Today, I saw my grandfather, he was walking out from a cafeteria, here...in Bogota.
While I turned and looked, after crossing the street, I saw this man. almost 6 feet tall, with white hair on the sides of his head, but no hair on top; The nose was big, the cheeks looked like melted by all the years' gravity, a cigarette on one hand, his pipe on the other: It was one of those long straight pipes that have a filter. On top of it, sunglasses. It could not be my grandfather.
He seemed to be the same age as my granfather, he was the same height, he had the same build. It was my grandfather!
I didn't want to go any further in my thoughts at first, I did not desire to do it, it was and useless thought. There was no way I could prove something so absurd. So, I kept walking without concern.
I got to the library, asked for a book of Bukowski, or Bukowsky... I don't know, who cares anyway? he wouldn't mind. The librarian pointed the shelf where the book was.
— look over there boy — he said.
I walked towards the shelf with a bit of oddness, since it is not usual, even less common, an attitude so lax talking about a client, here, in this city: So many thieves everywhere, day in and day out; and so many cops standing on their bright green suits, waiting for a driver to catch doing a wrong turn, breaking the speed limit and so on, just to get some "tip for a coffee". All this makes Bogota a stupidly dangerous city. It is a stupid city.
I found a book. I bought it. But of course, not before asking if there was anything of Saramago. There was, but I didn't have enough to buy it, (I wish I never become famous and someone wishes (dares) to contextualize me, I wish I always stay as a decontextualized myself forever, the one I am by nature) so I left the stage. walked up the street while I was putting away the Bukwhisky book. hahaha, whisky, me and my stupid jokes. He didn't even like whisky that much. I've lost the thread.
I passed by the same place where I had seen my "grandfather", the old man was not anywhere near there obviously, however, in that exact moment I started to ponder over the fact. Was it actually my grandfather the man I had seen? I think that when he saw me staring at him, he gave me a hint of smiling, a brief and mild smile. A smile which allowed me to see his yellowish nicotinic teeth. The smoke of the cigar he had just lit up, made him look misterious and reckless... still made him look even more like my grandfather.
Right now, as I share the table on which I'm writing with an astonishingly beautiful deaf-mute and her friend, who I do not know nor will I be able to...obviously: I think about my grandfather and the improbable yet possible that was seeing him. Possible.... yeah right! how's this even possible?
Was this old man my real grandfather? Doctor Abraham Moises? I think he was. And if he wasn't him, then he was a stuntman, a lookalike, a stand-in, who, besides being curiously similar physically to my grandfather, with the obvious exception, had gone through the same experiences in life.
I have always seen myself reflected on my grandfather, he's a natural lunatic, an intellectual. A gentleman. The perfect man despite being filled with flaws, which made him... human. Truly Human!
My grandfather is so intelligent, even nowadays he learns anything he lays an eye on, even if it is almost nothing what he can lay his eyes on.
He has lived with my grandmother since shortly after he finished his medicine studies in Argentina. My grandmother did not bear him whatsoever. She got tired of treating him well, even long before he got sick: She got sick first, sick of him, sick of his words, sick of his haughtiness. I don't blame him, he's got the right, by nature, because of his cleverness. And besides, I am exactly the same! I can not judge him, can I!
The deaf are upset, think it was my fault, I have bothered them by blowing my nose in front of them... this has lead me to wonder: in a deaf world, how does whispering a secret works? (it is not a joke)
Well, anyways, My grandfather was an ass with my grandmother, but he raised my sister with affection, he fussed over her til she didn't want it anymore, although she did, she still enjoys his cuddles; but if she left, was my grandmother to blame: her overly obsessive conservatism. Now that I think of it, I think I write just too much about my sister. I should not, it might be somehow misleading.
This old man, the stuntman, simply can not be my grandfather... he doesn't have the hidden worries my grandfather has, and you can tell, even though they have been in this planet for the same amount of time, he sees the world with other eyes, from another perspective, from another point of view.
His silent smile is more sincere than the horrible and superficial noisy laughter; his gaze is, unfortunately, way too revealing.
My grandfather and his stuntman have something in common, something highly important, if they both had the same current characteristics, they'd be doing exactly the same: walking around the world, driving around, travelling, drinking his whisky, playing domino, having a word with some other old guys, eating in a cafeteria in Bogota and then lighting up a cigar, smoking his pipe.
But my grandfather can not do all these things anymore, glaucoma has let him blind, and his blindness has made him close his eyes forever, since it is uselessly the same having them wide open, light has lost its meaning, the eye has lost its purpose. It may be divine punishment, or a blessing... the way I see it, his blindness saved him from seeing the world engulfed in flames, while his stuntman stares at me and smiles.
He stares at me and smiles instead of him.
Haven't you noticed the strange sounds the deaf-mute do when they talk?
do you know what you can see when you just can't?
