El Pucará y otros cuentos

Cuando la ciudad amanecía, el ruido de las turbinas de un avión inglés se sintió sobre la costa Patagónica.
En ese momento, solamente habían dos viejos aviones a hélice para proteger la ciudad. 
Con todo en contra, las máquinas argentinas lucharon contra una tecnología muy superior. Las luces y sonidos de la batalla fueron oídos por toda la ciudad. 
Fueron unos pocos minutos, pero duró una eternidad para el joven piloto del Pucará.
En un momento, todo estaba dicho. El único combate en el continente había terminado.

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Publicación disponible en Argentina ACÁ

y España AQUÍ

Kaliningrado, la puerta a Rusia

Mientras viajaba por Europa, varias personas me hablaron de Rusia, y sobre todo de lo difícil que era conseguir una visa para poder entrar al territorio. Pero yo recordaba que hacía poco tiempo, la República Argentina y la Federación Rusa habían realizado un convenio sobre el tema. No perdí más tiempo y fui a la embajada rusa en Poznan. Al mostrar mi pasaporte me atendió un señor que me dijo en inglés, que al ser ciudadano argentino, solo debía mostrar mi pasaporte para entrar a su país. Fue una grata sorpresa, ciertamente.
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Unos días después, me encontraba cruzando la frontera en el Oblast (provincia) de Kaliningrado. Es la zona más occidental de la Federación, y hasta 1945 se llamaba Köningsberg. Fue durante siglos, un territorio polaco, lituano-polaco, prusiano y alemán, de acuerdo a los tiempos que corriesen. Luego de que Alemania perdiera la guerra, pasó directamente a manos soviéticas. Entonces se transformó en la puerta blindada de los eslavos. Allí estuvo asentada la flota soviética del Báltico. La temida defensa marítima que con su sola presencia, impedía cualquier maniobra occidental en las inmediaciones.
**

Hoy, en 2011 (casi 2012) la ciudad es un centro cosmopolita conformado por personas de toda la ex Unión Soviética. Al finalizar la guerra, la ciudad estaba en ruinas y fue necesario repoblarla. Para ello, llamaron gente de todos los rincones de las Repúblicas. Es común ver en las calles, mujeres rubias de un metro noventa, como personas de cara mongol. En toda Europa, es el lugar con mayor riqueza étnica que he visto. Un argentino puede pasar por ruso tranquilamente en Kaliningrado.
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Antes de viajar, me contacté con una persona de la ciudad: Liudmila. Ella es una estudiante de la lengua castellana y me llevó a recorrer la ciudad. Gracias a ella conocí una gran comunidad de rusos que aprenden nuestro idioma, por lo que mi estadía en el lugar, fue casi en su totalidad, hablada en castellano. También fui a un pub llamado “Reporter” que es propiedad de unos cubanos que viven en la ciudad desde hace unas décadas. El local tiene una gran vida cultural, cada noche hay distintos músicos que tocan para la variada concurrencia.
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De la herencia alemana en la ciudad, solo recuerdo un sobreviviente: Immanuel Kant. Es famosa la anécdota que dice que la gente del lugar, para saber que hora era, esperaban a que pase Kant desde su casa. Siempre lo hacia a la misma hora, sin margen de error. En varios lugares vi su estatua, como también placas que recordaban algún hecho importante en su vida. Su tumba se encuentra en una isla (la Isla de Kant) en medio de la ciudad. Allí se encuentra una hermosa catedral, donde además de recibir a los fieles, también se puede presenciar conciertos de órgano o música clásica. Allí fuimos a un concierto de la filarmónica local, que interpretó una obra de Beethoven. Me acompañó Olga, una chica de Kazajistán, que entendía perfectamente el castellano, pero solo me hablaba en inglés. Creo que era muy tímida para hablar en nuestro idioma.
**

Cada noche salíamos a un lugar distinto, y conocí gente de distintos países del ex bloque soviético. Estuve con personas de Rusia, claro; y también de Lituania, Letonia, Kazajistán, Ucrania o Bielorrusia. Un asunto interesante fue que ellos no se consideran europeos, sino rusos. Me hizo acordar un poco a nosotros mismos. Que muchas veces no nos vemos como sudamericanos sino argentinos. Y en el sur, somos patagónicos primero, luego argentinos. Ese orgullo por la identidad nacional me resultó muy agradable. Algo que se ve más diluido en la Europa occidental, donde el pasado de nacionalismo brutal, ha dejado muy manchada la idea del amor a la patria.
**

Un día lo usamos únicamente para visitar dos lugares emblemáticos de la ciudad: el puerto y el Museo del Ámbar.

