friday night literary society - gordon christy-stefanik

8/4/2019 Friday Night Literary Society - Gordon Christy-Stefanik

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THE FRIDAY LITERARY SOCIETY

Plaza de Armas, Veracruz

Gordon Christy-Stefanik


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THE FRIDAY LITERARY SOCIETY

I stared at the Mexicana Airlines clerk in the city of Veracruz in a slight state of shock and

momentary disbelief. She had just informed me that somehow my reservation for tomorrowafternoons flight from Mexico City to San Francisco se perdi, had gotten lost, and neither was myconnecting morning flight from Veracruz to the capital on her computer screen. Se perdi did not

mean that someone, or something, such as the computer in front of this smiling clerk, had lost my

reservation. It had lost itself and hence was no where to be found. An odd, and for many non-Hispanics, almost incomprehensible feature of the Spanish language whereby, for example, things can

lose themselves or even fall down and break themselves of their own volition. The wide-eyed child

may have been next to it, but el vaso se rompi, the glass had toppled over and perhaps in a fit of irehad decided to break itself. Utilizing the same line of semantic logic, airplane reservations were easily

capable of losing themselves.

The ticket in my hand confirmed that at one time I had had a reservation, but that reservation had

evidently evaporated into the ether. Many apologies, and then a quick check revealed that I could bebooked for a flight leaving on Sunday rather than Saturday with a connecting flight to San Francisco. I

mumbled ni modo and gratefully accepted her offer. I had been visiting Mexico for four weeks and in

that short time had come to realize that the country and people of this fabled land would find it difficultto exist without frequently calling upon the seemingly ancient god of Ni Modo (it doesnt matter).

People constantly invoked this powerful deity who had evidently produced this marvelous all-purpose

expression of resignation, and almost fatalistic acceptance.

The trip to Mexico had been arranged by the northern California university were I was teaching acourse in Latin American authors, and the twelve students and I had spent two weeks in the central

Mexican town of Oaxaca as a part of a sister-school program. It offered an opportunity for the students

to see and experience first hand some of the cultural differences that are an integral part of any foreignliterature. At the end of the course the students headed for the beach communities on the western coast

of Mexico, and I had an inexplicable desire to spend time on the more tropical eastern coast. And it

was here after two weeks in the balmy tropical port city of Veracruz that I was informed that myairplane reservation had lost itself.

Although I dont remember having done so, I probably internally questioned why I had been so

bountifully gifted by those ancient deities to spend a bit of extra time in this tropical paradise, but nimodo, I would certainly attempt to make the most of it.

All Mexican towns, large or small, and following their Spanish antecedents, have as their center ofactivity, a plaza. That Friday evening I found a spot on one of the many benches in the main Veracruz

plaza in order to bask in the soft ocean breeze filled with an exotic combination of fragrances, salty

ocean air and gardenia, roasting chilies and pungent unknown spices. The melodious sounds ofromantic marimbas mingled with the chattering and raucous singing of the large, darkly iridescent birds


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known as 'tordos' in the branches of the almendra trees overhead. The constant soft rustle of palm

fronds somehow bound all together in a perfect package.

The plazas always have a number of benches where the people while away the hours in leisurelyconversation or leisurely relaxation. Being early in the evening the majority of the benches in this, the

Plaza de las Armas, were still sparsely filled. Well, of course I had taken notice of the classically

handsome young man on the other end of the bench where I was seated, who was intensely involved inthe book he was reading. And since reading was not only a personal passion, as well as my

profession, we just might be able to exchange a few words about this, my favorite topic. Since the

exact moment in which to initiate a conversation with a stranger has to be carefully chosen, I waited forwhat seemed like an opportune time. Of course waiting too long can also be filled with potential

dangers. As I was still considering a suitable opening question or comment, an elderly gentleman

decided that the particular bench where we were sitting was to be his chosen spot for the evening. And

of course the only spot available was right between me and the other bench occupant. Obviously I hadwaited a bit too long for my opening gambit.

I noticed that the elderly gentleman seated next to me had in his hands a rather well worn copy of

Cien Aos de Soledad [One Hundred Years of Solitude] by Gabriel Garca Mrquez. It was apersonal favorite that I had read several times, always included in my courses, and had on leaving my

encounter with Mexicana Airlines picked up the original Spanish language version at the nearby

Librera Crystal bookstore in thatI had lost my original the previous week. And since I had that same

book in my lap, I realized that it could serve as a means of initiating a conversation with him. At least afew words lauding Garca Mrquez as one of the finest Latin American authors would be evidence that

the gringo was able to communicate in Spanish.

Like most Mexicans, who draw on their Spanish ancestry as well as historical ties to 'la madreEspaa', the elderly gentleman had immediately and somewhat formally introduced himself. "Capitn

Mauricio Gonzales y Snchez, a sus rdenes." Not just a name, but the attached, 'at your service' was amarvelous reminder of the past, when people were aware of gracious and formal introductions. He soonrevealed that he was a retired sea captain, then smilingly admitted that he had no idea how many times

he had read Cien Aos, either from cover to cover, or in part. He continued by commenting that he

came to the plaza at least once a week, usually on Friday evenings since it was marvelous place to readand partake of life as practiced by the blatantly joyous costeos, coastal people, of the state of

Veracruz.

