cabezas de turco

el busto del emperador

Allá por el año 180 existió en Roma un emperador llamado Cómodo, hijo de Marco Aurelio, que nació para suceder a su padre, cuando este ya era emperador, cosa infrecuente en el imperio,  donde el sucesor podía ser cualquiera que el emperador eligiese. Durante sus primeros años de mandato estuvo asesorado por su padre, e incluso lucho en el frente del Danubio. Sus acciones se caracterizaron por la razón y la moderación. A la muerte de este, sin embargo, su reinado dio un giro radical y la prepotencia, la locura y la paranoia obligaron al pueblo romano a buscar en más de una ocasión su muerte sin conseguirlo.
      Cómodo estaba convencido de su divinidad-Decía que era la reencarnación de Hércules y el hijo de Júpiter - y era un ferviente narcisista. Tal era el caso que mandó contratar a un escultor para que hiciera un busto con su rostro cada semana. Dichos bustos eran semanalmente  a su vez examinados y aprobados por él y mandados como obsequios a las diversas ciudades que componían el Imperio.  Cómodo se permitía incluso el lujo de participar en espectáculos de gladiadores, luchando claro esta contra moribundos, para indignación de un senado , que él desdeñaba e ignoraba.
   Un día, en el año 187 cuando se encontraba en la Galia tratando de sofocar una revuelta, vio un busto a la entrada de la basílica de Lyon. Habían pasado ya 15 años desde que se hiciese. Quince años en los que él había cambiado de forma sustanciosa. Dónde había habido músculo ahora había flacidez, dónde hubiera un rostro de facciones regulares y expresión severa , ahora había  ojeras y arrugas, y  su amada cabellera no era hoy sino un revoltijo de pelos finos y escasos. Cuando llegó al palacio,  mandó traer esa escultura inmediatamente. La examinó e instantáneamente mandó traer a Roma todas sus esculturas.
   Una a una fueron llegando de los más recónditos rincones del imperio desde Inglaterra a Túnez y desde la Galia a Turquía, completando un auténtico álbum de esculturas de más de 150 piezas. Era la vida de Cómodo en 150 fotogramas, y era un relato cruel. Un relato de quién en lugar de gobernar se ha dedicado a la siesta la comida y la bebida.
   Mandó a su escultor que las ordenase cronológicamente y se dice que quedó mudo durante una semana al ver las inexorables consecuencias del paso del tiempo. Al salir de este letargo ordenó destruirlas todas. Cuando todas habían sido destruidas- y él había negado el paso del tiempo -se dispuso a descansar.
  Sin embargo, alguien estaba haciendo un ruido en la habitación contigua. Se levantó y vio que era el Escultor Jefe haciendo otra escultura suya.
"Qué haces?"Preguntó Cómodo contrariado
"Señor, tengo órdenes desde hace 15 años de realizar una escultura vuestra cada semana. En ningún momento me habéis dicho lo contrario"
La escultura era la del Cómodo viejo, del emperador  gordo y cansado, no la del  gladiador temido y amado por su pueblo.
"Destrúyela ahora mismo" Gritó Cómodo irritado.
El Jefe Escultor usó entonces el mismo cincel que había usado para crear con tanta precisión, para destruir.!Qué rápido se destruye algo comparado con lo que cuesta hacerlo!
"Ahora , con ese mismo cincel destrúyeme a mi!" Gritó Cómodo, dando ostensibles síntomas de embriaguez.
"Pero señor..."
"Es una orden"
Murió antes del primer golpe.

        Porque todos somos víctimas de los delirios de grandeza de nuestros gobernantes, de sus defectos, complejos y caprichos. Porque sus ganas de pasar a la microhistoria a costa de obras faraónicas o juegos y luchas de gladiadores, que paga un pueblo hambriento que ríe mientras le suenan las tripas, salen caras a la mayoría. Y sobre todo murió porque cuando se disponía a asestar un primer golpe, cumpliendo una orden envenenada, uno de los guardaespaldas le lanzó certeramente una daga que acabó con él en un santiamén.

     Cómodo haría lo propio cinco años más tarde víctima del enésimo complot para envenenarlo.

