#13 — El globo azul (la historia)
Es difícil ser muy pequeño porque la gente es cruel. «Ves, hijo, le decía un padre a su niño el otro día, mientras los tres esperábamos el ascensor. Esfuérzate en los estudios, si no, acabarás como ella». Oscar Wilde decía (…)
Es difícil ser muy pequeño porque la gente es cruel.
«Ves, hijo, le decía un padre a su niño el otro día, mientras los tres esperábamos el ascensor. Esfuérzate en los estudios, si no, acabarás como ella».
Oscar Wilde decía: «Me niego a entrar en una batalla intelectual con un hombre desarmado». Así que guardé mi libro en mi bolsillo y me callé.
Es un poco cada día, decía mi profesor de teatro en Francia. Cuando tienes un objetivo en la vida, tienes que dedicarle un poco de tiempo cada día. Y menospreciar a la gente es un deporte como cualquier otro, al fin y al cabo.
Un martes, temprano por la tarde, en julio. Hacía mucho calor (¡37 °C!) y el verano apenas comenzaba. Había pasado el día subiendo y bajando escaleras (entre 50 y 60 pisos al día, sin ascensor) y, por fin, empezaba a ver la luz al final del túnel.
Llamé al timbre.
«¿Quién es?», dijo un hombre por el interfono.
— La lectura del gas.
— Ah.
La decepción en su voz era palpable. Colgó. Oí ruido en la entrada, así que me quedé, por si acaso. Y, efectivamente, bajó a abrirme. Me indicó dónde estaban los contadores — en la entrada — pero había un montón de cosas que bloqueaban el acceso. Maldijo, retiró una bicicleta, juguetes de plástico y, en su impulso, un globo salió volando y cayó rodando por las escaleras.
Lo vi flotar un instante.
Al darme la vuelta, vi que el tipo me miraba fijamente, bicicleta en la mano, impaciente, así que me apresuré a hacer mis lecturas. Le di las gracias cordialmente, recogí el globo escapado y se lo tendí.
«No, pero ¿qué quieres que haga con esto?», dijo molesto. «¡Tíralo fuera!». Así que salí con el globo en la mano y oí cómo se cerraba la puerta de golpe a mis espaldas.
Había tenido un día tan difícil... Exactamente eso, gente agresiva sin motivo, rechazos, comentarios, suspiros... Durante un momento, no pude moverme. Me quedé clavada en el sitio, intentando con todas mis fuerzas no echarme a llorar. Era demasiado estúpido, la verdad. Así que respiré hondo y miré el globo. ¿Qué voy a hacer contigo?
«¡Tíralo!», seguía oyendo gritar al tipo. «¡A la calle, me da igual!».
Pero no pude. ¿Así se hacen las cosas hoy en día? ¿Usar y tirar, next!, sin pensarlo dos veces? Mi globo y yo éramos como dos gatos callejeros, y desde luego no iba a abandonarlo allí. Habría sido como admitir que el tipo tenía razón. La idea me daba escalofríos. Así que abrí mi libro por la página donde lo había dejado y caminé hasta el metro, globo bajo el brazo, donde todos me miraron un poco raro. Pero creo que fue ese día cuando entendí que «raro» era un halago, al final, y que iba a pasar el resto de mi vida nadando contracorriente. —
La versión PDF aquí — Imprímelo, guárdalo, compártelo
♡
#13 - The blue balloon (the story)
It’s hard to be small because people get mean. ‘You see, son’, said a father to his boy the other day, as the three of us were waiting for the lift. ‘Work hard at school, otherwise you'll end up like her.’ Oscar Wilde said (…)
It’s hard to be small because people get mean.
‘You see, son’, said a father to his boy the other day, as the three of us were waiting for the lift. ‘Work hard at school, otherwise you'll end up like her.’
Oscar Wilde said, ‘I refuse to engage in an intellectual battle with an unarmed man.’ So I slipped my book into my pocket and kept quiet.
It's a little bit every day, my drama teacher used to say, back in France. When you have a goal in life, you have to work on it a little bit every day. And putting people down is a sport like any other, after all.
It was early afternoon in July. It was already very hot (37°C!) and summer had only just begun. I had spent the day going up and down stairs (50 to 60 floors a day, without lift!) and finally, I was beginning to see the end of it.
