Sleepwalking obituary

        

Español😒

     That was a strange way for us to meet. She was a reporter for the local newspaper and I was a writer abandoned by nature. In what she saw news, I saw injured people. Where she saw the first headline, I saw people and more injuries.  That's why we shared so much, she behind the news and me behind the experiences. The political events enthused both of us, her for reporting about the fraud and me for the incredible ability politicians have to be seen as moral people. I was intrigued by how people kept believing them, the reporter dismantled the fraud and people re-elected them. That's when we started talking, when I told her the strange idea of wanting to do several lobotomies to know what was going on in some brains. I even told her that it would be a good story, a scientist who would kidnap people to study their brains and their decisions in order to alter them, politically speaking. Strangely enough, the idea of the story didn't sound so crazy to her, perhaps because she loved to write chronicles, but rarely could she do it in the newspaper. That's why she became so obsessed with the front page. She wanted to find a story, THE STORY, worthy of being on the front page of the newspaper. One day I dared to suggest that she should stop covering in her news the characters I was going to use for my book, who would read something that is already in the newspaper.  No matter what I said, she was obsessed with the front page. Meanwhile, she wandered between sections of the newspaper. Once, when she was in charge of the culture section, she called me for an interview about a prize I had won in a literary contest held by the Puerto Rican Culture Institute. She did a recognizable job, exalted me in a way I didn't expect. She asked many things to write that article and I took the audacity to stop her. It was a pause suspended in the air. I looked for my notebooks, where I used to write down the stories that came to mind. I gave her the notebook, she opened it and found many of the scenes from my only novel: The Marriages of the Dead. Each scene was accompanied by a newspaper report of her authorship. They were the same stories, from different perspectives.  That's how our friendship was, different in every way. We shared great discussions, particularly because of certain epitaphs in my novel.  They were good obituaries, but tortuous, because it is always difficult to summarize a life with a handful of memorable words.  That's why I strongly advised her when the editor-in-chief banished her to write the obituaries. It was a mistake. She made a mistake in one of the reports and was sued for defamation, damages and prejudice and some other things. However, she was counting on me in her exile. We became those kinds of friends of which there is only one. Only you know and understand that friendship, for others it is rare, confusing, distorted and perhaps absurd. That is why the friendship became deep, a secret connection of two roots approaching beneath the earth.  Messages day and night, traveled from one side to the other. Sometimes we paused, in order to not get in the habit of being there all the time, in order to not worry about it the day one could not answer. It was a moment to gather other stories, other news and mix them to turn them into something different. In the last message I received from her, she said she had another chance to get her front page back. I was going to reply immediately, but sometimes time is not enough. I put it off, made sure I could write to her a little later. She waited for my message. I should have sent it just then, but I forgot the fragility of life.

          "It is difficult to summarize a life with a handful of memorable words.

It was the first time that the newspaper published an obituary on the front page.

F. JaBieR