¡Entren en su blog de literatura cutre!
Sí, caballeras y caballeros, conservo escrupulosamente unos estándares de baja calidad a los que me debo.

sábado, 1 de septiembre de 2018

Cuervo Blanco

Cuervo Blanco:

            Ese mundo innoble veía a la eterna viajera pasar, su mirada se extendía sobre el paisaje intentando concebir cómo había sido antes de su nacimiento aquella tierra agonizante por la que aún hoy se derramaba la sangre de las mujeres y los hombres.
Había una suerte de dicha triste en sabernos herederos de un yermo destruido, tan cercana a la ignorancia que nuestra viajera nunca la hubiera tolerado.
Por otro lado ella, Biélaya Varona, disentía del antiguo sabio: el mundo no era el mejor de los mundos posibles, probablemente era uno de los peores que nadie podía imaginar: la autoridad de Zorya y su ley se extendían por todo un continente cuyos territorios sometidos al Imperio trataban de alzarse de entre sus propias ruinas únicamente para poder respirar.
Biélaya Varona era una Ejecutora, sus funciones eran las de árbitro y verdugo, enviada a cualquier rincón del Imperio, por más desamparado o remoto que fuese, para resolver asuntos legales varios a su entera discreción. La Corte de Zorya disponía de tres Ejecutores y el vulgo solía tomarlos por hechiceros o asesinos.
La llamaban Cuervo Blanco en aquellas tierras de Viridia, antes prósperas como enclave comercial, ahora arrasadas por la guerra y la magia. Tenía trabajo que hacer.

