The Drowned

by Alberto Julián Pérez ©

We were spending the afternoon

with my girlfriend at La Florida.

I do not refer to some white sand resort

in Miami, but to the dark sand

public beach in Rosario.

We watched from the shore

the parade of traveling water hyacinths

coming down from Corrientes

with its load of snakes and monkeys.

Our love was that simple love

of a small town or South American city,

where the poor bathe in the mud river

and the rich make up reality

with borrowed dreams.

Finally we got hungry

and we went to a shack on the beach

to eat a burger and have a beer.

The sun was setting on the horizon.

Sunsets with red reflections on the Paraná River.

It seems that Heaven or God was wounded

and suffered because of us, who hurt him.

I told my girlfriend that maybe

we were part of a phantasmagoria.

Embraced to our tender love

we imagined that we were going downstream

to a jungle of jaguars or American tigers.

We could, if we wanted, travel in time,

think that the Paraná was the river of life

from whose clay the first man had been made.

We heard screams and we saw

that the few bathers that were left

were running towards a point on the beach.

We approached the place.

On the ground, extended,

there was a young man,

with his arms outstretched

like in a cross.

Other man, astride him,

pressed his chest with both hands.

The drowned man did not react.

I approached him: I saw

that his eyes were opened.

His glazed look seemed

to search for something in the sky.

I understood that he was dead

and that nothing and no one

could bring him back to life.

I wondered what last image

he would have taken away from this world.

And who would have him called

in the final moments

of desperate, agonizing strokes.

We, so worried about love,

while he has already entered into death.

What would death be like?

The dead man brought that question to us

passengers of love. 

My girlfriend, next to me, cried.

We were silent, sad,

before the unexpected tragedy. 

The drowned was lying in the sand.

Nothing could be done.

The people went away.

It was getting dark. 

Death so close to life.

The end so close to the beginning.

We felt in us the brevity of the world. 

We perceived our mortality

and we trembled for the future life. 

“May God give us life”, I thought,

and I said it out loud. 

My beloved embraced me and, sad,

we started the return home. 

We slowly crossed the city in the bus of love. 

When we arrived, his mother was preparing dinner.

We did not say anything. Reunited as a family

we ate a meat pie and drank beer.

On the TV a young artist was singing "The Song of Hope":

"Time that keeps passing / like life does not return".

My girlfriend and I look at each other

and hold each other's hands. 

We were in love with that thing

that is life. Inside me I prayed

that it would remain in its being.

  

                        Translated by the author

                       

El ahogado

                                                            de Alberto Julián Pérez

Estábamos pasando con mi novia el día en La Florida.

No me refiero a alguna playa de arena blanca en Miami

sino al balneario municipal de arena oscura, en Rosario.

Mirábamos desfilar, desde la orilla, los camalotes viajeros

que descendían desde Corrientes

con su carga de serpientes y de monos.

Nuestro amor era un amor sencillo

de pueblo o ciudad sudamericana,

donde los pobres se bañan en el río de barro

y los ricos maquillan la realidad con sueños prestados.

Finalmente nos ganó el hambre

y fuimos a un bar de la playa

a tomar cerveza y comer sánguches de milanesa.

El sol se iba poniendo en el horizonte.

Atardeceres de reflejos bermejos del Paraná.

Pareciera que el cielo o dios estuviera herido

y sufriera, por nosotros, que le hicimos daño.

Le dije a mi novia que quizá éramos parte

de una fantasmagoría. Abrazados

a nuestro amor tierno

imaginamos que nos íbamos río abajo

a una selva de jaguares o tigres americanos.

Podíamos, si queríamos, viajar en el tiempo,

pensar que el Paraná era el río de la vida

de cuya arcilla había sido hecho el primer hombre.

Escuchamos gritos

y vimos que los pocos bañistas que quedaban

corrían hacia un punto en la playa.

Nos acercamos al lugar. En el suelo, extendido,

había un joven, con los brazos en cruz.

Un muchacho, a horcajadas sobre él,

le presionaba el pecho con ambas manos.

El ahogado no reaccionaba.

Me aproximé a él: vi que tenía los ojos abiertos.

Su mirada vidriada parecía buscar algo en el cielo.

Comprendí que estaba muerto

y que ya nada ni nadie lo volvería a la vida.

Me pregunté que imagen última

se habría llevado de este mundo.

Y a quién habría llamado, en los instantes finales,

de brazadas desesperadas, agónicas.

Nosotros preocupados por el amor

y él ya entrado en la muerte. ¿Cómo sería la muerte?

El muerto nos traía esa pregunta a nosotros

pasajeros del amor.

Mi novia, junto a mí, lloraba.

Estábamos en silencio, graves, ante la tragedia inesperada.

El ahogado quedó tendido en la arena.

Nada podía hacerse. La gente se fue alejando.

Oscurecía.

La muerte tan cerca de la vida.

El final tan próximo al comienzo.

Sentimos en nosotros la brevedad del mundo.

Percibimos nuestra mortalidad

y temblamos por la vida futura.

Quiera dios darnos vida, pensé,

y lo dije en voz alta.

Mi amada se abrazó a mí y, tristes,

emprendimos el regreso a casa.

Atravesamos lentamente la ciudad

en el colectivo del amor.

Al llegar, su madre preparaba la cena.

No dijimos nada. Reunidos en familia

comimos empanadas y bebimos vino.

En la TV un joven cantor entonó “Zamba de mi esperanza”:

“El tiempo que va pasando/ como la vida no vuelve más”.

Mi novia y yo nos miramos y nos tomamos de la mano.

Estábamos enamorados de esa cosa que es la vida.

Dentro mío rogué que perdurara en su ser.