En el otrora secreto puerto de Kaliningrado, ahora se pueden ver expuestos varios navíos y submarinos soviéticos. En la entrada del puerto, es posible ver una estatua gigante depatrono de la ciudad con una iglesia en una mano y una espada en la otra.

Uno de los barcos fue usado en los mares del norte, para hacer investigaciones científicas. Ahora es un museo sobre la historia marina. Es una embarcación hermosa con un tema distinto en cada camarote.

El submarino que está a libre a las visitas, es uno con motor diesel y tamaño mediano. Fue usado hasta fin de los ochentas en las costas del Mar del Norte y en la zona de Vladivostok, casi en frente de Japón. El submarino parece congelado en el tiempo, cada pequeña habitación se ve como si sus ocupantes hubieran salido hace un minuto. En la entrada uno puede ver la maqueta del submarino, junto al resto de la flota soviética. En un lado están los lanzatorpedos, cada uno con la estrella comunista pintada. El pasillo principal pasa a través de las distintas cámaras; donde trabajaba el capitán, la zona de oficiales y los camarotes de los marineros. Al pie de uno de ellos, hay trajes de buzos para distintas profundidades y otros elementos de la vida submarina.
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En la zona exterior de donde están ubicados el submarino y el barco, hay varios minisubmarinos que fueran utilizados para investigación. Se ven muy similares a los vistos en películas o programas de documentales. Poseen una espera frontal y varios brazos mecánicos para operar bajo el agua.

Luego, fuimos al Museo del Ámbar, uno de los pocos museos del mundo sobre este material y con un tamaño tan importante.
**

Entre los primeros registros de esta zona del mundo, que hay por parte de occidente, están los datos de los romanos sobre el ámbar. Esa fue la razón por la cual se abrieron los primeros caminos al mar Báltico. Con el tiempo, la industria del ámbar creció hasta dar forma a varias ciudades, como Kaliningrado, Liepaja en Letonia o Gdansk en Polonia. El edificio es parte de las fortificaciones que rodea la ciudad, y que en algunas partes se encuentran casi intactas. En el interior y en varias plantas, se pueden apreciar varios siglos del arte del ámbar. Algunas de estas joyas fueron usadas por la familia del Zar y por las señoras de los comerciantes más importantes. Es tal la cantidad de alhajas, colgantes, aros, etc. que no alcanza un solo día para admirar todo lo allí expuesto.
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Durante todo el viaje por Kaliningrado, pude ver esa mezcla de lo nuevo y lo antiguo. Mi estancia la pasé en la calle Gagarin, zona estudiantil y cada día pasaba por el centro histórico, con la Plaza de la Victoria y la Iglesia ortodoxa. Luego de mis días en tierras rusas, solo pienso en volver pronto a visitar a los amigos que dejé allí. Todo aquel que quiera conocer como es la vieja y la nueva Rusia, le recomiendo esta bella ciudad. No saldrá decepcionado.

.omar miguel soto.

Marco of Izmir (short story)

He dreamed him in his real form

Not as he was seeing by everyone

The horizon drawn its last line and the stars began to watch the infinite desert of Africa. Marco Jossef of Izmir kicked the no-ending planes, where long and experienced groups of Tuaregs had left their bones, for being forgotten by any unlikely creature of the sea of sands.

Another night came over his old and grey tunic. His steps marched on the rhythm of his fading breathing. His last companion, Argos, abandoned him near by Gibraltar, many years before.

In Marco’s mind, every step was the same than the other. A day wasn’t different from the previous one. There wouldn’t be more sand grains under his feet that years in his cram full memory. Only the oblivion relieved him of the weight of being an immortal.

For a long time, too much, Marco of Izmir and his friend Argos roamed through the north of the continent. Since his birth to his new life, close to the place now known as Al Jizah, where is the, now subterranean river, of black waters. The river that provides the immortality and witch fame has reached, even in the antique times, to the Indostán, Hispania or Yerevan.

