CLO

By: Sylvia Davila MM

Bogotá

www.pipolmagazine.com
Copyright

Copyright              

 

             It happened the first day of class. My mother had decided to move my three sisters and me, each of us to a different school. I was eight. The choice for me was a brand new school just opened by Helena Cano Nieto, a humanist, lectured, rich society woman who had opted to dedicate her life to teaching. She was authorized to open grades from kinder garden to third grade, mine. She opened it in her own house, a beautiful mansion surrounded by a huge garden where a centenary eucalyptus reigned.  That morning, as I followed a teacher through that fantastic house I felt disturbing loneliness. I had never gone to school without my sisters. I was alone. My guide gently pushed me inside the classroom, turned and faded into the corridor leaving me before a lady holding a chuck. She got a quick view of the classroom and ordered me: Sit over there!  

Over there was a place on the first raw that I was to share with a girl of powerful green eyes, tight pony tale and impeccable uniform. I sat silently over the cold solid wood of a single-chair double-surface desk. My side was empty. On the other side there were, perfectly aligned, a black pencil, a red pencil, an eraser, pens and a bag to keep them. The teacher’s voice faded as all senses focused on the new reality that was taking place before my eyes. A room lit by natural morning light shining through big windows where majestic eucalyptus stood. A green board dressed by the teacher’s silk blouse and long skirt.  Twenty four very well behaved girls. The end of the lesson  brought a new element to the scenery. In the previous school a shrilling ring announced the coffee brake. Here, a small golden bell attached to the doors crossbeam sang its tilin-tilan, a fanfare that called an entire new phase of life. 

I knew nobody or where the playing field was, so I remained seated. Then, with just three words, a friendship that would go the long run in life was launched. I am Claudia, said my desk neighbor. I am Sylvia, I replied. From then on our ways were parallel. School, trip to Europe, University together. During all those years, we witnessed all paths of life, studies, friends, boyfriends, families, plans of girls turning into adolescents and into women. She was Godmother to my marriage - brought and orchid - and to my first born.  It was a friendship of wordless understanding, there was respect, there was support, and we laughed a lot. She became my sister. When I began motherhood with all its strict routines, she had already collected thousands of miles around the world. From biology research in the jungle to Harvard, from one continent to another, sharing life just as well with film directors or Guayu aborigines, actors and technicians, artists or parachuters. Her camera always at hand, playing the central part on her best story, her own.

Nine years ago, on new year’s eve, she called to invite me over. We cooked pasta while she and her husband chronicled their recent trip to Egypt. At midnight, over the roof the stars above witnesses, we opened a bottle of Champaign. Then, we took three empty suitcases, big for traveling to be long, passports, some money and got into the car. Clo and her husband sat on the front seat. At the back, there was me and Cappuccino, the cat. Of course, we would not leave him. A tour around the corner turned into a mid-night promenade through the Embassies neighborhood. We would stop in each one to shout aloud its name so that the universe would take note of next year’s route. That was the last time we truly laughed. That wonderful night the good times of a friendship that will never repeat, ended. At dawn of the year cancer was found. She died that december, eight years ago. Few words describe my loss. I had a friend, a true friend. /SILVIA DAVILA MORALES ®