El hombre de la lapicera [Esp - Eng]

EL HOMBRE DE LA LAPICERA

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Todos los días lo veo pasar. Él camina con las piernas titubeantes y la mirada perdida. Su barba gris sube hasta su cabellera baja, hasta su pelada en la coronilla que se extiende por su frente.

Va emitiendo sonidos inteligibles dando tumbos por las calles de Quilmes, revisando cualquier espacio en busca de papel y lapiceras, queriendo plasmar algo antes de olvidarlo. Sus pedazos de papel guardados en sus bolsillos, todos con garabatos que guardan sentido sólo en su memoria de combate.

Le he visto pasar casi desnudo, sucio, mal oliente, casi sin voz, con su piel pegada a sus huesos por falta de alimento. En ocasiones pasa limpio y galante recién bañado, con arapos nuevos, igual desgastados pero diferentes. Quiero creer que lo han rescatado y le han dado un baño y comida caliente pero luego vuelve a su estado sucio habitual. Siempre pidiendo una lapicera o un pedazo de papel.

Hoy volví a verlo pasar, tenía el pantalón beige de casi siempre, mugriento pero bien puesto. Amarrado con una tira esta vez, para que no se le caiga y cubrirle su piel del frío. Una chaqueta engomada ya desgastada pero le ayuda a soportar los 12° del ambiente. Tenía una caja de zapatos en sus manos y la abrazaba como un tesoro, cómo se abraza a un bebé.

La primera vez que entró yo estaba nerviosa, no sabía qué decirle, me daba miedo su desequilibrio. Si le echaba, no sabía cómo reaccionaría. Yo me limité a preguntarle lo que quería y le entregué una lapicera como exigió. Garabateó un papel, se dio media vuelta y se fue. Yo respiré profundo, rocíe alcohol por todas partes y deseé que Dios se apiadara de él. Nadie merece vivir de esa manera.

Me han dicho que luchó en combate, uno de esos veteranos de la Guerra de las Malvinas. No de esos generales condecorados que veo en las películas, sino un pobre hombre que le tocó salir al campo de batalla y luchar al frente por el honor de su patria sin recompensa. De esos que no perdieron la vida pero perdieron la razón en la tierra, en la sangre, en el dolor.

Siempre me he preguntado qué quiere escribir. Cómo terminó de esa manera tan deplorable. Es doloroso verlo pasar. Es doloroso echarlo, porque ahora lo echo. Ya no pide lapiceras, ahora me golpea el mostrador, me grita y debo hacerlo. Debo pedirle que se vaya. Debo gritarle "NO". No una, dos, tres, veces hasta que se retira vencido nuevamente.

Le he escuchado hablar con su voz real, supongo que tiene algunos minutos de cordura, aunque siempre con distancia y sin lograr entender lo que dice. No sé si tendrá una cama, un catre o un cartón, no sé si se despertará en la fría noche en el suelo y recobrará la memoria lamentando estar donde está, estar como está.

He visto como le amenazan con bañarlo si no se corre, si no se larga. He visto sus ojos apagarse cuando le demando alejarse. Me lastima hacerlo, siento que con cada grito pierdo un poco de humanidad. Pero como tratarlo diferente si él sigue actuando de la misma manera.

¿Habrá tenido familia? ¿Tendrá hijos? ¿Se habrá enamorado? ¿Alguien lo habrá amado? ¿Será que nadie le dio una oportunidad? No lo sé. Pero todo esto me lo pregunto cada vez que le veo pasar. Todo lo que habrá sufrido este pobre infeliz para perder la cabeza y dedicarse a vagar por las calles de Quilmes ...

Espero que algún día logre escribir su predicamento, que la tinta de su mente no se acabe, que no le falte un pedazo de papel cuando encuentre la lucidez para relatar su historia.

Deseo poder leerla y que el mundo sepa quién es él, lo que hizo y lo que fue.

Qué no le falte su lapicera.
Cleyna.

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THE MAN WITH THE PEN

English

Every day I see him pass by. He walks with hesitant legs and a lost look. His gray beard goes up to his low hair, to his bald crown that extends across his forehead.

He makes intelligible sounds stumbling through the streets of Quilmes, checking any space for paper and pens, wanting to capture something before he forgets it. His scraps of paper in his pockets, all with scribbles that make sense only in his memory of combat.

I have seen him pass by almost naked, dirty, smelly, almost voiceless, with his skin stuck to his bones for lack of food. Sometimes he passes clean and gallant, freshly bathed, with new rags, equally worn but different. I want to believe that he has been rescued and given a bath and warm food, but then he returns to his usual dirty state. Always asking for a pen or a piece of paper.

Today I saw him walk by again, he was in his usual beige pants, grubby but well worn. Tied with a strip this time, so that they would not fall down and cover his skin from the cold. A rubberized jacket already worn out but it helps him withstand the 12° of the environment. He had a shoebox in his hands and was hugging it like a treasure, the way you hug a baby.

The first time she came in I was nervous, I didn't know what to say to her, I was afraid of her imbalance. If I threw him out, I didn't know how he would react. I just asked him what he wanted and handed him a pen as he demanded. He scribbled on a piece of paper, turned and left. I took a deep breath, sprayed alcohol everywhere and wished God had mercy on him. No one deserves to live like that.

I'm told he fought in combat, one of those Falklands War veterans. Not one of those decorated generals I see in the movies, but a poor man who had to go out to the battlefield and fight at the front for the honor of his country without reward. Of those who did not lose their lives but lost their reason on the ground, in blood, in pain.

I have always wondered what he wants to write. How it ended in such a deplorable way. It is painful to see it happen. It is painful to throw him out, because now I throw him out. He no longer asks for pens, now he hits me on the counter, he yells at me and I must do it. I must ask him to leave. I must yell "NO" at him. Not once, twice, three, times until he walks away defeated again.

I have heard him speak in his real voice, I suppose he has a few minutes of sanity, though always with distance and failing to understand what he is saying. I don't know if he will have a bed, a cot or a cardboard, I don't know if he will wake up in the cold night on the floor and recover his memory regretting being where he is, being as he is.

I've seen them threaten to bathe him if he doesn't run, if he doesn't leave. I've seen his eyes go out when I demand him to go away. It hurts me to do so, I feel that with every scream I lose a little bit of humanity. But how can I treat him differently if he continues to act the same way?

Did he have a family? Did he have children? Did he fall in love? Did someone love him? Did no one give him a chance? I don't know. But I wonder all this every time I see him pass by. I wonder what this poor wretch must have suffered to lose his mind and wander the streets of Quilmes....

I hope that someday he manages to write down his predicament, that the ink in his mind does not run out, that he does not lack a piece of paper when he finds the lucidity to tell his story.

I wish to be able to read it and that the world knows who he is, what he did and what he was.

May he not lack his pen.
Cleyna.

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Esta historia está inspirada en un hecho real.

This story is inspired by a true event.

_{-Banners realizados en CANVA/Banners created in CANVA.
-Fotografía extraída de PIXABAY/Photo taken from PIXABAY.}