Conocí Eisejuaz (lo primero que leí de Gallardo) gracias a la generosa recomendación de Germán García, uno de los máximos exponentes de la literatura argentina (lean su Nanina, o su Miserere, por señalar algunos de sus libros, y verán que no me equivoco). Eisejuaz me deslumbró. Como suele ocurrir en nuestro maltrecho país, lo excelente no es lo obvio, lo que circula en los medios de divulgación. Por el contrario es lo "olvidado", es lo "puesto al margen". Quizás no está mal que sea así... Difícil decirlo.
Entonces vuelvo a Enero. De Fiordo editorial. 2018.
Nefer, niña-púber de algún pueblo de provincia, en el que el ardor del sol de verano dirige la excitación brutal y el aplacamiento narcotizado de los cuerpos, habla la
lengua babélica y universal de la desesperanza, del sometimiento, de los sueños del amor
inexistente, del acceso sin retorno e inocente a la sexualidad, de la
incomprensión, de la ternura. El secreto de Nefer, que sólo es mencionado por
su nombre hacia el final (tema candente y de actualidad si los hay por estas
latitudes en estos momentos), se respira desde la primera página. Gallardo
logra, con pinceladas sutiles de costumbres, con deseos exiliados, con la
lengua de “los de abajo”, hacernos saber enseguida de qué se trata el asunto. Y
el lector cae en sus redes gustosamente, y va a caballo con Nefer, y se
refresca con ella en la lluvia, y sufre sus sufrimientos, su confusión, y la imposibilidad de
sus deseos, hasta confluir con ella en lo que “arregla las cosas”, modalidad
diferente de lo mismo, entonces la angustia es inevitable.
La ternura vendrá solo entreverada, sugerida, huidiza:
“(…) Nefer mira al
padre oscuro inclinado bajo el sombrero. Hay un silencio y ella vacila. Después
susurra:
-Y cuando pasan cosas…
-¿Eh?
- Y cuando suceden
cosas… que van a venir…
-Nada es tanto… Todo
viene y después será.
La ternura la entibia
y por un instante su angustia se disipa”.
"Nada es tanto... Todo viene y después será"; ¿cómo explicar la sabiduría torrencial que esta frase condensa?
Enero es una
novela tan vital como actual, en la que lo aludido, lo silenciado cimentan eróticas, lenguas, cultura. Muchísimas mujeres, por no decir todas,
deberían leerla con urgencia. Así como los hombres.
"Nothing is that much... Everything comes and later will be" (Nothing instead of anything is just the atractive point of the sentence). Gallardo is another argentine writer must, almost impossible to translate. But I wanted, at least, to give you a version of that amazing phrase, full of wisdom.
Her works "speak" languages spoke by those ignored by the big city. In January, Nefer speaks the "babelic" and universal language of dispare, of submission, of nonexistent love dreams, of the naive and no returning discovering of sexuality, of the lack of understanding, of tenderness. You breath Nefer´s secret from the first page, and hold it tight, in a town where the brutal excitement and the narcotized calm down of the bodies are ruled by the heat of the summer sun. January is an updated and vital novel, in which the aforesaid and the hushed up elements cement erotics, languages, culture.
I found a part of this amazing book translated by Audrey Hall in internet. I´ll post it for you.
With translation from the Spanish & original commentary by Audrey Hall
"She kicks her horse into a gallop, keeping to the tall grasses where the hoofbeats are muffled. She’d rather not think about the end of her journey, about that old woman whom she’s never seen but in whom she has placed all her hopes. Everyday things take on undue significance as her eyes consider them, one by one. Thistle, she says to herself, thistle, quail, dung, anthill, heat, and then she listens to the one, two three, four, one, two, three, four of the horse’s hooves beating the ground. Slowly, sweat appears behind the horse’s ears and runs in cloudy threads down his neck, where the chafing of the reins churns up dirty foam. Little voices, little voices speak to Nefer, but she ignores them. Cow, she thinks. Spotted cow, another and another. That one looks sunburnt. Lapwings. Two lapwings and a fat pigeon. Screaming so loud!
The path is an immense, empty tongue. Nefer watches her shadow gallop across the ground; she shifts her position, adjusts the angle of her arm, and twists her head around to see what changes she can make to it. Sweat streaks the horse’s haunches and starts dripping down his legs; Nefer looks down at the palm of her hand, where dirt shades in every crease.
“Hey there, Dapple,” she murmurs, “You’ll have the day off tomorrow, eh? I’ll slip you some corn when no one’s looking. You like that? Tomorrow you’ll rest … Tomorrow when the mission starts and …” A sudden bump in the road throws her thoughts off course, but a bitter taste lingers in her chest.
After walking through pastures and crossing the railroad tracks, after not seeing anyone for over an hour, when the tall grasses grow sparse over the ashy ground and the horse’s sweat has turned bluish, Nefer comes across a farmhouse in the translucent oven of the afternoon. As it comes into view, her heart shrinks.
Far away, where the tala trees form a dark eyebrow, Don Pedro’s sister lives with her family. But she isn’t worrying about them right now, she’s not worrying about anything but this flattened little farmhouse next to the huge, dry eucalyptus where nothing moves.
Why did I come? "
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