Cuando Robert despertó, estaba solo en la cama. Se desperezó lentamente. Sentía que había dormido una eternidad. Luego recostó la espalda en la cabecera de la cama y miró una nota de Natasha que había sobre la mesita de noche. Estiró la mano, agarró la nota y leyó: «La pasé muy bien anoche. Te llamo luego.»
Eran las dos de la tarde del domingo. Aquel día tenía que ir a visitar a su madre. Se lo había prometido el miércoles, cuando ella lo llamó para saber cómo estaba y pedirle dinero porque necesitaba comprar medicinas. Era lo único que hacía los domingos por la tarde desde que Natasha salió de su vida. Aunque esto último lo estaba poniendo en duda.
A las tres ya se había bañado, vestido y comido. Cerró con llave la puerta del apartamento, bajó por las escaleras del edificio, atravesó el vestíbulo y caminó hacia el estacionamiento. Tenía la frente arrugada por el destello del sol y un ligero dolor de cabeza. Llegó hasta donde estaba aparcado El Bólido. Subió al carro, metió la llave en el contacto, encendió el motor. Dio marcha atrás mientras veía por el retrovisor y luego metió primera y salió del estacionamiento hacia la Av. Universidad. Sorteó dos semáforos antes de entrar en la autopista y condujo rumbo a Campo de Carabobo.
Cuando llegó a Barrera iban a ser las cuatro. El viaje por la carretera había dejado su mente en orden, fría y serena. El dolor de cabeza había desaparecido. Estacionó frente a la casa donde había crecido, bajó del carro y entró en el antiguo hogar. Su madre se encontraba en la cocina desmenuzando una pechuga de pollo cocida.
Robert le dio un beso en la mejilla y le pidió la bendición.
—Es muy temprano para cocinar —comentó.
—Sabes que yo ceno temprano —replicó ella—. Además, prefiero tener todo listo antes de la hora de la cena porque hoy tendremos una visita.
—¿Otro de tus prometidos?
Su madre se echó a reír.
—Puedes llamarlo de esa forma si quieres. Pero en realidad es un amigo.
«Como todos los demás», pensó Robert. Desde hacía cinco años que a su madre la frecuentaban amigos, cuya amistad no duraba seis meses. El padre de Robert había muerto siete años atrás. Semejante pérdida había afectado a su madre hasta el punto en que debió ser cuidada por sus hermanas, las tías de Robert. Dos años después, su madre optó por seguir con su vida y así fue conociendo hombres que a los pocos meses desechaba, insatisfecha y decepcionada porque ninguno podía compararse con su difunto esposo. Robert no la juzgaba en absoluto: comprendía la necesidad de llenar el vacío.
A la hora de la cena, un Impala gris de séptima generación estacionó fuera de la casa, detrás del bólido. Robert se asomó por la ventana de la sala y lo vio. El carro parecía recién lavado. Su madre anunció que se trataba del invitado y salió a recibirlo.
—Robert, te presento a Marcos —dijo ella sonriente cuando regresó a la sala con el nuevo amigo. Para sorpresa de Robert, se trataba de un hombre joven, de unos treinta y cinco. Su madre tenía cincuenta y ocho.
Robert lo observó detenidamente. Era casi tan alto como él, cerca del metro setenta. Vestía pantalones negros, camisa azul marino, mocasines negros y relucientes. Un hombre simpático a primera vista, sin barba, bien peinado y robusto. Luego estrechó su mano sin pronunciar palabra.
—Mucho gusto, amigo —le dijo Marcos sonriente. Y tras el apretón de manos, lo miró sorprendido y lo apuntó con el dedo índice de la derecha—. ¿Sabes? Me parece que te he visto antes... ¿conoces el restaurante La isla?
—Sí —respondió Robert.
—Con razón, a lo mejor te vi allí.
—Es probable.
Conversaron un rato más antes de pasar al comedor. Robert estuvo callado la mayor parte del tiempo. Se sentía incómodo. Esperaba a un hombre contemporáneo a su madre, como los que había conocido anteriormente, no aquel sujeto que bien podía ser su hermano, o peor, su amigo.
Luego tomaron asiento alrededor de la mesa y su madre sirvió tres platos con ensalada de pollo, arroz, plátano frito y pan, acompañados de un vaso con jugo de papaya.
—Lucía me dijo que eres escritor y periodista —dijo Marcos cuando empezaron a comer.
—Así es —confirmó Robert.
—Ganó el bienal de literatura Rómulo Gallegos cuando publicó su tercera novela y el año pasado obtuvo una mención honorífica por su labor como periodista —dijo su madre orgullosa, antes de tomar con el tenedor un poco de ensalada de pollo y metérsela a la boca.