We began discussing favorite passages from the novel. Soon the young fellow on the other side of

my new companion joined in the conversation. Disculpe. Profesor Fernando Chagal Cruz, para

servirle. I couldn't help but overhear your conversation about "Cien Aos . Somehow, the three of us,

with exactly the same novel in hand, had decided on that particular bench that evening. It wasnt long

before we had dubbed our small gathering the 'Sociedad Literaria de los Viernes', the Friday LiterarySociety.

Profesor Chagal, who had now lowered his book in favor of a bit of conversation, and with a voice asmellow as melted chocolate, continued by explaining that it just so happened that for most of his life

he had lived in a Veracruz version of 'Macondo'.


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Now, 'Macondo' is the imaginary, isolated town in the midst of a steamy Colombian jungle where

generations of the Buenda family in the novel "Cien Aos" have always lived. Fernando then went on

to explain that he was originally from a small pueblo about an hour south of Veracruz, which was the

living embodiment of all the suspended laws of reality contained in "Cien Aos". In fact, the youngprofessor contended that it was entirely possible that the author had modeled the novel's marvelously

bizarre characters on his friends, neighbors, and relatives. As proof of his claim, he mentioned that even

the name of his small town, Saltabarranca, was preposterous. A 'barranca' was a deep, deep ravine, and'salta' was from a verb meaning 'to jump or cross over'. His hometown of 'Saltabarranca' was located on

land as flat as a tabletop hence there was nothing to cross over, and since they'd never seen one, most of

the inhabitants didn't even know what a 'barranca' looked like.

My own identification with the book was an easy task. I proudly informed my newly encountered

friends that I was originally from a rural area of Slovakia, the possessor of 'gypsy genes', real or

imaginary, and had known from the time I first read of the gypsies entry into Macondo, that we wereundoubtedly close relatives, for we carried some of the same magic in our blood.

With no hesitation, Captain Gonzales turned to passage in the first chapter when Jos ArcadioBuenda hears the distant pipes, drums and jingles of the gypsy circus as they approach Macondo

through the dense jungle. He began to read aloud, although I noticed that he must have committed it to

memory since he rarely glanced down at the page:

"Eran gitanos nuevos. Hombres y mujeres jvenes que slo conocan su propia lengua, ejemplares hermosos de pielaceitada y manos inteligentes . . ."

["It was a new band of gypsies, young men and women who knew only their own language, handsome specimens with oily

skins and intelligent hands, whose dances and music sowed a panic of uproarious joy through the streets, with parrots

painted all colors reciting Italian arias, and a hen who laid a hundred golden eggs to the sound of a tambourine, and a

trained monkey who read minds, and the multiple-use machine that could be used at the same time to sew on buttons and

reduce fevers, and an apparatus to make a person forget his bad memories, and a poultice to lose time, and a thousand

more inventions so ingenious that Jos Arcadio Buenda must have wanted to invent a memory machine so that he could

remember them all. In an instant they had changed the village."]

Thus was the magic of Macondo brought to life in Veracruz on that warm spring evening. These

three smiling strangers, seated on a park bench in the central plaza of this magical city, had in the

deepening twilight established not only a connection to this extravagant novel, but to each other.

Soon Captain Gonzales announced that that it was time for him to leave, and excusing himself he

disappeared into the crowd of people chatting in front of the nearby church. The 'Literary Society' mayhave been abruptly reduced in size, but not in enthusiastic chattering about books and authors. I soon

discovered that my new acquaintance, Fernando, was a professor of art history at a university in the

town of Crdoba. A charming city situated on the slopes of a gently slumbering, snow-capped

mountain, which I had visited just two days before.

Then as the morning sun dawned behind enormous clouds over the Gulf of Mxico, we realized that

while we had been chatting, the night had disappeared. For the two remaining members of this newly

established literary group, it was the beginning of a love affair. Or was it a continuation? During ourconversation filled hours I was certain that I had known this particular individual forever. There was

no overt declaration of love, nor did there have to be. It was something that evidently we had both

accepted without the necessity of verbal explanation.


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Before heading for my hotel in the joyful mornings light we exchanged addresses and promised,

though there was little need for promises, to write, to phone. In point of fact I wrote him the first letter

a few moments after entering my hotel room. And included the following from a slim volume of

poetry which I had brought with me to Mexico, written by longtime friend. And with the hope that mytranslation into Spanish did justice to the original.

Primero Encuentro

Nuestras molculas

lleg a conocersedemasiado bien por la casualidad.

Las mias (cuando nos reunimosT y yo)

hicieron piruetas.Poda sentir agitandocomo un milln de abejasbajo vidrio

as que mi pulso zumbaba.

Mientras tu y yo nos sentamos charlando tranquilamenteen un mundo de superficies

Sent tus molculas y las mas

tintineo en misteriosas nuevas posiciones,casi como sinuestra carne se sincroniz.

Lo que s recuerdo

sosteniendote a un lado en mi mente,donde podra tener atisbos de quecomo si usted no tiene toda mi atencin,

pero todo el tiempo nuestros tomos a charlar

por debajo de las frases.

