3 - THE ENIGMA OF MY LIFE
The place where I come from is very far from here. I was born during a rainy season with heavy rains that never stopped. Many people were startled and spoke of floods and punishment by God. The world would surely come to an end under water again.
The rivers rose from their beds. Water invaded homes. Roofs leaked endlessly. Dams broke down or overflowed. Only the Lake of the City remained calm because of its enchantment. Frightening lightening and thunder split the sky and bellowed as never seen or heard before. Superstitious people put sulfurous rocks under their tables to prevent fires sparked by the lightning. Others made offerings of sets of keys to St. Pedro in hope that he would shut heaven’s gates and stop the downpour. Moved by uncontrollable fear, non-believers converted and praised the name of God. They were navigators without compasses, travelers without destinations that held onto faith as the only lifesaver.And the rains continued stronger and stronger. One of the nights, when the storm was more violent than ever before, as the first light of dawn appeared, I was born.
Unexpectedly, the tempest stopped. Stars began to glitter in sparkling beauty across the sky.
In the living room, my father had been pacing, smoking nonstop, worrying about my mother and her labor pains. With him in nervous solidarity were some of his friends. They were caring neighbors: a husband and wife, and an old white-bearded man who liked to predict people’s futures.
Suddenly, after they heard the cry of the newborn, the midwife opened the door to the bedroom.
“It’s a boy!” she announced smiling.
Dad was overcome with happiness to the point that he was speechless. I was his first child:
a son.
“Just look at how beautiful he is,” the midwife said. “He looks just like a ‘Calunga’, a little doll.”
From that moment on, I was Calunga. It was a description that I liked and was proud of.
The old bearded man got up and changed his glasses to take a close look at me. He held my left hand and looked and looked and looked at it.
“Hmm.” he said, “I see a very good future for this boy. He will be carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of the crowd’s applause.”
The old man’s words echoed in the living room and were carried to the bedroom deep into my
mother’s being. Their sound reverberated throughout the years: “carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of applause” ... “carried on the shoulders of men to the sound
of applause”... My mother began to daydream about her wonderful son’s future. She also called me Calunga, a tender, loving way of addressing her handsome healthy son. (In fact, I never did get sick perhaps because my mother cared for my health so diligently.)
As time passed, I grew, perhaps even faster than time. By my second birthday party, I was much more developed than other two-year-olds. But then again, I was actually eight, having been born on February 29.
During those years, my mother continued to wonder about my future, “Could it be that he’ll become a politician? Perhaps mayor of this city?” “No, not a politician,” she answered in her mind. “My son couldn’t be a politician.” And so she dreamt on, basing her ideas on the
sweet logic of pure love: “A scholar, possibly a scientist?” she thought vainly adding, “A man who would make great contributions to humanity.” Like other mothers who hoped for the best for their children, she was filled with great aspirations for me.
There came a time, however, when suddenly awakening from her musings, she said out loud, “Only God knows the future, so may His will be done.” Even so, the words of the old white-bearded man continued to echo in her mind.
One morning she saw me playing soccer with my friends in a vacant lot near our house. She stopped to watch my moves: dribbling, passing, shooting goals.
“Eureka! I finally know!” she cried out. “My son is going to be a soccer star and will be carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of the crowd’s applause.”
Proud that she ha solved the riddle, she ran to meet my father to share her discovery.
“The prophecy will prove true,” she commented to friends.
Her confidence in the old man’s words was obvious, and the prediction took on a different tone, like a pleasant melody. Her maternal love could not permit that I face the future unprepared, and so that I would not be a shot in the dark, relying on her faith and
determination, she made a plan.
First of all, she went out and bought books about physical education. Shortly after, she set up a
relentless series of exercises to develop my muscles and coordination. Her orientation was brimming with dedication even in the kitchen.
“Your meals have vitamins A to Z, she kidded. “Enough for a horse!”
She remained motivated because her efforts had visible results in my athletic build and physical vigor. I was as strong then as I am today: a veritable tank .
My dad didn’t need to join her campaign. She had everything so carefully planned that any of
his suggestions just interfered. During this time, he was irritable, lacking any real incentive in his life. His boredom was the result of tedious, repetitive work and an unchanging routine. He began to feel like his life was a slow death.
He needed renewal and diversification in his life, so he decided that we would move. It was hard for him to convince my mother to leave the hometown, where she had grown up, married and had her first child. Used to living among friends made throughout the years,
she had never even considered leaving. Yet, my father helped her change her mind.
“It will be best for our son,” he said.
Deep inside, she knew that the change would be good, not for the boy, but for her husband himself.
