April 30, 2017 01:08 AM | Updated April 30, 2017 01:12 AM
It is striking that novels, short stories and poems venezuelans in recent times to persevere in a cause tried in similar ways, as if the authors were in agreement. And restless that there has been no prior communication about it, which awakens the suspicion that we are dealing with signals emitted by the collective unconscious national. I am referring to the entrevisión of spaces threatened, in the fall or already crumbling and ghostly. Nor am I surprised that the issue is manifested, often, in texts where the desarraigos ―physical, or those that occur in memory― play a fundamental role.
I’m thinking of the noveleta of Raquel Abend, The blue room (2017), whose saga of persecutions during the Second World War holds for us ravaged landscapes, frequented by survivors in exile who dream of “the ruins where we aventurábamos to collect furniture, toys, bikes”. “I always felt comfortable,” says the narrator, “in places ugly, the marginalized, ( … ). My body was adapted to the impairment from a very young age”. The “blue room” to which the title alludes to sums up all the losses and desires that a spatial metaphor can contain.
I think also in the poetry of Adalber Rooms, which for years projected their atmospheres expressionists in Caracas, as it did in these verses of Inherit the earth (2013):
“Yours is the kingdom,
the oxide that kneels and prays
in the vacant lots,
supported in pens,
hanging from the barbed wire.
Yours the fever that eats away at
streets, sidewalks, houses,
all this tiny universal history of failure.”
Cloud of dust (2015), a novel of Krina Ber, rotates also around the wreckage, although now embodied in intrigue of corruption, real estate that make the conclusion to one of the characters: “I have read somewhere that we are an international phenomenon: the country that built the ruins”. The plural, so eloquent, socializes the anecdote private, making the novel more intimate turns to another genre, the historical, crouched in an archaeology of demolitions that persist in the memory.
To that lineage literary, and with a profile very own, belongs to The blue man, the first novel Pedro Plaza Salvati (Caracas: bid & co, 2016). The ruins come back here and involve a fatal mistake, possibly a move of a traitor, in a matter of real estate ―as happens in Cloud of dust―. In this opportunity, however, the collapse occurs less in the outer than in the psyche of Marco Perdomo, the grey anti-hero obsessed with turning blue in the midst of their defeats.
We are, without doubt, to a psychological novel. But his method rejects the easy-to-encasillamientos tonal or gender. To be considered, not to go too far away, the veins grotesque of the protagonist, whose implosion moral, tied to the disorder of the chavismo, and the subsequent bankruptcy when you try to settle in the united States ―where he has been stripped of the house in which lay their financial security― push him to get a contract with the Blue Man Group; all of it synchronized with a beat-compulsive disorder in crescendo that, as we will discover, it could be genetic… I’m Not going to reveal more, although about the plot, seasoned with humor and even with a touch of kitsch sardonic ―that is to say, of Camp, as it would designate Susan Sontag―, win a long set against a backdrop of realistic, conflicting. In many ways, a significant portion of venezuelans suspect that in their country the power has mounted a show where reality is falsified again and again. Marco Perdomo would be encarnándolo within himself, suffering a collapse similar to that of the Venezuela of today; fleeing from an absurd fair policy, has just become the act of the circus: is determined to be a freak, not only emotionally, but on stage, new yorkers ―in other words, in the eyes of the world―.
Not created, in spite of the above, the stroke hard of farce or allegory predominates. This prose has the rare quality of the ambiguous. During pages hesitate of if the reaction that is expected of us is laughing or if we should rather move us to lives that border on the pathetic ―to say it in English surrounding Frame: the exasperation vital that leaves you blue in the face, transports the color of sorrow, blue―. And is that Square Salvati represents the antithesis to absolute author’s monotonous, abundant in their homeland. This is evident especially in two-species levels involved with records antagonistic: on the one hand, the writer who momifica pursuing the transcendence and the intellectual responsibility ―which prevents you from developing a sensitivity to the burlesque― and, on the other, that is stuck in the goliath grouper creole ―which obstructs access to both the depth as well as the specific depth of genuine humour, in the background, always pierced with melancholy, because human beings are fragile, deluded and shelf-stable―. The novelist of The blue man ranges between the extreme, the confused, requires them to cross and they are needed, whether in the actions reported, whether in the bill verbal of numerous passages, where superimponen the cosmopolitan and the provincial, the high culture and from the mass media: on the same page, to mention just a single example, we can recall, with Frame, images of Cueva del Guácharo and The garden of earthly delights “by hieronymus Bosch. The outcome has a lot of that uncertainty, whose major effect is to lead us to the domains of the dream or the poetic.
One of the merits over this novel is in the subtle presentation of the crumbling mind of a man and the implied promise of its reconstruction. It is a creature consistently drawn from its inconsistencies. During the first third of the book, astute is the dissemination of tracks that later we will discover that it is a destiny: to belong to the Blue Man Group. And no less important, is the effect produced on the reader when he understands that such a target is equivalent to the source: the mania that has Framework back everything around it into an instrument of percussion is a symptom of the impossibility of separating oneself from the world preconscious. Something has your journey of regression to the maternal, a case of epic immaturity in that you risk losing Gaby, possibly the best thing that has happened to him, and, to some extent, a gift received in the “pilgrimage” to that sacred place, that is the Avila (although never the narrator make the mistake of expressing it in these terms, that only I can be blamed: the early sequence of the ascent to the mountain is getting gradually importance in our quest of meaning). The argument of the novelist is so rich that what I have said about an individual of the fiction extends to the country to which it belongs, and hence the importance of the Avila as a reference: the regression to the origin could be found in a society whose imaginary overwhelms us with heroes of the foundation. It has to stressed that the most appreciable of-the-art Plaza Salvati lies, however, in that we never force you to opt for interpretations exclusive: politicize the reading it is our responsibility because we are, as I would say Umberto Eco, before an opera aperta.
If the raw materials of this fable of the deterioration are the ruin, prostration, the spaces of intimacy or possession of threatened, their response is that the ideologies ―the officers, in particular― have offered up to now: close to walls authoritarian, apertrecharse on the defensive strongholds of the identity. Novels like The blue man invite us, on the contrary, a journey by affections whose borders have not been demarcated and where their characters are still searching for a sense of belonging.