La sala del trono era una impostura: la guardia, formada por hombres y mujeres bastante inquietos en aquel momento, trataban de no mirar hacia las robustas puertas de roble, como si buscaran exorcizar el peligro o el miedo que se cernía sobre sus cabezas.
–¡Recordad que sólo es una mujer! –la enérgica voz de Alba, última en el linaje de la casa Tullia en la antigua Viridia, trataba de reconfortar a la guardia real. Todos habían oído rumores sobre los Ejecutores cuando no habían cruzado sus caminos en alguna desafortunada ocasión, no hacía falta añadir más.
El portón se abrió, cinco cadáveres de soldados descabezados entraron como si hubieran sido arrojados con una gran fuerza a la estancia.
Los miembros de la guardia real empezaron a cuestionarse sus salarios.
Sí, había una sola mujer ahí, cruzando el umbral, la cual envainó sus dos espadas ensangrentadas con tranquilidad. Sólo vestía un tabardo blanco, calzas negras, botas y hombreras de cuero oscuro. A juzgar por las apariencias, no parecía nadie importante, siendo el único elemento que destacaba entre sus ropas una esmeralda pendiente de su cuello.
–Soy Biélaya Varona, en vuestras tierras se me conoce como el Cuervo Blanco, ¿no yerro al asumir que estoy ante Alba Tullia, gobernante de Viridia? –no aguardó a recibir respuesta y continuó con su discurso–. He de reconocer que el Imperio ha sido… negligente con respecto a Viridia y su arcaica casta de gobernantes. No se puede confiar en la palabra de una reina, ni siquiera en la de una que dice inclinarse. Se os condena a muerte por los delitos de conspiración, sedición y rebeldía contra la Emperatriz Zorya, vuestra estirpe será borrada de…
–¡Matad a esa perra! –ordenó la reina.
Los guardias, la mayoría al menos, pertrechados con sus armaduras y armas, sintiéndose seguros tras la cobertura del metal y la superioridad numérica, avanzaron.
Ella les miró, sus armaduras se constriñeron sobre sus cuerpos, el chasquido de los huesos al romperse fue estremecedor. La sala del trono nunca había escuchado gritos de dolor como los de aquellos experimentados guerreros al ser devorados por sus propias corazas.
Las y los que aún no habían atacado soltaron sus armas y escaparon, pasando junto a la Ejecutora, que decidió perdonarles la vida. Alguna incluso musitó unas palabras de gratitud en su marcha.
Se oía el llanto de un bebé.
Biélaya Varona se detuvo y, tras ponderar aquel imprevisto durante un par de segundos, encontró una solución:
–Renunciad a vuestros derechos y a vuestro nombre, renunciad a esta casa y sus riquezas.
–¿Tan bajo ha caído Zorya creyendo que mi honor puede ser de su propiedad?
–¿Tu honor? –repitió la Ejecutora escupiendo cada palabra, incrédula–. Tal vez sea un concepto demasiado abstracto, tu vida, sin embargo…
La reina comenzó a sangrar por todos los orificios de su cuerpo cuando sus órganos internos explotaron.
Biélaya Varona silenció también al resto de esa guardia que había estado muriendo lentamente, sus cráneos hechos trizas con uno solo de sus pensamientos.
Ahora podía escuchar mejor.
Ahora el llanto de bebé era evidente.
Cuervo Blanco recordó instintivamente el momento exacto en que aquellos desconocidos que pretendían violarla mataron a su recién nacido al aplastarle la cabeza contra la pared. En ese instante la misma realidad se separó partícula a partícula, sometida a su maltrecha voluntad, y a su alrededor sólo quedó sangre y polvo.
Pero tenía que concentrarse en el ahora…
Tal vez de haber sido consciente de sus poderes unos segundos antes, de haber sabido dominarlos…
Pero tenía que concentrarse en el ahora, de verdad…
Un hombre apareció tras el trono, armado con una espada y un escudo, vestía además una armadura en condiciones.
–No pienso entregar la vida de mi hijo sin luchar por ella. ¿Tus últimas palabras? –ante aquella ridícula bravata Biélaya Varona sólo pudo soltar una risotada llena de desprecio, mientras, examinaba a su interlocutor con detenimiento: el padre había estado llorando a su mujer y a sus soldados pero no parecía un señor de noble cuna al uso, sino que poseía la determinación de un auténtico guerrero. Aparte de los pertrechos, naturalmente.
–¿Servio Ianio? –inquirió la Ejecutora–. He pronunciado tantas últimas palabras en mi vida que ya no cuento con ninguna de ellas, de modo que deseo reafirmarme en mi oferta dado que también la casa Iania ha sido acusada de sedición, conspiración y rebeldía: renunciad a vuestro nombre y mi misión se verá cumplida mientras vuestras vidas permanecen intactas. Es una decisión sencilla.
El llamado Servio Ianio, consideró aquellas palabras unos instantes, después envainó su arma y cogió a su bebé con un gesto protector, mirando con desconfianza al Cuervo Blanco.
–Curiosa propuesta para una mujer que acaba de matar al menos a doce personas, entre las que mi amada se contaba.
–Vuestra reina ha estimado que su honor valía más que vuestras vidas y ahora está muerta. Ha tenido elección cuando cualquier otro Ejecutor no hubiera mediado...
El hombre y su cría desaparecieron sin más. Biélaya Varona cerró, una a una, todas las puertas de la sala con el poder de su mente.
Y esperó…
Como a través del agua de una cascada volvió a escuchar los lloriqueos y volvió a ver a Servio Ianio y a su hijo. Seguían frente a ella, justo en el mismo sitio, no obstante, ahora el bebé berreaba a pleno pulmón.
–¡Por Zorya! –exclamó la Ejecutora–. No puede tener más de doce meses… –comentó maravillada.
–¿Vais a matarme? –preguntó el padre.
–No, si puedo evitarlo. ¿Queréis que vuestro hijo viva? –inquirió entusiasmada–. Tengo planes para él… –continuó la Ejecutora, que ya había pensado en un par de opciones–. Despojaos de vuestro nombre y de vuestros derechos sobre esta tierra, dejad que entrene a vuestro pequeño, sé de un lugar donde podemos refugiarnos. Podéis acompañarme.
–De lo contrario moriremos.
–Con toda probabilidad, aunque no por mi mano o mi deseo –asintió la Ejecutora–. A menos que anheléis morir ahora inútilmente. Es una decisión sencilla –dijo de nuevo.
Servio clavó sus ojos en ella y comenzó a declamar:
–Por el sol y las lunas, que se extinga mi nombre del último nombre de mi casa, me rindo ante los ancestros y ante la eternidad. Que los antiguos dioses me perdonen.
–Nos vamos –Cuervo Blanco no tenía tiempo para más ceremonias–. Coge la capa de algún sirviente y sígueme.
Servio se atragantó con sus lágrimas y sus quejas y después razonó que tal vez no era el momento para decir nada. Tras cubrir su cabeza con una capucha, ambos se echaron a andar. ¿Qué sería de lo poco que quedaba del reino? ¿Tendría Alba un entierro digno o sería devorada por los cuervos? ¿Seguían vivos sus amigos, habrían llegado sus cartas a sus familiares? ¿Qué pasaría con los plebeyos, cómo podrían seguir con sus vidas? ¿Qué sería de su hijo bajo la tutela de aquella extraña mujer? ¿Podía acabar con la vida de la Ejecutora a pesar de su inmenso poder y escapar con su hijo? ¿Estarían acaso más seguros de conseguirlo? ¿Era posible matar al Cuervo Blanco o confiar en ella? ¿Era sabio?
No era cierto lo que Biélaya Varona había dicho.
Cada paso que daba era una decisión y ninguna era fácil de tomar.


miércoles, 1 de agosto de 2018

Adults are Stories for Kids

“To study the self is to forget the self”.
DOGEN.