She was quite aware that he was exploiting her motherly love to convince her to move.
Yet, whether this was true or not doesn’t matter. She finally gave in on one condition: that she
could choose the city where they would live.
“Wherever you wish,” my dad agreed.
“Then we’re off to the City,” she asserted.
It took a few days for Dad to make the arrangements and for Mom to organize the household
for moving. We traveled content and filled with high expectations for the new life awaiting us.
Truly, we felt as if we were entering a state of grace.
Unexpectedly, the tempest stopped. Stars began to glitter in sparkling beauty across the sky.
In the living room, my father had been pacing, smoking nonstop, worrying about my mother and her labor pains. With him in nervous solidarity were some of his friends. They were caring neighbors: a husband and wife, and an old white-bearded man who liked to predict people’s futures.
Suddenly, after they heard the cry of the newborn, the midwife opened the door to the bedroom.
“It’s a boy!” she announced smiling.
Dad was overcome with happiness to the point that he was speechless. I was his first child:
a son.
“Just look at how beautiful he is,” the midwife said. “He looks just like a ‘Calunga’, a little doll.”
From that moment on, I was Calunga. It was a description that I liked and was proud of.
The old bearded man got up and changed his glasses to take a close look at me. He held my left hand and looked and looked and looked at it.
“Hmm.” he said, “I see a very good future for this boy. He will be carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of the crowd’s applause.”
The old man’s words echoed in the living room and were carried to the bedroom deep into my
mother’s being. Their sound reverberated throughout the years: “carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of applause” ... “carried on the shoulders of men to the sound
of applause”... My mother began to daydream about her wonderful son’s future. She also called me Calunga, a tender, loving way of addressing her handsome healthy son. (In fact, I never did get sick perhaps because my mother cared for my health so diligently.)
As time passed, I grew, perhaps even faster than time. By my second birthday party, I was much more developed than other two-year-olds. But then again, I was actually eight, having been born on February 29.
During those years, my mother continued to wonder about my future, “Could it be that he’ll become a politician? Perhaps mayor of this city?” “No, not a politician,” she answered in her mind. “My son couldn’t be a politician.” And so she dreamt on, basing her ideas on the
sweet logic of pure love: “A scholar, possibly a scientist?” she thought vainly adding, “A man who would make great contributions to humanity.” Like other mothers who hoped for the best for their children, she was filled with great aspirations for me.
There came a time, however, when suddenly awakening from her musings, she said out loud, “Only God knows the future, so may His will be done.” Even so, the words of the old white-bearded man continued to echo in her mind.
One morning she saw me playing soccer with my friends in a vacant lot near our house. She stopped to watch my moves: dribbling, passing, shooting goals.
“Eureka! I finally know!” she cried out. “My son is going to be a soccer star and will be carried on the shoulders of men to the sound of the crowd’s applause.”
Proud that she ha solved the riddle, she ran to meet my father to share her discovery.
“The prophecy will prove true,” she commented to friends.
Her confidence in the old man’s words was obvious, and the prediction took on a different tone, like a pleasant melody. Her maternal love could not permit that I face the future unprepared, and so that I would not be a shot in the dark, relying on her faith and
determination, she made a plan.
First of all, she went out and bought books about physical education. Shortly after, she set up a
relentless series of exercises to develop my muscles and coordination. Her orientation was brimming with dedication even in the kitchen.
“Your meals have vitamins A to Z, she kidded. “Enough for a horse!”
She remained motivated because her efforts had visible results in my athletic build and physical vigor. I was as strong then as I am today: a veritable tank .
My dad didn’t need to join her campaign. She had everything so carefully planned that any of
his suggestions just interfered. During this time, he was irritable, lacking any real incentive in his life. His boredom was the result of tedious, repetitive work and an unchanging routine. He began to feel like his life was a slow death.
He needed renewal and diversification in his life, so he decided that we would move. It was hard for him to convince my mother to leave the hometown, where she had grown up, married and had her first child. Used to living among friends made throughout the years,
she had never even considered leaving. Yet, my father helped her change her mind.
“It will be best for our son,” he said.
Deep inside, she knew that the change would be good, not for the boy, but for her husband himself.
She was quite aware that he was exploiting her motherly love to convince her to move.
Yet, whether this was true or not doesn’t matter. She finally gave in on one condition: that she
could choose the city where they would live.
“Wherever you wish,” my dad agreed.
“Then we’re off to the City,” she asserted.
It took a few days for Dad to make the arrangements and for Mom to organize the household
for moving. We traveled content and filled with high expectations for the new life awaiting us.
Truly, we felt as if we were entering a state of grace.
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