I rang the doorbell.
‘Who is it?’ said a man on the intercom.
‘La lectura del gas.’
‘Ah.’
The disappointment in his voice was painful. He hung up. I heard a noise in the hallway, so I stayed, just in case. And he did come down to open the door. He showed me where the meters were, but there was a pile of stuff blocking the access. He swore, removed a kid’s bicycle and some plastic toys, and in his haste, a balloon floated away and tumbled down the stairs.
I watched it float for a second.
Turning around, I saw the guy staring at me, bike in hand, looking rather upset, so I hurried off to take my pictures. Then I thanked him cordially, picked up the escaped balloon, and handed it to him. ‘No, but what do you expect me to do with it?’ he said, annoyed. ‘Take it away!’ So I went out, balloon in my hands, and heard the door slam behind me.
I'd had such a difficult day already... Exactly this, aggressive people for no reason, rejections, comments, sighs... For a moment, I couldn't move. I stood there, on the spot, trying with all my might not to burst into tears. It was too stupid, really. So I took a deep breath and then looked at the balloon. What am I going to do with you?
‘Throw it away!’ I could still hear the guy barking. ‘In the street, I don’t care!’
But I couldn’t. Is this how we do then, these days? We use, and when we’re done using, we throw away, without second thought? My balloon and I were like two stray cats, and I certainly wasn’t going to abandon it there. That would have been like admitting the guy was right. The idea made me shiver. So I opened my book to the page where I’d left off and walked, balloon under my arm, to the Tube, where everyone was giving me strange looks. But I think it was on that day I realised ‘strange’ was a compliment and that I was going to spend the rest of my life going against the current. —
The PDF version here — Print it, save it, share it.
♡
#13 - Le ballon bleu (l’histoire)
C’est dur d’être tout petit parce que les gens sont méchants. “Tu vois, fiston, disait un père à son fils l’autre jour, alors qu’on attendait tous les trois l’ascenseur. Travaille dur à l’école, sinon, tu finiras comme elle.” Oscar Wilde disait (…)
C’est dur d’être tout petit parce que les gens sont méchants.
“Tu vois, fiston, disait un père à son fils l’autre jour, alors qu’on attendait tous les trois l’ascenseur. Travaille dur à l’école, sinon, tu finiras comme elle.”
Oscar Wilde disait: “Je refuse de m’engager dans une bataille intellectuel avec un homme désarmé”. Alors j’ai glissé mon livre dans ma poche et je me suis tue.
C’est un petit peu tous les jours, disait mon prof de théâtre. Quand on a un objectif dans la vie, il faut s’y mettre un petit peu tous les jours. Et rabaisser les gens est un sport comme un autre, après tout.
Un début d’après-midi, du mois de juillet. Il faisait très très chaud déjà (37°C!) et l’été commençait à peine. J’avais passé la journée à monter et descendre des escaliers (de 50 à 60 étages par jour, sans ascenseur) et enfin, je commençais à en voir le bout.
Je sonnai à la porte.
“Qui est-ce? dit un homme à l’interphone.
— La lectura del gas.
— Ah.
La déception dans sa voix faisait mal. Il raccrocha. J’entendis du bruit dans l’entrée, alors je restai quand même, au cas où. Et effectivement, il descendit m’ouvrir. Il m’indiqua où étaient les compteurs mais il y avait un tas d’affaires qui en bloquaient l’accès. Il jura, retira un vélo miniature, des jouets en plastique et dans son élan, un ballon de baudruche s’envola et dégringola dans l’escalier.
Je le regardai flotter, une seconde.
En me retournant, je vis que le type me fixait, vélo à la main, impatient, alors je fonçai faire mes relevés. Puis je le remerciai cordialement, ramassai le ballon échappé et lui tendis.
“Non, mais qu’est-ce que tu veux que j’en fasse? dit-il, agacé. Jète-le dehors!” Alors je suis sortie, ballon sous le bras et j’ai entendu la porte claquer derrière moi.
J’avais eu une journée tellement difficile... Justement ça, des gens agressifs, sans raison, des refus, des commentaires, des soupirs... Pendant un moment, je ne pouvais plus bouger. Je suis restée clouée sur place, essayant de toutes mes forces de ne pas fondre en larmes. C’était trop stupide, vraiment. Alors j’ai respiré profondément puis j’ai regardé le ballon. Qu’est-ce que je vais faire de toi?