First Meeting

Our molecules

got to know each othertoo well for chance.

Mine (when we metYou and I)

did somersaults.I could feel them stirring

like a million beesunder glass

so my pulses buzzed.

While you and I sat chatting calmlyin a world of surfaces

I sensed your molecules and mineclink into mysterious new positions,almost as if

our flesh was synchronized.

I do rememberholding you sideways in my mind,where I could take glimpses of you

as if you didnt have my full attention,but all the time our atoms chatted awaybeneath our sentences.

Within a years time I had sold my home in Northern California and acquired a teaching position at a

small, but prestigious university in the town of Crdoba, on the route that had been utilized by the


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Spanish conquistadores as they marched from the gulf coast port to the interior Aztec capital of

Tenochtitlan. For the subsequent five hundred years this had been the connecting highway between the

Mexican capital and Europe. It wasnt exactly a coincidence that my new residence was near the

university were Fernando taught, and where I would now be a member of the faculty. From the veryfirst night we had known that our meeting on that park bench had been no chance accident, but rather

an intricate maneuver by destiny, which was easily capable of disappearing airline reservations and had

enabled us to find each other. And we often chuckled about the fact that it had even included a retiredsea captain.

Our life together was idyllic for the first three years. Fernando was in the last stages of working on

his PhD, on Sor Juana Inz de la Cruz, a mystical 17 th century Mexican writer, poet and artist. He hadgone into Mexico City for a few days to visit with his sister Flora, and to do some additional research.

On his last day there he was standing outside the National Library, waiting for the traffic light to

change. Three automobiles were involved in an accident and one of them of was sent hurtling onto thesidewalk. A number of the pedestrians were injured, including Fernando. When Flora called to inform

me, she explained that he was in the hospital, and they would have more information on the exact

nature of his injuries on the following day, and then added that they didnt seem to be too serious, but

that she would be staying with him at the hospital.

That night I dreamed that Fernando and I were at a rather large party. We seemed to be in an

enormous meadow, with a number of other guests, all standing around, chatting and sipping wine. At

one point Fernando began laughing softly, nudged me and pointed down at his feet. I looked down andwas amazed to see that he was hovering about a foot above the ground. He was absolutely thrilled

with this newly discovered ability and was soon smilingly hovering over my head. He managed a few

loops, waved, and then went flying off into the distance over some trees, disappearing into the softtropical sunset.

The phone rang at 4:30 a.m., and even before answering I already knew the message. Flora

explained that Fernando had inexplicably died a few minutes before, evidently from undetected internal

injuries. I haltingly attempted to explain to her that he had just been with me a few moments before tosay goodbye.

For a considerable time after Fernando's death there were days when I absolutely refused toacknowledge that it had happened. As if my negation could somehow nullify the very act itself. A lot of

grief and self-pity, but in time I began to realize how fortunate we had been to have found each other.

How filled with love and constant joy our time together had been. Something I would never have

known if we had not taken our books to that particular plaza bench on a warm tropical evening so long

ago. Limitless gifts which he presented me with then, and continued on into the present.

And I occasionally wondered if the two, relatively shy bookworms, one Mexican and the other a

wandering Slovak, would have had the courage to begin talking if it had not been for the friendly seacaptain seated between them. A captain, who, as it turned out, may have only been temporarily visiting

from 'Macondo'.

Several years before, in fact only a few months after Fernando and I had established our home in

Crdoba, on a balmy late Friday afternoon we decided to make the two-hour trip into Veracruz and see


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if we could find Captain Gonzalez. It would be an opportunity to chat and serve as a renewal of the

Friday Literary Society. On arriving we were fortunate to find our bench unoccupied and sat down in

anticipation of the arrival of the remaining member of this exclusive society of three.

After several hours had passed, Fernando decided that perhaps the lady at the curio shop behind uswould know if Captain Gonzales had been to the plaza recently. It is a well-known fact that in Mexico

everyone knows everyone else, or at least one of their many cousins. Doa Rosa seemed a bit surprised

at Fernandos question. Of course she had known Capitn Gonzales, in that for many years he hadbeen a regular Friday night visitor to the plaza and had never failed to greet her and chat for a while

before he went to his special bench with his latest reading material. She added that her seven-year old

grandson Mauricio had even been named in honor of this special gentleman. Yes, it was a bit over

seven years ago that Capitn Gonzales had died and she still missed his presence. Fernando and I oftenpondered our encounter with this special individual who evidently had gone off to Macondo and then

years later he had returned, for one special night, to serve as our magical intermediary.

Now upon occasion I go into Veracruz on a Friday evening and although my two companions are not

physically in attendance, I know that the Literary Society we founded, and the magic of 'Macondo' withits very flexible concepts of space and time, lives on. And in the tropical twilight, I sense the invisible

presence of Capitan Gonzales. I can still feel Fernandos closeness, hear his musical laughter and see

that special twinkle in his dark, mystery filled eyes. Special gifts, from two very special individuals,which I shall treasure forever.

friday night literary society - gordon christy-stefanik

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