Wednesday, March 11, 2009

A pretty necklace



I sit not too far, not too close from the others. I look at their shoes and a little furtively at their faces too. Tired, indiferent, lost in thought. There's a seat between a tall man and me. He stares at the floor, then at this hands, alternatively, uninterruptedly. Nice hands, long fingers, well cared nails. He doesn't wash dishes. I wonder what he's doing in that waiting room. Well, for the last fifteen minutes I've been wondering about everybody there. I'm making up their stories, I'm trying to reinterpret their signs, their whispering, their stares and their occassional sighs.
A young woman with a baby in her arms enters and almost all the women aim their eyes and voices to that round and chubby little face. They make faces for him, they modulate words and ancient phrases that you only hear from grandmothers and neighbours. I'm amazed at how such a small being can break the cold air, the moment, the space between us.
I sneak a peek at the tall man. He doesn't seem aware of the baby. I wonder if he has kids. No, I don't think so. Of course, he's married... with those hands... But he doesn't wash dishes. Suddenly I dislike him. The young mother talks loudly and with ease. Why is it that when we have a kid we talk as if nobody else before us had gone through that experience? Why are we so blind to evidence?
A nurse calls out for Juan. A woman rises. Nobody's surprised. Funny how medical affairs can be delegated. Some men just need a secretary all their lives. Well, she's only picking his prescriptions, we all guess. I'm sure the tall man has his own secretary, but he doesn't use her for medical purposes. At this point I must admit I am like one of those men. I need a secretary too. I need to have all the papers sorted out for me.
Then I notice how low the music is. Some flamenco. Weird. Atypical. The man shuts his eyes. He has surrendered to time and is tired of staring at his hands. At the floor too. I put my pen and notebook back in my bag and play with my necklace. A present from a friend. And then back to analyze shoes.
Almost every seat is now taken. An elderly woman has silently placed herself between the tall man and me. She takes a big fan out of her small purse and asks us if we will be bothered with the air. We both say no with our heads. I take my notebook out again and pretend that I'm reading. She turns to the man:

- Are you here to see the doctor?
He nods surly.
- I'm here almost every week. I waste a lot of time here.
He's now staring at her.
- And nobody here realizes that all this waiting time... I waste it forever! And it's not the same if you are thirty, forty... than ninety! Who gives me back this time?
He's smiling.
I smile too.
The woman turns to me, smiles back and says:
- That's a pretty necklace.


....................................................................................................................................


Me siento ni lejos ni cerca de los demás. Miro todos sus zapatos, y algo más furtivamente, sus caras. Cansadas, indiferentes, ensimismadas. Queda un asiento libre entre un hombre alto y yo. Mira al suelo y a sus manos, alternativamente, ininterrumpidamente. Manos finas, dedos largos, uñas cuidadas. No friega platos. Me pregunto qué hace en esa sala de espera. Desde hace quince minutos me pregunto eso de cada persona que veo allí. Imagino sus historias, intento reinterpretar sus susurros, sus miradas y en algun caso, sus suspiros.
Entra una joven con un bebe en brazos y casi todas las mujeres dirigen sus ojos y sus voces hacia esa cara redondita y rechoncha. Le hacen muecas, le entonan palabras y frases añejas que sólo oyes a las abuelas y a las vecinas. Me sorprende que un ser tan pequeño rompa la frialdad del aire, del momento, el espacio entre nosotros.
Miro de reojo al hombre alto; no ha reparado en el bebe. Me pregunto si tendrá hijos. No, creo que no. Estará casado, con esas manos... Pero no friega. De pronto me cae antipático. La joven madre habla en alto y con desparpajo de su bebe. ¿Por qué será que cuando tenemos un hijo hablamos como si nadie más hubiese pasado por esa experiencia? ¿Por qué somos tan ciegas a la evidencia?
Una enfermera llama a alguien llamado Juan. Se levanta una mujer. Nadie se sorprende. Es curioso cómo se pueden delegar los asuntos médicos. Hay hombres que toda su vida necesitan una secretaria. Y total, serán sólo unas recetas, pensamos todos. El hombre alto seguro que tiene secretaria, pero no la lleva al médico. Tengo que admitir que yo también soy como uno de esos hombres. Necesito un secretario. Necesito que me quiten el papeleo de enmedio. De repente soy consciente de lo bajito que suena el hilo musical. Algo de flamenco. Qué curioso. Que atípico. El hombre cierra los ojos. Ha sucumbido al tiempo y se ha cansado de ver sus manos. Y el suelo. Dejo mi rotulador y mi cuaderno en el bolso y jugueteo con mi collar. Un regalo de una amiga. Otra vez analizo zapatos.
Casi todos los asientos ya están ocupados. Una señora mayor se ha sentado silenciosamente entre el hombre y yo. Saca un gran abanico de su pequeño bolso y pregunta a ambos lados si no nos molesta con el aire. Ambos negamos con la cabeza. Vuelvo a sacar mi cuaderno y finjo leerlo. Ella se dirige al hombre:

- ¿Está usted para el médico?
Él asiente impaciente.
- Yo casi vengo todas las semanas. Pierdo mucho tiempo aquí.
Él le mira ahora.
- Y, claro, nadie se da cuenta de que todo este tiempo de espera lo pierdo para siempre. Y no es lo mismo perder el tiempo con treinta, cuarenta... o noventa! ¿A mí quién me lo devuelve?
Él esboza una sonrisa.
Yo también.
La señora me mira, sonríe y me dice:
- Bonito collar.


Today's music:
Neko Case

11 comments:

Nata Hernández said...

Corriendo he ido a tu perfil siguiendo una corazonada. De repente estaba convencida de que te gustaría Carver y... ¡bingo! :)

La Ballena Elena said...

No sólo los bebés, también las personas mayores.
Preciosas reflexiones hoy
y bonito collar

elblogperdido said...

oh como me ha gustado tu espera y desesperación,que bonita manera de expresarlo, gracias por el tag aunque no se si mi esmirriado inglés dará para tanto, lo intentaré pero sino lo pongo es por esto....ains

Miss Rosenthal said...

- Bonita historia.

Anonymous said...

Preciosa historia. Y qué bien escrita. Me ha dado un escalofrío pensar en el tiempo perdido para Proust siempre.

Anonymous said...

Esti, this was a delight to read... I felt as though I were there, a fly on the wall, so to speak.

You have such a way with capturing your observations, be it with words or on paper or with a camera as your tool.

khairun said...

I liked reading this story too. Makes me realise how much we can create in our heads just by simply observing.

Thanks for passing by my blog. My artwork has become abit random lately because I get up sooo late due to feeling soooo tired.It leaves me with little time and energy to paint. Reading blogs like yours is a way for me to start warming up again!

Anonymous said...

I like to see the world through your eyes, to hear it through your ears. This post is a great read.

Unknown said...

beautiful beautiful post, my dear. you have such a way of capturing the moment. a gift.
*)

outi said...

a good story. i really have to think time now. i mean, it´s so true. time is relative, it´s something else when you are thirty than when you are ninety. or nine.

Ciara Brehony said...

Oh Esti this is wonderful. Thanks for letting us peep through the keyhole! Perfect!