Many people went after it. Just a few came back. They say that the father of The Iliad was one of the seekers of the magic river and that he never was seeing again. Others are sure that the old city, which is raised at the side of the river, is an absurd labyrinth made by the immortals after centuries of living in that vain place. This is not lack of sense, because we, who are aware of our own endness are forced, conditioned, using the word of the austrian, to accept that every moment, every act, can be the last one. Anything that we can live, will return in the same way. Every instant is unique and precious. But for Marco and his equals, everything is full of futility, of nothingness. Anything, terrible or ephemeral, even the most unlikely will be repeated sooner or later. For us, the horizon is the death. And our greatest value, the life. Those are the measures of our beings. And our best philosophies are settled over them. But, how could it be for an immortal? Some body said: “they must to search the end of the physical pain, because the dead can’t reach them.” It does make some sense, if we think the values scale is the same for both species. After the fear of dead, the fear of pain should continue.

In the city where Marco drunk from the river of the life, there were a plenty of creatures of human shape and animal habits. Or I should say vegetal ones. When they were sure that there is no new thing under the sun for them, what kind of enthusiasm could they have? They stayed there, lying in the ground, naked, eating some snake from time to time, to bring relief to a stomach used to work. Snakes easily catch because, for some strange reason, animals use to ignore the immortals. One of them, remembered Marco, had a bird nest over his chest. There was one of them, who tired of being hungry and thirsty, jumped from a crag. He broke some bones and he stayed during days asking for help. Surely he healed himself. But he must to wait seventy years until someone dropped him a rope. Not even the mercy attacked them. After that, he could be seeing walking with a leg with the shape of an S, because their bones bended in a bad position.

We could assume that the pleasure would take a relevant place in their lives. Let’s see. It’s very common to feel pleased by something, or in a better way, that we desire something. After the satisfaction of that desire, it starts slowly, its fading. Behind every interest and every act from a man, it’s hidden a wretched appetite of a desire satisfaction, for the feeling of that pleasure. Just like the madman Nietszche said, there is no other engine for the human than the search of pleasure. It has it sense, too. But here we find and interesting matter: the pleasures exhaust with the act. The strawberries are delicious, but after a half of kilo they began to be a suffering. It doesn’t to be likely there could be something that doesn’t start boring and disgusting after some time. And the kinds of Marco had all the time at their hands. It could be seeing as a logical conclusion that, when they left the labyrinth city, it was because they were after the chase of the other river. The one witch completes the symmetry. One of them gives the eternal life, the other grants the possibility of dying. – “don’t get sad for something as trivial as the dead of an old woman” Said a lady to her grandson, moments before she passed away. I could assure that life, just as the most exquisite fruits, began to cloy, to be boring for any man or woman.

An old torture or punishment has been to deny the presence of company to a convict. Letting alone somebody is one the ways to make suffer to even the toughest people. To be locked and lonely it’s a kind of life that it’s not much a life, it seems. What had encouraged many people to resist from these situations has been the hope of escape. Even the lifetime prisoners have hopes: to run away, the visit of some relative or the dead. They all are small or big escapes.

From that jail was running Marco that night. Sick of travelling thought his entire known world. Dozens of times he encountered some village or city. He learned several languages, witch were mixed and forgotten with great talent. He met and saw the death of so many persons in so many places. Many times, tired and exhausted of a location, he left that place. Always with a walking stick and a bag with some food and memories from the ones he refused to forget. When he reached the point we call the Red Sea, he stayed there for a moment. Then he dropped his bag, took off his clothes and plunged into the waters. He swam for a while until he considered the stream will not bring him back to the shore. And there he stood, at the will of the waves. Under the destiny they wanted to provide him.

He travelled for weeks like a lost log on the ocean. Crowned by seaweeds and with some shells in his feet, those ones witch like to find their home at the bottom of the ships. A fish was his meal. One morning he woke up at a beach.

The bark of a tree calmed his hunger.

He stayed for some years in Mitsiwa, near the Africa horn. Then, the towns of Barentu, Teseney and others witch fallen in the grace of oblivion were tired by the feet and walking stick of Marco. Some months later, a day like any other, he took his memories bag and he went towards the desert. After some time he reached the shore of a river, its people called it Nahr an Nil. The bag, witch had his former wife necklace, touched the ground. His clothes and stick after it. The roman soldier Marco of Izmir jumped into the powerful river. After some strokes he proceeded to sleep for a while.

