MINI-TALES/ MINI-CUENTOS

MINI - TALES / CHRISTMAS 2013

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Photos: My archive 

and Google Images

Dic 13, 2013

ABAJO EN ESPAÑOL

Christmas, a time for family gathering, celebrations
 and gifts.

Sometimes gifts cost nothing.

I seldom talk about myself but this is a piece of experience I feel like sharing, just to remember that life always delivers the unexpected, there, waiting around the corner. I do play maracas but I do not know why. The idea never crossed my mind, never looked for it or took a lesson. One night, many many years ago, I found myself holding a pair of them as a song boiling against the walls touched my salsa soul. Standing there alone in an empty room, I found out that music hits the ear, invades the body, rhythm sets home in the knees and hips, and if you happen to be holding a pair of maracas, the arms follow letting those tiny marbles imprisoned inside the instrument resonate rhythm in many different ways. I loved it. Since then, it has been my little secret. Every now and then, alone at home, I play salsa records and give myself a maraca´s concert till dawn. Only my family knew about it. It is, actually, one of my very own personal resources to conquer solitude. A few weeks ago my daughter got married. For that always-exiting event of tiding the knot, she and her now husband managed to create a wonderful moment for all of us. The scenario: a small, very old colonial town in Colombia - Barichara - six hours away by car. A place, neighbor to the clouds, intact, stone and tile, wooden doors, nature sharing homes and roads, a warm, sunny, beautiful place. All guests - a plenary of the family and friends from all walks of life - got there in hired vans. The party, actually, began on the road. The whole event came to be, more that a wedding, a three-days bubble in time, the old town transformed into a temporary home where everyone shared joy, love, laughter, music and dance. My daughter´s happiness happened to be contagious. Days to remember. 

After the ceremony, at dinner, I moved around all tables greeting guests. When I returned to the table I was sharing with my brothers and sisters, a little conspiracy had taken place: a pair of maracas rested on my plate. My family had sent a boy to buy them - at that hour, in that town - and he, miraculously, had found them. I thanked the gesture but put them aside not certain to let my little secret go public and, also, certain that the mother of the bride was to keep a discrete, graceful place. The night went on and the party heated up. A Salsa orchestra was delighting us and, as in any Latin American good party, dancing was the call of the night. An ancient, beautiful, stonewalls old house backyard, lit by all kind of colorful lights was reverberating with "fiesta". So was I. At a certain moment I turned around and there it came, the vaporous white dress my daughter was wearing approaching me, in her hands the maracas. She asked me to play. And there is when the unexpected gets delivered. What were the odds for me to be able to play maracas with a thirteen members highly recognized salsa orchestra? When? Ever? Pushed by my brother, sisters and children, my only funs, there I was on stage - the mother of the bride... On my left the winds, at the far right the key boards, closer de vocals, at my back all the drums, guests stopped dancing to listen - an audience - the lights, the heat, the music... I closed my eyes and God knows the unique joyful moment in time life gave me. A few marvelous moments beautifully sealed with a tight hug from my son whispering in my ear "I adore you mum". My family´s love made it happen. Christmas in a time to remember that, despite all circumstances we are in, as hard as they may be... life always have in store true, unexpected, gifts. /SDMM, Dic 13, 2013

REGALO DE VERDAD

Navidad, esa época de reuniones familiares, celebraciones, regalos.
 Aveces los regalos cuestan nada.

Casi nunca hablo de mi, pero esta es una experiencia que me gustaría compartir sólo para recordar que la vida siempre guarda regalos inesperados, ahí, a la vuelta de la esquina. Yo toco maracas pero no sé por qué. La idea nunca pasó por mi cabeza, nunca las busqué ni tomé lección alguna. Una noche, hace muchos muchos años, me encontré sosteniendo un par de ellas mientras que la canción que resonaba contra las paredes tocó mi alma salsómana. Parada ahí, en medio de un salón vacío, caí en la cuenta de que la música le pega al oído, invade el cuerpo, se instala en rodillas y caderas y si por casualidad se tiene un par de maracas en las manos, los brazos entran en acción permitiendo que las pequeñas piedras prisioneras dentro del instrumento resuenen en toda una diversidad de formas. Me encantó. Desde entonces, ese ha sido mi pequeño secreto. De vez en cuando, sola en mi casa, pongo discos de salsa y me doy a mi misma un concierto de maracas hasta la madrugada. Sólo mi familia sabía de ello. De hecho, es uno de mis muy personales recursos para vencer la soledad.  Hace pocas semanas mi hija contrajo matrimonio. Para ese momento siempre revestido de emoción, ella y su ahora esposo consiguieron crear un momento maravilloso para todos. El escenario: una antigua ciudad colonial en Colombia - Barichara - situada a seis horas de camino en automóvil. Un lugar vecino de las nubes, intacto, piedra y teja, puertas de madera, el verde compartiendo casas y calles, tibio, soleado y bello. Los invitados - plenaria familiar y amigos - llegaron hasta allí en buses alquilados. De hecho, la fiesta empezó en el camino. El evento terminó convertido, más que en una boda, en una burbuja de tres días, el pueblo hogar de paso en donde todos compartimos alegría, cariño, risas, música y baile. La felicidad de mi hija resultó ser contagiosa. Días para recordar. 

Después de la ceremonia, a la hora de la comida, recorrí las meses para saludar a los invitados. Cuando regresé a la mía que compartía con mis hermanos y hermanas, una pequeña conspiración esperaba sobre mi plato: un par de maracas. Mi familia había enviado a un muchacho a comprarlas - en ese pueblo y a esa hora - y él, milagrosamente, las había encontrado. Agradecí el gesto pero las puse a un lado insegura de hacer público mi pequeño secreto y segura de que la madre de la novia debía ocupar un lugar discreto y agraciado. La noche continuó y se calentó. Una orquesta de salsa nos deleitaba y, como en toda buena fiesta latinoamericana, bailar era la orden de la noche. En esas estaba cuando lo vi, el vaporoso vestido blanco que mi hija lucía se acercaba, en sus manos las maracas. Me pidió tocarlas. Y ahí es cuando lo inesperado sucede. Qué probabilidades tenía yo en la vida de tocar maracas con una famosa orquesta de salsa de trece miembros? Cuando? Empujada por mi hermano, hermanas e hijos - mis únicos hinchas - heme allí, la madre de la novia... en el escenario. A mi izquierda todos los vientos, a la derecha los teclados y los vocalistas, a mis espaldas todos los tambores. La gente  detuvo el baile para escuchar - audiencia -, las luces, el calor, la música...cerré los ojos y sólo Dios sabe el momento único y feliz que me dio la vida. Un momento maravilloso sellado por una abrazo apretado de mi hijo susurrándome al oído "te adoro ma". El amor de mi familia hizo ese momento posible. La navidad es una época para recordar que pese a las circunstancias de cada cual, tan duras como puedan ser..., la vida siempre nos tiene guardados regalos verdaderos e inesperados. /SDMM, Dic 13, 2013

JUST A CALL

By: Silvia Davila MM
www.pipolmagazine.com
Bogota/ COPYRIGHT
Nov 4, 2013
Illustration: Google Images


Ed, a middle age successful professional, has a hobby or should I say, perhaps, an obsession: he adores cars. Most of his budget and time end up in a garage specialized in his car´s model, and in the buying, replacing, fixing or cleaning the various parts that make his favorite toy. Every Saturday, he parks it there to personally supervise all the process. One day, he noticed a young man, a worker in the garage, looking at him insistently. He ignored him. An hour later, the young man approached to remind him that they had shared school though he was a couple of grades below. Ed did not remember him, so he greeted him politely and went on his task. A few minutes later, as Ed was checking something inside the car before the wheel, the young man climbed in, sat beside him, shut the door and said straight away: “I am a drug addict, an alcoholic, I have lost my family and my job. Can you help me?” Stunned and breathless, the young man´s eyes digging his, and locked inside the car, Ed searched in his mind for some words to ease impotence. In those unexpected rounds that the mind does when looking for something useful, he remembered that an office colleague had a brother who worked at Alcoholics Anonymous. Without a word, he dialed his mobile phone. He got the number, dialed again and gave the man at the other side of the line a brief recount of the situation. The man said: “I am in a meeting right now but tell him to wait. I´ll be there in an hour.” Ed passed the information and drove his car home.