Adults are Stories for Kids:

The settlement was so small that it was difficult to find even if you had been there before. There were hardly any houses and these were more patched up than original constructions, built on top of the remains of what must have been a simple coastal village next to a stream.  Anything minimally useful had been utilised to resolve structural problems, and Kalani had made a hobby out of repairing things and leaving a colourful signature on her work. She had learnt basic mechanics more due to distrust than curiosity, and to read out of pure love, how to use a bath in order to check empirically what seemed fascinating at a theoretical level, a little history, numbers and letters for practical reasons, and to be surrounded by people because reality had taken over. Almost one hundred and fifty people lived there, devoting their time to study, livestock farming and the most elementary kind of survival. Thus, within two weeks of her arrival, the girl had set up a small network of bartering and favours.
At night, the village enjoyed electric light, shielded by the valleys and mountains that surrounded it, although most of the energy was used in the manufacture of ammunition, as this guaranteed that the inhabitants had something to offer the outside world. In turn, the outside world could choose how to acquire its ammunition and, above all, whether to risk coming and taking the bullets themselves. Lastly, the lighthouse, though its light was permanently off, stood high above a cove, collecting all there was to know as if it were a library, thus guaranteeing that the villagers had something to offer to themselves.
Kalani had spent three years in that place, ignoring almost everything and living a life which became increasingly more bizarre: hardly anyone wanted to kill her ever, they only got cross with her. Yet to tell the truth, she would have given her all for the settlement: they had books and hot water. It was the kind of place in which everybody knew each other and hung out their washing wherever they wanted.
            That summer’s day, the girl woke up mid-morning which, in her lazy terms, was extremely early.
She then got into trouble.

“What have you done to your face, Kalani?” exclaimed Rhys, one of the village doctors, alarmed, hurrying to the fridge and stumbling in his drowsiness.
“I fell on a good right hook,” she answered. “If you don’t believe me, I have other punchy excuses...”
The health centre was the third largest building in the village after the lighthouse-library and the factory, and the second best-tended place after the hydroelectric generators in the river.
            “No reports?” he enquired in a voice that dragged itself through his exhaustion while he applied a little ice on the swelling. “Hold this against it with the cloth” he said in a slightly lower voice, his words thick as unrefined oil.
“No reports, if possible” said Kalani.
They sat down on two chairs.
“I need a favour,” he began.
“Do you want me to undress and cover myself in yogurt?” asked the girl mischievously. “It’s a little exotic, but I accept if you can get hold of the yoghurt.”
“Kalani, focus that distillery about to explode that you have for a brain a little, please!” his weariness was not up to her acid humour.
“Sorry, a serious matter, go on.” Kalani pushed her own words aside.
“We have to go to the city.”
“What for?” she asked, willing and resolute.
He stood up with an effort and looked through the glass door that separated them from the next room in which a patient was lying on a stretcher; the doctor maintained an eloquent silence.  
“I need simeprevir, or alternatively, interferon and ribavirin.” he told her. Kalani looked at him in askance. “They are medicines for the treatment of Hepatitis C, for Shannon; it can derive in cryoglobulinemia, hepatocarcinoma or leukytoclastic vasculitis”.
Kalani nodded as if she had completely understood everything that he was saying, leaving only a glimmer of irony as… well, it was a serious matter.
“And we hardly have the means to diagnose or treat anything. The medicines are on the list we made of the inventory in cold storage, were you here then?”
Kalami nodded again.
“I hope they are still there. I don’t even want to think what will happen when the medical reserves run out.” he admitted, overwhelmed by the idea.
“Shannon is… you know that he lost his brother as a result of the accident with your revolver.”
“Yes… Steve will be ostracised for sure.”
“Adele is very stern with stupidity and that kid seems to feed exclusively on his own idiocy” he declared, while leafing through some medical notes.
“The truth is that it’s one of the few things about which I fully agree with Adele: stupidity never works in one’s favour, it’s plain to see” cautioned Kalani, unable to let go of her macabre thoughts. “Who will be going?” she asked with curiosity.
“You, Audrey and I.”
“When are we leaving? Only the three of us? I would prefer it if someone else came too… Doctor Pistachio III would come for sure, and we will have to find at least one car.”
“Tomorrow morning.” he said.
“Tomorrow I’m meant to be going to the woods to lay traps… and to cut the corn.” she added uncertainly, “but someone else can do it if we are getting the drugs. I will ask Cole if he wants to come!” exclaimed the girl, enthusiastically.
“Kalani…” The reproachful tone got lost somewhere before the last syllable.
“He is black!” she answered, stretching out her arms and smiling confidently. “He will make our expedition more diverse.”
“I am sure that that is discriminatory.”
“Oh no! You found me out! Come on, what the fuck, I am also against it: all discrimination seems to be the same. He can’t come because he’s black?”
“Is there any rule that you haven’t yet broken?”
“Come on!” she exclaimed indignantly, “The rules and I started very young!”
“Kalani…” Just saying her name seemed like a sermon.
“I’ll counter-attack as I am getting bored: I’m pretty sure you haven’t slept for at least two days!” she said, indicating the bags under his eyes –she felt reality crawling through his mind with great difficulty– “and that has damaged your intellectual capabilities. Have you seen how well I speak? Helping people is great and all that, and if we don’t do it, we can’t survive, but you should be the first on your list, like Radha and Carmen.” Kalani was referring to the other two doctors.
“Carmen has a fixation for hypodermic needles that escapes me…”
“Wonderful. Do you want to know what I think?”
“Ummm… no.” said Rhys.
“That you can’t save the fucking world, you shouldn’t even try, it’s selfish, it’s…inhuman.  Just do what you have to do: try to make people kick the bucket less with you than without you!” she said, her hand leaning against the doorframe. “If you don’t sleep, you can’t come with us,” she warned, while making signs that she was going to dance or leave, which where Kalani was concerned, basically meant the same thing.
“Why… why selfish?” he asked, puzzled.
“Because,” she stopped there, in the doorway, to give herself time to carefully consider what she was going to say, “if you really think about it, if you assume someone else’s responsibility, you deny that person the space to be himself and to develop; what’s more, the way we treat others is a reflection of how we treat ourselves… well, not always.  So one could think that you are covering their needs because you are needy, that sounds good, doesn’t it? Give me a lolly, go on!” she said with a quick shrug and a smile.
“If I wasn’t a slave to my needs, I would have to be responsible, and I prefer to be indebted to my cynicism than to my morals.”
“There’s no keeping you from your needs, is there?” teased Kalani.
“Get lost!”
“Shit! And what about my lolly?”

