Sueño con viento en contra
De veras, Tamayo, que no veo la necesidad de esto, una explicación, un relato o lo que sea, igual va a venir el malentendido. Cada cual la resuelve a su manera, con el psicoanalista, con un amigo. También a mí me ha pasado, me decía Francisco, incluso despierto. Lo solucioné sentado a la máquina, pero tú sabrás…
Tú lo resuelves con esto, dibujando, pintando, sorteando con tu bicicleta la confusión de baches, descargas de fusilería y vidrios molidos. Para luego enseñarme una docena de cartulinas, cuadros, no sé si los mismos que ya vi u otros de los que me hablaste antes y yo tuve que pintar trabajosamente en la imaginación. Por eso será que cuando vino lo del sueño ya no puede saber donde empezaba una cosa y terminaba la otra. Me vi caminando por una alta pasarela y lo primero fue el viento, bastante fuerte. Me abría paso entre seres con traza de animal, de fruta, de turista, un carnaval nada agradable. No me asusté del todo, reconocía algunos rostros, algunas máscaras, ciertas sonrisas y ademanes devotos. El viento arreciaba. Ya no había pasarela pero todos seguían mirando al mismo punto, un Cristo tamaño natural, todos extasiados y divertidos. Yo entré a un retablo de monigotes donde brillaba una infanta de Velázquez ocupada en un extraño trabajo de peluquería. Detrás de una pared alguien maldecía en japonés. Salí a la calle. Un cerdo chillaba como condenado detrás de la columna. Linda pintura, me dije, mirando una fachada en remozamiento. El viento iba in crescendo, alarmante. Desde una ventana un decapitado miraba un plácido paisaje con tren. No pude reconocerlo, me daba la espalda, pero la sangre me salpicó los zapatos. Torcí rumbo hasta chocar con un grupo de compradores que se agolpaban sobre una naturaleza muerta en subasta. Es de una vitalidad increíble, opinaban, el precio subía sin parar, todos pujaban, se mordían, desollaban, dentro y fuera del cuadro. Huí, sólo para verme caminando por un huerto. Una maquinaria estrambótica labraba la tierra, guiada por hábiles operarios. Esto marcha, pensé. Sólo que el pequeño unicornio de tiro no parece muy eficiente. Me eché a un lado, no fueran a atropellarme. Doblando no sé como una esquina, el viento por poco me levanta en peso, una maceta con su planta casi me deja sin cabeza. Agradecí a Dios no me hubiera tocado. Avancé por una calle ruinosa y encharcada, y entonces fue que lo vi, en el extremo de un raro balcón, una absurda erección arquitectónica. Arrebujado, el sombrero hasta las orejas, la adarga vertical y quijotesca, los banderines flameando en el viento, huracanado ya. Me decía algo, fijando en los míos sus ojos porfiados. Pero hablaba muy bajo, como para sí. Aunque el viento me ensordecía, creo haber entendido sus palabras. Suerte, le contesté para mis adentros. Bajé la vista y estaba frente a mi cama. Entonces, agotado, pude acostarme a dormir.
Enrique Hernández Pascual
Febrero 24, 1994
I dream against the wind
Really, Tamayo, I don’t see any need in doing this, an explanation, an account or whatever, the misunderstanding is going to come, anyway. Each and everyone solve their problem their own way, with a shrink, with a friend. It has also happened to me, Francisco used to tell me, even well awake. I solved it seating in front of a type machine, but you’ll know…
You solve things like this, drawing, painting, zigzagging with your bycicle through the confusion of street holes, firearm discharges and ground glasses. And afterwards you come here to show me a dozen cardboards, pictures, I don’t know if they are the same ones I saw before or some other ones you told me about before and I had to painfully paint in my imagination. Maybe that’s why when that matter of the dream came about I could’nt know any more when one thing started and another one ended. I saw myself walking along a high driveway and the first thing I faced was the wind. I opened my way through some sort-of-animal beings, fruits, tourists, a not-at-all agreable carnival. I really didn’t get scared, I recognized some faces, some masks, some smiles and holy gestures. The wind increased in strength. There were no driveway anymore, but everyone kept looking at the same point, a full size Christ, everbody were thrilled and amused. I went in a puppet altarpiece where a Velázquez’ infanta was busily doing a weird hairdressing work. Behind a wall somebody was cursing in Japanese. I went out to the street. A pig was screaming as if damned behind a column. A beautiful painting, I said to myself, looking at a facade they were rejuvenating. The wind was in crescendo, frightening. From a window a beheaded guy was looking at a tranquil scenery with a train. I could’nt recognized him, I was at his back, but the blood spattered my shoes. I turned around until running into a group of buyers crowding over a still life in auction. It has an incredible vitality, they were judging, the price was on and on going up, everyone were outbidding, biting each other, peeling off their skins, inside and outside the picture. I ran away, but only to see me later walking on a vegetable garden. A strange machine was laboring the land, guided by skilled workmen. This is coming out fine, I thought. Except for the fact that the small pulling unicorn doesn’t seem to be quite effcicient. I moved to a side, not wanting to be ran down. Turning around a corner, I don’t know how the wind didn’t lift me off my feet, a flowerpot almost cut my head off. I thanked God it didn’t get to touch me. I went on through a ruined and puddled street and then I saw it, at the end of a weird balcony, an absurd architectural erection. Huddled, the hat down to his ears, the vertical and quixotic shield, camp colors flaming on the wind, hurricaned already. He was saying something to me, his somewhat stubborned eyes fixed onto mine. But he was talking in a very low voice, as if talking to himself. Althought the wind was deaffening me, I think I had understood his words. That’s luck, I answered to my insides. I looked down and he was right in front of my bed. And then, exhausted, I could lie down to sleep.
Enrique Hernández Pascual
24 February, 1994