“Jète-le!” J’entendais encore le type aboyer. “Dans la rue, ça m’est égal!”
Mais je n’ai pas pu. C’est comme ça qu’on fait de nos jours, alors? On utilise, puis on jette, sans un regard en arrière? Mon ballon et moi, on était comme deux chats de gouttières et je n’allais sûrement pas l’abandonner là. Ça aurait été comme dire que ce type avait raison. L’idée m’en donnait des frissons. Alors j’ai ouvert mon livre à la page où je m’étais arrêtée et j’ai marché, ballon sous le bras, jusqu’au métro, où tout le monde me regardait un peu étrange. Mais je crois que c’est ce jour-là que j’ai compris qu’étrange était un compliment et que j’allais passer le reste de ma vie à vivre à contre-courant. —
Le PDF de l’article — Imprimez, conservez, partagez.
♡
#12 - El globo azul
La historia de un día difícil…
En un momento dado, perdí el sentido de la gravedad…
Cuando te alejas de todo, es más fácil volar.
En el camino, encontré un globo azul.
Pequeñito, un poco desinflado, pero ridículamente bonito en comparación con todo lo que lo rodeaba... Decidí aferrarme a él.
Me habría avergonzado abandonarlo yo también. Así que me lo llevé.
Porque ese día vi un mundo vasto y cruel a mi alrededor. Un mundo que trata a las personas como si fueran objetos.
Me asusté, eso es todo. —
La versión PDF del artículo — Imprímelo, guárdalo, compártelo
♡
#12 - The blue balloon
The (graphic) story of a difficult day…
At some point, I lost my sense of gravity…
When you get away from everything, it's easier to fly.
On my way, I found a blue balloon.
Small, a little deflated, but so ridiculously beautiful compared to what surrounded it... I decided to hold on to it.
I would have been ashamed to abandon it too. So I took it with me.
Because on that day, I saw a vast and cruel world all around me. A world that treats people like they’re balloons.
I got scared, that's all. —
The PDF version here — Print it, save it, share it.
♡
#12 - Le ballon bleu
L’histoire d’une journée difficile…
À un moment, j’ai perdu le sens de la gravité…
Quand on s’éloigne de tout, c’est plus facile de voler.
Sur la route, j’ai trouvé un ballon bleu.
Tout petit, un peu dégonflé, mais si ridiculement beau comparé à tout ce qui l’entourait... J’ai décidé de m’y accrocher.
J’aurais eu honte de l’abandonner moi aussi. Alors je l’ai emporté.
Parce que ce jour-là, j’ai vu un monde vaste et cruel tout autour. Un monde qui traite les gens comme des ballons.
J’ai eu peur, voilà tout. —
Le PDF de l’article — Imprimez, conservez, partagez.
♡
#11 - “Historias del gas”
Esta mañana, como empecé en los terrados, no tenía nada con qué escribir y tenía esta ansia de hacerlo. Así que empecé a llamar a las puertas y, en apenas una hora, ya había reunido un buen botín (…)
Trabaja duro y esto podría ser tú algún día: “Ha trabajado duro.” —
02/09/23 — Pensamientos
Yo era la chica que, en su primer día de secundaria, llevaba bailarinas moradas con calcetines naranjas y lunares verdes. Y con la sonrisa además. La gente cuchicheaba a mi paso, y yo sonreía, repartía caramelos. No era consciente, bajaba de la montaña.
Dios, cómo me gustaría volver a ese estado de (in)conciencia. Pero fui demasiado lejos. Con los años, me construí un corsé que funcionó maravillosamente. Mientras lo apretaba, la cara morada, la gente aplaudía, me felicitaba. Ahora hago todo lo posible por volver a encontrarme.
Es doloroso, frustrante, aterrador incluso. Pero no, va más allá de eso. En realidad, es una agonía. La muerte del yo fabricado por el nacimiento del yo auténtico. Hay que agarrarse. —
Amanecer en Barcelona, desde los terrados —
19/10/23 — Núria
Creo que hay algo en la frase «Necesito ayuda» a lo que el universo es especialmente sensible.
