Historias de Montse | MONTSE’S STORIES by Montse Polidura Navío, illustrated by Layla Ehsan
ADIÓS VIOLETA
A Violeta Luelmo, la niña más guapa del barrio, fue el sexo lo que la sacó de la infancia. En eso fue más afortunada que muchos de nosotros, sus compañeros de pandilla, que nos vimos en la tesitura de crecer impulsados por motivos mucho más crudos, como la pérdida del trabajo de nuestros padres, la droga de nuestros hermanos mayores o la fulminante desintegración de la familia, en la que se refugiaba remolona nuestra niñez, tras un divorcio anunciado.
Que Violeta se estaba adentrando en otra dimensión de la que íbamos a ser expulsados ya lo habíamos intuido todos el día que descubrimos bajo su camiseta de tirantes la marca delatora de un sujetador. Ya no botaban sus pechitos cuando corría detrás de la pelota, allí aprisionados bajo aquel invento que nos cegó para siempre la imagen de sus pezones al inclinarse. Ese sujetador fue el primer portazo que Violeta nos dio en las propias narices. Pero la seguimos teniendo como compañera de juegos, y eso nos conformaba. Seguía siendo una de los nuestros. La niña más guapa y más guay, la que no parecía una niña. Pero ese espejismo duró muy poco.
Tres meses después del sujetador, como un destino indomable, la vimos besándose con un chico como no imaginábamos que se pudiera besar. Él pertenecía a la pandilla de los mayores, de los que ya no iban al colegio, y eso nos produjo un respeto lo suficientemente inmenso para que no hiciéramos nada y nos quedáramos allí, quietos, mirándolos hacer. Estaban sentados en uno de los columpios del parque infantil donde tanto habíamos jugado sin apenas percibir que ella era una niña y que su destino era convertirse en una mujer. Allí, ante nuestros ojos, Violeta nos mostraba unos usos insospechados de los espacios más emblemáticos de la niñez. Y así, sentada a horcajadas sobre su chico, cabalgándolo sin pudor, mecía su cuerpo con el movimiento invasivo de las olas y parecía no estar en este mundo, en el que desde ese día todos la dimos por desaparecida. Con aquellos besos, Violeta se despojaba públicamente de su infancia. Y yo perdía para siempre la novia soñada.
GOODBYE VIOLET
To Violeta Luelmo, the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood, whose childhood was taken away from her by sex. She was more fortunate than most of us, the rest of her gang. We were forced to grow up because of harsher circumstances—our parents losing their jobs, our older brothers’ drug problems, or the sudden breakup of our family, in which our childhood was protected, as divorce was announced.
The day we discovered the telltale mark of a bra strap underneath her shirt, we began to suspect what we should have already known, that Violeta was moving into another dimension from which we would be excluded. Her small breasts no longer bounced when she ran after the ball. They were now imprisoned underneath that contraption, which hid from us forever the sight of her nipples whenever she leaned forward. That bra was the first door Violeta slammed in our faces. But we still had her as a playmate and we made do. She was still one of us. The coolest and prettiest girl, the one who didn’t act like a girl. But that illusion didn’t last very long.
Just three months after we took notice of the bra, as if it was an unavoidable destiny, we caught her kissing a boy like we never imagined a kiss could be given. He belonged to the older gang that no longer went to school. That alone was enough to produce a level of respect which stopped us from doing anything but idly stand by and watch them. They were sitting on the swings in the same playground where we used to play—unaware that she was a girl who would become a woman. There, before our eyes, Violeta showed us unsuspected uses of that space which was so emblematic of our childhood. And just like that, straddled on her boyfriend, unashamedly riding his body, swaying back and forth like a thrusting wave, she no longer seemed to be of this world and it was at that moment that we lost her. With those kisses Violeta’s childhood was publicly stripped away. And I lost forever the girl of my dreams.