—Eres de armas tomar —exclamó Marcos.
—Tampoco es para tanto —replicó Robert. Acababa de tomar un poco de jugo.
—¿Para cuál periódico escribes?
—Para El intermediario. También escribo un artículo mensual para la revista Cultura.
—Y te parece poco —exclamó Marcos con cara de sorprendido—. Vaya, amigo, si eres todo un personaje —Colocó la cabeza del tenedor sobre el arroz humeante de su plato y señaló otra vez a Robert con el dedo—. Tengo una pregunta para ti. ¿Por qué en los medios nunca informan sobre lo que realmente pasa en las calles?
Robert miró fijamente a Marcos. Comenzaba a molestarle que estuvieran señalándolo.
—El trabajo de los periodistas —dijo— consiste en informar sobre un suceso luego de una investigación exhaustiva, lo cual no significa que la información proporcionada, en este caso, por las autoridades, siempre sea verídica. Por esta razón, los periodistas no se quedan con una sola versión de los hechos y entrevistan también a los habitantes de la zona, en busca de la verdad; pero cualquiera que aprecie su vida sabe que es mejor tener memoria de pez cuando se trata de homicidios, robos, secuestros y cualquier otro acto relacionado con el hampa, ¿o me equivoco?
—Tienes toda la razón —respondió Marcos.
—Entonces no formules una pregunta cuya respuesta ya conoces —dijo Robert secamente.
En todo el tiempo que estuvo hablando, no quitó la mirada de los ojos de su interlocutor. Y este tampoco lo hizo. Ambos habían dejado de comer. Su madre los observaba con especial curiosidad. El silencio se apoderó del comedor durante diez largos segundos.
Marcos esbozó una sonrisa.
—Tranquilo, amigo —dijo—. Solo quería conocer tu punto de vista.
Luego tomó una tajada de plátano frito con el tenedor y se la llevó a la boca.
—Te dije que se parecía a su padre —dijo la madre de Robert sonriendo, tras beber un sorbo de jugo.
Robert se removió sobre la silla, observó el rostro sonriente de su madre y pensó que lo mejor era llevar la fiesta en paz.
—Y tú, ¿de qué trabajas? —le preguntó a Marcos, antes de volver a comer.
Marcos terminó de masticar.
—Soy policía —dijo, sonriendo nuevamente.
Tras la cena, se sentaron en los sofás de la sala y continuaron hablando. Alrededor de las nueve de la noche, cuando los temas de conversación se agotaron y los silencios se volvieron más largos e incómodos, Marcos se levantó y anunció que se retiraría porque más tarde tendría que patrullar. Robert y su madre lo acompañaron hasta la salida, lo vieron subir al Impala gris, dar la vuelta en la calle y regresar por donde había venido.
—No me vas a decir qué tal te pareció Marcos —dijo la madre de Robert cuando quedaron solos nuevamente, a pocos metros del bólido.
Robert suspiró.
—No me cae bien —dijo mientras abría la puerta del chofer.
—Marcos es un buen hombre. No entiendo qué le ves de malo.
Robert dejó la puerta abierta, se acercó a ella y le dio un beso en la frente.
—Nos vemos el próximo fin de semana —dijo—. Bendición.
Luego subió al carro y se fue.
Esta obra está bajo una Licencia Creative Commons.
When Robert awoke, he was alone in bed. Stretched his body slowly. It felt like he had slept forever. Then he leaned his back against the headboard and looked at a note from Natasha on the bedside table. He reached out, grabbed the note and read, "I had a great time last night. I'll call you later."
It was two o'clock on Sunday afternoon. That day he had to visit his mother. He had promised her on Wednesday, when she had called him to check on him and ask him for money because she needed to buy medicine. It was the only thing he did on Sunday afternoons since Natasha had left his life. Although the latter he was questioning.
By three o'clock she had bathed, dressed and eaten. He locked the apartment door, walked down the stairs of the building, through the lobby and walked to the parking lot. His forehead was wrinkled from the sun glare and he had a slight headache. He made it to where The Bolide was parked. He got into the car, put the key in the ignition, started the engine. He reversed the car while looking in the rearview mirror and then put it in first gear and drove out of the parking lot towards Universidad Avenue. He went through two traffic lights before entering the highway and drove towards Campo Carabobo.
By the time he reached Barrera it was about four o'clock. The road trip had left his mind in order, cool and collected. The headache was gone. He parked in front of the house where he had grown up, got out of the car and walked into the old home. His mother was in the kitchen shredding a cooked chicken breast.
Robert gave her a kiss on the cheek and asked for her blessing.
