Weather | Sports | Forums | Comics | Classifieds | Calendar | Movies
Translated from the Spanish by Olga Markof-Belaeff
By FERNANDO ARROJO
© St. Petersburg Times, published January 7, 2001
Madrid, some years after the civil war. The atmosphere in our home was effusive, talkative, redundant and moderately given to polemics. My father was an Argentine of Italian descent; my mother was French of Argentine origin, the result of migrations that had nothing to do with the climate.
They argued much less than other couples of similarly mixed backgrounds. But when they did fight, it was almost always over trifles.
They would first get worked up in Spanish, then heap scorn on each other in an Italian dialect and a Parisian French that were both quite mutilated by the passage of time, without either one of them having a clear idea of the details of the argument, and finally, they would rush toward reconciliation, in Spanish again, distinctly Argentine in his case, and Gallicized in hers.
I had just turned 16 and dreamed of being a writer. Verne, Salgari, Rice Burroughs and Dumas were my favorite authors. I read their novels with delight and a touch of sadness. The knowledge that I would never circle the globe, let alone confront Malay pirates, African lions or French musketeers in order to save damsels in distress, was the cause of irritation.
The idea of becoming a writer had been with me for some time, striking me now and then with the same force that the third-floor neighbors' maid used when she wielded her rug-beater on the patio.
I told my mother about my dreams, my mother first, because I knew that we would not let each other down.
"Mom, this isn't a decision that I made by chance. I have the calling, it's in my veins, it's Uncle Amancio's blood. It's not a fantasy." Uncle Amancio, a published poet, was my father's brother.
"Of course not, son. Per'aps your oncle can give you classes and lessons, 'e is ze person to do it because 'e is so smart, 'e 'as traveled a lot, 'e knows so much, 'e is so intelligent, 'e is your oncle, 'e loves you a lot, and for zat reason, because of zat, 'e wouldn't charge you, come on, I mean we wouldn't 'ave to pay 'im, 'e is your fazer's brozer after all, and you know son 'ow bad sings are, you would learn a lot from 'im, life is tough, son."
This logorrhea had become in my parents a kind of illness with which they had infected each other and for which, given its advanced stage, there was no cure.
To show her support, she started to sing, with conviction, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. She had a good voice; she had always admired Edith Piaf, and she imitated her well. For all her faults, Mom was a delight.
My father, as I had expected, was at first more cautious than my mother. He wanted to know, to find out exactly, how I had decided, or, more precisely, determined such a thing. He then grew philosophical, in the tango manner. He was a tango enthusiast and professed an almost morbid adoration for Carlos Gardel.
"You are still very green, you're just starting out, life and things twist and turn, the world spins like a top. What you think today, what you plan today, as the years go by, when the snows of time whiten your temples, then in a flash, all of a sudden you understand that you followed other roads, other sidewalks, that your dreams, your illusions, your hopes took other paths, other byways, that there had been a swerve."
"Dad, great writers start young."
"Yes, son, you're right. In the end, if you think about it, if you look at things philosophically, 20 years, after everything is said and done, is nothing. It's worse if you decide to become a priest, or a monk."
Then, having become more convinced, he parroted what my mother had said in reference to Uncle Amancio, except that he pronounced the th's.
My uncle was delighted and offered to become my tutor immediately. A few days later, I went to his house for my first lesson. He sat behind his desk and, with gestures, ordered me to draw up a chair and sit in front of him. Then he spoke solemnly.
"A writer's task -- that struggle, that obsession with telling fictitious truths -- is powerfully shaped by inspiration and style. The word "style' comes from the Latin stilus, which originally meant "writing tool,' and later came to mean the manner or art of writing. Style, in all its forms, or the desire to have it, rules our life -- make no mistake about it, nephew -- like the four cardinal virtues or the three theological ones rule it in the religious sense.
"One could say that not having a style is already a style, but this cannot be applied to the noble and delicate practice of the arts. There, if you lack style, you'd better devote yourself to donating blood, or to being a guinea pig in scientific research, undoubtedly heroic, charitable actions that may require courage and determination, but not style. A writer without it is like a tourist without a passport.
"Never forget the original meaning of that word. You must write in a sharp manner, not always in a cutting sense, but really delving deeply into the character and circumstances of the protagonists, without forgetting the poetic side of their existence, like the engraver designs and gives depth to figures on a copper plate with a burin.
"If you do not follow these rules, you will end up writing with the impersonal and absurd precision of a local tax official."
At home, my parents wanted to know how the lesson went.
"We talked a lot about style, like that of Gardel or Piaf," I said, guardedly. They were very pleased.
Fernando Arrojo is a writer living in Dunedin. He is an emeritus professor of Spanish language and literature at Oberlin College.
We welcome freelance submissions for Sunday Journal, a forum for narrative storytelling. A lot happens in a Sunday Journal piece; someone might describe a driving tour of colleges with her reluctant 18-year-old daughter, or an encounter on a scary street at night.
We want stories that take us someplace and make us laugh or cry or just raise our eyebrows.
The stories must be true, not previously published and 700 to 900 words. Send submissions to the St. Petersburg Times, Floridian/Sunday Journal, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg, FL 33731, or by e-mail to bockman@sptimes.com. Please include "Sunday Journal" in the subject line.