El llanto del violín/ The Cry of the Violin

El llanto del violín

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Nunca me había puesto a pensar en todo lo malo que había vivido. Fingí por años, qué todo era normal, comer las sobras de la olla, bañarme con agua fría, dormir al lado del lavadero de la ropa sucia. Hasta vestirme con ropa usada, remendada, zapatos grandes o con orificios, nada de eso importaba. El amor a mi familia me cegaba o quizás me metí tan profundo en la cabeza que esos eran actos de amor.

¿Qué más podía pedir? Era la huérfana qué habían recibido sus tíos, para ellos sus hijos estaban por sobre mí, era lo lógico, sin embargo, qué culpa tenía la niña de siete años, nunca pensaron en mi dolor y me conformé con las migajas qué me daban.

Al pasar los años, por milagro o más bien por insistencia del seguro social, me permitieron asistir a la escuela. En ella me sentía libre y a la vez prisionera de mi propio destino. Era el blanco de las burlas de los compañeros, a pesar de eso, el cariño de mi maestra, la señorita Salazar, me animaba a no caer en el abismo al que todos me empujaban.

Sin darme cuenta, ya había cumplido los diecisiete años, sabía que al llegar a mis dieciocho, podría irme sin tener problemas. En esos años anteriores, la señorita Salazar, me había instruido en clases de violín, al parecer era buena y en cada nota que tocaba soltaba un poco de mi propio dolor.

Aquel violín se convirtió en mi tesoro, en mi única familia, era una extensión de mi propio ser. Cuando tocaba sus cuerdas, me transportaba a distintos lugares, en cada uno de ellos, siempre estaban mis padres, abrazándome fuerte, haciéndome sentir protegida y mimada, igual a como lo hacían en vida.

En mi cuarto húmedo, practicaba una melodía, era una creación, mi primer canción, sin embargo, la practicaba solo con movimientos al aire, no quería que ellos supieran que tenía el violín, de seguro sería capaces de arrebatarmelo y venderlo.

Sentí ruido fuera de mi cuarto. Para mi sorpresa era mi tía, ella era la hermana mayor de mi padre, siempre que se refería a él y a mi madre lo hacía en forma despectiva, muchas veces me dijo que mis malditos ojos marrones le recordaban a mi padre, sin embargo la intensidad de mi mirada era la de mi difunta madre, cuando hablaba de ella, su cara refleja odio, por alguna razón que no conocía, mi tía los odiaba a ambos.

Sin embargo, está vez, se mostraba dulce y maternal, en sus manos un vestido, se veía nuevo y de un color muy bello, además, traía consigo un par de zapatos que hacía juego. Pensé que eran para su hija, mi prima Alma, para mi sorpresa, eran para mi.

Me los entregó con una falsa y misteriosa sonrisa, me dijo que lo usara por la noche, ya que habría un evento familiar y debía estar presente. No negaré, mi emoción me envolvía, pensé que me amaban y todo lo malo que ellos habían hecho era una especie de prueba para pertenecer a aquella disfuncional familia.

Sin embargo, sus propósitos eran otros, unos que solo irían a su conveniencia. Cuando me dejaron el vestido se fueron sonrientes, cerré la puerta que casi caía a pedazos, desde allí escuché todo, era la ficha de cambio por una deuda de mi tío, me entregarían al viejo asqueroso de don Jacinto, el mismo que venía cada domingo desde que llegué a esta casa.

Una corriente eléctrica recorría mi cuerpo desde los pies a la cabeza, no cabía en mi cabeza lo que ellos buscaban hacer. Me vestí con aquel vestido, me quedaba enorme, mi figura delgada parecía bailar entre los pliegues de la tela nueva. Me calcé los zapatos, me quedaban grandes, de seguro luego serían para Alma.

Tomé entonces el violín, acaricie sus cuerdas, tensas, frágiles, parecían partes de mi vida a punto de cortarse y morir. El alma del violín parecía que me hablara, estaba en un trance extraño y poco a poco me dejé caer en aquel estado, parecía que me desvanecía mientras mis dedos tocaban el diapasón.

Una lagrima dio paso a una segunda y aquella a una tercera, de pronto lloraba en silencio, un llanto apagado, omitido. El dolor parecía quemar desde dentro hacia afuera. En ese momento sujeté tan fuerte el arco, mis manos sujetaban la cerda, tan tensa y filosa, parecía una espada oculta.

Mi mano cortada y goteando sangre, tan débil, ya ni siquiera era tan roja como se supone debería serlo. Limpié mi mano y puse una venda, era un trapo sucio en la esquina de mi flamante habitación. Mientras tanto mis ojos opacos veían mi difuso reflejo en un trozo de espejo. Acomode mi cabello, lo recogí tras de mis orejas, jamás lo había usado así, mis hombros se veían extraños, dos huesos protuberantes parecían cuernos, parecía un animal, un verdadero animal.

Al cabo de una hora o poco más me llamaron, allí iba yo, vestida, calzada y peinada, en mis manos mi tesoro, mi violín recién lustrado. La cara de mis tíos y prima lo dijeron todo, sin embargo les tocó aparentar frente al cerdo qué sostenía una copa de vino en la punta de la mesa.

-La niña toca el violín ¿sabía usted don Jacinto?- preguntaba mi tía sacando pecho, tratando de que la mercancía valiera unos pesos más.

La expresión de ese viejo fue grotesca, se relamió los labios que apenas se veían en su denso bigote cano.
Guarde la compostura y sonreí, débilmente hable -interpretaré para ustedes una melodía de mi creación-

Allí los cuatro me miraban mientras mis manos iban y venían tocando una melodía jamás escuchada. Al terminar me aplaudieron y consultaron -¿cómo se llama esa melodía?- sus ojos de intriga exaltaba mi deseo.