Two years later, his secretary announced a call from the young man. Again, Ed hesitated certain that he would not find a way to help the situation, but despair present in that sustained look two years before had touched his soul. He took the call. In a short conversation, the young man asked him to accept a coffee later in the afternoon. Again, uneasy with a situation beyond his power Ed doubted but, also again, that close encounter with embodied misfortune life had put on his path pushed him to accept. He arrived at the place of the meeting that, in fact, was an AA auditorium. The young man greeted him and asked him to find a seat in a place filled with people. He did. While he was making himself comfortable on the chair, the young man took a microphone and said: “I would like to thank your presence here tonight that we are celebrating my two years of being clean. Here, there are my parents, brothers and sisters, my wife and children, and my boss. I have regained my entire life. And I want to say that I owe it to that man…” The finger pointing him, Ed found himself surrounded by a multitude giving him a standing ovation. Mixed emotions taking hold of him, he observed the scene: the exuberant happiness extol in all those faces, the parents, the children, his woman, the young man´s pride in the aftermath of a victorious battle, and again, his eyes sending a direct message this time of gratitude. Merit, he thought, should go, perhaps, to that man at the other side of the line who took the time and made the effort to drive half the city to pick him – literally - up. All Ed had done was to spare a thought and to take the time to make a call. Not just a call… the right call that had provided that man with the hand he needed. Ed is my brother, Eduardo, who told again this story in a family gathering a few days ago. I have heard it many times and every time he tells it a hidden deep satisfied smile glows in his eyes. / Silvia Davila MM, Nov 4, 2013

Noviembre 4, 2013

UNA SIMPLE LLAMADA

Por: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ Copyright

Illustration: Google Images

Eduardo, un profesional exitoso de mediana edad, tiene una afición o, quizás debería decir, una obsesión: adora los autos. Gran parte de su tiempo libre y de su presupuesto van a dar a un taller automotor especializado en la marca del auto de turno y a la compra, arreglo, reemplazo o limpieza de las múltiples partes que componen su juguete preferido. Todos los sábados lo estaciona en el taller y supervisa personalmente el proceso de arreglos varios, lavado y brillado. En esas estaba un sábado cualquiera cuando notó que un empleado del taller lo miraba insistentemente. Lo ignoró. Una hora después, el empleado, un hombre joven, delgado, de mirada triste, lo abordó para recordarle que habían sido compañeros de colegio aunque, seguramente, no lo recordaba porque había estado varios cursos abajo del suyo. De hecho, Eduardo no lo recordaba razón por la cual lo saludó amablemente y continuó con su tarea de supervisión de su auto. Unos minutos más tarde, mientras Eduardo, sentado frente al timón, revisaba algo en el tablero del auto, el joven empleado entró, se sentó a su lado, cerró la puerta, lo encaró y le dijo sin preámbulos: “Soy drogadicto, alcohólico, perdí mi familia, y mi trabajo. Me ayuda?” Congelado, Eduardo no salía de su sorpresa. La respiración contenida, la mirada del joven empleado del taller clavada en la suya y encerrados en el auto, buscó en su mente un grupo de palabras que dieran alivio a la impotencia. El muchacho continuaba mirándolo sin pestañear. En esos recorridos que hace la mente en busca de algo útil, Eduardo recordó que el hermano de un colega de su oficina trabajaba en Alcohólicos Anónimos. Sin decir palabra marcó su celular. Su compañero de oficina le dio el número, marcó de nuevo y dio al hombre al otro lado de la línea un breve resumen de la situación. El hombre contestó:  “Estoy en una reunión que me toma más o menos una hora. Dígale que me espere. En una hora estoy allá”. Eduardo pasó la información, ambos descendieron del automóvil, pagó al taller el servicio del día y salió para su casa.

Dos años más tarde, la secretaria de su oficina anunció una llamada del joven del taller. Incómodo, Eduardo dudó en tomarla seguro de que no tendría forma de ayudarlo. Pero la desesperación en esa mirada sostenida durante ese encuentro dos años atrás le habían tocado el alma. Tomó la llamada. En una corta conversación el joven le pidió aceptar tomarse un café en la tarde. De nuevo, inseguro con una situación que se salía de sus manos, dudó, pero también de nuevo, ese encuentro cercano con la desgracia personificada que la vida le había puesto en el camino lo indujo a aceptar. Llegó a la dirección de la cita que, de hecho, era un auditorio de Alcohólicos Anónimos. El joven lo recibió y le pidió buscar una silla en un lugar lleno de gente. Lo hizo. No había acabado de sentarse cuando el joven tomó el micrófono y dijo: “Quiero agradecer a todos ustedes su presencia aquí esta noche en la que estamos celebrando mis dos años de estar limpio. Aquí están mis padres, mi esposa, mis hijos, mis hermanos y mi jefe. Recobré toda mi vida. Y quiero decirles que se lo debo a ese hombre…” El dedo apuntando su cabeza, Eduardo se encontró sentado en medio de una multitud que de pie lo ovacionaba. Invadido por una mezcla de emociones, Eduardo observó la escena: la exuberancia de una felicidad exaltada en los rostros de los padres, de los hijos, de la esposa. El orgullo del joven tras una batalla victoriosa y, de nuevo, la mirada clavada en sus ojos enviando, esta vez, un mensaje de agradecimiento. El mérito, pensó, es quizás de ese hombre al otro lado de la línea quien se tomó el tiempo y el esfuerzo de ir a - literalmente- recogerlo. Todo lo que él había hecho era gastarse un pensamiento y tomarse el tiempo de hacer una llamada. Una simple llamada… la llamada correcta para dar a un desconocido la mano que necesitaba. Eduardo es mi hermano quien hace poco volvió a contar esta historia en una reunión de familia. La he oído varias veces y cada vez que la cuenta una sonrisa profunda y satisfecha brilla en su mirada. / Silvia Davila MM. Nov 4, 2013

******

26 SEPTIEMBRE 2011

... AND SO PIPOL SAW THE LIGHT

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ Copyright

Sept 26, 2011

My blog adventure began with a void, february the second, three years ago. When my children left our home to study abroad, I found myself facing something I had not experienced in twenty years: I did not know where they were. The girl in Los Angeles and the boy in Washington DC, yes, but that mother's constant need and habit to know where they are, to see them coming in and out the front door, their calls, their reporting themselves daily, suddenly, was permanently unsatisfied. No one to complaint to about it, they were accomplishing what we, mothers, intended for them: to be able to live in this world without us. That's a mother job. But then, one day, I heard that all youth was going crazy with a brand new internet toy, Facebook. They gathered there, they said, to talk to each other live! Yes, I had found a way to know my children's whereabouts. Very discretely, I opened a page, filled all the required data and waited anxiously to see a whole new world appear before my eyes, just to find that to talk to someone there, obviously, friends were needed. I had none. So I asked my children to be my friends. Fortunately, they agreed and, perhaps out of pity with my blank page, they sent me all their friends links. My page, like spring, flourished with the names of the boys and girls I had seen grow up from kinder garden to graduation day, all my children.

