Descansa en Paz Maestro//[ESP-ENG]

Ayer, después de un aguacero de esos que últimamente azotan a la Gran Caracas, sentí deseos de salir y disfrutar el frescor de la tarde al despuntar el sol de los venados. Caminé hasta un punto, desde donde se divisa el imponente cerro Ávila y la famosa quebrada Anauco.

Me detuve a descansar, y me senté sobre un banco elaborado con finas orlas de hierro colado, cuyas patas parecían pezuñas. Imagino, que lo hicieron recordando al cunaguaro que rondaba las casas de la Caracas de antaño, cuando bajaba de la montaña, buscando el calor de los fogones y el aroma a la carne curada a punta de sal, único método conservante de entonces.

Mientras deleitaba mi vista, recordaba a Manuel Cabré, artista renombrado y distinguido, por sus diversos lienzos de la montaña que protege al Valle de Caracas. Me hubiese gustado perpetuar ese crepuscular atardecer, en un fresco pintado por él. Sin embargo, ese breve instante donde convergieron el arco iris con el radiante sol, quedará grabado en mi memoria, pues fue testigo de un extraño encuentro con el pasado.

Este icónico espacio cerca de la Cota Mil, Avenida Boyacá, es poco frecuentado, pues solo se llega pie. Tiene una gran caminería y otros bancos, refugio de enamorados. Las tortolitas, azulejos y canarios llenan el lugar de armónicos trinos. Las guacamayas azules, amarillo y blanco, bajan del cerro en busca del alimento que los lugareños acostumbran llevar. Todo ese encanto natural lo disfruté en una sola tarde.

Distraída como estaba, no me percaté de que todos se habían marchado. A lo lejos, saliendo de la trocha de la montaña, observé que alguien se aproximaba. Era un caballero de lento caminar, con un bastón lustroso, zapatos de piel y un elegante sobretodo color café. Lucía, una bufanda a cuadros al mejor estilo europeo y un perfume de discreto olor a lavanda. Al aproximarse muy gentilmente, se sentó a mi lado. Su rostro me era familiar, pero no recordaba en qué momento lo había conocido.

Sin preguntar, comenzó a narrar una historia. Contaba de su ciudad natal, Caracas. Los mejores momentos de su vida en la quinta Anauco, donde transcurrió su infancia. Decía, que al mirar los matices amarillos del frondoso Araguaney cobijar la montaña del Ávila, sentía que por sus venas corría tinta para empapar su pluma y con letras transcribir lo profundo de su inspiración. _ ¡Ah!, es escritor, pensé…

Continuaba hablando de una época que yo solo conocía a través de los libros de Literatura de quinto año de bachillerato. Supuse, que era un letrado. Ya se estaba ocultando el sol, y el caballero me tenía obnubilada con su exquisito verbo. Noté que sacó de su bolsillo un pañuelo delicadamente bordado, supongo que con las siglas de su nombre. Enjugó sus lágrimas producto de los recuerdos y vivencias contadas. De pronto se incorporó, me invitó a regresar a casa, pero antes, se despidió de mí diciendo, que tal día como hoy, un 15 de octubre, conmemoraba su partida y acto seguido marchó hacia la trocha nuevamente.

Quedé sola. Comenzaba a obscurecer, hacía frío. Recogí el paraguas para ir de vuelta a mi hogar y al inclinarme, encuentro el pañuelo, lo tomé y corrí, pero no lo alcancé. No había trocha alguna, solo la montaña.

En aquel pañuelo estaban sus iniciales, A.J. M.J. B. L. (Andrés de Jesús María y José Bello López)

Yesterday, after one of those downpours that have been hitting Greater Caracas lately, I felt like going out and enjoying the coolness of the afternoon as the deer sun rose. I walked to a point where I could see the imposing Avila hill and the famous Anauco ravine.

I stopped to rest, and sat on a bench made with fine cast iron edges, whose legs looked like hooves. I imagine that they did it remembering the cunaguaro that roamed the houses of the Caracas of yesteryear, when it came down from the mountain, looking for the warmth of the stoves and the aroma of the meat cured with salt, the only preservative method of those days.

While I delighted my eyes, I remembered Manuel Cabré, a renowned and distinguished artist, for his various canvases of the mountain that protects the Caracas Valley. I would have liked to perpetuate that twilight sunset in a fresco painted by him. However, that brief moment where the rainbow converged with the radiant sun, will remain engraved in my memory, because it witnessed a strange encounter with the past.

This iconic space near the Cota Mil, Boyacá Avenue, is little frequented, because you can only get there on foot. It has a large walkway and other benches, a refuge for lovers. The lovebirds, bluebirds and canaries fill the place with harmonious trills. The blue, yellow and white macaws come down from the hill in search of the food that the locals usually carry. I enjoyed all this natural charm in a single afternoon.

Distracted as I was, I did not notice that everyone had left. In the distance, coming out of the mountain trail, I noticed someone approaching. It was a slow-walking gentleman with a shiny cane, leather shoes and an elegant brown overcoat. He was wearing a checkered scarf in the best European style and a perfume with a discreet scent of lavender. As he approached me very gently, he sat down next to me. His face was familiar, but I could not remember when I had met him.

Without asking, he began to tell a story. He told of his hometown, Caracas. The best moments of his life in the Quinta Anauco, where he spent his childhood. He said that when he looked at the yellow shades of the leafy Araguaney, sheltering the mountain of Avila, he felt that his veins were flowing with ink to soak his pen and with letters transcribe the depths of his inspiration. _Ah, he is a writer, I thought?

He went on talking about a time I only knew about through the literature books of the fifth year of high school. I assumed he was a literary man. The sun was already setting, and the gentleman had me spellbound with his exquisite verbiage. I noticed that he took out of his pocket a delicately embroidered handkerchief, I suppose with the initials of his name. He wiped away his tears from his memories and experiences. Suddenly she sat up, invited me to return home, but before that, she said goodbye to me, saying that on a day like today, October 15, she was commemorating her departure, and then she left for the trail again.

I was left alone. It was beginning to get dark, it was cold. I picked up the umbrella to go back to my home and when I bent down, I found the handkerchief, I took it and ran, but I did not reach it. There was no trail, only the mountain.

On that handkerchief were his initials, A.J. M.J. B. L. (Andrés de Jesús María y José Bello López)