El relato de un amor: Ella | ESP-ENG | The story of a love: She

Le gustaba hacerme enfadar, ponerme de los nervios, llevar mi paciencia al límite, pero nunca conseguía superarla. Bastaba una mirada pícara con un guiño para convertir todo mi enfado en una sonrisa que, aunque no quería que me tomara en serio, tampoco podía reprimir. Y fue como si no hubiera pasado nada.

Solía venir a mi casa a pasar las tardes, veíamos películas tumbados en el sofá o saltábamos sobre él, bailando con los viejos vinilos que tenía, a todo volumen. Merendábamos macarons, sus favoritos, y salíamos a pasear por las callejuelas del centro en busca de una librería, donde podías sentarte en colchones y leer todo el tiempo que quisieras y, si tenías suerte, te daban zumo y pastas de té. Algunos días, ella elegía un libro y empezaba a leer en voz alta mientras yo, instalado a su lado, me dejaba llevar por la curva melódica de su entonación hasta el umbral del sueño. Otros días representábamos obras de teatro, con un dramatismo casi de telenovela, hasta que la señora Blanca, la dueña, nos invitaba amablemente a salir. Poco a poco, esto se había convertido en nuestro pequeño ritual.

Yo no sabía francés y no me entusiasmaba París, pero ella, como tantas chicas de su edad, tasaba su felicidad en vivir en un estudio en Montmartre, salir con un fotógrafo o un escritor y pasear por el Sena ojeando estampas, libros y cuadros antiguos. No era ni fotógrafa ni escritora, pero supongo que era un pequeño sacrificio que podía permitirse, sin que su vida soñada perdiera su candor.

A veces miraba su vitalidad, su ligereza, esa alegría de la juventud agraciada que todavía tenía y que me hacía parecer un adulto a su lado. No era sólo la diferencia de edad, sino la sensación de que para mí el mundo ya había perdido su magia y su misterio. Y esa es la razón de algunas discusiones cuando actuó como si no hubiera reglas, ni límites, ni errores. Pero en el fondo, lo que más admiraba de ella era que, a pesar de vivir en un mundo imperfecto y triste, parecía ver sólo lo que aún podía ser bello.

Probablemente algún día el encanto se rompería y el desencanto de la realidad la haría más sensata y dejaría de verme como lo hacía ahora y ya no buscaría mi complicidad con guiños y sonrisas, sino que cada discusión nos distanciaría. Y dejaría de venir a mi casa por las tardes y no veríamos películas ni bailaríamos en el sofá, ni me leería, ni la señora Blanca nos echaría de su librería. Entonces, vivir en París dejaría de tener sentido y acabaría apareciendo un joven que daría un nuevo impulso a su vida.

No había día que no pensara en ello, pero la verdad es que cada noche, cuando por fin la llevaba a casa y su última sonrisa se grababa en mi retina, estaba segura de que todos esos miedos nunca desaparecerían.

She liked to make me angry, to get on my nerves, to push my patience to the limit, but he could never get over it. A mischievous look with a wink was enough to turn all my anger into a smile that, although I didn't want to be taken seriously, I couldn't suppress either. And it was as if nothing had happened.

She used to come to my house to spend the evenings, we would watch movies lying on the couch or jump on it, dancing to the old vinyl records she had, loudly. We would have macaroni for lunch, his favorite, and go for a stroll through the narrow streets of the center in search of a bookstore, where you could sit on mattresses and read for as long as you wanted and, if you were lucky, they would give you juice and tea biscuits. Some days, she would choose a book and begin to read aloud while I, settled next to her, would let myself be carried by the melodic curve of her intonation to the threshold of sleep. On other days we performed plays, with an almost soap-opera-like drama, until Mrs. Blanca, the owner, kindly invited us to go out. Little by little, this had become our little ritual.

I did not know French and I was not enthusiastic about Paris, but she, like so many girls her age, valued her happiness in living in a studio apartment in Montmartre, go out with a photographer or a writer and stroll along the Seine looking at old prints, books and paintings. She was neither a photographer nor a writer, but I suppose it was a small sacrifice she could afford without her dream life losing its candor.

Sometimes I looked at his vitality, his lightness, that joy of graceful youth that he still had and that made me look like an adult next to him. It wasn't just the age difference, but the feeling that for me the world had already lost its magic and mystery. And that is the reason for some discussions when he acted as if there were no rules, no limits and no mistakes. But deep down, what I admired most about she was that, despite living in an imperfect and sad world, she seemed to see only that which could still be beautiful.

Probably someday the enchantment would be broken and the disenchantment of reality would make her more sensible and he would stop seeing me as he did now and would no longer seek my complicity with winks and smiles, but every discussion would distance us from each other. And he would stop coming to my house in the evenings and we wouldn't watch movies or dance on the sofa, nor would he read to me, nor would Mrs. Blanca kick us out of her bookshop. Then, living in Paris would cease to make sense and a young man would appear who would give a new impulse to his life.

There wasn't a day that went by that I didn't think about it, but the truth is that every night, when I finally took her home and her last smile was etched in my retina, I was sure that all those fears would never go away.