A Nasreddin story

Nasreddin at last reached the home of an Ottoman official who had invited him to dinner. He had travelled a long distance on his donkey, and his clothes were dirty. However, as it was very late and he didn't have time to change, he knocked on the front door. When it was opened, he saw that the guests had already come. But before he could introduce himself, his host told him that beggars were not welcome and shut the door in Nasreddin's face.

Nasreddin then went to the saddlebag on his donkey and slowly changed into his finest clothes. Looking magnificent in them, he knocked on the door again. This time, his host welcomed him with many courtesies, and led him to the main table.

When the food was served, everyone watched in amazement as Nasreddin poured a bowl of soup into one pocket of his silk robe. He was placing his roast meat on top of the fur on his sleeves, murmuring "Eat, fur, eat!", when the host, horrified, asked him for an explanation. Nasreddin replied he was feeding his clothes: from the way he had been treated before, it was clear that the host had invited his clothes, not him.


'I love you' by Woodkid



"Auggie Wren's Christmas Story"

"If you buy me lunch, my friend, I'll tell you the best Christmas story you ever heard. And I guarantee that every word of it is true."

We walked down the block to Jack's, a cramped and boisterous delicatessen with good pastrami sandwiches and photographs of old Dodgers teams hanging on the walls. We found a table at the back, ordered our food, and then Auggie launched into his story.

 "It was the summer of seventy-two," he said. "A kid came in one morning and started stealing things from the store. He must have been about nineteen or twenty, and I don't think I've ever seen a more pathetic shoplifter in my life. He's standing by the rack of paperbacks along the far wall and stuffing books into the pockets of his raincoat. It was crowded around the counter just then, so I didn't see him at first. But once I noticed what he was up to, I started to shout. He took off like a jackrabbit, and by the time I managed to get out from behind the counter, he was already tearing down Atlantic Avenue. I chased after him for about half a block, and then I gave up. He'd dropped something along the way, and since I didn't feel like running any more, I bent down to see what it was.

 "It turned out to be his wallet. There wasn't any money inside, but his driver's license was there along with three or four snapshots. I suppose I could have called the cops and had him arrested. I had his name and address from the license, but I felt kind of sorry for him. He was just a measly little punk, and once I looked at those pictures in his wallet, I couldn't bring myself to feel very angry at him. Robert Goodwin. That was his name. In one of the pictures, I remember, he was standing with his arm around his mother or grandmother. In another one he was sitting there at age nine or ten dressed in a baseball uniform with a big smile on his face. I just didn't have the heart. He was probably on dope now, I figured. A poor kid from Brooklyn without much going for him. Who cared about a couple of trashy paperbacks anyway?

 "So I held on to the wallet. Every once in a while I'd get a little urge to send it back to him, but I kept delaying and never did anything about it. Then Christmas rolls around and I'm stuck with nothing to do. The boss usually invites me over to his house to spend the day, but that year he and his family were down in Florida visiting relatives. So I'm sitting in my apartment that morning feeling a little sorry for myself, and then I see Robert Goodwin's wallet lying on a shelf in the kitchen. I figure what the hell, why not do something nice for once, and I put on my coat and go out to return the wallet in person.

 "The address was over in Boerum Hill, somewhere in the projects. It was freezing out that day, and I remember getting lost a few times trying to find the right building. Everything looks the same in that place, and you keep going over the same ground thinking you're somewhere else. Anyway, I finally get to the apartment I'm looking for and ring the bell. Nothing happens. I assume no one's there, but I try again just to make sure. I wait a little longer, and just when I'm about to give up, I hear someone shuffling to the door. An old woman's voice asks, 'Who's there?' and I say, 'I'm looking for Robert Goodwin.' 'Is that you, Robert?' the old woman says, and then she undoes about fifteen locks and opens the door.

 "She has to be at least eighty, maybe ninety years old, and the first thing I notice about her is that she's blind. 'I knew you'd come, Robert,' she says. 'I knew you wouldn't forget your Granny Ethel on Christmas.' And then she opens her arms as if she's about to hug me.

