Back in 1979 television in Colombia was still black and white. My
generation for quite a time was not able to see captain Kirk’s red uniform,
Lassie’s golden hair, or Dr. Kilder’s blue eyes. That year Fernando Gomez, a
visionary entrepreneur and music-lover lawyer, made possible colour television
here. To buy the equipment he sent his production team to the States, Patricio,
Julio, and me. We were twenty-six, twenty and twenty-three years old. It was
year 1979.
The multiple and varied skills of Patricio was already Fernando’s
right hand. I was a newly graduated in her first job, and Julio had just
returned after studying Television Arts abroad.
Julio
was an image of a curly lollipop. A thin, long stick that ended in a copious
afro-hair, dressed with Hawaiian shirts three times his size. At twenty, he
exhibited a rare mixture of premature maturity with an adolescence that refused
to leave him. It showed, especially, during trips. Front desk. A stern
efficient attendant, pen in hand, would ask: Surname? Julio would answer: Bond. She would ask: Can you spell it? A slow articulated b-o-n-d would come. She
would continue: Name? And a very serious Julio would answer James. At that point we had to choose
one of three scenarios: laughing before starting all over the hotel registration;
a smile announcing the mood was not for jokes; or a cold look showing us the
door. Lety, his lifetime partner, would call him to order and make him promise
not do it again. He agreed. Next hotel: Surname?
Bond, b-o-n-d and there we go
again searching for a place to stay.
When
Fernando sent us to buy the equipment that would actually read colour, the
immigration official in Miami saw that we were together and asked us to approach.
We lined up before the counter intimidated by a very stern official. The man
checked passports and looked at us while asking: What is the motive of your trip? Before any of us had time to open
our mouth, blink, or even breath Julio seven feet high, lost in his gigantic
Hawaiian shirt, the afro-hair shining, and a radiant smile, answered: To bring the colour.
The
officer’s face already showing Alcatraz bars drilled Julio’s eyes that
sustained both the look and the answer. Lety, his lifelong mate, told him off: Julio!
Stop doing this kind of things! We’ll
be kept here for hours!” I burst into laughing, and Patricio answered the
question. I have not seen him for quite a while but I know Julio learned
English. Although the truth be told… the answer was correct and it was English.
February 20/ 2011 - SYLVIA
DAVILA MORALES ®
1 comment:
I like it very much indeed. google
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