Aware of the fact that, at the time, Facebook was a sacred place for the youth, I would just sing in every now and then to read a line written or see a photo shared by my kids to know that they were alright living abroad. Some time later, as I was moving out from my old apartment where all of them had grew up, the old arm-chair that lived in the studio happened to be too big to fit in my recently acquired new flat. It was a piece of furniture that carried the traces of their parties, their study sessions, their chats, their heartbreaks, their meals, and their various TV and web games. Even their laughter remained trapped inside the old fabric. Out of the blues I wrote a line in my page: does anybody want my old studio arm-chair? and there I understood Facebook. In a few seconds a rain of answers fell, all of them wanted it. The arguments and reasons each one of them gave to claim the rightful ownership of the chair made my day. With my laptop screen full of posts, I realized that all those beloved faces that I thought life was already spreading away, were there all the time. I had an audience: the children.

But as it happens, my passion for writing is never "short". It seems that I always need more that a paragraph. My pen longs for space. My daughter suggested I should open a blog and post the link in my Facebook page. Look in Google for Blogger, follow the instructions and you're done, she said. Scared, as always, with my technology-abilities handicap, I tried and, in a few minutes my blog was born. The name also came in seconds, a word-game that would make them smile: pipol which read aloud in Spanish sounds people, and a magazine so that I would not have to constrain my thoughts to any specific field but play with anything that came into my mind. I also found in my archives the photo that crowns it: the figure-shadows of my children reflected on a white stone in Greece. As they had been the original motive of the adventure, they look happy, healthy, beautiful and strong, they are eternalized in the stone as they are in my heart, and the background suggested an ancient civilization that would enlighten them to lead a brilliant life, I thought it would fit well in my recently born blog. It would also be a place for everybody's eyes only.

The children, the audience, I began writing about issues that interested them: superheroes films, the soccer world cup, stories that would make them laugh. But after a while I realized that, surely, no one was reading a line, too much instant traffic to stop for a while in my prose. So, I found myself facing only Sylvia in a paradise, a wide field where my pen could ease its longings. Anything and everything would do: observations from my cave, brain-storms, Earth seen from above, profiles of beloved souls already gone, stories, invisible universal links, people I believe in and causes I care for, a paradise where words and thoughts would play. Now, three years later, after one hundred and thirty five posts, nineteen brave followers, a branch of people in other parts of the world reading it, and me watching my late fifties reach the corner of a new decade, wrinkles witness of every taken step, the children gone, an elusive home, alive and alone, stubborn and straight, hopeful and strong, a writer-born cruising across second millenium on turning blue Earth, I realized that my pipolmagazine has been and is a place where whatever it is I am opens its wings, a self wonder flight. May I put myself to any other tasks, still my little paradise is my soul refuge. That is why I use these lines today to say happy birth day pipol, all people, all peoples. Pipolmagazine./SDMM, Sept 26, 2011

...Y ASI PIPOL VIO LA LUZ

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Sept, 26, 2011

La aventura de mi blog empezó con un vacío, el dos de febrero, hace tres años. Cuando mis hijos partieron a estudiar al exterior me enfrenté a una situación que no había vivido en veinte años: no saber en donde andaban. Si, la una en los Ángeles y el otro en Washington DC, pero esa necesidad, ese hábito de las mamás de saber en donde están los niños, verlos entrar y salir por la puerta, las llamadas, las reportadas diarias, de un momento para otro, quedaron permanentemente insatisfechos. Nadie a quien quejarse porque los niños estaban haciendo lo que toda mamá intenta que hagan: ser capaces de vivir sus vidas sin nosotras. Es el trabajo de las madres.

Estaba dispuesta a resignarme hasta que un día oí que los jóvenes estaban enloqueciendo con un nuevo juguete de Internet, Facebook. Se reúnen ahí, decían, todo el tiempo para conversar en vivo! Muy bien, había encontrado una forma de saber de mis hijos diariamente. Con mucha discreción abrí una pagina, llené todos los campos requeridos en el formulario y espere ansiosa ver todo un nuevo mundo aparecer frente a mis ojos, sólo para constatar que para hablar con alguien en Facebook se necesitan, obviamente, amigos. No tenia ninguno. Le pedí entonces a mis hijos ser mis amigos. Afortunadamente aceptaron y quizás por pena con mi pagina en blanco me enviaron los links de todos sus amigos. Mi página, como en primavera, floreció con los nombres de los niños y las niñas que había visto crecer desde kínder hasta la ceremonia de graduación.

Consiente de que en ese momento Facebook era un lugar sagrado para los jóvenes, me limitaba a entrar de vez en cuando a mi página para leer una línea escrita o ver una foto compartida por mis hijos y constatar que estaban bien. Un tiempo después, sin embargo, cuando me disponía a trastearme de mi viejo apartamento en el que todos crecieron, la vieja reclinomática que vivía en el estudio resultaba demasiado grande para mi recién adquirido nuevo loft. Se trataba de un mueble que llevaba las huellas de sus fiestas, sus sesiones de estudio, sus conversaciones, sus despechos, sus comidas y sus innumerables juegos de TV y de Internet. Hasta su risa permanecía atrapada dentro de la vieja tela. Sin pensarlo mucho escribí una línea en mi página: alguien quiere la reclinomática? y en ese momento entendí Facebook. En un instante cayó una lluvia de respuestas, todos la querían, y los argumentos y razones que cada uno daba para reclamar sus derechos sobre la silla, hicieron mi día. Con mi pantalla del computador llena de respuestas, caí en la cuenta de que todas esos rostros queridos que yo pensaba la vida estaba ya llevándose lejos, por el contrario, estaban todo el tiempo ahí. Tenia una audiencia: los niños.

Pero tal y como sucede, mi pasión por la escritura nunca ha sido "corta", siempre necesita algo más que un párrafo. Mi lápiz añora un buen espacio. Mi hija me sugirió abrir un blog y publicar su link en mi página de Facebook. Buscas Blogger en Google, dijo, sigues las instrucciones y ya está. Asustada como siempre con mis pocas habilidades tecnológicas, lo intenté y en cosa de minutos nació mi blog. El nombre también nació en cosa de segundos, un juego de palabras que los haría sonreír: pipol que leído en voz alta en Español suena people como en ingles, y una revista (magazine) que me permitiría no tener que limitarme a un campo específico sino jugar con cualquier cosa que viniera a mi cabeza. Encontré también en mis archivos la foto que lo preside: las figuras en sombra de mis hijos reflejadas sobra una roca blanca en Grecia. Puesto que ellos habían sido el motivo original de la aventura, se ven en ella felices, sanos, bellos y fuertes, están eternizados sobre la piedra como en mi corazón, y el fondo de la foto sugiere una antigua civilización que los ilumina para llevar una vida brillante, pensé que estaría muy bien para mi recién nacido blog. Sería también un lugar confidencial para todos.

Con los niños como audiencia, empecé por escribir sobre temas que les interesan: los superhéroes de las películas, la copa mundial de futbol, historias que lo hicieran reír. Pero no pasó mucho tiempo antes de darme cuenta que, seguramente, ninguno leía ni una línea, demasiado trafico instantáneo como para detenerse en mi prosa. De manera que me encontré sola con Sylvia en un paraíso, un campo amplio en donde mi lápiz podía expandirse a sus anchas. Podía escribir sobre cualquier cosa y sobre todo: observaciones desde mi cueva, auto-deliberaciones, soliloquios, la Tierra vista desde arriba, perfiles de seres queridos y perdidos, historias, conexiones universales invisibles, personas en las que creo y causas que me importan, un paraíso en donde pensamientos y palabras juegan.