Esta mañana, nadie me abre la puerta. Es un NO tras otro, y un jefe que dice que es mejor que no vuelva a casa hasta haber conseguido [tal] porcentaje.
Al entrar en su casa, el monstruo voraz que me devora las entrañas constantemente se calma de repente. Todo está oscuro, pero es una oscuridad cálida. En la cocina, hay una vela encendida y una minúscula imagen de María.
Digo unas palabras a la señora, Núria pues, que ya tiene una edad. Me dice que le cuesta caminar. Le cuento que he tenido un mal día y, de repente, dos almas se encuentran. Me aprieta la mano y me ofrece una pera.
«Te la pongo en una bolsa, espera.
—No, le digo. Por favor... Tengo hambre.».
En estas dos palabras, «tengo hambre», y la lástima que le pudo inspirar mi mirada en ese momento, lo leyó todo. No dijo nada, la lavó con agua y me la entregó.
Bueno, otro día horrible, pero pronto todo irá mejor y solo recordaré este gesto: una mano tendida y una persona que habla a otra como si fuera humana.
It’s nice, for a change. (Es agradable, para variar) —
01/12/23 — Maragall/Virrei Amat
Existen dos tipos de contadores: los que se encuentran dentro de las viviendas y los que están en los terrados. Cuando hay que llamar a la puerta (“viviendas”), la compañía está obligada por ley a colocar un aviso — una hoja de papel A4 pegada en la puerta — con una semana de antelación. Es en este papel, que recojo a lo largo del día, donde suelo escribir.
Esta mañana, como empecé en los terrados, no tenía nada con qué escribir y tenía esta ansia mía de hacerlo. Así que empecé a llamar a las puertas y, en apenas una hora, ya había reunido un buen botín (de hojas, claro, no de contadores. A estas horas nadie abre).
Y empecé a pensar… Un año. No pensaba que aguantaría tanto tiempo. Hace un año, tocaba el fondo. Tenía 1,47 € en mi cuenta bancaria y contaba las pequeñas monedas para comprar papel de regalo para mis padres. Lloraba mucho, rezaba poco, confiaba más en malas relaciones para salir del abismo que en mis propias capacidades en Dios. Hace un año, tenía miedo de coger el metro sola, cantaba mis primeros conciertos. Me angustiaba por todo y sudaba día y noche por el dinero. Hace un año, me cortaba el pelo yo misma con unas tijeras de Ikea y utilizaba el presupuesto semanal para comprarme una chaqueta que se suponía que iba a solucionar todos mis problemas. Hace un año, perdía el ánimo, me perdía a mí misma.
Hace, pues, un año que tarareo al bajar del autobús y que practico mis solos en las escaleras. Ahora me cuesta reconocer a la persona que veo subir al escenario y ponerse delante de todo el mundo, murmurando con el corazón lleno de gratitud: «Aquí estoy…».
Ha ocurrido un milagro, y todo empezó así: con una comunidad. Por eso sí, tenemos que apoyarnos mutuamente, día tras día. Tenemos que aprender a no juzgar con dureza los errores, las excusas, los estados de ánimo o los malos días. Porqué sin los demás...
En fin, esta mañana, mientras contemplaba cómo el sol pintaba la ciudad de oro, se me ocurrió que ya no tengo motivos para temer nada. He llegado a un punto en mi relación con Dios que me da la certeza (y la paz que conlleva) de que todo está bajo control. Él se ocupa de cada pequeño detalle de mi vida, como un pintor enamorado, y ya no tengo nada que temer. Los jefes se enfadarán, faltará dinero, los amigos se obstinarán, así es como funciona el mundo y no puedo culpar a nadie por ello. Pero ya no dejo que estas cosas me afectan. Yo escribo, respiro. Sale el sol y, desde los tejados, Lidy, sonrío.
* * *
En este barrio, casi nadie me abrió la puerta. Un perro me mordió en el ascensor y un imbécil me cerró la puerta en las narices. Pero al terminar, me daba igual, sonreía. Para mis jefes, el día fue un fracaso. Para mí, un éxito rotundo: todo lo que he escrito desde entonces, lo escribí en este mismo papel. :) —
Mi colección de escaleras —
07/02/24 — Nayla
Cayó sobre la tierra como un cometa se estrella contra el desierto.