"It's too early to cook "commented.
"You know I eat dinner early," she replied, "Besides, I prefer to have everything ready before dinner time because we have a visitor today.
"Another of your fiancées?
His mother laughed.
"You can call him that if you want. But he's really a friend.
"Like all others," Robert thought. For five years his mother had been frequented by friends whose friendship did not last six months. Robert's father had died seven years earlier. Such a loss had affected his mother to the point where she had to be cared for by her sisters, Robert's aunts. Two years later, his mother chose to move on with her life and so she met men whom within a few months she discarded, dissatisfied and disappointed that none could compare to her late husband. Robert did not judge her at all: he understood the need to fill the void.
At dinnertime, a seventh-generation gray Impala parked outside the house behind the bolide. Robert leaned out the living room window and saw it. The car looked freshly washed. His mother announced that it was the guest and went out to greet him.
"Robert, meet Marcos," she said, smiling as she returned to the living room with her new friend. To Robert's surprise, he was a young man, about thirty-five. His mother was fifty-eight.
Robert watched him closely. He was almost as tall as he was. He wore black pants, navy blue shirt, black, shiny loafers. A nice man at first glance, beardless, well groomed and sturdy. Then he shook her hand without saying a word.
"Nice to meet you, friend," said Marcos, smiling. And after the handshake, he looked at him in surprise and pointed at him with the index finger of his right hand. "You know, I think I've seen you before? Do you know the restaurant La Isla?
"Yes," Robert replied.
"Rightly so, maybe I saw you there.
"Probably,"
They chatted a while longer before moving on to the dining room. Robert was quiet most of the time. He felt uncomfortable. He was expecting a man contemporary to his mother, like the ones he had met before, not this guy who might as well be his brother, or worse, his friend.
They then took a seat around the table and their mother served three plates of chicken salad, rice, fried plantain and bread, accompanied by a glass of papaya juice.
"Lucia told me that you are a writer and journalist," said Marcos when they began to eat.
"That's right," Robert confirmed.
"He won the Rómulo Gallegos literature biennial when he published his third novel, and last year he received an honorable mention for his work as a journalist," said his mother proudly, before picking up some chicken salad with her fork and putting it in her mouth.
"You are a tough," Marcos exclaimed.
"It's no big deal," Robert replied. He had just had some juice.
"What newspaper do you write for?
"For El intermediario. I also write a monthly article for Cultura magazine.
"And you don't think that's enough," exclaimed Marcos with a surprised look on his face. "Well, my friend, you're quite a character," he placed the head of his fork on the steaming rice on his plate and pointed his finger at Robert again. "I have a question for you, why don't the media ever report what's really going on in the streets?
Robert stared at Mark. It was beginning to bother him that he was being singled out.
"The work of journalists," he said, "consists of reporting on an event after an exhaustive investigation, which does not mean that the information provided, in this case, by the authorities, is always true. For this reason, journalists do not stay with only one version of the facts and also interview the inhabitants of the area, in search of the truth; but anyone who appreciates his or her life knows that it is better to have a fish memory when it comes to homicides, robberies, kidnappings and any other act related to the underworld, or am I wrong?
"You are absolutely right," Marcos answered.
"Then don't ask a question you already know the answer to," said Robert dryly.
In all the time he was talking, he did not take his eyes off his interlocutor's eyes. And neither did he. They had both stopped eating. His mother was watching them with special curiosity. The dining room was silent for ten long seconds.
Marcos smiled.
"Easy, buddy," he said, "I just wanted to get your point of view.
He then picked up a slice of fried plantain with his fork and popped it into his mouth.
"I told you he looked like his father," said Robert's mother smiling, after taking a sip of juice.
Robert stirred in his chair, looked at his mother's smiling face and thought it best to conduct the party in peace.
"And you, what do you do for a living? -he asked Marcos, before going back to eating.
Marcos finished chewing.
"I'm a cop," he said, smiling again.
After dinner, they sat on the sofas in the living room and continued talking. Around nine in the evening, when the topics of conversation were exhausted and the silences became longer and more uncomfortable, Marcos got up and announced that he would be leaving because he would have to patrol later. Robert and his mother accompanied him to the exit, watched him get into the gray Impala, turn around in the street and go back the way he had come.
"You're not going to tell me what you think of Marcos," said Robert's mother when they were alone again, a few meters away from the bolide.
nbsp;Robert sighed.
"I don't like him," he said as he opened the driver's door.
"Marcos is a good man. I don't understand what you see wrong with him.
Robert left the door open, walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead.
"See you next weekend," he said. "Blessings.
Then he got into the car and drove off.
This work is under a Creative Commons License.