The room opened out onto the balcony, it was simple and spacious; a bed, a low table, cushions lying about everywhere, dust dancing in the sunbeams, clothes all over the floor and two rucksacks leaning against the wall. The walls were covered in drawings and messages mainly from different hands. Most of them were about love. There were also various games of noughts and crosses with a clear win to the noughts. The window let in the afternoon sunlight; the stairs led down to the ground floor.
“Come on mate, I only deal in worthless things” insisted Kalani, sporting an enormous bruise below her lip. “The best things in life are free! Make love, dance, enjoy a good steak, watch the sunset, bite a dog…”
“Yes, but Kalani, seriously, using your own jargon: your face is in a state” said Cole, looking at her with his barely thirteen years from the balcony and his dreadlocks –she roared with laughter– “and sometimes you do shady business with people that are not sure whether five is more or less than four even when counting on their fingers. Don’t you think it could be dangerous?”
“For them, of course: I certainly know how to count and what’s more I have awesome psychic powers.”
“It’s not very sensible to go broadcasting it.”
“I can be extremely subtle, Cole” she assured him, with a teasing superiority. “Would you know if I was manipulating you to wonder if I was manipulating you?” He fell into her trap.
“You see?” said Kalani with a triumphant smile. Cole roared with laughter. “Your mind is mine, screw you!”
            “I don’t know whether your humour is ingenious or stupid.” he admitted.
            “Stupid,” declared the girl, “I don’t like to leave anyone unhappy. Returning to poor Steve,…” Kalani sighed with a nostalgia full of indulgence, “don’t worry, my cheek has faced up to him”.
            “Nah… that’s not funny” Cole grumbled, approaching her.
            “You’re right, it would have been funnier if it had been someone else’s cheek”. 
He couldn’t help laughing.
            “Adolescents…” remarked the boy with a snort, as if that word explained all the complexities of the situation.
            “Go on,” she said, naked on the bed.
            “Adolescents” he began, “are not the children referred to in stories and journals, nor are adults what they are supposed to be, they take refuge in the space that they deny to the world, the control they have is born from the same illusion that obliges them to contemplate an imperfect reality. It’s only a theory, give me a couple of years and I’ll verify it for you”.
            “You idiot, dude.” she answered, joining in his laughter. “Do you have to explain all your thoughts in such a poetic way for them to be understood?” she joked, wiggling her hands expressively, “or am I an idiot and nobody has told me? Come on, don’t be an asshole and tell me the truth. Is there anything you like doing apart from listening to yourself?” she asked with her mouth open and a bovine expression, only because it was an expression she wore sometimes.
            “I suppose there must be something…” answered Cole hesitantly, moving his hand vaguely. “I like you, and Tania and her cake-trafficking and her belly, which is now pregnant; I like freckly Shaun because he moves better than he looks, and the Emily who wears socks,” –all of them were teenagers around the same age as Kalani– “and I like books and interesting conversations.  It’s a difficult question. But you…” –Kalani could see herself inside Cole’s mind, shining out– “It’s more than that, listen, the other day I was thinking about you: when you learnt to read, you told me that people read whole words whereas you read syllables: “it wears me out”, you said.  My question is: did you cheat when learning to read, with the help of your powers, white girl?  The results are incredible in someone of your age.”
“Let’s see… If I could teleport myself, to get to a place which I had never seen, it would be… somewhere between stupid and dangerous, wouldn’t it?”
“Wait a minute, is this some kind of revenge for my poetic figures of speech?”
“Yes” confirmed Kalani with a smile that overflowed into the word. “And if you consider yourself so intelligent, think of a metaphor about your stupidity.”
“Okay, okay…” he gave in, putting up his hands, then raised an eyebrow to add “Technical draw?”
“You should be so lucky. And now, clever boy, come here.” Kalani invaded the bed.
“You bully!”
“How can it be so big bearing in mind the amount you talk?” she wondered, her pupils reflecting her desire.
“Don’t you like it, Ka? I’ve only got it in this size…”
“Cole, man,” she said, drawing closer to him and taking hold of his hand while laughing, “We are going to do something that I know it is very difficult for both of us, but we are going to shut up and we are going to quietly shag for a couple of hours, I repeat: quietly, and groaning and so on” she added with an unconcerned shrug, “and then you are going to tell me why Emily traffics cakes and I didn’t know about it”.
“It’s Tania that traffics cakes” he clarified.
“I have been with Emily-socks, she does it really well. And she’s jealous that we are together: you are very sought-after” she told him kissing and hugging him.
After a few rather busy moments with the summer on their lips, the conversation tried to get back on track:
“But Tania gives you cake afterwards” indicated Cole.
“I am beginning to suspect…”
“… that this being silent is not working shit” muttered Cole, imitating Kalani’s way of grumbling.
“Can you read my mind too, black boy? Because I have thought about what I am going to make for Audrey when she comes for dinner and I need your help.”  Calm gave way to an explosion of energy. “The other day I discovered what the best thing is about being one of the ugliest girls in the whole village!”
“What?”
“That no-one expects any good of me!” she exclaimed laughing. “On your knees!” The explosion of energy vanished, giving way to a quiet enthusiasm.  “Although you should know I like my face, I have a rabbit face: big teeth that are incapable of coming with me when I shut my mouth, yum, yum, charming chubby cheeks, punky hair and then there’s my big blue eyes.
“Can’t you focus on one thing for any longer than thirty seconds?”
“Can you...? Oooh…! Yes I can…”

