Inti: Revista de literatura hispánica Inti: Revista de literatura hispánica
Number 89
Dossier: La Literatura de Resistencia a la
Violencia Urbana, Coordinan, María Rosa Lojo y
Marcela Crespo Buiturón
Article 11
2019
Are There Words Enough? Are There Words Enough?
Beatrice Esteve
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ARE THERE WORDS ENOUGH?
Beatrice Esteve
“Are there words enough in all of song to praise the pen?”
First line from the second verse of “The Battle between the Scissors and the
Pen” by Shem Tov Ardutiel 1345 a.d. or Santob de Carrión as he was also
known.
Andalusian Hebrew poet.
I land in Madrid with Pepe on June 25 coming from Barcelona where
we had been visiting Pepe’s family. We are coming for a few days. It
will be the fourth gathering of the International Council of the Teatro
Real and we are really looking forwards to the festivities, opera recitals,
visits, dinners and more, with which we are so richly regaled by what
has become our extraordinarily caring “Madrileño” family. Every year
has been more wonderful than the last and we know that this will be
the case once again.
It is Summer in Madrid and there is nothing more delightful than
languid, long lasting daylight hours, melting into evenings which
stretch on forever as you enjoy gardens, terraces, fountains, cicadas,
friends and the world lies bewitched, cast under a deep, deep spell.
This I know for certain.
I am also coming to Madrid because I have been invited to publish a
book!
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Not just simply “a book” but the launching of what, when I am given
it to see, appears a gem.
I have nothing to do with the “making of” and thus may freely use any
descriptive adjectives I choose. Invited I have been by Professor Julio
Ortega (Latin American Literature at Brown University). Dear friend
who these past years has become Chief Editor for Claudio Miguéz and
Raul Giron . Two Argentines in Madrid. Their very own little publishing
house (Book Museum) the Centro de Arte Moderno. Passionate book
lovers, these two “create” books. Hand crafted. Painstakingly and
lovingly. Page by page, twine inter twined, cover to cover.
ALL is hand produced. Every page cut, every illustration glued, every
cover bound.
Very small editions. Fifty copies.
My friends from all over arrive one day earlier to share this birthing.
I know not what to expect but know it will be singular.
Surreal rather. I am in Don Quixote land where what is: is not and what
is not: is.
Thus A book I shall publish.
The airport is quite empty and we make our way to the luggage belt. I
sit Pepe down and we begin to wait. Nothing. Twenty minutes and it
is still: nothing. When I notice a very nice looking young man/student
standing patiently, like myself by the belt.
He has a back pack slung on his shoulders and I read: Harvard Rowing.
I hesitate not and address him. My son too was on the Harvard Rowing
team thirty years ago I tell him and even had the wonderful experience
of going to Hong Kong and partaking in the Dragon Boat rowing
Festival. Andrew Habert is his name and hails from Houston. Just
nished his Freshman year and comes to Madrid to study Spanish for a
few weeks the Summer. I tell him about Pedro and Isabel my graduates,
twin grandchildren and he says: Tell them to look me up when they
come and I will be very happy to help them with anything they might
want or need when they start at Harvard this Fall.
Here comes the luggage!
Andrew gives me a hand but the two smaller items do not appear. I tell
him to leave and we part company.
Belt stops. That’s it. O we trot to an Iberia counter behind some
partition, strategically indicated. No need to worry, they will be coming
out at another belt outside, an attendant assures me blithely. You must
walk through Bulgari (!) Bulgari???? I then see an advertisement and
a shop and we march duly through as doors close behind us and nd
the indicated belt. Quite a crowd of stragglers, standing and sitting
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around. Luggage strewn all about….This bodes not well. Belt nally
begins to move. One pouch appears but where is the second.
Belt stops.
I trot to another Iberia counter I nd and am very seriously told: No,
your second pouch will NOT be coming out here. You must go to the
“Guardia Civil" (at the extreme end of the hall) and ask him to please
let you back in from whence you came (normally not possible) as your
second pouch will appear on Belt 14……the original belt where all had
begun.
O we go…. One hour has gone bye….as Madrid awaits us beyond the
door. …
Belt 14 is dead. Moves not. Neither is there luggage of any sort.
Back to the counter we trot. Oh no, No, NO. You must through Bulgari
go (again) and your pouch will arrive (eventually) where we rst told
you. Strangely enough Pepe is not even grumbling…perhaps because
he is in Spain. People are still milling expectantly around the “miracle”
belt which sure enough begins to roll AND miracle of miracles there
appears Pouch#2 and our Madrid visit is o to a great start.
We sink relieved into a taxi and head for the Santo Mauro. This is the
rst time we will be staying at this neighborhood hotel. The beautiful
eighteenth century stately Madrid home of the Counts of Santo Mauro
turned into a gracious boutique hotel. The Ritz is closed, undergoing
massive renovations and I fear will emerge un-recognizable…..