Several times he saw the sun moving over his head. From his nautical condition, he could watch at one of the shores, astonishing and giant human figures sculpted in the side of a mountain. At first, he felt so amazed that man, small in the time, used his life for something as useless as a huge self representation. It would be natural from beings with an eternity ahead, but not from these endness creatures. One of the figures had his foot over the other, but not the rest sculptures. It was curious indeed.

Near the mouth of the Nil river, he took his ground animal condition again. He passed through the mythical Al Iskandariyah and marched west.

And here is when we reach the night itself.

When our ex roman soldier, twice widowed and friend of Argos of Ellás came to that night, witch one was different to all the rest of his nights. The stars had not presaged anything. The air didn’t show different either. As while Marco walked through the sands, one of the few dry pits, witch are random in the desert, went into his path. He realized of it when his legs and head hit the rocks of the inside. He heard a puff from his lungs when he reached the unwanted bottom. The sounds and the terrible pain told him he had several bones broken.

A tiny light in where the entrance of the pit should be, shown him it was day time. He remembered the unfortunate who fell from the crag. He didn’t want a leg with the shape of an S. Among shouts only heard by a scorpion, our soldier arranged his battered bones. Two days later he stopped bleeding and his legs didn’t hurt that bad. But the hunger and thirsty made him wish that the arachnid he ate would had the ability to stop his suffering. He thought in eating his fingers, maybe only those from his feet. But it didn’t see like a good business: a trade from a stomach’s ache to a finger’s ache.

After five months, a forgotten feeling came back: desperation. He was in the hugest known desert and far away from any path used by the Tuaregs. He was trapped in an anonymous pit without the possibility of escape by him self. His only unlike chance was that somebody passed over him and dropped him a rope.

After two years there, a stone hit his head. It took a couple of minutes to him to realize what happened. Then he began to jump and shout. For a long while he was calling to that one who dropped that stone. Nobody answered. –Somebody was out there. - He thought or said. And it was possible that another person passed by and it was also possible that he passed at night and fall down to the bottom like him. It would be a companion if he didn’t kill him self. Of course, among the possibilities, and let’s remember that any possibility is inevitable for him, there was the big chance that another immortal fall down with him. It would be just a matter of time.

He already tried, maybe, all the known hobbies. To remember every day of his life; to count the number of hairs, always with different results, even when he tied them a hundred by a hundred for not being confused; to eat sand and then shitting them. To sing and then to invent new songs; to recite every known word; to invent new words. We know that the name of God will give a special power to the one who discovers it. That’s why he was for more than fifty years in the industry of its knowledge. But after pronounce them and asking to go out of there, he was still there, into his eternal shadows and loneliness. He got an idea, he died when he fall and that was the death. But the everlasting feeling of hunger and disgusting smell made him think that dead should be more stylish.

Maybe a bit before or perhaps after of his falling into madness, he recalled his travel through the great river. Some vessels passed by him. People didn’t understand what this barbed man was doing in a river plagued with crocodiles. One image returned to his mind, those fabulous, monstrous statues. And this time he didn’t find it uncompressible. Even him self felt the sorrow of not leaving anything to the world of humans, and to contribute with his voice in the chorus of the specie.

That’s the way Marco did surrender to the constant agony fate. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t among the living either.

He was a pariah among men, he was among the immortals and then he was from the nature itself. Witch looked ashamed of giving birth to such a pitiful creature, and it was kept hidden into its guts. And he was kept for centuries.

The mind and body of Marco remained absent from the history of men. The born and falling of great empires were done without the knowledge of the roman. And it’s in here where we have our great void in his life. And where we only can theorize.

We know from Borges that Marco Jossef of Izmir, died on the high seas when he was towards his mother land and that he was buried in Ios around the year 1930. We also know that he worked in an antique house in England during those years. The part without data on his biography (also unknown by the Britannica Encyclopaedia), is the way of the escape from that impossible prison. It’s really unlikely that somebody rescued him in the few centuries he was kept by the Sahara. The only possible explanation I have (and not the humblest one) is that, as while he was wandering through letters and sounds, after years and centuries, of small and big variations. Among adverbs and declensions, verbs and nouns never heard; this roman soldier could finally, to find and to make use of the secret and powerful name of God.-

Comodoro Rivadavia, Argentina

October 2003