Audrey looked through the glass as she took off her hood and noisily took a bite out of a tart, green, apple. She could hear the steps of Jerry and Tiara patrolling along the exterior walkway, a little further down.
She spat as she saw Kalani between some houses, running naked behind a pack of dogs, among which was Boatswain, her Newfoundland, which the girl had decided to call Doctor Pistachio III.
She followed him dancing and jumping, shouting and barking. Boatswain, who right from the start had accepted his nickname with resignation, happily approached Kalani who hugged him. The dog then zigzagged until finding a stick, which he dropped at the girl’s feet and began to charge back and forth at it until she picked it up and threw it for him.
Although the top floor of the lighthouse did not officially serve as a library, its shelves were full of books, so many that there was not room for them all, and some volumes were piled up on the floor. Other than that, the room only contained a threadbare rug, a sofa, two chairs and a plain well-worn desk.
From there, Audrey could survey the whole settlement, precariously rebuilt on top of the ruins: a vast and still largely uninhabited terrain. She could also see the barbed-wire fencing in front of the stone walls, the meadows and the wood, and in the distance, the mountains all around. The sea stretched out endlessly behind her. She also had an excellent view of Adele, who could herself, in a way, be considered a landscape: not a particularly relaxing one, but she was quite a large woman, taking into account the amount of food available. She had a surly face, almost constantly set in a frown, but with a quick and bright look and wrinkles where a disbelieving smile began. She wore an elegant but worn-out cowboy suit with sinuous borders, a tie and a hat, although the latter now lay on the table.
“Kalani never does what she’s supposed to do,” declared Adele, without attempting to hide her disapproval.
“If you make a rule, she will find a way to break it right in front of you,” agreed Audrey. 
“It’s natural that you should be friends” said her companion. “I don’t mind the fact that she doesn’t go to school like everyone else, but how can she sleep an average of ten hours a day?”
“The last time I asked her, she said that she has fun sleeping!”
Adele could not help her words sounding like a reproach:
“She is always playing, she never takes anything seriously and how old is she? Fifteen?  She could be having children, like everyone else. What kind of adult is she?”
“Adults are stories for kids, Adele.  Here we have survived. If we can’t do what we like, now that we have managed to keep breathing, what’s the point of living? Kalani doesn’t think we are any different from the bandits that kill each other.”
“That girl is not normal” insisted Adele.
“That’s why… what would you do if you had her powers?”
“Something responsible, for a start.”
“Well, I’m glad she doesn’t take anything seriously.”  Audrey’s smile was a quiet challenge.
“You are the same, you think that good and evil are no different” replied Adele
“Well, one of the fundamental tragedies of mankind is that if you do good, you run the risk of ending up doing evil and if you do evil, you run the risk of ending up making a fortune.”
“But neither of you think that,” declared Adele.
“Of course not, good and evil are just words and the idea of a person amassing a fortune is ridiculous. What’s more, we are not ambitious, we prefer to be happy.
“Anyway, Kalani never stops defying me.”
“Her relationship with you is nothing personal: she would defy anyone who told her what to do” said Audrey, nonchalantly. “She lives out of a rucksack, her freedom is the only thing she has.”  Adele remained thoughtful for a few moments and Audrey gazed back out of the window.  “If the matter of the expedition has been cleared up, I am going to have lunch with Rhys, and tomorrow we’ll go and get the medicines.”
“Do you think you’ll find them there?” enquired Adele without much conviction.  “It’s over a year since the inventory was made and that was the last visit to the city.”
“What are the chances that someone has taken them?” answered Audrey.
“About fifty percent, possibly. What does Kalani think?”
“Kalani is a thief, she thinks that someone will have taken them, but we have to try.  For Shannon.”
“Tell me how much petrol you need.”