Llevo dos días teniendo sueños extraños. Sueños sórdidos, a decir verdad. Al despertar, me resulta imposible librarme de los escalofríos que me sacuden cuando pienso en ellos.
Hubo un bombardeo, subterráneos secretos, gente que conocía que iba a morir; lo sabía y no podía hacer nada. Las visiones eran tan intensas que no pude levantarme enseguida. Me arrastré hasta el sofá y volví a dormirme allí, intentando soñar con otra cosa. El café se estaba preparando. Y me quedé dormida otra vez después del desayuno.
Me gustaría poder decir que, después de empezar el día, las cosas mejoraron, pero no fue así. Deambulé de una calle a otra, desconfiada, contando los minutos hasta las 15h30 (empecé tarde, claro).
Fue entonces cuando apareció. Toqué un timbre (uno de los 416 que tuve que llamar hoy) y la única respuesta fue un alboroto, un golpe, un ruido sordo tras la puerta. Esperé. Nada. Esperé un rato más. «El gas…», intenté, sin mucha convicción.
Y una vocecita a través de la puerta dijo: «¡Espera! ¡¿Espera, eh?! La puerta está cerrada». Dije: «De acuerdo, me espero», con el mismo tono de la niña que daba las órdenes. «La puerta está cerrada», repitió. «Fue a buscar las llaves».
Un momento después, «él» finalmente abrió la puerta. Un hombre alto, de lenguaje monosilábico. Ella debía de tener siete u ocho años. La piel morena de los hijos del desierto, los ojos negros como el ébano. Me miró fijamente sin decir palabra, como si fuera lo más natural del mundo: que yo estuviera allí, frente a ella, y que ella estuviera allí, frente a mí, abriendo la puerta de su casa, desnuda como un pájaro.
Me dejó entrar y el padre nos siguió. Al final encontré el contador y le hice una foto. La abuela estaba en la cocina; con solo mirarla, se veía que no estaba en sus cabales. La casa estaba sucia y desordenada, se me pegaban los zapatos al suelo y era mejor no tocar las paredes.
Ella me dijo algo, en un idioma que parecía música, pero no la entendí, y casi me dio ganas de disculparme. El padre tradujo: «No, no, nada. Solo te está diciendo que tiene caramelos». Le respondí — a ella — que tenía suerte.
Quería hacerle mil preguntas. Como si dentro del cuerpo de esta niña salvaje se encontraran todas las respuestas del mundo, una sabiduría milenaria, esa profunda conexión que, en su esencia, une a todas las culturas.
Si hubiera dicho: «¿Qué es el tiempo?» o «¿Por qué estamos en la Tierra?», ella habría tenido la respuesta, estaba segura.
Pero, en cambio, la puerta se cerró. Ella desapareció, con su fiereza, su aire extraño y su furiosa libertad.
Bajé unos escalones para que no me vieran y empecé a anotar todas mis impresiones, los pequeños detalles que, en cuestión de segundos, me habían llamado la atención.
La llamé Nayla. Porque significa «la de los ojos grandes» en árabe y porque es el nombre que le habría puesto a la reina de un país libre del desierto si hubiera podido crear uno.
Luego, al salir del edificio, me di la vuelta y miré hacia arriba, hacia el piso donde vivía ella. Me invadió una extraña sensación. Miré la hora y luego volví a mirar hacia la ventana. ¿No deberían estar los niños en el colegio un miércoles a las once? —
A veces Dios no cambia tu situación porque ya está ocupado a cambiarte, a ti. —
La versión PDF aquí — Imprímelo, guárdalo, compártelo
♡
#11 - ‘Historias del gas’
This morning, as I started on the rooftops, I didn't have anything to write with, and it was really itching me. So I started ringing doorbells, and in barely an hour, I had already collected a nice haul (…)
or ‘Gas meter stories’
02/09/23 — Thoughts
I was the girl who, on her first day at middle school, wore purple ballet flats with orange socks and green polka dots. People were whispering as I walked by, but I was smiling, handing out candies. I had no awareness of how ridiculous it all looked. I was coming down from the mountain, you see.