 "I didn't have much time to think, you understand. I had to say something real fast, and before I knew what was happening, I could hear the words coming out of my mouth. 'That's right, Granny Ethel,' I said. 'I came back to see you on Christmas.' Don't ask me why I did it. I don't have any idea. Maybe I didn't want to disappoint her or something, I don't know. It just came out that way, and then this old woman was suddenly hugging me there in front of the door, and I was hugging her back.

 "I didn't exactly say that I was her grandson. Not in so many words, at least, but that was the implication. I wasn't trying to trick her, though. It was like a game we'd both decided to play - without having to discuss the rules. I mean, that woman knew I wasn't her grandson Robert. She was old and dotty, but she wasn't so far gone that she couldn't tell the difference between a stranger and her own flesh and blood. But it made her happy to pretend, and since I had nothing better to do anyway, I was happy to go along with her.

 "So we went into the apartment and spent the day together. The place was a real dump, I might add, but what else can you expect from a blind woman who does her own housekeeping? Every time she asked me a question about how I was, I would lie to her. I told her I found a good job working in a cigar store, I told her I was about to get married, I told her a hundred pretty stories, and she made like she believed every one of them. 'That's fine, Robert,' she would say, nodding her head and smiling. 'I always knew things would work out for you.'

 "After a while, I started getting pretty hungry. There didn't seem to be much food in the house, so I went out to a store in the neighborhood and brought back a mess of stuff. A precooked chicken, vegetable soup, a bucket of potato salad, a chocolate cake, all kinds of things. Ethel had a couple of bottles of wine stashed in her bedroom, and so between us we managed to put together a fairly decent Christmas dinner. We both got a little tipsy from the wine, I remember, and after the meal was over we went out to sit in the living room, where the chairs were more comfortable. I had to take a pee, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom down the hall. That's where things took yet another turn. It was ditsy enough doing my little jig as Ethel's grandson, but what I did next was positively crazy, and I've never forgiven myself for it.

 "I go into the bathroom, and stacked up against the wall next to the shower, I see a pile of six or seven cameras. Brand-new thirty-five-millimeter cameras, still in their boxes, top-quality merchandise. I figure this is the work of the real Robert, a storage place for one of his recent hauls. I've never taken a picture in my life, and I've certainly never stolen anything, but the moment I see those cameras sitting in the bathroom, I decide I want one of them for myself. Just like that. And without even stopping to think about it, I tuck one of those boxes under my arm and go back to the living room.

 "I couldn't have been gone for more than three minutes, but in that time Granny Ethel had fallen asleep in her chair. Too much Chianti, I suppose. I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes, and she slept on through the whole racket, snoring like a baby. There didn't seem any point in disturbing her, so I decided to leave. I couldn't even write her a note to say goodbye, seeing that she was blind and all, and so I just left. I put her grandson's wallet on the table, picked up the camera again, and walked out of the apartment. And that's the end of the story."

-Paul Auster


'Las cabras'

"Ahí fue que aprendí que cuando oscurece, las cabras no se mueven. Se quedan donde están, y punto. Al día siguiente regresas y están en el mismo lugar."

Alejandro Ortiz, pastor de cabras
(Vist a El Periódico de Catalunya,29/1/2013)


Antic conte japonès


El jove Akira era l'encarregat d'anar a buscar l'aigua fresca que bevien a la casa-escola del mestre Oé. Cada matí anava a la rica font que naixia al peu del turó, a vint minuts de distància. Per a aquesta tasca, havien aconseguit dos grans atuells de terrissa que mantenien l'aigua fresca tot el dia. Els dos càntirs penjaven dels extrems d'un pal robust que, col·locat al llarg del coll, li permetia portar fins a tretze o catorze litres sense gaire esforç.

Però resulta que un dels atuells tenia una esquerda per la qual s'escapava part de l'aigua i, al final del trajecte, només arribava la meitat del contingut.