Kalani took a punch in the mouth.
A really hard one, one of those that makes a hollow sound and knocks your tooth out, roots and all.
She felt the blood filling up the tissue beneath the skin of her lip, she imagined the greenish-purple colour that the bruise would develop in a few hours, then she returned to the present, feeling the root of the bone coming away from the gum with a hot stabbing pain.
She spat out one of her lower incisors, red.
“Your friends are frightened,” she said steadily.
In reality, she too was frightened, not that much, because in the settlement everything was a second rate danger, but the fear meant that the mental rhythm of these idiotic kids who were holding her by the arms while Steve was looking at her as if he were going to punch her again focussed her brain.
The two boys stammered what from the context must have been an apology, let her go and left.
Steve did not know what was going on but he could not waste time in shouting at them to come back.
The asbestos shed where the school toilets were was not the best place in the world to make a scene.
She smiled, a few moments more and the scenario would follow the rhythm of her heart.
The truth is that a fearful mind, weakened by hunger or weariness, or simply driven to despair in a fit of rage, was always easier to control; often it was enough just to cast a doubt.  What’s more, Kalani had recently had a revelation: if her own mental movement acquired a specific form –fear, for example– it was easier to shape this same form in the minds of others.  It was like music, only the other way round, it was difficult to recall a song while another one was playing. On the other hand, if the minds of others were also beginning to acquire this form on their own, hardly even a nosebleed was needed to end up shaping and activating it.  A shooting pain pierced her head. Although it was brief, it remained hanging from her neurons in an acute, sustained echo in the form of an intense ache, far too present for comfort.
In fact, she sensed that she should learn to calm down and flow through her own mind in order to be more efficient. But she decided to leave her thoughts for a rather less risky time and launched a question into the air:
“Don’t you like the revolver, Steve?”  Steve, who was a couple of years older than her, took a few steps backwards, disconcerted.  “It isn’t easy to be an arms dealer, is it? And I clearly explained to you that the firing pin was a little loose. I clearly explained that you shouldn’t load it with six bullets. I clearly explained that this was why I was selling it a bit cheaper, remember? Hell, I explained everything fucking marvellously to you!  I even threw in some bullets in spite of the fact that I don’t even like you, that’s what you would call winning customer loyalty or something like that, but what kind of dickhead aims at his boyfriend with a gun?  It is a rhetorical question, which means you don’t have to answer,” she clarified. Kalani loved using all those words she had learnt. “Hand over my fucking revolver, you prick, the one that Eddie and Ben just took off me,” she ordered patiently, “the other one is yours and a deal is a deal.” He gave her the gun with a doubtful expression on his face, which radiated no more intelligence than that of a particularly resourceful pot of gladiolas.
“I’ll be kicked out,” he said defeatedly.
“If you’re lucky,” she reminded him, her eyes suddenly lighting up with a decided glow.  “I tell you what, I won’t say anything if you give me the other revolver back. What do you think?  And you could, as really that revolver isn’t contraband, it was mine, but I wanted to make myself out to be more exciting,” she explained.  “Contraband stuff is difficult to get, generally it’s stupid to buy it and you couldn’t afford it anyway,” she said, scratching her eyebrow.  “Contraband.., it sounds good but I’m not so sure… Supposedly it’s stuff that’s been in the hands of bandits or criminals, isn’t it?”  Kalani stopped her thoughts at that point, she didn’t want to get side-tracked. “Well, that’s it: the revolver for my silence. Tell me it’s not a fucking awesome deal!”  She smiled animatedly. “We’ll tell the others that you wanted to get rid of it because of the accident. 
“Thanks…” he managed to say, without being sure of whether he should think about anything in particular, while giving her the weapon.  She certainly knew what to think: for example, what happened to Eric, Steve’s boyfriend, was a stupid tragedy. “Thanks for letting me live,” Steve managed to finish. Kalani was impressed that the poor thing had appreciated the value of this latest transaction.
“Twice, I suppose, if you count this time, and you don’t even deserve it.” She fingered the incipient bruise, which was beginning to swell up. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, believe me,” she said. “Remember that you have come out on top… all things considered…”  She tried to comfort him with an unconvincing, friendly gesture and an erratic look. “By the way, when they do exile you, come and see me: I have provisions that you can pay for with things you won’t need.” And with that, Kalani danced away.
She loved savouring the word exile, probably due to the X, it gave it class. And the L, the L was good. And the fact that it was not being applied to her was rather comforting too: to tell the truth, she had always believed that one day, in spite of everything, she would be kicked out of there.

