| The Sound of Milk |
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| Written by Editor |
| Sunday, 25 April 2010 23:19 |
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My neighborhood in Cartagena is very old-fashioned and simple: a grid of several main avenues intersected by about ten cross streets. The one of I use to get to my apartment is wide enough for one car with only a few inches to spare and is flanked on both sides by colonial buildings with doorways that are always open and that offer a window into the life of my neighbors.
As comparatively imaginable, entering Cartagena and seeing a woman dry shaving in her den comes as something of a surprise. One particular apartment is located on the ground floor and is home to a man called Gaspard. He lives there with his two brothers, Lucho and Carlos, and his mother who’s name I don’t know. At the age of 91, Gaspard’s mother is the closest thing to the walking dead as I have ever met: a frail, skinny-as-a-rail woman, her shriveled skin has the texture of raisins. One of her eyes has been replaced by what looks to be a marble, her few remaining teeth are pointed like small dislocated tombstones, and she wears the same nightgown at all times of the day, hovering around the apartment like an ethereal spirit. “Mama, say hello to Matteo,” Gaspard once said to his mother who was standing in the corner of the room talking to a broken clock. She turned her head to my surprise, and mouthed something unintelligible. “It’s nice to meet you too mama,” I said, “your dress. Is very pretty.” I leaned in for an introduction kiss and smelled something that I've now termed the smell of the end. Having volunteered throughout high school at a nursing home, I have experience with old people who’ve lost their senses. I remember one afternoon wheeling this one man to the cafeteria when he told me, “the nurses were all stupid fucking negroes.” There’s not a lot you can reason with an eighty year-old schizophrenic, so I acted as if he’d said nothing, responding, “looks like they have your favorite JELLO for dinner.” Gaspard’s brothers are both teachers of English and what scares me most is the questions they sometime ask. “What the difference of hair and her and here?” they might say. One time they asked if I knew the English word for leche and we spent several painful minutes pronouncing the sound of M-I-L-K. When I help them create their lesson plans, I feel authoritative and guru-esque, like an ambassador of my language, able masterfully, to explain English things in words they understand. My nouns and verbs are getting better, but it’s still the little words in between that I struggle with in these chats. Your mother is emptying a bottle of syrup into her slipper, I might want to say. But of the above, I am able only to say a few select words. And whereas I may be hesitant at a bank or with a lawyer, around Carlos and Lucho, I am comfortable simply breaking it down into three sentences. “Your mom.” “The syrup.” “Bad idea.” After getting to know them a bit, I now pass by the house and simply shout out a salutation, and wait for a personalized response. For a living, Gaspard does what I can only describe as grown-up arts and crafts. Whether it’s a handmade sign or 3-D model of a real estate floorplan, people pay Gaspard good money for his creativity. It was only a few days ago in passing that I saw sitting on the table two five-foot renditions of the Eiffel Tower made from what I identify as wooden matchsticks. I was wondering who on earth would pay for such a thing, not to mention who’d have the patience to put such a structure together, when one of Gaspard’s brothers chimed in with five words that sum up just how exciting and unpredictable it is living in Cartagena. “Those towers is my dog.” There are various Spanish schools available in Cartagena but more excitement and thrill accompanies learning (and teaching) a new language rather than formally becoming one of its students. You may choose to get into Spanish by taking lessons, or allow, like me, Spanish to seep into you through a sort of osmosis. The process of adapting to a culture different from your own via the old-fashioned spirit of good neighbors. |
| Last Updated on Saturday, 22 May 2010 19:48 |
