In the waiting room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain --
Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance --
I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities--
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain --
Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance --
I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities--
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
Elizabeth Bishop.
Otra lectura, no de Elizabeth, está al final de esta página.
Y aquí, un análisis múltiple y exhaustivo.
Otra lectura, no de Elizabeth, está al final de esta página.
Y aquí, un análisis múltiple y exhaustivo.
Una versión
en castellano de Roser Amills Bibiloni:
En
la sala de espera
En
Worcester, Massachusetts,
acompañé
a Tía Consuelo
a
una cita con el dentista
y me
senté a esperarla
en
la sala de espera del dentista.
Era
invierno. Anocheció
temprano.
La sala de espera
estaba
llena de personas mayores,
catiuscas
y abrigos,
lámparas
y revistas.
Mi
tía estuvo dentro
lo
que me pareció una eternidad
y
mientras esperaba leí
el
National Geographic
(ya
sabía leer) y observé
las
fotografías con atención:
el
interior de un volcán,
negro
y lleno de cenizas;
después
aparecía vomitando
ríos
de fuego.
Osa
y Martin Johnson
vestidos
con pantalones de montar,
botines
y cascos de protección.
Un
hombre muerto colgando de un poste
-“Gran
Cerdo”, rezaba la inscripción-.
Bebés
con las cabezas puntiagudas
enrolladas
con vueltas y más vueltas de cuerda;
mujeres
negras, desnudas, con los cuellos
enrollados
con vueltas y más vueltas de alambre
como
el cuello de las bombillas.
Sus
senos eran horripilantes.
Leí
todo esto sin pausa.
Demasiado
turbada para parar.
Y
después contemplé la portada:
los
márgenes amarillos, la fecha.
De
pronto, desde dentro,
surgió
un ¡ay! de dolor
-la
voz de Tía Consuelo-
ni excesivamente
alto ni prolongado.
No
me sorprendió en absoluto;
por
entonces ya sabía que ella era
una
mujer tímida, estúpida.
Tal
vez debiera haberme sentido avergonzada,
pero
no lo estaba. Lo que me tomó
completamente
por sorpresa
fue
que había sido yo:
mi
voz, en mi boca.
Sin
darme cuenta
yo
era mi estúpida tía,
yo
-nosotras- estábamos cayendo, cayendo,
con
los ojos fijos en la portada
del
National Geographic,
febrero,
1918.
Me
dije: tres días
y
tendrás siete años.
Estuve
diciendo esto para detener
la
sensación de estar cayéndome
del
redondo, giratorio mundo
hacia
un frío espacio azul marino.
Pero
sentí: tú eres un yo,
eres
una Elizabeth,
eres
una de ellos.
¿Por
qué tienes también tú que ser única?
Apenas
me atrevía a mirar
para
averiguar lo que yo era.
Eché
un vistazo de reojo,
-era
incapaz de mirar más arriba-
hacia
las sombrías rodillas grises,
los
pantalones y faldas y botas
y
diferentes pares de manos
que
yacían bajo las lámparas.
Sabía
que nunca había sucedido
nada
extraño, que nada
extraño
podría suceder jamás.
¿Por
qué debía yo ser mi tía,
o
yo, o cualquier otra persona?
¿Qué
afinidades
-botas,
manos, la voz familiar
que
había sentido en mi garganta, o incluso
el
National Geographic
y
esos terribles senos colgantes-
nos
mantenían tan juntos
o
nos hacían uno solo?
Cuán
-no conocía ninguna
palabra
para designarlo- cuán “improbable”…
¿Cómo
había llegado yo hasta aquí,
igual
que ellos, y había oído por casualidad
un
grito de dolor que hubiera podido ser
peor
y más estridente pero no lo fue?
La
sala de espera era luminosa
y
estaba demasiado caldeada. Se desvanecía
bajo
una gigantesca ola negra,
otra,
y otra más.
Entonces
regresé.
La
Guerra estaba en marcha. Fuera,
en
Worcester, Massachussets,
había
la noche y la nieve aguada y el frío,
y
era aún cinco
de febrero, 1918.
de febrero, 1918.
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