Os dous eramos do mesmo país -un deses pequenos e desgraciados países que levan séculos desagrándose, vertendo ríos de emigrantes nos portos americanos.
Ó Greenwich Village, de ordinario, relacionámolo con mozos rebeldes, bohemios, artistas, turistas e demais, e non con vellos inmigrantes. Pero dábase o caso de que o meu compañeiro fora propietario anos atrás dun restaurante ou algo así neste barrio e era, polo tanto, un experto nel, un coñecedor de tódolos seus segredos e da súa vida subterránea.
Eu pola miña parte, durante a miña estancia en New York, case non deixaba pasar nin un só día sen coller un autobús para o Village.
Unha vez alí, todo canto necesitaba para pasar unha tarde interesante era deambular polas rúas, descansando de vez en cando nun café calquera.
Un dos membros da chamada Beat Generation que vivira polo Greenwich Village -como a maioría dos seus camaradas, supoño- di, segundo lina anos despois de que sucederan os feitos aquí relatados, que lle parecía que o Village tiña, en certos momentos, todo o engado dun Utrillo. Supoño que hai ironía nesta observación, porque, non se fundamento, para os norteamericanos París é sagrado e incomparable, pero a verdade é que en encóntroa francamente certeira.
Outro dos meus praceres baratos consistía en sentarme en Washington Square. Non deixaba de ser un descanso no medio de todo o rebumbio de Manhattan. Pero a miña querencia por Washington Square aínda dependía doutra razón: a novela con este título de Henry James, que lera eu había moito, sendo estudiante n un medio social moi diferente. Xustamente nesta novela afírmase que o ideal dun retiro tranquilo e doce atopábase para os habitantes de New York, en 1835, en Washington Square. Todo canto podo dicir é que eu atopei o esmo cento vintecinco anos despois; nos sei se foi cuestión de sorte.
Towards Times Square
I had spent that evening drinking whiskey in different bars in Greenwich Village with an old emigrant friend of mine.
The two of us werw from the same country -one of those small, un fortunate countries that have been bled white for centuries, spelling rivers of emigrants in American ports.
Greenwich Village is usually associated with young rebels, bohemians, artists, tourists and the like, and not with old emigrants. But it happened that my companion had been proprietor years before of a restaurant or the like in this area. And he was, as a result, an expert on it, who knew all its secrets and underground life.
I, for my part, during my time in New York, hardly let a day go by without taking a bus to the Village.
Once there, everything I need to spend an interesting afternoon was found in rambling through the streets, resting from time to time in any sort of café. One of the members of the so-called Beat Generation, who had lived in Greenwich Village -like the majority of his companions, I suppose- has been known to say, as I read years after what I'm going to tell here happened, that the thought that the Village had at certain times all the charm of an Utrillo. I suppose this to be an ironic observation, because, not without foundation, for Americans Paris is sacred and without comparison, but the truth is I find his observation to be totally correct.
Another of my cheap pleasures consisted in sitting in Washington Square. It was a rest in the middle of the uproar of Manhattan. But my affection for Washington Square was also due to another reason: the novel by Henry James of the same name, that I had read a long time ago, when a student in very different social circunstances. Precisely in this novel it is said that ideal of a quiet and sweet retreat for the inhabitans of New York in 1835 was found in Washington Square. All that I can say is that found the same one hundred and twenty-five years later; I don´t know if it was just luck.
Camilo Gonsar
Fotografías: 1 e 2, postais, 3 © Lionel Martinez
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