A roma

In Memarian

Sometime, when nobody would help me, you did, and now that you're gone,  how am I supposed to pay you back ?
So unfair!

cementerio de verano

Of lice and men

   Sometimes, some people just pop into your head for no apparent reason.I am sure there is one, I just don't think we can grasp it when we happen to glimpse these faces again in our mind unexpectedly.
   Today I thought of Chefchaoen in the Rif mountains, in Morocco.A place which is basically famous for its hashish, grown on the steep sides of the hills, and its indigo blue picturesque houses.Both attract herds of tourists every year.
  A blistering cold winter I happened to be stuck there on my way to Sahara, where I was meant to meet Hassan, a true friend.It was almost dusk and we were strolling and marvelling at the amazing hues of blues and the effect of the light and the shadows, when we met Asaf, or rather he met us.He was so excited about us being spanish!Before we could utter a word he told us the whole story of his life.Not a very long story though.
   In music we call a "one hit band" a group which is very popular  for a particular song but then fades away and evrybody wonders where they might have gone- after a karaoke session usually.Asaf was a "one hit man".He had appeared for about two minutes in one of the first Almodovar films, "Bajarse al moro" ten years ago.
    He was so used to not being believed by people that he had a VCR ready in a nearby shop where we could see the entire sequence.Although he had aged, it was undoubtedly him.
   He played the part of some guide for Antonio Banderas when he came down to buy dope.Unfortunately we didn't need a guide, sadly we didn't need anything from him.
   We walked together back to the main square, which was not very main or very square where we were to meet his friend Jean Paul Belmondo or a very likely lookalike.We couldn't believe our eyes.He was his spitting image.We spotted him among dozens of Arabs who were either sipping tea, chatting or smoking cheap tobacco.He insisted on showing us his home, his wife and his newborn baby.We couldn't refuse the third.
  His wife was 18 at most, and she had the saddest grey eyes in a beautiful face I had ever seen.You could tell she'd had enough of this life.Enough of fairy tales about actors and movies, of lies, high hopes and unfaithfulness.But she was very used to tourists like us, because a tourist always goes on a tour, no mater how far or how long.A tourist always buys a return ticket whereas a traveller only thinks of the next stage.Jean Paul and Asaf were far more travellers than us.They only thought of today.

From Istambul, a most inspiring stage.

Constantinople blues

  It had been a weird week full of plumb grey skies and little talk to anyone.Aysa had heard the usual rumours and gossips about the sultan, his wives and the other servants of the harem. He seemed to be in a constant bad mood  and had even beaten some of the girls and his concubines, which was not his habit. She had almost lost hope of sleeping with him. She had arrived ten years ago. She had been literally kidnapped from her village when she was only 12. Apparently she had caught the Bey's eyes while she was strolling, like she did every afternoon, after the evening prayer.Her family had received some compensation for taking her away, most of which had been that of the family pride and honour. However she had only seen them once again, after her father's death.
  She had been moping floors, peeling potatoes, washing and ironing clothes for so long ! Of course she had also been taught music and some dancing skills, and told some amazing stories,  should they come in handy in the unlikely event of a private meeting with Sultan Abdul.Today however  Aysa- she didn't have a surname yet-felt strangely excited. One of the black eunuchs had woken her up early and  had taken her to the biggest of the hammams of the Dolmabahce Palace where \she had been washed thoroughly . After that, she had been served a lavish breakfast and she had even had her hair trimmed and dyed.She liked the way it had been tied in a bun at the back.Then had come the make up and even the chief tailor had been extremely friendly to her. She felt like a bride in her wedding day.
  Something was definitely going on. Her heart was beating so fast ! If she had a son with the sultan her life would change dramatically.She could even be entitled to have her own apartment in the Palace.That, needless to say, would mean putting up with that sulky dull mother of his, but never mind!
    After a light lunch she was led to the Pink Room where,  to her dismay, she found another twenty girls in her same situation.All of them were wearing the same expensive make up, silk embroidered turquoise dresses and gave off the same musk pungent scent.She didn't see any of the Gozdes, the Sultan's official wives,  though.The sultan's Kahya Kadin entered the room briskly.She seemed not to have slept in days.Her hands were shaking and just a whisper came out of her mouth.She handed each of them a red envelope and uttered "You are all free to go.The sultanate has been abolished.The Sultan wishes to thank you all for your loyal services in all these years".

   It was 1922.A man, a hero in his country now, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk had decided it was time to give the Turks a surname, to choose the Roman alphabet, to promote European clothes and lifestyle, to separate state and religion, but most of all, he had decided to grant women economic and social rights.It  was an important day for Turkish women and so was it for Aysa.