God, how I’d love to return to that state of (un)awareness. But I have gone too far. I have built a corset over the years that has worked wonders. As I tightened it, my face turned purple and people applauded. Now, I am doing everything I can to find myself again.
It's painful, frustrating, terrifying, even. But no, it goes further than that. It's agony, actually. The birth of the authentic self through the death of the fabricated self. You better hang on. —
Sunrise over Barcelona, from the rooftops —
19/10/23 — Núria
I think there is something in the phrase ‘I need help’ that the universe is particularly sensitive to.
This morning, no one is opening. It's NO, and NO, and NO, and a boss who says I'd better not go home until I achieve [such] percentage.
Upon entering her home, though, the voracious monster that, night and day, devours me from the inside, suddenly calmed down. Everything is dark, but it is a warm darkness. In the kitchen, alone, a lit candle and a tiny image of Mary.
I exchange a few words with the lady, Núria, who is quite elderly. She tells me that she has difficulty walking. I tell her that I've had a bad day, so suddenly, two souls connect. She takes my hand and offers me a pear.
‘Wait a moment, I'll wrap it up in a bag for you.
— No, I said. Please... I'm hungry.’
In those two words, ‘I'm hungry’ and the pity my gaze must have inspired her, she read everything. She said nothing, rinsed it under water and handed it to me.
So here we are, another awful day, but soon everything will be better, and I'll only remember this gesture: a hand reaching out and one person talking to another as if she were human.
It's nice, for a change. —
“Careful with the dog (he too has feelings)” —
There are two types of gas meters: those located inside people's homes and those found on rooftops. When we have to knock on people's doors, the company, by law, is required to leave a notice — an A4 paper sheet stuck on the door of the building the week before. It is on this paper, collected throughout the day, that I write most of the time.
This morning, as I started on the rooftops, I didn't have anything to write with, and it was really itching me. So I started ringing doorbells, and in barely an hour, I had already collected a nice haul (of sheets, that is, not meters. At that hour, no one answers the door).
And I started thinking... One year. I didn't think I would last that long. A year ago, I hit rock bottom. I had €1.47 in my bank account and I was counting my coins to buy wrapping paper for my parents. I cried a lot, prayed little, and put more trust in bad relationships than in my own abilities in God to get me out of the pit. A year ago, I was afraid to take the underground, I was singing my first concerts. I was anxious about everything and sweating day and night over money. A year ago, I cut my own hair with Ikea scissors and used the weekly grocery budget to buy a jacket that was supposed to solve all my problems. A year ago, I was losing heart, I was losing myself.
Well now, it’s been a year I've been humming as I get off the bus and practising my solos in stairwells. Now, I find it hard to recognise the person I see walking onto the stage and standing in front of everyone, whispering, my heart bursting with gratitude: ‘Here I am.’
There was a miracle, and it started like this: with a community. So yes, we have to put up with each other, day after day. We have to learn not to judge mistakes, excuses, moods and bad days too harshly. Because without each other...
Finally, it occurred to me this morning, as I watched the sun paint the whole city gold, that I no longer have any reason to fear anything. I have reached a stage in my relationship with God that gives me the certainty (and the peace that goes with it) that everything is under control. He takes care of every little detail of my life, like a painter in love, and I have nothing to fear. Bosses will get angry, money will run out, friends will be stubborn, that's the way the world works and I can't blame it for that. But I no longer let these things hurt me. I write, I breathe. The sun rises, and from the rooftops, I’m smiling.
* * *
In that building, practically no one answered the door, a dog bit me in the lift, and some idiot slammed the door in my face. But when I left, I didn't care, I had a smile on my face. For my bosses, it was a failure. For me, it was a resounding success: everything I've written since earlier, I did on this very paper. —
Morning street sketch —
My collection of staircases
07/02/24 — Nayla
She fell to earth like a comet crashes into the desert.
I've been having strange dreams for two days now. Sordid dreams, to be honest. When I wake up, I can't shake the shivers that run through me when I think about them.
There was a bombing, secret underground tunnels, people I knew who were going to die; I knew it, and I couldn't say anything. The visions were so strong that I couldn't get up right away. I crawled to the sofa and went back to sleep, trying to dream about something else. The coffee was brewing. And I dozed off again after breakfast.
