Los Ojos del Viejo
The eyes of the old man come to me during these times. Did you ever notice how on New Year’s Day the eyes of my father looked different? They were more expressive, as he was expecting something out of the New Year. As if it meant something better for all of us, a substantial change that never came. In a way, they were eyes of hope.
Every New Year I think in the New Year we spent back home, in Franklin St. Every New Year I think of the old man and see his eyes above that stubborn neck that would never stay straight, always with the tendency to bend and curve upwards. I have no particular memories of Mom during those years, except for images of her running, waiting for midnight, and removing her apron so she could hug us. For me, it only meant the beginning of the year. When I was a child, the waiting would make me dizzy, and I would see spots in the air; the way it happens to old people when their blood pressure drops suddenly, I would see these little lights like fireflies moving in the air. Later we would move to the table and devour that Mom has prepared with care.
There were other times – as frequently as a distance of 365 days would allow – we would go to San Bernardo and things would get animated with family members and friends. At midnight my sister and our cousin would eat 12 grapes, one for each month of the year. But every New Year, it doesn’t matter where the eyes of Dad would shine in a special manner.
With the years, as was finishing high school and starting university, I would go partying with some friends after New Year, without a set destination, and more than once we would end up in San Bernardo, spending the first hour in an uncertain manner, not knowing if the New Year would bring the same routine as the old year.
But for the moment of midnight, he would get nervous, stretching his pants, and changing his eyes for the expressive one, hoping that maybe then his wishes would come true.
There is only one year that I remember with sadness, and it was the year when Mom get angry because the old man asked something that didn’t matter but was enough to bring up the sadness and the frustration that had piled up throughout the year. That year there were no hugs, and the food was not served, and the eyes of the old man shut down. Early that night, before midnight, I went out and rolled aimlessly, but with the shut eyes that I left at home, surrounding me for the rest of the night and for the rest of my life.
The other expression that we knew well was he would come home, with his hat tilted to the back. With my sister, our eyes would cross, and we’d understand. What was imperceptible to others, to us was the unmistakable sign that he has been drinking with an old friend. He would be happy, certain that everything has ended that day, but still wanting to outlast for a few moments longer.
These eyes had a different expression; there were not to the New Year, but of happiness and guilt, knowing that maybe a fight could start. But they were also feisty eyes. I think we knew him well for his eyes than his feelings. In the end, his eyes were his feelings, open to us. His eyes would betray his feelings and through them, we would know if he was very happy, sad, or excited in the New Year. Those eyes have followed me for years; last night as we start the New Year in a strange land, like every other year since 1974, the eyes of the old man were with me from before midnight until I went to sleep. I was thinking too that maybe this year would bring us all some profound change to break this wall of monotony and nostalgia, that maybe this year I would make up my mind to return to my land, knowing in the impossibility of the idea. I fell asleep like dad, with the hope that maybe this year things would be different. In the end, hope is the last thing that dies.
NR: Translation made by Federico Barahona Araya
December 1999
December 2006