Hoy, tres años después, tras ciento treinta y cinco entradas de mi blog, diecinueve valientes seguidores, un manojo de personas en otras partes del mundo que lo leen, y yo viendo las postrimerías de mis cincuentas acercarse a la esquina de una nueva década, arrugas testigos de cada paso dado, los niños lejos, un hogar esquivo, viva y sola, terca y derecha, esperanzada y fuerte, nacida escritora navegando este segundo milenio en la azul esfera, me doy cuenta que pipolmagazine ha sido un lugar en el que sea lo que sea que soy abre sus alas, un viaje interior maravilloso. Aun cuando me aplico a otras tareas, mi pequeño paraíso es un refugio para mi alma. Es por eso que hoy utilizo estas líneas para decirle de mi a mi misma, feliz cumpleaños pipol, todos los pipols de este mundo. Pipolmagazine. /Sylvia Dávila Morales, Copyright, Sept 26, 2011

ALL FOR ONE

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

Just before he died at ninety-four he told the story to a group of astonished relatives. It happened in a small Latin American town at the beginning of the XX Century where colonialism, long time gone, still lived in their stern habits, closed social life, and dark morals. Seven orphans, five male, two females, lived in their parent’s house and made a life. Marriages took place in chronological order. The oldest of the seven children went first, then the second, the third, until all boys had a ring on the hand’s heart finger.  Not the girls. They had already reached twenty-five and twenty-seven years of age with no perspective of marriage in their horizon.

In a town where females’ aim was set to marriage at sixteen along with a numerous family at twenty-five, the two sisters were becoming a shame and a pain for the family. The brothers in anguish looked for single men in town. There were two. A squalid young boy earning his life from chicken-care, and a grumpy old man devoted to bars. They tried nearby towns. But finding a husband for women “past of age”, proved to be more difficult than watching them at home, alone, sewing pieces of clothes wet by their silent tears. Over twenty-five, nobody noticed them.

Facing the fact that they would have to carry with and provide for two sisters - early dressed in black for a husband that before dying did not show up - the brothers began to nourish a drastic solution. As the obstacle for placing her sisters in another town was age, it had to be changed. A family gathering was called – brothers and in-laws-. In a secret murmuring reunion the oldest disclosed his simple conclusive one-line plan: We are taking some years off, all of us.

Brothers and sister are an accurate reference to calculate anybody’s age. To change the girl’s age succefully it had to be done within the group. They took off seven years. The fraternal pact accomplished, silence votes taken and memory alert required, the brothers launched a new campaign in the surroundings, this time offering two marriageable sisters just rejuvenated, eighteen and twenty years of age. Their effort did not take long. A few days later, they came back to collect the women, a couple of husbands-to-be had been found.

Far from their hometown, holding seven years under their white bridal, the sisters took votes for good or bad and began a numerous family. All brothers went to the marriage and kept right their newly acquired birthday dates. They kept the secret, Spartan rigor, for more than sixty years. Only they knew about it. Brothers, sisters and in-laws that enjoyed a youth won from solidarity and a premature death, according to others. They died one by one. Under their gravestone the seven lost years. The last one, the youngest at ninety-four, just before he died a few days ago, told the story to a group of astonished relatives.

SILVIA DAVILA MORALES®

TODOS PARA UNO

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Poco antes de morir a los noventa y cuatro años, contó la historia a un grupo de familiares asombrados. Sucedió en un pueblo de América Latina a comienzos del siglo XX en donde el colonialismo, largo tiempo ido, vivía aun en las costumbres austeras, la vida social cerrada y moral oscura. Siete hermanos huérfanos, dos mujeres y cinco hombres, vivían en la antigua casa de los padres. Los matrimonios sucedieron en orden cronológico. Inauguró la era de las bodas el hermano mayor, luego el segundo, siguió el tercero hasta que todos los muchachos portaron una argolla en el dedo del corazón de la mano. Ellas no. Ellas habían cumplido veinticinco y veintisiete años sin que el altar se vislumbrara en su horizonte.

En un pueblo en el que el objetivo de las mujeres era una boda a los dieciséis y nutrida prole a los veinticinco, las hermanas se convertían en motivo de vergüenza y dolor para la familia. Los hermanos angustiados buscaron a los solteros del pueblo. Había dos. Un joven desgarbado dedicado a la crianza de gallinas, y un viejo malencarado asiduo de las tabernas. Intentaron también los pueblos aledaños pero encontrar esposo para hermanas pasadas de años resultó más difícil que verlas en casa, solas, dedicadas a labores manuales que humedecían con lágrimas silenciosas. Pasados los veinticinco nadie volteaba a mirarlas.

Avocados a tener y sostener dos hermanas solteronas - enlutadas temprano por un marido que antes de morir no había llegado - los hermanos concibieron una idea drástica. Si ofrecerlas en los pueblos cercanos enfrentaba el obstáculo de los años había que modificarlos. La familia reunida, hermanos y consortes, en un conclave secreto, sigiloso y murmurado, el hermano mayor describió para todos su plan sencillo, contundente y de una línea: “Vamos a quitarnos todos los años”.

Referencia infalible para calcular la edad de una persona reside son los hermanos. De manera que reducirle la edad a las hermanas sólo podía lograrse en grupo. Se quitaron todos siete años.

Cumplido el pacto fraternal con voto de silencio y requerimiento de memoria, los cinco hermanos recorrieron los pueblos cercanos para ofrecer dos hermanas casaderas, recién rejuvenecidas, de dieciocho y veinte años. El recorrido no fue largo. A los pocos días regresaron a buscarlas, habían encontrado prospectos de cuñados. En un pueblo lejano sin amigos o parentela, las dos hermanas bajo sus velos blancos, los siete años perdidos apretados fuerte con el rosario, tomaron votos para toda la vida y crearon familias numerosas. Todos los hermanos asistieron a la boda con la fecha exacta de la nueva edad adquirida. Sostuvieron el secreto con rigor espartano durante más de sesenta años. Sólo ellos lo sabían. Hermanos y consortes contaron con la fortuna de una juventud en solidaridad ganada y una muerte, para muchos, temprana. Fueron muriendo uno a uno. Debajo de sus lápidas los siete años desaparecidos. Cuando sólo quedó el último, el menor a los noventa y cuatro años, junto antes de morir hace pocos días, contó la historia a un grupo de familiares asombrados. /SILVIA DAVILA MORALES®

23 MAYO 2011

ALMOST OUT

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

May 23, 2011

These days, Colombia is commemorating the Constitution written in 1991, which was born from a union of political forces called The Constituent. By the time, I worked with Semana magazine writing its People section. Any given day, the director suggested me to write a profile on one of the constituents. I prepared myself to do my job not knowing how far any given day could take me.

I arrived to the Conventions Centre, went through multiple security measures, and interviewed a Constituent. Before leaving he asked ‘would you like to be in a session? I said yes. He said: Follow me and rushed through the corridors. We entered into the Hall. On one side, the table for the collegiate presidency, facing it multiple seats for the constituents. A wooden fence encircled the place. Behind it, platforms staffed with journalists.