-Se llama “el descanso de los malditos”- sonreí y sostuve el arco con fuerza, uno a uno salte como gacela, rebane sus cuellos saltaba su sangre, roja, oscura, densa y podrida.

No me vieron venir, ¿como una escuálida logró esto? Ni yo misma lo sé, mientras tanto por fin ceno una comida caliente y no las sobras de la olla quemada, en el piso los malditos, aún se mueven, los dejaré sufrir un raro, me gusta ver sus ojos suplicando por ayuda.

Mientras tanto, cuando salga el sol, me iré por la puerta ancha, al fin y al cabo hoy era mi cumpleaños número dieciocho.

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English

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The Cry of the Violin

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I had never stopped to think about all the bad things I had been through. For years, I pretended that everything was normal: eating leftovers from the pot, bathing in cold water, sleeping next to the laundry room. Even wearing used, patched clothes and shoes that were too big or had holes in them didn't matter. My love for my family blinded me, or perhaps I convinced myself so deeply that these were acts of love.

What more could I ask for? I was the orphan that my aunt and uncle had taken in. For them, their own children came before me. It was logical, but what fault did a seven-year-old girl have? They never thought about my pain, and I settled for the crumbs they gave me.

As the years passed, by some miracle, or rather due to the insistence of social services, I was allowed to attend school. There, I felt free and at the same time a prisoner of my own destiny. I was the target of my classmates' teasing, but despite that, the affection of my teacher, Miss Salazar, encouraged me not to fall into the abyss that everyone was pushing me into.

Without realizing it, I had already turned seventeen, and I knew that when I turned eighteen, I could leave without any problems. In those previous years, Miss Salazar had taught me violin lessons. Apparently, I was good at it, and with every note I played, I released a little of my own pain.

That violin became my treasure, my only family, an extension of my own being. When I played its strings, it transported me to different places, and in each one, my parents were always there, hugging me tightly, making me feel protected and pampered, just as they had done when they were alive.

In my damp room, I practiced a melody, it was a creation, my first song, however, I practiced it only with movements in the air, I didn't want them to know I had the violin, they would surely take it from me and sell it.

I heard a noise outside my room. To my surprise, it was my aunt, my father's older sister. Whenever she referred to him and my mother, she did so in a derogatory manner. She often told me that my damn brown eyes reminded her of my father, but the intensity of my gaze was that of my late mother. When she spoke of her, her face reflected hatred. For some reason I didn't know, my aunt hated them both.

However, this time, she was sweet and maternal, holding a dress in her hands. It looked new and was a very beautiful color. She also brought a pair of matching shoes. I thought they were for her daughter, my cousin Alma, but to my surprise, they were for me.

She handed them to me with a fake and mysterious smile, telling me to wear them that night, as there would be a family event and I had to be there. I won't deny it, I was overcome with emotion. I thought they loved me and that all the bad things they had done were a kind of test to belong to that dysfunctional family.

However, their intentions were different, ones that would only suit them. When they left me the dress, they left smiling. I closed the door, which was almost falling apart, and from there I heard everything. It was the payment for my uncle's debt. They were going to hand me over to the disgusting old man, Don Jacinto, the same one who had been coming every Sunday since I arrived at this house.

An electric current ran through my body from head to toe. I couldn't comprehend what they were trying to do. I put on that dress. It was huge on me. My thin figure seemed to dance among the folds of the new fabric. I put on the shoes. They were too big for me. Surely they would be for Alma later.

I then took the violin and caressed its strings, tense and fragile, they seemed like parts of my life about to be cut off and die. The soul of the violin seemed to speak to me, I was in a strange trance and little by little I let myself fall into that state, it seemed as if I was fading away while my fingers touched the fingerboard.

One tear gave way to a second, and that to a third. Suddenly I was crying silently, a muffled, suppressed cry. The pain seemed to burn from the inside out. At that moment, I held the bow so tightly, my hands gripping the bowstring, so taut and sharp, it seemed like a hidden sword.

My hand was cut and dripping blood, so weak, it wasn't even as red as it was supposed to be. I cleaned my hand and put on a bandage, a dirty rag in the corner of my brand-new room. Meanwhile, my dull eyes saw my blurry reflection in a piece of mirror. I smoothed my hair, tucked it behind my ears, I had never worn it like that before, my shoulders looked strange, two protruding bones looked like horns, I looked like an animal, a real animal.

After an hour or so, they called me. There I went, dressed, shod, and combed, my treasure in my hands, my newly polished violin. The faces of my uncles and cousin said it all, but they had to pretend in front of the pig holding a glass of wine at the end of the table.

"The girl plays the violin, did you know that, Don Jacinto?" asked my aunt, puffing out her chest, trying to make the merchandise worth a few pesos more.

The old man's expression was grotesque, he licked his lips, which were barely visible under his thick gray mustache.
I kept my composure and smiled, speaking weakly, "I will play a melody of my own creation for you."

The four of them looked at me as my hands moved back and forth, playing a melody they had never heard before. When I finished, they applauded and asked, "What is the name of that melody?" Their eyes of intrigue excited my desire.

"It's called 'the rest of the damned'," I smiled and held the bow tightly. One by one, I leaped like a gazelle, slitting their throats and spilling their blood, red, dark, thick, and rotten.

They didn't see me coming. How did a scrawny girl like me manage this? I don't know myself. Meanwhile, I finally eat a hot meal instead of the leftovers from the burnt pot. On the floor, the damned ones still move. I'll let them suffer a little longer. I like to see their eyes begging for help.

Meanwhile, when the sun rises, I'll leave through the wide door. After all, today was my eighteenth birthday.

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La traducción fue realizada en Deepl versión free.

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