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| Caitlin Legault |
Almost
two years ago when me moved from our large Kerrisdale house to our present duplex in Kitsilano I gave up
unloading some of my books.
Fortunately
Dan Stewart at Macleod Books accepted around 500 as a gift. I still had at
least 1500 books that were not going to fit in our new little house.
My
youngest granddaughter, Lauren, called it dumpomatic. I would load my Malibu’s
trunk with books and stuff plus a step ladder. I would drive a couple of blocks
to Hudson Street where several houses were either being demolished or a new one
was being built. In all cases there was a huge metal dumpster parked in front.
I would flick the books into it or with heavier items I would use my
stepladder. I swore I would never buy books again.
I have
kept true to that vow. The exception are any interesting books for $0.50 that I
sometimes find in my nearby Kerrisdale branch of the Vancouver Public Library.
But
Spanish books. Spanish books!
In our
recent trip to Mérida our plane went as far as Mexico City where we had to wait
a few hours for our connection to Mérida. I immediately went to the airport
bookstore. There I found one of my favourite authors. He is Leonardo Padura
(formerly Leonardo Padura Fuentes). His protagonist is Mario Conde, an ex
police officer and private dick in contemporary Havana.
The book, La Trasparencia del Tiempo
came with a problem. I have managed to read the first page which has a killer
description of Conde looking at his calendar pinned to the wall that is awash
with the morning tropical light. It is poetry. I have been rendered flabbergasted.
Part of
the reason is that many words in Spanish are poems in themselves. Consider
rendija:
rendija.
De re- y
hendija.
1. f.
Hendidura, raja o abertura larga y estrecha que se produce en cualquier cuerpo
sólido, como una pared, una tabla, etc., y lo atraviesa de parte a parte.
2. f.
Espacio, generalmente estrecho, entre dos tableros o planchas metálicas que se
articulan el uno con el otro, como una caja con su tapadera, la hoja de la
ventana o de la puerta con el marco, etc.
3. f.
Hendidura por donde puede entrar la luz y el aire exteriores. U. t. en sent. fig.
Real
Academia Española © Todos los derechos reservados
The beautiful word rendija translates to slit. In Spanish
hendija (with the re) can mean the small space when two bodies get very close to each other. You might be a voyeur and use a rendija (perhaps through the
slat of a Venetian blind to spy on someone). The word rendija not only seems to be a slit but it is also about the quality of light that might filter through it.
I suspect that part of the music of the word is that it
sounds árabe and many words in Spanish originated during the years that the “moros”
occupied Spain. The loveliest of all is ojalá (I hope) which really means if
Allah wills. And consider tthat the lowly artichoke in Spanish (from Spain) is alcaucil.
I had been told and taught, over and over, by my
grandmother (I really never did find out if she had been born in Valencia, or
in Manila) that her husband, my grandfather, Don Tirso de Irureta Goyena spoke
and wrote Spanish beautifully. In fact he was one of the few who before he died
in 1918 had been made a member of the lofty Real Academia Española.
In the beginning of that 20th century the Philippines
had been liberated from the yoke of the Spanish. This was replaced by the
American version. My grandfather was a trial lawyer. He spoke very good
English. He would hold court and correct the other side’s council’s English.
But Don Tirso insisted in doing his part in Spanish and had a translator (whom
he also corrected). The judge would say something like, “You don’t need a
translator. Why are you playing this game?”
The game my grandfather played and lost was to keep Spanish
as the official language.
Many words from Spanish remain. One silia (a misspelling
of silla or chair) was removed from usage during the nationalastic 80s. The
word salon puit replaced it. It means “that which you put your bum on.”
Here is a poem by my grandfather from the book Breve
Antología de La Poesía Filipina (Poetas de Habla Española)
Selección
y notas por Pablo Laslo y Raúl Guerrero Montemayor – Estudio preliminar del
ingeniero Luís G. Miranda
Mi
Guitarra
Yo no sé
manejar esa caja
De madera,
con cuerdas de acero,
que
llaman guitarra:
tengo
otra que entona cantares,
es un
pecho que sufre su caja,
y tiene
por cuerdas
las
fibras de un alma…
No te
extrañe por eso, morena,
que
aunque yo no tenga tu bella guitarra,
la mía,
sin lazos, ni cuerdas, ni claver,
ni
sonora caja,
también
con mi pluma te cante dolores,
y penas
y dudas y goces y ansias!
I would not dare translate my grandfather's poem which is about his inability to play a guitar. He points out the he himself has a sounding box and the steel strings are the fibres of his soul. He then tells the guitar (la morena) that she should not find it strange that with his pen he can sing "dolores" (pain), doubts and pleasures and yearing.
But I believe that his morena (sometimes an endearing word which means dark you say to a woman you love) and that he can sing to her dolores, this poem is really a love song to his Dolores (María de los Dolores Reyes de Irureta Goyena).
My first cousin Robin Humphrey has weighed in on the poem that I did not translate. I read the poem to my two daughters telling them that this was a love poem to their great-grandmother. Cousin Robin has been more direct:
My first cousin Robin Humphrey has weighed in on the poem that I did not translate. I read the poem to my two daughters telling them that this was a love poem to their great-grandmother. Cousin Robin has been more direct:
Alex:
I take issue with your translation of the poem by Grandpa
Tirso:
When he speaks to “ morena”, he is using a common Latin
American term of endearment to his lover, not the guitar.
“Tu bella guitarra” refers to the lover’s guitar, not
the guitar itself
Robin