I love what I see upon arrival. The friendliest of Stas. We are squished
into the tiniest quaint cubicle of a crooked wedge shaped elevator and
are led through a windy hall to a lovely room overlooking a fresh,
welcoming tree bordered garden. How nice. A fountain tinkles below.
Ten minutes to freshen up and down we go to meet Julio Ortega for a
relaxed dinner, in the garden. The rst of a series of such delectable,
slumberous, delightful Madrid evenings.
Next day is an “o day”. Time to relax, unwind before activities really
begin. Early birds we nonetheless are and soon nd ourselves strolling
leisurely in the shade, under the trees along “la Castellana”. Heading
towards the Thyssen- Bornemisza Museum to view the Monet/Boudin
exhibit. It is still cool this early in the morning. Lighthearted and free
are we.
Lunch at a nice (unknown to us) neighborhood sh restaurant El
Pescador and the rest of the afternoon goes quietly bye until early
evening we nd our way to Calle Galileo to meet Claudio and Raul.
The funniest of unobtrusive doorways. Naturally I ring the wrong
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doorway rst, only to hear a bored voice say: “Al lado”….as #52 stands
above the “voice’s” doorway. A smiling Claudio and Raul welcome
us to their “schatz kammer”. A tiny space, lined with cabinet after
cabinet of mementos and memorabilia which they, over the years have
collected, pertaining to major writers of the Spanish language of the
XXth century! What a trove. What to say of their innumerable editions
of hand made books and writings of said writers. Unpublished work
that Julio digs up and has them publish. Jorge Luis Borges: early poems.
Carlos Fuentes: unpublished rst stories. Júlio Cortázar…. On and on.
Beautiful.
They bring forth my book. I am stunned. No words. I hold it reverently.
Fifty copies.
Any lingering doubts I may have had as to friends arriving one day
earlier in Madrid for this… vanish. I am more than happy.
Next day we gather once again, early evening. I am thrilled about the
visible delight our “Madrileño” friends express when they “discover”
Claudio and Raul.
We never knew they existed!!!! Enchanted. How could they! Precious
secrets have to be unveiled….lovingly. One needs a “Julio Ortega” to
lead you by the hand.
The mood is wonderful. Claudio speaks. Julio speaks. Beautifully. I
speak a little. It is over.
What is: is not and what is not: is.
A writer in Madrid I have become.
Next afternoon, spruced and dolled up we are ready for the Teatro Real.
First stop the Norman Foster Foundation. This is a relatively new
(two years perhaps) research institution created by Norman Foster
himself which houses ALL his archives, designs, models. Open only to
scholars and researchers and students of architecture, so a very special
treat indeed as people such as we simply are not granted access. We
meet in the courtyard as “our troops” gather. Welcomed once again by
smiling Sta and Directors. Equally nice is to see that the “Madrileños”
have brought along their children and grandchildren to benet from
this remarkable visit. One more aspect of what makes this Madrid
gathering of the Teatro Real so homey and special. We are denitely not
just “guests”. We too are included in these diverse, embracing families,
spanning several generations.
We split into groups and begin our visit in what Foster called his
“Inspiration Center”. First object we see, the marvelous Boccioni
sculpture of what I call his “winged gure”. Futurism, the “avant
garde” of eighty years ago and still so contemporary and full of
promise. We y, as does Foster who a pilot is and hanging there in
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space are oodles of models of planes all of which he ew at one time or
other to inspire and motivate him and propel him ever forwards. Next
come innovative pieces of furniture. Collections of photographs. The
St Moritz marathon on snow of which he partakes whenever he can,
even now in his eighties. On and on, dierent objects, “whatevers” that
catch his fancy and his fantasy.
We come into the building proper. Room after room of mock
ups, drawings, “maquettes” for buildings on the moon, railway
stations through which you see and grasp innity. Towering needles.
Neighborhoods brought to “new” forms of life. There is no limit to
Foster’s imagination and we are urged and encouraged to explore,
invent, move onwards.
I am happy to sink into the bus and set o to the Teatro Real where
we will re-enter the familiar. The comfortable. The known. Lucia di
Lammermoor. An extraordinary cast. Lisette Oropesa.
How achingly vulnerable this young soprano is. All the pain, the
suering brought to us through her voice alone. Tragic and sublime.
Until horror strikes and we are caught o guard reeling….when her
brother Enrico deowers her in the most violent shocking scene I have
yet to see in opera. You may ask and are there not other equally horrid
scenes in opera from which one recoils?….even Lucia herself as she,
transformed by grief and anguish murders her newly married husband
and in her delirium believes she is wedding her beloved Edgardo?
