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300 pages, Paperback
First published November 3, 2003
‘According to her, what she missed most from her native gardens was—the scent of violets—.’
‘Without knowing—my maternal grandmother—bequeathed me her legacy. A light, burdensome legacy: the letter of her life. I once suggested she write down her memories so that they wouldn’t be lost. I soon forgot my suggestion, but she didn’t, and one fine day she sent me some handwritten sheets of paper: the ones I’m now holding uncertainly. The handwriting—a calligraphy that no longer exists, the trace of another era. The sentences are full of whispered truths. That letter has changed my life, or at least, my obligations. Now I have to thank my grandmother by completing it.’
‘Writing and reading is a form of action. Ports and mailboxes: the entire history of migrations is encapsulated there.’
‘The very last thing I saw you do was plant a tree. Damn it, you really knew how to die symbolically. It was a weeping willow. It was your heart. The roots weren’t properly watered. Nobody worried much about your health, least of all you—you smoked secretly in the bathroom; like an aged child, you took suspiciously long walks and came back sucking mentholated sweets. You continued to overwork. You never wanted to be your own patient.’
‘What if somebody suddenly picks up at the other end? Maybe I’d hear a frank, open, not over-exaggerated laugh. I’m not sure—I scarcely knew you—I remember you well. Increasingly, as time goes by. I recall the future, the years we didn’t spend together. I see how they would have been, look how they are. I’m also getting to learn—your silences, your evasions, but so what? We all need a grandfather, and so I insist on writing to you. Since you aren’t there, let me invent you. And I thought that, beyond whatever the truth—this lack of questions pointed not so much to the uncertain destiny of one person as to the sordidness of collective silences.’
‘Okay, that it’s been difficult trying to imagine you. Not because of your phantom quality or the ellipses of those who knew you. More because I suspect it is more legitimate, perhaps more real, to narrate out of love. Described from very close up, everyone drowns. But from very far away, they hollow out. The portrait of someone depends less on the viewpoint than on the point of arrival. That’s why, great-uncle Cacho, I can no longer avoid loving you a little. Because somehow narrating leads us to love for what we are narrating. And I would go so far as to add that, when this transformation doesn’t take place, what’s written is a lie.’
‘Grandma, you—who read the classics—underline dubious phrases, cross out adjectives, question endings, tell me what you thought about the characters—I’ll never be able to thank you enough. What I can do is recollect something that we all helped be forgotten. That, in a youth your fingers cannot reach, you translated—into Spanish. That I keep a copy—printed in Buenos Aires in 1947. That back then you were younger than I am as I write these words.’
‘On that abandoned shelf, grandma, are stacked the merits of whole generations of grandmothers who thought that what they were doing was unimportant. You know that in our family there’s been a few musicians or painters. Music with images, that’s what our memory is like. But nobody in words. I thought I was the only one of us to do that—until I discovered—your juvenile verses. I have read at least one poem with your name printed underneath. I’m not sure whether your book of poems, which you innocently called Fuegos juveniles (Youthful Fires), was ever published beyond the mention of its title at the bottom of those verses. But the mere possibility is part of the narrative.’
‘They were small details, or maybe not: perhaps that moment of linguistic uncertainty was my first attempt at survival. The shore was about to move. Even though it was the same, my language was about to be transformed: a mother and a foreign tongue forever. Would my memory also change? Now I come to think of it, possibly my memory was just about to begin—Having more than one shore isn’t something to feel sorry over. Having origins in two places can duplicate time.