Walking fast behind him I took a look at the place. The famous oil on canvas of the historic Angostura Congress came to my mind. ‘It must have been something like this’, I thought. At that point, my guide went on his way towards his seat. Standing there in the middle of the Hall, I looked for a place to sit myself quick without disturbing the session. Just there, beside me, there was an empty seat from where I had a panoramic of the Hall and a good view of the Presidency table. I sat down to take some notes. In a certain moment, I looked up and there I saw - at the other side, behind the wooden fence, on the journalists’ platform - Maria Paulina, a colleague from the magazine who was in charge of the coverage, her eyes popping out her head, her arms parking an airplane, her mouth making a perfect “O” that silently but certainly cried “No!!!” I understood the alarm but did not quite get the reason.

Suddenly, I sensed that, in fact, the place I had chosen was a little bit too lit up. I turned my head and the whole Hall stared at me, hundreds of curious and skeptical faces. At that precise moment, a very well behaved lady approached and murmured in my ear: “Excuse me. You are seated in the Secretary of the Interior’s seat.”

Before I closed my notebook, stood up, and left the place with the dignity the occasion required and without bursting into laughing, I said to myself: “Hm! Had I found a different seat, I would have been left out the canvas.”SYLVIA DAVILA MORALES®

CASI PROCER

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

May 23, 2011

Por estos días se conmemoran los veinte años de la Constitución del 91 que nació en el seno de lo que se conoció como La Constituyente, una reunión de fuerzas políticas encargada de redactarla. En ese entonces, yo trabajaba en la revista Semana escribiendo su sección Gente. Un día cualquiera, el director me sugirió hacer un perfil de un Constituyente. Me dispuse a cumplir con mi labor sin saber hasta dónde nos puede llevar un día cualquiera.

Llegué al Centro de Convenciones, pasé múltiples medidas de seguridad, escogí al personaje e hice la entrevista. Cuando terminé el entrevistado preguntó: quiere estar en una sesión? Respondí Si. Dijo sígueme y salió caminando raudo. Entramos al recinto. En un extremo la mesa de la presidencia colegiada, y del otro múltiples curules para los constituyentes. Una baranda de madera enmarcaba el recinto, tras ella tarimas atiborradas de periodistas.

Me vino a la memoria el famoso óleo del Congreso de Angostura. ‘Debió ser algo así’, pensé. El entrevistado continuó su camino y se sentó en su curul. Parada en medio de la sesión, busqué rápidamente un lugar en donde sentarme. A pocos pasos había una silla vacía desde donde tenía panorámica de la sala y visión directa a la mesa de la Presidencia. Me senté a tomar algunas notas.

En un momento dado, levanto la mirada y veo allá - al otro lado, detrás de la baranda de madera, en la tarima de los periodistas - a María Paulina, colega de la revista encargada de cubrir el evento, los ojos desorbitados, los brazos dirigiendo la parqueada de un avión, la boca convertida en una “O” perfecta que me gritaba un silencioso pero definitivo “No!!!”. Entendí la alarma pero no muy bien el motivo.

De pronto tuve la rara sensación de que el lugar en el que me encontraba, de hecho, estaba un poco demasiado iluminado. Voltee a mirar y la totalidad del recinto me miraba, cientos de rostros entre curiosos e incrédulos. En ese momento, se acercó una señorita muy comportada y me dijo al oído: “ Disculpe, está sentada en el puesto del Ministro de Gobierno.” Antes de cerrar mi libreta, levantarme y salir con la dignidad que ameritaba el momento y sin soltar la carcajada, pensé:  “Hm! Llego a encontrar una silla distinta y me quedo por fuera del óleo”./SYLVIA DAVILA MORALES®

20 FEBRERO 2011

TRUE MOTIVE

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

Feb. 20, 2011

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. 

Thanks to his multiple and varied skills, 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 smile 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./SYLVIA DAVILA MORALES ®

QUE SEA UN MOTIVO

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

Feb. 20, 2011

En 1979 la televisión en Colombia todavía era en blanco y negro. Durante un tiempo mi generación no pudo ver el uniforme rojo del capitán Kirk, el dorado pelaje de Lassie o los ojos azules del Dr. Kilder. Ese año, Fernando Gómez Agudelo, un visionario amante de la música, inició el proceso de traer la televisión a color para el país y para su productora. Para comprar las reproductoras que leían color, envío a los Estados Unidos a quienes conformaban entonces su equipo de producción: Patricio, Julio y yo. Teníamos veintisiete, veinte y veintitrés años. Corría 1979. Patricio ya era la mano derecha de Fernando, yo era una recién egresada en su primer empleo y Julio acababa de llegar de estudiar televisión en el exterior.

Julio era la visión humana de una colombina chuta. Una vara alta y delgada que terminaba en un copioso afro, vestido con camisas hawaianas tres tallas grande. A sus veinte años Julio exhibía una rara mezcla de madurez precoz en perfecta convivencia con una adolescencia que se negaba a abandonarlo. Mezcla que se reflejaba especialmente en los viajes. Recepción hotel. La eficiente recepcionista, formulario y esfero en mano, pegunta: Apellido? A lo que Julio responde Bond.  Ella pide: Puede deletrearlo? Un muy bien articulado b-o-n-d llegaba. Ella llena la casilla y continua. Nombre? Y un serio Julio contesta James. En ese punto debíamos escoger uno de tres escenarios: risas antes de volver a iniciar el registro; sonrisa aburrida anunciando que el ánimo no está para chistes; o gélida mirada  mostrándonos la puerta. Lety, su siempre compañera, lo llamaba al orden y le hacía prometer que no volvería a hacerlo, cosa que él prometía. Siguiente hotel. Apellido... Bond, b-o-n-d. Y otra vez a buscar en donde quedarnos.

Cuando Fernando nos envío a comprar las reproductoras que traerían la televisión a color a la empresa, el funcionario de inmigración en Miami vio que estábamos en grupo y nos hizo pasar juntos. Nos acomodamos ordenados frente a un poco intimidados por la seriedad del funcionario. El hombre revisó los pasaportes y preguntó a la vez que nos miraba: Cual es el motivo de su viaje? Antes que alguno alcanzara a abrir la boca, pestañar o respirar, Julio uno noventa, en su camisa hawaiana gigante, el afro desordenado y una sonrisa radiante dijo: To bring the color”.

La mirada del funcionario que ya dejaba ver los barrotes de Alcatraz se le clavó al sonriente Julio que sostenía ambas, la mirada y la respuesta; Lety lo regañó: Julio! Deja de hacer esas cosas que nos van a tener aquí tres horas!, yo solté una carcajada y Patricio contestó la pregunta. Hace días que no lo veo pero sé que Julio aprendió ingles. Aunque la verdad sea dicha… la respuesta era correcta y estaba en inglés./ SILVIA DAVILA MORALES ®

15 FEBRERO 2011

THE HUGGING BANQUITO

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

Feb. 15, 2011

Hugging a child is a wonder. It used to be my favorite sport when racing my children. But they grew up. My dignify 5.3 feet that for some years allowed me to hold each one in each arm, decreased in a direct proportion to their birthdays. When they were babies I would hold them in my arms. At three years old, I would bend to lift them. At seven, I would just lean a bit. At eleven, we would look straight into each other eyes before hugging. At fifteen…I had to turn my neck slightly upwards. At seventeen, I found myself lost in their bellies when I held them in my arms.

In fact, the decision I made was not led by a hurt ego reduced in centimeters, or by the thread to my authority applied from the floor upwards. I simply wanted the hug to be truly tight. So I got myself to find a stool to compensate the difference. I found it, a small, white, simple wooden stool. My daughter painted it and wrote on its front legs the name I gave it: The hugging Banquito (stool). It has been with us for more than a decade and its worn out surface shows hugs given-received. My Hugging Banquito will always carry the love I gave to and received from my kids. Great treasure. Silvia Davila Morales ©

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

For him, my brother Alfredo, almost everything became a challenge that he would face to its last consequences. That was the essence of his character. The smallest curiosity grew in his mind an enterprise of unthinkable dimension. 