Durant els dos darrers anys, aquesta havia estat la dinàmica: l'Akira anava aviat a la font, omplia els dos recipients i tornava només amb un atuell i mig d'aigua.

El càntir perfecte estava molt orgullós dels seus èxits: durant tot aquest temps havia portat tot l'aigua que li permetia el contingut. Però el càntir trencat estava trist i avergonyit de la seva imperfecció, ja que era conscient que només aconseguia complir la meitat de la comesa per a la qual havia estat creat.

Després d'aquells dos anys de treball, l'atuell trencat ja no va resistir més la pressió i va alçar la veu per dir:
—Estic tan avergonyit!
L'Akira va girar el cap cap a l'esquerra, va veure gemegar la pobra ceràmica i va preguntar:
—Vergonya de què, amic meu?
—Durant tot aquest temps, no he estat capaç de portar bé l'aigua fins a casa del mestre. Quin desaprofitament! Per culpa dels meus defectes, he espatllat part de la teva feina —es va queixar el càntir.
L'Akira va somriure amablement i va dir:
—No diguis això. Ara arribarem a la font i us ompliré d'aigua, i vull que et fixis en com és de bonic el camí de tornada a casa.

Quan van arribar a la font, el càntir va deixar que li posessin l'aigua i, un cop damunt de les espatlles de l'Akira, va començar a mirar al seu voltant, tal com li havien indicat.
—El camí és preciós —va dir el càntir.
—A mi també m'agrada. Veus les flors precioses que voregen la cuneta? —va preguntar l'Akira.
—Oh, són boniquíssimes! —va exclamar el recipient.
—T'has adonat que només hi ha flors en aquest costat del camí? Durant aquest dos anys, he plantat llavors en aquest costat perquè sabia que hi creixerien les flors gràcies a l'aigua que tu vessaves cada dia —va assenyalar el jove.
—De veritat? -va preguntar el càntir, emocionat.
—Sí. Gràcies a això durant aquests anys he gaudit d'aquestes flors en els passejos matinals i no solament això, he pogut decorar amb flors la taula del mestre. Estimat amic, si no fossis com ets, ni el senyor Oé ni jo hauríem pogut gaudir de la bellesa com hem fet!

Autor: desconegut
(Via: MSP)


'Women without men'

Ho diré d'entrada: muda, guanya. Després de visionar 'Women without men' (2009) de Shirin Neshat, és el primer que se m'ocurreix. Res de versió original, encara que dominis el farsi, millor sense so. Per què? Perquè no aporta res. Els diàlegs sobren, fins i tot a mi que m'agrada l'espessor del cinema francès o iranià, com és el cas. I el que és pitjor, resten.

Expliquen fets o accions que ja s'entenen. Malbaraten la feina feta amb la imatge. Bellíssima en línia amb el realisme màgic de la novel·la origen i que tan bé lliga amb el món de la directora. Queda clar que és on està còmoda —és una artista visual reconeguda—, però d'explicar històries encara ha d'insistir-hi una mica més.

Els personatges són plans i ni la potència de les imatges amaga les seves carències. El suposat retrat acurat de la dona en la societat iraniana prèvia al cop d'estat de 1953, encarnat en les quatre protagonistes, està construït amb estereotips absents d'ànima, previsibles fins a l'avorriment. I a l'altre gran protagonista, el jardí, li manca l'aire de paradís terrenal dels jardins perses, per molt que hi posis boira.

L'ambientació, cosa que hauria de passar desapercebuda, no col·labora tampoc. Calien les escenes de masses que fan més pena que glòria? Casablanca, on esta rodada, no passa per ser el Teheran del cop d'estat. Les teulades inclinades de l'inici generen una sensació d'inverosimilitud notable. Potser es filar massa prim, però si has estat als dos llocs ho notes, són d'una mena que mai no trobaries allà. Sé que és de pressupost ajustat i que no podien rodar a Iran, però es podia haver solucionat d'una altra manera: és cinema! En resum, una pel·lícula sobrevalorada que m'alegro d'haver-la vista, ja que amb una vegada n'hi ha prou.