracas (1991-1995) and El Universal (1996-98). He was a correspondent for the OAS and Venpres, and a counselor for the Sofía Ímber Museum of Contemporary Art.







“He saw her vanish, like a headless pink patch among the crape myrtles and the acacias in the street, and he realized he had no horse or money, just his boots and a classical guitar which already had a spider living in its sound hole.” 

 







 

“The postman slows down the bicycle by braking the rear wheel with his left foot. Smoke comes out of the worn shoe sole. He finally manages to stop by setting his big shoe on the sidewalk.


The house in Vedado is inserted in another dimension, that is why he cannot even capture the details and he feels glad - though he does not show it - when the door opens and a girl from this time appears to get the letter. He breathes a sigh of relief to the point that he returns sweating to the daily heat and dares to look squarely at the smiling inhabitant before getting on his bike and pedaling as if in a black-and-white film that breaks against the sun and the reverberation of the sea.”


La canción del ciempiés (The Centipede's Song) (extract).





“He pulls a face, practices a nervous dance and moves back like a dwarf joking around in a circus, although in the substratum of his memory he is only a child poking at his mother to make her love him. He lets himself fall on the soft wrinkled leather of the long couch and rests on the woman's shoulder. She straightens her breast and the trembling of her roundnesses sticks out, moved by an earthquake which starts at her blinking.” 

 

El Requetemuerto (The Utterly Dead) (extract).






“The cold of winter, of this winter in particular, which hits the Oranienburg concentration camp mercilessly, has started its task of chapping lips, burning ears and getting into bowels like a needle.

 

The Sturmbannfuhrer in this camp is a middle-height man who looks tall, with strong bones and white hair, and white eyebrows and eyelashes. He is a quiet albino who pushes the air with his jaw, and everyone repeats his rank and name with bitterness and unease: Colonel Von Dussel.” 

 

Pelo Blanco (White Hair) (extract)





“To this date, El Yimi has killed fifty-two people he did not know. He might have exchanged looks with some of those victims, at an X moment, market, bar, traffic light, bus window, but most certainly it was like visually bumping into someone, because senseless, distracted looks are what crowds are made of.

 

—Freaks me out, that shit... gotta get cleansed...”

 

Los Héroes son villanos tímidos (Heroes Are Shy Villains) (extract)





Source for biography and book extracts: José Pulido



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