Any given day, he decided to fix an ancient piano that his wife had inherited from her mother, Mamía. Where the piano had come from had always touched his curiosity. Determined to fix it, he checked all technicians in town, visited them, inquired about the quality of their work and, finally, chose one. 

A patient middle age man carrying a briefcase swiss clockmaker like, showed up and opened the mysteries of the piano. Alfredo followed the operation wanting to know asking everything about the inner life of the instrument. He also found a thick layer of dust and got himself to clean it. He was doing it when he saw it... a metal inscription attached to a lateral panel. He run to his desk, got paper and pencil, came down, got three quarter of himself inside the belly of the piano and copy it.  There were only three lines: a name, a number, and a date. That was all he needed. Now, nobody could stop him. 

The lines were written in a language he did not know. It looked like Russian, though. As he knew nobody from that part of the world he emailed his japanese clients, who enjoyed the flowers he sold to them just as much as  every personal enterprise he engaged on. Time passed and he got his answer. The manufacturer, its numerical reference, and a date, 1890. A thorough search in the web until he found the manufacturer. In fact, it happened to be an ancient piano firm that went back to the Czarism. He emailed them and waited.  

I wonder if he was always lucky enough to find some obsessive like him, or if his dissuasion skills were good because, against all odds, somebody at the Russian steppes had to go back in reverse over Perestroika, stalinism, bolshevik revolution, and czarism to find the archives that revealed that the piano had been sent to a distribution firm in Paris in 1892. 

Again, many hours at his laptop until he found the french firm and, of course, emailed them. Again, somebody took the time to check archives back to the French Revolution and emailed him back informing that the piano had been sent to Seville, Spain, to a distribution firm that made business with the Americas. Alfredo was transformed in a living alleluia. His smile shined all around him. When I asked him if he had already emailed them, he gave me that kind of look who do you think you’re talking to?. Almost six months had gone by since he found the piece of data that the silent piano hid.

This time his research would slow down. He sent not just one but four e-mails but no answer came back. Unable to give up, he would send everyday a mail and wait. He sent so many that somebody enervated went through the Archivo de las Indias and found it. The piano had been sent to Peru in 1900. The piano was already in the continent.

But archives in this part of the world are not as precise, his search bounced against a wall. When he was preparing a journey to Lima to follow the piano steps, his wife who has been silently observing him for months, stopped him.  Her grandfather had been Ambassador to Peru, he must have bought it there.Twenty mails, nine months and tons of patience had done it. He had tracked the piano from the hands of the maker to his living room. 

His research accomplished you could see him, every now and then, sitting in his living room looking at the piano with that sort of Monalisa smile. When somebody asked him where that beautiful piano had come from, he would answer: From Mamia’s. /SILVIA DAVILA MORALES®

ELVIS

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

The years I worked in Washington DC, I lived in the very green neighborhood of Maryland. Away from family and friends, I thought I should buy my eight and eleven years old kids a pet. I love them too. A thorough review of the newspapers - Internet was at its dawn - took me to a blue point cat breeder.  Abundant, lank, long, very white hair surrounding big blue eyes. Two months old, he was spectacular. I named him Elvis. And I took him home ignoring that I was just about to begin a quite unexpected adventure.

The first encounter with the destiny we would have to face happened at the vet where a sensible and keen doctor lifts him, checks him up and simply tells me  Well, as it happens, Elvis is a she. The lady that sold him had assured me that it was a male, I had already baptized him and he already answered to his name.  As it seemed unnecessary to explain  to a cat the lack of consistency between sex and name, she kept his name. Precisely at the moment that the children fell in love with him rains came. An unattended open door let him out. He disappeared. We looked for him two entire days. On the third day the door bell rings. 

It is my British neighbor who says:  I believe your cat is in my backyard, but I would suggest you don’t bring the children. In fact, Elvis had been attacked by one, may be many, raccoons and he was not just dead but horribly dead.  I said nothing and talked the children into going back to school while Elvis returned. After taking them to school I prepared myself to rush and find a new Elvis to greet them when they came back home. On my way out, I realized that the dead cat was still in a a bag in the garage and, of course, I could not leave him there. 

At first, I thought I had found a solution with the very efficient animal shelter office but they would collect him only if sick, when dead I had to burry him. My neighbor lent me a shovel.  An encounter with the unknown. I was about to begin digging a four feet deep hole in my back yard, soon enough to have time to go and buy a new cat, with a tool I had never used before. Two hours later, my kidneys and me had done it. Next, I found a new blue point on the phone,  picked him up and there he was sitting calmly, his almond eyes fixed in the children when they arrived.

One year later my kids went to live for a while with their father. Elvis and I stayed. Good company. Calm, independent, affectionate, beautiful, self-sufficient, he understood my work routines and easily adapted. Elvis, the king. I had already explained to him that he would be an indoors cat. Having children at home I would have to see closely to his hygiene, so he would have to limit his wandering to the garden and only when going out with me. Elvis registered the fence and accepted his boundaries. An afternoon near sunset, as I closed the day I noticed he wasn’t around. He did not answer either. Again, my patient neighbor lent me a flashlight that lit the way as I entered the dark back yard. Another encounter with the unknown: There I was, standing at night in the middle of the woods, holding a flashlight, shouting “Elvis, Elvis, where are you?”. I think about it now but at that moment I did not pray that nobody see me. 

Suddenly, from far far away an almost inaudible Meeiauu reached my ear. I used rigorous geometry to the search in every corner of the garden but I could not get close to the sound. He called from very far. In complete silence I managed to isolate the sound until I was certain: it came from above. The flashlight leading the way scanned the tree tops until up there, very up there, it bounced in Elvis terrorized eyes. He was high, really far, in a stern branchless huge trunk that ended in a lush vegetation where Elvis grabbed with all his four legs. He had climbed without thinking in the way down. My first impulse - dissuade him to try - vanished soon. Nobody mentally sane would risk to climb down a perpendicular angle from that height. Not even a cat.

I knew nobody in the neighborhood, so I appealed again to my neighbor kindness and asked him for an idea. He looked at me for a few seconds and said: Mrs Davila, may I ask you a question? Of course said I. Have you ever seen a death cat in a tree? Logic was clear but I just could not go to sleep in the hope that he would find a way to come down. The firemen seemed a good solution - long ladders - but though I reminded them that they do it in every film, in fact, it happens only in films. Firemen do not rescue cats. I tried the police then, they suggested I’d try an animal shelter. Midnight. At the animal shelter an answering machine kept the waiting until morning. I explained to Elvis the situation - given his position, so to the entire neighborhood - and set myself to reading until seven in the morning, time when I went out to measure the situation and give him strength. 

As I stood beneath the most extraordinary scene was before my eyes. The night before birds had gone to sleep like any other night. Morning light revealed to them Gotzilla, my dear Elvis, sitting close to their nests. They were horrified but not as much as Elvis. By organized turns, birds of all sizes would fly over him to hit him. They wanted him out. Getting him down was a must. 

My neighbor had me again at his door asking for a ladder. Yes, he could not believe it but he handled it. I leaned it to the house roof and did exactly what Elvis had done: I climbed without thinking in the way back. When I got the top of the house, I realized I was midway between the sky and the floor. The aerial attack over Elvis continued. He needed help and soon. Unable to take a step I lied down on my back facing the sky, dragged myself to the border until I got hold of the ladder and managed to come down.