I wish I could say that after getting on with the day, things got better, but it wasn’t the case. I dragged myself from one street to another, suspicious, counting the minutes until 3:30 pm (I started late, obviously).
That's when she appeared.
I rang a doorbell (one of the 416 I had to ring today) and all I got in response was a racket, a bang, a muffled commotion behind the door. I waited. Nothing. Waited some more. ‘El gas...’ I tried, unconvinced.
Then a little voice through the door said, ‘Wait. Wait, eh?! The door is locked.’ I said, ‘Okay, I'll wait,’ in the same tone as the little girl who had given the orders. ‘The door is locked,’ she repeated. ‘He went to get the keys.’
A moment later, “he” finally opened the door. A tall man, speaking in monosyllables. She must have been seven or eight years old. The brown skin of desert children, eyes as black as ebony. She stared at me without saying a word, as if it were the most natural thing in the world — that I should be there, in front of her, and that she should be there, in front of me, opening the door of her home, naked as a jaybird.
She let me in, and the father followed us. I finally found the meter and took my photo. The grandmother was in the kitchen — you could see at a glance that she wasn't quite sane. The house was dirty and messy, my shoes were sticking to the floor, and it was best not to touch the walls.
She said something to me in her pretty, impetuous tone, something that rolled off her tongue. I didn't understand and it almost made me want to apologise. Her father translated: ‘No, nothing. She's just telling you she has candies.’ I replied — to her — that she was lucky.
I wanted to ask her a thousand questions. As if within the body of this wild child laid all the answers in the world, a thousand-year-old wisdom, this profound connection that, at its core, links all cultures together.
If I had said, ‘What is time?’ or ‘Why are we on earth?’, she would have had the answer, I was certain of it.
But instead, the door closed. She disappeared, along with her wildness, her strange little air and her furious freedom.
I went down a few steps so that no one could see me, then I began to scribble down all my impressions, the tiny details that had struck me in a matter of seconds.
I named her Nayla, because it means “she who has big eyes” in Arabic, and because it's the name I would have given to the queen of a free country of the desert if I could have created one.
Then, as I left the building, I turned around and looked up at the floor where she lived. A strange feeling came over me. I checked the time, then looked at the window again. Shouldn't children be at school on a Wednesday at eleven o'clock? —
The PDF version here — Print it, save it, share it.
♡
#10 - La chica del gas
Barcelona isn't what I imagined. Crowded, noisy, and relentless. No matter what, it never takes a break. Going out in the morning during rush hour feels like being swallowed by the beast. (…)
Recent revelations:
The divine never acts alone.
The entropy of the universe can only increase — second law of thermodynamics. (What is entropy? A measure of disorder.) Applied? After a whole day spent cleaning, all it takes is a pencil on a table for everything to be done again. In other words: disorder attracts disorder (the same applies to evil).
Find a job that doesn’t cost you too much.
Repair things as soon as they break.
Make your home a place where you enjoy living.
Buy a plant.
Choose a book.
“El gas… ! Lectura del gas!”
I always start my day on the rooftops. It helps me stay away from the ground, and since I always have trouble getting started — to be honest, I should say: as I still struggle to believe that this is what I do now, reading gas meters — I take my time to enjoy the view before diving into the hustle and bustle.
Barcelona isn't what I imagined. Crowded, noisy, and relentless. No matter what, it never takes a break. Going out in the morning during rush hour feels like being swallowed by the beast.
Jonas in the heart of the storm.
I thought I would find here what I didn't have the courage to look for within myself. In other words, I was devastated when, upon arriving in the Promised Land, I realised that being myself wouldn’t be enough to get me papers, a job and an insurance number.
“But… I’m a good person!” I can still see myself stammering in front of the police station. Without a doubt. Take a number.
After a year of unemployment, I was already lucky to be able to put on a uniform and shout “El gas!” ¹ all day long.
Suffice to say that we see of E-VE-RY-THING, every day. From all social classes to all kinds of possible reactions. Once the doorbell button is pressed, what happens follows a dichotomous order:
So there are those who open the door immediately and let me take a photo of their meter in the kitchen. Then they say, ‘Goodbye and have a nice day,’ and close the door. Those are very rare. I know how to appreciate them.
There are those who open immediately, but only to say NO. ‘You shall not pass.’ (Think of the hoarse voice of the wizard in The Lord of the Rings). Frank and to the point. I appreciate them just as much.