Cheated and betrayed by said brother? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Xavier Camarena equally strong as Edgardo and Artur Rucinski a vile,
perfect Enrico Ashton.
Staging and scenography are just as eective. All so powerful I cannot
swallow a bite as we walk up for a gorgeous dinner of delicious and
tantalizing tid-bits, laid out for us, coaxing, doing their part to help us
erase horror and remember beauty. It is after all “only” opera but here
come to life as we seldom get to see and experience.
We need relief and get it in perfect measure next day as we assemble
for lunch at Palacio Liria, guests of Carlos, Duke of Alba. Ever since
our rst meeting of the International Council lunch at Palacio Liria has
become a tradition and what can be more wonderful than to be able to
gaze with awe and admiration at the incredible artistic legacy it houses.
I never forget the rst time I had the opportunity to visit Palacio Liria.
We had come to Madrid on a visit organized by Save Venice in 2006
or thereabouts. Frederick Ilchman one of Save Venice Directors (today
Chairman) and student of Prof David Rosand ( one of the world’s top
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authorities on Venetian artists, in particular Titian) had been invited to
co-curate a Tintoretto exhibit at the Prado. It had been several decades
since last seen there and Frederick despite his young years was already
being recognized as a world authority on Tintoretto and Venetian art.
Following in the footsteps of Prof. Rosand. We are a group of perhaps
twenty guests.
We are welcomed to the palace by a retainer and there are several others
who accompany us as we climb the stairs to the reception rooms above.
We walk into the rst room. Frederick stops dead in his tracks. Stock
still. WOW! He says, and proceeds to name every single painting, one
by one, topic and artist following in sequence. Going from one room
into the next as more “WOW”s are heard by all of us. Pepe who had been
talking in Spanish to one of the retainers has to laugh to hear him say:
“Pero QUIEN es esto chico?” Astounded by Frederick’s encyclopedic
knowledge. I miss Frederick today (now become Dr. Ilchman) but still
enjoy roaming freely having though to resort to my reading glasses to
help “ll all the gaps”.
Lunch is delicious and delightful under splendid Eckhout tapestries in
the dining room.
Soon we are on the move as the day lies full, ahead. To Toledo we
now drive and soon we are visiting the Convento Santa Clara la Real.
Wonderful amalgam of history dating from the end of the XIVth
century when it became a convent for cloistered nuns. Typically it holds
everything. Remains of older Moorish occupiers, horse shoe arches,
Talavera tiles, a romantic patio redolent of laurel.
I am impatient though as the afternoon advances, the light softens and
I am dying to get to the Cigarral de Menores. Extraordinary weekend
retreat of Pili and Gregorio Marañon where we are being received for
dinner and a recital of Zarzuela arias. Idyllic spot on a hillside just
outside Toledo, the Cigarral was rst owned by a cardinal Quiroga. In
1539 a clergy man, Jeronimo Miranda from the Toledo cathedral buys
a segment of the property. Throughout the next centuries it changes
hands several times. Abandoned during the war for independence in
1835 the Marañon family acquire the property in 1921 and lovingly
restore and live it. Ordinary adjectives become clichés when one tries
to describe it. Suce it to say that El Greco stood (or sat) right there
whilst painting his well known views of Toledo.
We too stand and gaze amid the lavender, the olive trees and above all
the incessant throbbing of the cicadas from which it gets its name. A
pristine, heavenly spot. Several generations of Marañons which adds
that lovely family touch.
The singers take their turn as we sit, in full view of Toledo, glowing in
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the distance. We too become history while fun and naughtiness now
take over. Zarzuelas are just that: lighthearted entertainment. Under
the most magnicent of skies as sun has set while daylight lingers.
Dinner is served in another outside patio looking towards olive groves
behind.Candles icker all around. Darkness falls and we fall silent as
conversation ebbs and we, content.
Back to Madrid. Ours, the rst bus. Silently.
The second bus, Cigarral inspired….sings all the way to Madrid.
Monica Marianno
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Saturday begins for us at 7p.m. How nice as impressions need their
time to become memory.
Hop on our bus and o we go, back to the Teatro Real. A temperamental
Diva we shall hear.
Angela Gheorghiu, “diva-esque” and in full command as she is there
to dazzle. Which she does. With her companion, tenor Teodor Ilincai.
The house adores. The pianist Ciprian Teodorascu also stems from
Roumania. There is other body language here at work as well as musical
too. From “gitana” to “romany” in twenty four hours! What fun.
Dinner will be at the home of Helena Revoredo. One more magical
Madrid evening. In the garden. Under a patio pergola/tent. Cool
the evening. Light the mood. All of us have gently and comfortably
jelled together these days. Moments shared and conversation becomes
eortless. Once again we are spoiled by the quality of the food, the
avor of the wines.
One can become addicted….