BOYA AMARILLA
Durante algunos días el paisaje fue perfecto: la pequeña playa frente a la blanca iglesia del pueblo, el mar lamiendo sereno la orilla, la luz mediterránea cayendo mágicamente sobre los bañistas, la bahía rebosante de barcas desordenadas, una brisa suave, sin nombre de viento, y ellos tres compitiendo a brazadas para tocar primero la boya amarilla del centro del cordón de protección.
Un día ganaba la madre, otro el amigo y otro la hija; seguramente había tongo consentido. Al final del juego, tres manos abiertas, como estrellas, se posaban en la boya flotante, fuertemente amarrada a un muerto y a una cadena de acero, que se convertía en su única bandera, la del territorio que sólo ellos habitaban. Se quedaban allí un rato, como bailando a su alrededor, y hablaban y reían, y se querían; y desde la playa les veíamos a lo lejos y nos moríamos de envidia de aquella alegría y de aquella hermosa forma de vivir.
Sabíamos que las mujeres eran madre e hija y que él era amigo del alma de las dos, que vivía en el otro lado del mundo y que los veranos las venía a visitar unos pocos días. No sabíamos más. Con eso era suficiente para que cada uno de nosotros, mientras tomábamos el sol en la playa, gozara de unos minutos de ensoñación y se atreviera a imaginar cualquier historia en la que encajar la vida de aquellas tres personas. Luego, él se iba y ellas seguían allí, nadando y tomando el sol cada día hasta el final del verano.
Los primeros días después de que él marchara, miraban la boya con nostalgia, tumbadas en sus toallas de colores, y luego nadaban en dirección contraria, como si la quisieran ignorar. Pocos días después, la hija se acercaba a la boya y nadaba a su alrededor con cuidado, sin tocarla, con la cabeza sumergida todo el rato. Pasada una semana, madre e hija volvían a las andadas, y con gran alharaca se adentraban en el mar y nadaban veloces a tocar la boya amarilla central y posaban allí sus dos manos, irradiando alegría. El paisaje era imperfecto: faltaba la mano de él para completar la bandera; todos lo veíamos.
Nosotros, desde la orilla, cada uno en su quietud, nos preguntábamos si ese día, al alba del otro lado del mundo, él se despertaría sobresaltado y añoraría la ausencia de su mano en la boya amarilla.
THE YELLOW BUOY
For days, the scene was perfect: the small beach in front of the village’s white church, the sea softly kissing the shore, the Mediterranean light magically falling on the sunbathers, boats sprawled along the bay, the delicate breeze—not yet a wind—and the three of them competing, swimming towards the yellow buoy from the center of the roped-off bathing area to see who would reach it first.
The mother would win one day, their friend the other, and the next, the daughter. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement. At the end of the game, three hands, sprawled like stars, would rest on the floating buoy, itself firmly tied to a deadweight by a steel cable, making it their flag of a territory only they ventured into. They stayed for a while, almost dancing around it, and they would talk and laugh and love each other. We watched from the beach, envying their joy and beautiful way of living life.
We knew that the women were mother and daughter and that he was their soulmate, who lived on the other side of the world and would visit for a few days in the summer. We knew nothing else. And while we lay sunbathing, the idea was enough for us to enjoy the moment, fantasizing and daring to imagine a story with these three people in it. Eventually he would leave and they would continue to swim under the sun till the end of the summer.
The first few days after his departure, they would look longingly at the buoy while lying on their colorful towels, and then they would swim in the opposite direction as if avoiding it all together. Days later, the daughter would approach the buoy and swim around it, keeping her head underwater and being careful not to touch it. After a week, mother and daughter would return to the old routine and excitedly plunge into the sea and swim quickly to touch the yellow buoy and joyfully lay both of their hands on it. The scene wasn’t right. His hand was missing—the flag was incomplete—and we all saw it.
On the shore we each sat in our own solitude, wondering if, on that same day on the other side of the world, he would wake up with a start, missing his hand on the yellow buoy.