The animal shelter finally at the phone, does not rescue cats either but they gave me the phone number and name of an expert in taking cats down from trees... Certain that Elvis’ situation was desperate, situation that would be superseded only by the same situation but in a midday burning august, I set myself to find him. I dialed and... an answering machine!

 First message - 8:00 am : Hello, my name is Sylvia. My cat climbed a tree from where he cannot climb down. The animal shelter thinks that you can give me a hand. I would very much appreciate you calling me back. Second message - 9:00 am: Hello, this is Sylvia again, I just would like to stress the point that he has been in a very difficult situation all night, that he is a long hair cat, and that in a few hours summer sun will be at its highest. Thank you for calling me soon. Third message - 10:00 am: Listen, if you cannot give me the service I would appreciate you saying soooo, soooo that I can look for another solution.  Call me, pleeease. Fourth message- 11: 00 am. : Where the hell are youuu????.

Finally, before Elvis got fried or succumb to the birds aerial attack, a deep calm voice informed me on the phone that he was on his way. With a belt like those used by the telephone company guys, a man certain of his skills climbed the trunk not before warning me sometimes when I get up there they get scared and jump... That climbing took ages. On the contrary, like in cartoons Elvis literally embraced him. It took me more that an afternoon to calm him and cost me two hundred and fifty dollars. As it often happens, sharing misfortunes also tightens bonds. 


Elvis and I were happy again until it came for me the time to leave. I prepared myself to take him with me in the long journey but while arranging his trip I found that he would be kept  four hours in platform , summer again, in Miami! I could not do that to Elvis. A new family was needed. I found one, set an appointment, explained to Elvis the situation and went to leave him in his new home, this time praying that I would be able to leave him in a situation that did not brake me. A middle age, kind, easy going couple opened the door. Elvis and I held tight to each other breathless... until I saw the child. Elvis was looking at him too. The sweet face, untidy hair, clear transparent eyes of an eight years old boy greeted him. Without asking he took him from my arms, Elvis let him do it. I knew they had liked each other. Just in case, I asked the boy to keep him far from raccoons. SILVIA DAVILA MORALES ®

AMERICA IS MINE

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

 Film- Script. Copyright

1914

General Napoleon Bonaparte is taken to Santa Helena closing a chapter of the history of France that would highly influence the independence of the spanish colonies...

King Fernando VII, recently freed from prison, is back to his throne just to find that the threads he used to control his colonies are broken...

The recently liberated and conformed United States of America have just fought their last battle against the british, and their president, Thomas Jefferson, takes care of his business with an eye focused on his neighbor south America...

The United Kingdom has just lost its american colonies. Industrial revolution on march they need markets for their increasing production...

In Argentina, general Jose de San Martín has just been promoted to General Commander of the south armies and is about to accomplish his purpose of liberating Chile crossing Los Andes mountains...

Exiled in the isle of Jamaica, general Simón Bolivar writes his idearium of a free America and soon will be back to he continent...

History's complex web has put everyone in place. 
The last chapter of the Independence of America is about to begin. 
The inhabitants of the green continent will have to put their spirit to the test may the wind blow for or against them. Doña Maria Antonia viuda de Carreras y Alba, will face the independence torment walking on a thin line to save her family, her fortune and her life.

To be continued....

(SCRIPT IN PRODUCTION. ORIGINAL BY SYLVIA DAVILA MORALES. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 2010.)

CLO

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ 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 ®

TALKING MIRACLES

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

Many years ago, I travelled to Japan on an official invitation. The agenda had many interesting places to visit including Tokyo’s Centre of Competitively. There, when the official got through with his speech, he opened a session of questions. We were an interdisciplinary group of ten. Questions rose. I have to confess that during that questions session I got lost in the expectation of the next step of the agenda: Kyoto, the old capital, the huge silent wooden temples, gardens… Lost in my mind, the question dropped: “Sylvia San, do you have a question", asked a smiling man standing before me. No mind trick was enough to jump from Kabuki to competitively but a dozen pairs of eyes were staring, so I ended up murmuring: “People talk about the Japanese miracle…how was that miracle made?” At pronouncing the last syllable I knew I had just asked the most idiotic question that would force the poor man to explain me life since the Palaeolithic. For answer he asked me a very oriental question: “Have you ever drop a stone in a calm lake? As the stone falls, a little ring comes up, then another bigger ring, then a bigger one, and so on until they all become, again, the lake. We began by a house, then a neighborhood, then a town, then a province, and then a state until we talked everybody into changing". My math’s handicap still prevent me from understanding the Japanese miracle – unless it refers to the cherry blossoms which is the nearest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen– but I found the methodology interesting.

Here, in our country, we care only for electing a President. When that election comes, everyone gets informed, participates, votes, wins or looses. But when it is time for the election of those other rings - Congress, Governors and Majors - we don’t even know when it is going to take place. Nobody talks about it, very little information can be found. That is why, those posts fall in the hands of people that use them for their exclusive interests.  The problem with that is not so much the stealing, the cheating, dishonesty, but the rings… rings that extend upwards and downward. The boss giving example… What country can prosper? What ruler can rule? Who can live in that swamp? Those who believe that they can live happily in their little world, that none of that is their business, that those waves of corruption, incompetence and dishonesty will never touch them, forget that it is the nature of the rings – physics I believe – to expand until they become… the lake. Next year, those posts will have an election. It’s up to everyone to start getting informed, to participate and to decide who is going to hold those posts. SILVIA DAVILA MORALES®(Photo Google)

HABLANDO DE MILAGROS

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Illustration: Google Images

Hace ya muchos años, estuve en Japón en una invitación oficial. Dentro de la agenda de lugares maravillosos a visitar estaba incluida una visita al Centro de Competitividad de Tokyo. Allí, cuando el funcionario terminó su presentación, abrió una sesión de preguntas. Éramos un grupo interdisciplinario de ocho o diez personas, no recuerdo. Las preguntas fueron y vinieron. Yo, tengo que confesarlo, en esa etapa de la visita me perdí en la expectativa del siguiente paso de la agenda: Kioto, la vieja capital, los inmensos y silenciosos templos de madera, los jardines… y cuando andaba en esas, cayó la pregunta: “Sylvia San, quiere preguntar algo?” , se dirigió a mí el funcionario. Ningún malabar mental me alcanzó para salir del Kibuki a la competitividad, pero ante los doce pares de ojos clavados en mi, terminé balbuceando: “Se habla mucho del milagro japonés… como hicieron el milagro?” Al pronunciar la última sílaba ya sabía que acababa de hacer la pregunta más idiota posible que, además, pondría al pobre hombre a explicarme desde el Paleolítico. Por toda respuesta me hizo una pregunta muy oriental: “Alguna vez ha botado una piedra a un lago en calma? Cae la piedra y sale un pequeño aro, luego otro más grande, luego otro aún mayor, y así hasta que todos se vuelven de nuevo parte del lago. Empezamos por una casa, luego un barrio, luego un pueblo, una provincia, un estado, hasta que convencimos a todos de las bondades del cambio. Mi absoluta torpeza con las matemáticas me impide todavía entender el milagro japonés – a menos que se refieran a los cerezos floreciendo todos al mismo tiempo que es lo más parecido a lo que uno piensa puede ser un milagro – pero la metodología me pareció interesante.