“I only have one question, Ka. Why did you let Steve punch you?
“I felt guilty,” answered Kalani, “for the death of his boyfriend and that: it was me that gave him the revolver, after all.” Her expression revealed a certain sadness on remembering this; she had decided to avoid getting involved in that kind of problem again.  “But later, I went to see Rhys so he could treat my face for the beating they had given me and… I realised that I had made a mistake with my “I’m going to save the world” and all that, and in the fact that I now have one less tooth!” she added laughing, and then she became thoughtful for a few moments: she raised her eyebrow and her tongue appeared from under her top lip. “The reality is that we are free, Cole, right from the start. I am free even of myself. In fact we are so free and have been so for such a long time that in retrospect, I see myself as very young,” said Kalani, puzzled. He proffered a chuckle.  “When all is said and done, that’s how thoughts move: they go their own way and are absolutely fine. That’s why I prefer to dance… And that you dance with me,” she ordered with a smile.  “Listen, I almost forgot, will you come to the city to get medicine?”


domingo, 1 de julio de 2018

Invisible

Hola, soy Marta Roussel Perla, y soy autista, minusválida, mujer y trans, de modo que estoy bastante familiarizada con la discriminación, con el autoconocimiento y, ahora, también con la felicidad.

Invisible:

Éste no es un texto literario, sin embargo he tomado la decisión de escribirlo de todos modos, a pesar de que se trata más bien de una reflexión personal.
Empezaré con una frase que puede resultar sorprendente: soy invisible.
Voy por la calle y nadie me ve, me miro al espejo y no soy el reflejo. Recuerdo que siempre fue así, de niña era invisible también, aunque, como quería saberme una más, me decía: “tal vez mañana, tal vez mañana consiga verme en el espejo”, muy consciente de que aquello no podía ocurrir por arte de magia ni aunque yo creyera, como creo, en toda la fantasía de los sueños.
Nací como mujer transexual y no como hombre cisgénero, y eso que llaman transición es una quimera: yo no he sido ningún hombre que se convierte en mujer y no todas las personas trans sienten la necesidad de modificar su aspecto.
Por mi parte, me he criado y he crecido –angustiada por los cambios que en mi cuerpo tenían lugar– rodeada de gente que sabía que yo estaba ahí, pero no podía verme. A veces incluso me ocultaba un poquito deliberadamente, porque siempre me resultó evidente: si me dejaba ver, habría gente que querría hacerme daño. Cuando era niña ya había bastante gente que no era nada amable conmigo de todas formas… Reconozco que nunca me ha gustado ocultarme en sus frases o actitudes para sobrevivir, no obstante lo he hecho, he sido cobarde, y no me siento orgullosa. Y tengo muy buena memoria. Pero aún más imaginación.
La niñas y adolescentes trans podrán vivir una vida plena de mujer, yo he conocido ese privilegio masculino que se asienta en la dominación de otros desde bastante cerca, muy a mi pesar, mientras me prohibía ser y me convertía en nada.
Algunas personas dicen que esto se elige, pero, ¿por qué iba alguien a elegir algo así? ¿Por qué alguien querría pasar de ser una mujer invisible a una mujer invisibilizada? ¿Quién desearía la incomprensión, las posibles agresiones físicas y sexuales, el riesgo de asesinato porque algún imbécil quiere hacer de este mundo un lugar mejor, o un estigma que puede afectar a casi cualquier aspecto de la vida? Habrá que mantener al pobre patriarcado…
No obstante no le tengo ningún miedo a nada de eso porque quien se niega, niega también el mundo, convertida la mente en una trampa para sí misma.
Además, por lo que sé de los hombres, ninguno de ellos contemplaría jamás con buenos ojos, y estoy segura de que en ningún caso, renunciar a su pene. No sólo por el enorme valor simbólico que ellos le conceden (tamaño, frecuencia de uso, un hombre sin pene es poco menos que una mujer, un hombre es definido por su pene, todas las mujeres quieren pene, etc.), sino porque, alejándonos de esa metáfora de la masculinidad (que difiere de un caso a otro, hay hombres más o menos machistas y más o menos feministas), al fin y al cabo, es su órgano sexual y no creo que a nadie le haga mucha gracia que le amputen aquello que usa para hacer el amor, follar o como cada cual lo considere. Cuando las tenga, yo no querría verme otra vez sin mis tetas, por ejemplo.