Helena’s family too is present; sons, daughters, in-laws and it is sheer
delight when Ciprian, pianist, brings his darling eight or ten year old
daughter too. Sleepy she is and so the main course served, he does
excuse himself and begs his leave to take her home to bed.
We come to Sunday and it is our last. A visit to the Real Academia de
Bellas Arte de San Fernando. A place of learning and Museum. We are
met by a Doña Mercedes, a Director of over twenty years. A beautiful
elderly lady, absolutely enamored of her institution. She will guide us
and with what passion. Every little detail is not too little for her.
She lingers on the golden sheen of the fabric on a Goya dress: La Tirana.
She points out the silver gleam on the Marques de Villanueva’s bodice.
A friend of Goya’s, startled, he looks up, as Goya captures him forever.
At his desk, writing. An intimate moment revealed.
The Arcimboldo “Allegory of Spring” in all its excess. Two Zubaran
“hijo” magnicent still lives: “Plate with Lemons” and “Agnus Dei.”
Her very favorite, the Louis-Michel Van Loo. “Venus, Mercury and
Love”. Never has skin appeared like this. Such pinks and whites. One
wants to touch. Venus like no other.
Followed by a last, happy, boisterous almost, farewell luncheon.
First a lovely little violin concerto by teenage prodigy Ellinor D’Melon
Moraguez. Born in Jamaica a mere eighteen years old.
I notice she had studied at Zakhar Bron Institute in Switzerland and
played at the Tonhalle in Zürich! We HEARD her two years ago at
that very concert I tell her since we had the good luck to sit with her
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and her mother at table. I have never seen such display of talent as
heard that day. A Recital by the students. Some were mere wisps of
children. Eight, nine years old. Some even younger. I remember her as
having likewise studied in Spain and being a bit older than most of the
others. The eyes shine brightly, the skill and talent are outstanding and
yet I am saddened to see this lovely young girl become so shockingly
overweight. Oh dear, sweet Ellinor think of your heart, your knees,
your joints, your multiple organs that must function well and reliably
to enable you to show your brilliance, your skill for many, many, many
years to come I silently beg. A grandmother I am and yet I dared not
even hint…a word of caution…to the mother.
Joan Matabosch takes over, on re. Relieved, one could sense, that once
again the Teatro Real had come through with ying colors.
Entertain us he did feeding us insider, gossipy tales about Divas and
their Tenors beginning from his Liceo days in Barcelona and soon had
us all in stitches. My favorite about Montserrat Caballé who while
rehearsing a Verdi opera at the Liceo was taken to task by the Maestro.
He had been insisting on tempi of which she decidedly did NOT
approve and so did NOT follow.
Madame Montserrat: I am the Maestro here and the tempi are these
which I set. Joan tells us Montserrat has a rather high pitched voice
with a little edge to it and out pipes, ever so sweetly: Chi le a detto
questo , Maestro? VERDI???? with emphasis on the “di”.
There comes the moment when at the end of all our gatherings Pepe,
being our most senior member delivers nal words of thanks and
appreciation.
Where to begin?
I can say: Thank you Gregorio. I can say: Thank you Pili. I can say:
Thank you: Helena.
Marisa, Ignacio, Joan.
I can add words and adjectives….Nothing is enough.
I say only:
DES-PAM-PA- NAN-TE !
What air !
Opens wide his arms, rolls his eyes, shakes his head.
Savors the sound.
The Spanish section of the room erupts in laughter.
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A word gone out of fashion.
Brought back to life.
Beatrice Esteve
Zürich, July 16, 2018
ADDENDUM
“Are there words enough in all of song to praise the pen?
Who else could bear the burden of bringing back the past
and preserving it thus as though with myrrh?
It has no ears with which to hear nor mouth to oer answers
and yet the pen at a single stroke at once does both:
observes and remembers.”
Translated by Peter Cole in “The Dream of the Poem”.
Despampanante. A word which is no longer in general use. Outdated.
Meaning glamorous, dazzling, beyond all words.
When Pepe was a young gallant, seventy ve years ago it
was mainly used to describe exceptionally beautiful
young women.
At 93 he re-instates it.
A word gone out of fashion.
Brought back to life.
Beatrice Esteve
Zürich, July 16, 2018
ADDENDUM
“Are there words enough in all of song to praise the pen?
Who else could bear the burden of bringing back the past
and preserving it thus as though with myrrh?
It has no ears with which to hear nor mouth to oer answers
and yet the pen at a single stroke at once does both:
observes and remembers.”
Translated by Peter Cole in “The Dream of the Poem”.
Despampanante. A word which is no longer in general use. Outdated.
Meaning glamorous, dazzling, beyond all words.
When Pepe was a young gallant, seventy ve years ago it
was mainly used to describe exceptionally beautiful
young women.
At 93 he re-instates it.
Monica Marianno