Aquí, solo nos preocupamos por elegir Presidente. Cuando llega el tiempo de esas elecciones todo el mundo está informado, participa, vota, gana o pierde. Pero cuando se trata de esos otros aros, los Congresistas, los Gobernadores, los Alcaldes, los Ediles, ni siquiera estamos enterados. Nadie habla de eso, no sale mucha información, nadie los conoce. Nadie participa. Por eso, esos cargos caen en manos de personas que sólo buscan su propio interés. Los desfalcos masivos y voluminosos, las ferias de contrataciones y de notarias, el robo sistematizado desde las altas esferas de Estado. El jefe dando ejemplo… Qué país puede prosperar? Cuál gobernante puede gobernar? Quién puede vivir en ese pantano? Quienes ingenuamente creen vivir tranquilos en su pequeño mundo, y piensan que todo eso no es de su incumbencia y que las ondas de corrupción, ineptitud, deshonestidad y atraso nunca va a tocarlos, me permito recordarle que la naturaleza de los aros – pura física creo – es expandirse hasta volverse… el lago. En eso estamos. El año que entra se vuelven a elegir esos cargos, ahí verán si empiezan a informarse, a informarnos y a participar para decidir quienes ocuparán los cargos que hoy dan tanta vergüenza.  SILVIA DAVILA MORALES/(Photo: Google)

BORDERLESS MOTHERS

Photo: Laura Wills D

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

There are all kind of mothers but what makes them recognizable is that deep determination and borderless love when their children need them.

For those that do not know who is Luciano, Luciano is a fish that lives happily in Maria’s room. When he sees her, he swims around his tank. Along with Suko, the dog, and Paco, her boyfriend, Luciano is a happy fish in the hands of a caring girl. Well, he used to be, until Maria went on vacations and left Luciano under the care of her very busy mother, Cecilia.

Eight days after her departure, Maria called her mother. A chat here, a chat there and finally the question dropped: “Mom, have you fed Luciano?” Cecilia lost her breath, turned pale, screamed, and rushed to Maria’s room expecting to find a dead fish. Cause: starvation. In fact, in its tanks, Luciano was still holding his fading strength. Guilt eating her, Cecilia runs back to the phone, confesses her unforgivable oblivion and describes Luciano’s condition. Alarmed, Maria shouts: “Mom, take him to the Vet, NOW!”. And… Cecilia, with that unpredictable and surprising mother’s ability to react, replies: OK!

Next, she dashes to the kitchen, returns and stands before poor dear Luciano, holding a sieve. Out of respect for Luciano, I will not recall the flying sieve, the splasshhhes, the oh-my-gods, the stay-stiiiills, the somebody-help-meeee that took place for twenty minutes until lucid Luciano understood that his fate would be much better in the plastic bag. Although she did consider a hospital and a clinic, Cecilia decided to take Luciano to the pet shop where she had bought it. She took the plastic bag, got into the car and sat Luciano as co-pilot. She rushed across the city but then, I don’t know why under those situations Murphy’s Law is always at hand: A few yards away from her destiny, a traffic light turned red, she uses the brake, the car stops, the bag falls, and there goes Luciano shot out from his seat.

Luciano might be the only fish on Earth that knows the real feeling of an amusement park. He rolled on the seat, jumped over the brake, got lost in the darkness of the back seat, and appeared again on Cecilia's shoes. Background music was provided by the car horns behind her. I don’t know, it might have been love for Maria, or compassion for Luciano, or despair with the the horns, but Cecilia found courage and with her numerous jingling bracelets, she got a hold of him in a single try. Luciano and his nervous breakdown went back to the bag.

In the pet shop he was fed and cared for, calming him downs was not so easy. He knew he had to go back home the same way and with the same driver. After all, Maria came back from her vacations and Luciano swims again in his tank. But he is hurt… Now, when Maria enters the room he doesn’t swim around his tank. And…when Cecilia shows up, he just turns upside down and plays dead. /SILVIA DAVILA MORALES/ PHOTO: Laura Wills (c)

MADRES SIN FRONTERAS

By: Silvia Davila MM

www.pipolmagazine.com

Bogotá/ COPYRIGHT

Madres las hay de todas clases, pero lo que todas tienen en común es esa determinación profunda y ese amor sin fronteras cuando se trata de los hijos.

Para quienes no conocen a Luciano, Luciano es un pez que vive la habitación de María y el cual, cuando la niña entra, se hace docientos metros a la redonda en la pecera. Con Suko, el perro y Paco, el novio, Luciano es uno de los consentidos de la niña y, por lo tanto, lleva una vida feliz. Bueno, la llevaba hasta que la María se fue una semana de vacaciones dejando a Luciano al cuidado de Cecilia, su atareada madre.

Transcurridos ocho días del viaje, una tarde cualquiera María llama a la mamá a reportarse. Entre cosa y cosa cayó a pregunta: “Mamá, le has dado comida a Luciano”? momento en el cual Cecilia deja de respirar, palidece, grita y corre a la habitación de la niña esperando encontrarse un pez muerto por inanición. Efectivamente, en su pecera Luciano utiliza sus últimas fuerzas para mantenerse a flote. Los ojos desorbitados, Cecilia observa a Luciano incapaz de reconocer si eso que está haciendo - o sea, nada - es normal, dado que es la primera vez en toda su vida que observa detenidamente a un pez. Con la conciencia destrozada vuelve al teléfono, confiesa a María su inexplicable olvido y le describe la situación de Luciano. Alarmada, María le pide: “Mamá!! Llévalo YA al veterinario!!”, a lo que Cecilia con esa siempre impredecible, pero sobretodo sorprendente, capacidad de reacción de las mamás, responde: “OK!” 

Acto seguido y con toda propiedad, Cecilia corre a la cocina, regresa a la habitación y se le aparece al pobre Luciano con una coladera en la mano. Por respeto a Luciano, voy a pasar por alto los veinte minutos de boleada de coladera, splasshhh, ay Dios míos, brutas carajos que se sucedieron unos a otros hasta que, por fin Luciano muy lúcido, entendió que sería mejor dejarse meter en la bolsa que la triste suerte que le esperaba con la coladera.

Tras descartar dos hospitales y una clínica, y dado que ahora Luciano y con razón parecía un cadáver, Cecilia resolvió llevarlo a la tienda de mascotas en donde lo había comprado. Tomó la bolsa, subió al auto y puso a Luciano de copiloto en el asiento contiguo. Arrancó veloz rumbo a la tienda de mascotas pero ignoro por qué en situaciones como esas tiende a imponerse la ley de Murphy: a pocos metros de su destino, un semáforo cambió a rojo, Cecilia puso el pie en el freno, el auto se detuvo, la bolsa se volteó y salió disparado Luciano...

Luciano es, quizás, el único pez del planeta que tiene una idea precisa de lo que es un parque de diversiones. Rodó por la silla como en tobogán, saltó sobre el freno de mano, se perdió en la oscuridad del asiento trasero y apareció saltando a los pies de Cecilia. La música de fondo de la escena estuvo a cargo de todos los autos que pitaban detrás de ella. Ignoro si por amor a María, compasión con Luciano o desesperación con los pitos, Cecilia se armó de valor y con su veintena de pulseras tintinando, le mandó la mano y en un sólo intento lo atrapó. Luciano y su nervious breakdown fueron a dar de nuevo a la bolsa.

En la tienda de mascotas lo consintieron y le dieron de comer pero no pudieron calmarlo, porque Luciano sabía que tenía que regresar a la casa por el mismo camino, en la misma forma y con la misma conductora. Total, María regresó de vacaciones y Luciano nada de nuevo en su pecera, pero dolido. Ahora, cuando la niña entra ya no da las docientas vueltas a la redonda. Ni hablar cuando entra Cecilia. Cuando la ve, simplemente se voltea boca arriba y se hace el muerto/ SILVIA DAVILA MORALES ® Photo: Laura Wills (R)

By: Silvia Davila Morales M

Bogota  -  www.pipolmagazine.com

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