Then there are those whose footsteps I hear behind the door. They come closer, look through the peephole, then play dead, holding their breath until they see me turn around and leave.
Finally, there are those who open up only to give free rein to their frustration at being born into such an ungrateful and meaningless world. For those, I simply write a little note at the bottom of the screen for the colleague who will be coming back in two months: No picar. Do not knock on the door.
After two weeks, I must confess I contemplated the possibility of throwing everything out the window.
However, everything changed after the encounter.
9 o'clock in the morning. G. avenue, far away in a neighbourhood I don't know very well. It's grey and I'm cold. I couldn't wake up, so I have to run and start the day's list without even having time to drink my first coffee. The building is brand new, which is a bad sign — usually, no one lets you in. But she's the first to answer and she seems nice. The meter is on the balcony. I follow her. She's elderly and has trouble walking. As we pass through the hallway, I notice a magnificent portrait on the wall. A young woman in charcoal looks at me calmly. She's confident and smiling. Auramar², I whisper. It's written in the bottom right corner.
I take a picture of my meter and thank her. Looking up, I realise: it's her. Forty years later, but the look in her eyes is unmistakable. ‘It's you... The woman on the wall, isn't it?’ She nods. Walking back down the corridor, we both stare at it, somewhat dreamily. ‘It's a self-portrait,’ she finally admits. I'm speechless. ‘Did you do it?’ So, as she told me her story, we got a little sidetracked. I forgot about my meters for a moment, and she forgot to take her medication.
Because I told her that I also liked drawing, ‘but writing, above all... yes. Writing...’ she kindly showed me more drawings. Then texts. And poems. The table was covered with them. I had never met anyone who spoke so beautifully about the sea and solitude.
The coffee had cooled, and we had to say goodbye. ‘I have work to do,’ I said, inspired, and I wasn't really talking about reading the gas meter. She got the hint and, at the door, advised me to get to work without further delay. I nodded and thanked her. Poco a poco, I said. Little by little.
She grabbed my arm. Poco a poco, no. Trabajo duro. Like a prophet, she warned me: it will be a difficult path. Very few people succeed because very few people know what it means to make real sacrifices.
Then we said goodbye with a hug, like old friends. With tears in her eyes, she said, ‘Most of the time, we meet people... But today, I met a person. A beautiful person.’
After that, whenever I wondered what I was doing in this seemingly hostile city, wandering the streets and enduring this treatment, I clung to her words. ‘I'm doing my best,’ I kept repeating in my head. Then I realised it was time to make myself useful, so I started taking notes. When the old man on the eighth floor, started crying in my arms because I said, ‘Hmm, it smells good in here’ over the saucepan, and he said, ‘It was her favourite dish.’ Or when I complimented the paintings of the young man who lived under the eaves in Sants and said ‘Come on, you can’t give up now, your paintings are beautiful.’ He was so moved he gave me homemade cake, to help me finish the day. Every day, when I got home, I wrote down these anecdotes, which I unoriginally called ‘Las historias del gas’ (gas meter stories). Just for me, decorated with what I was collecting in the street. I felt a bit like Amélie Poulain sometimes.
So it's true, for now everything seems to have disappeared. My childhood dreams, my young adult ambitions, my desires for glory and fame. Useless burden of beauty... But on that day, the day we met, something came over me. Everything seems to have gone up in smoke, I thought... But don't cry, look, said the little voice inside me. Beneath my feet, a green shoot sprouted from the ashes. You are exactly where you need to be right now. Have faith. Stars are born from their own collapse. ³ —
¹: Reading gas meters is quite a skill. We get paid to walk around the city and go door to door reading gas meters. Four hundred doors a day, six hours of walking. But since everyone is suspicious (thieves are notorious in Barcelona), no one wants to open the door. So we ring all the doorbells of the floor at once and shout: ‘El gas! Lectura del gas!’ That increases our chances (we get paid by the meter).
²: Pssst... Auramar, the woman I met, is a real writer. She has published a book, illustrated with her own drawings. A beautiful tribute to her journey on this earth. — Available here (in Spanish only).
³: See Article #8, The Aftermath.
The PDF version here — Print it, save it, share it.
♡