Por mi parte cada semana voy dos horas a que me quiten el pelo de la cara, uno a uno: aguja, electrocución, pinzas. Uno a uno. Aguja, electrocución, pinzas. Cada paso duele. Cada pelo duele. La gente no suele utilizar este método y prefiere el láser: es mucho más suave, pero no elimina el cabello al cien por cien. La primera vez que tocó la parte del bigote dolió tanto que pasé dos horas ahí, tendida en esa camilla, llorando sin parar, callada e imaginando que un día este proceso acabará.
Por suerte los tiempos han cambiado: hace tan sólo unos años había únicamente una salida laboral para las mujeres trans, y no me interesaba en absoluto.
Ahora tengo que ahorrar miles de euros, aunque sea una obrera, así que salgo poco y me pierdo en mi mente: siempre hay historias ahí dentro.
Cuando vuelvo de la depilación estoy un poco más contenta porque puedo contemplar mi rostro un poco más. Y sonrío con una sonrisa que nunca había visto en mí. Y lloro las mejores lágrimas del mundo.
En algún momento recuperaré mi voz. Y no pararé de hablar.
En algún momento recuperaré mi cuerpo, aunque tenga que cargar con unos hombros un poco más anchos de lo que me gustaría.
Ha habido gente que me ha llamado obsesionado con las lesbianas y maricón al mismo tiempo mientras me recriminaba que hablara como una chica: la ironía de un contrasentido construyendo un punto ciego. No querían verme, yo estaba ahí, intentando ser yo, y no me veían.
No se daban cuenta de que soy la única dueña de mi discurso. No se daban cuenta de que mi felicidad no es un trastorno mental, sino mi camino.
No es tan complicado. Somos mujeres, nada más. Y hoy toca luchar. Ser una mujer transexual es como ser una mujer alta o una mujer que trabaja en una multinacional, no interfiere en absoluto con lo que somos por más que cada persona sea un mundo.
Y no, no me siento una mujer, porque yo me siento cansada o con energía, triste o feliz, con ganas de hacer cosas o con ganas de vaguear. Nunca se me ha pasado por la cabeza que pueda haber algo como sentirse hombre o mujer. Un sentimiento, un pensamiento, una experiencia, son conceptos limitados que apenas expresan quién soy yo, ¿me siento acaso una amante con talento? ¿Me siento una jugadora de videojuegos dedicada? ¿Me siento una gran comedora de chocolate? ¿Me siento una trabajadora diligente? ¿Me siento una dormidora competente? No, eso son cosas que soy, siendo generosos con las categorías.
No, no me siento mujer.
Lo soy.
Y no necesito que nadie me lo certifique, gracias.
Los hombres y mujeres trans no somos un tercer género: ese páramo ininteligible de inhumanidad. En realidad es muy sencillo: somos hombres y mujeres.
Romper el binarismo no implica un tercer género tampoco, sino contemplar un amplio espectro ahí donde nos han dicho que miremos a dos polos fijos, precariamente construidos, que no tienen nada que ver con ese horizonte lleno de posibilidad que es la realidad: un continuo que no tiene por qué atar a nadie. Estoy convencida que con la claridad que aportamos las personas transexuales, y sobre todo la que aportan las no binarias en este asunto, el feminismo va a acabar con la idea de género tal y como la conocemos. En ese momento una buena parte de este texto, si no todo, quedará anulado, soy consciente, pero, aunque podamos lanzarnos varios siglos hacia adelante, vamos paso a paso.
Y para hoy éstas son mis palabras.
El hecho de que a mí se me percibiera como un hombre por mi aspecto físico no implica que fuera o sea un hombre: nunca lo he sido y nunca podría serlo.
Sé perfectamente que mi vida sería mucho más sencilla en algunos aspectos (superficiales) si me mantuviera invisible. Sé que sería mucho más fácil para mí encontrar pareja, conseguir un trabajo o caminar sola por la noche.
Por eso a veces tengo miedo.
Pero yo no puedo ser amada como si fuera un hombre porque ahí no hay ningún yo, sólo una máscara a la que renuncio, un disfraz que no voy a llevar.
Yo sólo puedo ser amada. Y apreciada por lo que soy, percibida como quien soy.
Y cada segundo que pasa soy más fuerte, y me parezco más a la guerrera tan tímida y extraña que llevo dentro.
No me convierto en otra cosa, sólo me quito la máscara y regreso a quien soy.
Y al final, cuando todo esto acabe, romperé ese puto espejo.