REGALO DE REYES
Hace tiempo encontré unas zapatillas de estar por casa junto a mis relucientes zapatos azul marino del uniforme del colegio. Me las habían traído los Reyes para que no tuviera frío al levantarme, ni antes de ir a dormir. Eran negras, suaves y peludas, y tenían un ojo gigante cada una. Así, cuando me las ponía, yo las miraba y ellas me miraban a mí.
Enseguida descubrí que los ojos de las zapatillas me permitían ver en la oscuridad, y adopté la costumbre de pasearme por la casa cuando todos dormían y visitar sus habitaciones en busca de esos secretos que yo intuía que se guardan en los dormitorios.
Una noche permanecí inmóvil frente a la cama de mis padres más de lo habitual, entonces me percaté que a través de los ojos de las zapatillas podía ver sus sueños. Éstos me mostraron a mi padre besando apasionadamente a una mujer que no era mi madre, y a ella paseando serena y seductora por la líquida Venecia en una góndola, junto a mi tío Juan José. Mis ojos verdaderos lloraron involuntariamente, sin control, mientras los de las zapatillas no salían de su asombro. En ese momento me juré que nunca me iba a casar, no fuera a ser que yo también heredara esa forma de amar tan extraña de mis progenitores.
Al día siguiente mis zapatillas amanecieron con los ojos arrancados, cortados de cuajo despiadadamente. En su lugar, dos enormes agujeros por los que el frío accede a mis pies y me hiela la existencia, y que me han cegado para ver los sueños de los demás.
THE GIFT OF THE KINGS
Some time ago, I found a pair of slippers next to my shiny, navy blue school shoes. The Three Kings got them for me so I would not be cold when I woke up or before I went to bed. They were black, soft, and fluffy and each one had a giant eye. And when I put them on, I would look down at them and they would look back up at me.
I soon discovered that the slippers’ eyes allowed me to see in the dark, so I got in the habit of walking around the house when everyone was asleep and I would visit their bedrooms in search of the secrets that I knew were kept there.
One particular night, I stood motionless at the foot of my parents’ bed and I discovered that, through the eyes of the slippers, I could see their dreams. They showed me my father passionately kissing a woman who wasn’t my mother while she, on the other hand, floated serene and seductive on a gondola in Venice with my Uncle Juan José. My eyes uncontrollably teared up while the ones on the slippers were amazed. At that very moment, disturbed by the idea of inheriting my parents’ strange way of loving, I swore to myself that I would never marry, .
The next day, my slippers woke with the eyes torn from them and cruelly cut to pieces. In their place, there were now two large holes that let the cold reach my feet and froze my being, blinding me forever from seeing other peoples’ dreams.
PLUJA I SANDÀLIES
La darrera vegada que vaig veure l’Eladi va ser en el sopar dels companys de la carrera. Pensant en ell, em vaig comprar unes sandàlies molt cares amb una flor lluent de bisutería que m’abraçava els peus. Havia estat el noi més guapo del meu curs, al que vaig dir que no perquè quan es va decidir jo ja estaba compromesa amb el Josep Ma. No ens havien tornat a veure i en retrobar-nos, passats 25 anys, vam descubrir intacte el desig oblidat. Els records i l’alcohol ens van precipitar fora del restaurant abans de les postres: casa seva era la millor opció. Pluvia sense pietat sobre la nit, llavors vaig calibrar com quedarien les meves sandàlies noves i vaig recular. Lluny, la pluja esborrà l’Eladi i enaiguà el meu cor.
RAIN AND SANDALS
The last time I saw Eladi was at a dinner with some college friends. Thinking about him, I went and bought some new and very expensive sandals. Each one had a shining jeweled flower and wrapped around my feet. He had always been the cutest guy in our class, the one I had turned down because I was en gaged to Josep Ma. We had not seen one another for 25 years, but we found our forgotten desire unchanged. Memory and alcohol overtook us and we were out the door of the restaurant before dessert was ordered. His place was the best option. It was raining cats and dogs and it was only then that I realized how my new sandals would end up and decided to pull back. In the distance the rain erased Eladi and flooded my heart.
LO QUE SIGNIFICA TENER UNA HIJA BRUJA
Hace tiempo encontré una mujer que se llama Sara y que no sabe nadar. Entre los suyos, Sara tiene fama de adivinadora y todos la respetan mucho más de lo normal. Esta fama proviene de cuando con nueve años auguró que después del verano ya no volvería a su colegio porque ocurriría una desgracia en su familia y se irían a vivir a otra ciudad. Cuando el director de la escuela llamó a su madre, Sara no tuvo más remedio que concretarle los hechos, y acabó diciéndole que su hermano pequeño se ahogaría en la piscina de casa y que ella se volvería loca. Ante tan terrible oráculo, su madre reaccionó nombrándola cuidadora oficial de su hermano, imponiéndole un estricto horario laboral que abarcaba todas las horas que el niño estuviera despierto. Pero el niño se ahogó antes de que finalizara el verano.
Desde entonces, hay muchos días que su madre no la quiere. En esos días la llama bruja, por la dificultad que tiene de llamarla asesina.
WHAT IT MEANS TO HAVE A DAUGHTER WITCH
I met a woman named Sara some time ago, who didn’t know how to swim. Among us, Sara was well known as a fortuneteller and everyone respected her more than usual. She earned her fame at the age of nine when she predicted that a tragedy would befall her family, stopping her from going back to school after the summer recess and forcing them to move to another city. When the school principal called her mother, Sara had no choice but to set out the facts that her little brother would drown in the house pool and that her mother would go mad. Upon hearing such a terrible prophecy, her mother named Sara her brother’s official caregiver, imposing on her a strict schedule that covered all the boy’s waking hours. But the boy drowned anyway before the summer ended.
Since then, there have been many days in which her mother simply doesn’t love her. On those days, she calls her a witch because it is less difficult than calling her a killer.
MONTSE POLIDURA NAVÍO
I was born in Barcelona, in 1964, and I’ve always lived there. In 1988, I graduated in Law from the University of Barcelona, and, two years later, I became a lawyer for the Government and Administration of the Generalitat de Catalunya. Since then, my professional life has developed in the field of law and management, between courts, tribunals and public offices.
I started writing stories when I was a child. I wrote my first story when I was six years old, and it was a tribute to the albino gorilla Snowflake, whom I went to visit at the Barcelona zoo with my classmates when he was still a baby playing in his cell and sadness had not yet invaded him. Since then, I have never stopped writing. Since adolescence, I also write poems. I write in Spanish and Catalan.
My stories and my poems are photographs of instants. I am fascinated by the magic of those seconds in which the most wonderful and the most terrible happens, so my stories oscillate between drama and comedy, and I use irony even in the most terrible moments.
I have published stories in some anthologies: Ulises, in the book Cuentos Diversos. Antología 2011 (Aula de Escritores); Ganas de Llover, a children's story in the book Cuentos por Haití, PAC (Passaporte para la Cooperación, 2011); Que Alguien Peine al Pianista, in the book Trastiendas, Entre la Ficción y la Memoria (Stonberg editorial, 2019).
I have also published the book of six micro stories (English and Spanish) Montse’s Stories, designed by Tom Greensfelder, 2017, and illustrated by Layla Ehsan. And I have published a compilation of eleven stories in the book La Velocidad de la Oscuridad (A. Machado Libros, 2018), illustrated by Orlando Marín López.
My micro story Platja i Sandàlies, includes in Montse’s Stories, was awarded, October 28, 2011, in the short story contest of the Catalan radio program El Café de la República. My story La Ciutat a Fora won the first prize of the VII Literary contest "Anim2," November 7, 2020.
I have married twice. And the most important of my biography: I am the mother of a wonderful son, Omar, and daughter, Lola.
Barcelona, February 19, 2021
LAYLA MAY EHSAN
Layla May Ehsan (she/they) is an artist and educator based in Philadelphia. Their work explores themes of personal mythology, hybridity and nostalgia.
To see more of Layla’s work, please visit her website here.