heart illustrated by E lissambura translated by Lawrence Schimel
AWARD amanuense
2013
heart illustrated by E lissambura translated by Lawrence Schimel
My grandmother always said that when everything was quiet, if I close my mind and let my imagination take control of my senses, I can hear things that no one else hears: the sound made by a petal as it comes loose from a flower, the microscopic noise made by a droplet of rain on sliding across the skin of an apple, the whistle of air that passes between the hairs of the whiskers of a distracted cat.
One afternoon, when I came home from school, I tried it. I turned off the television, opened the window to the street and sat down on my bed, with my eyes squeezed shut, trying to make less noise than that made by a cloud on holiday. Soon my ears began to travel through every corner of the house.
First I heard the closest sounds: the dripping of the bathroom faucet, the happy song of the cricket that almost didn’t let me sleep the night before, and beyond those, the buzzing of the refrigerator and the gentle shuffling sound of Mom’s slippers.
Carried along by what my ears told me, I moved further and further away: I heard the engines of the cars on the street, and carefully I moved alongside the greengrocer who weighed two chayotes on the scale, placed them in a paper bag, and gave the change in coins to a woman, as he recommended that she eat them with just a little salt. “It’s very entertaining to travel like this,” I thought, “it’s like being invisible, because no one sees me.”
Concentrating hard, I tried to determine where the music came from. My ears turned the corner, passed through the wake left behind by the siren of an ambulance, and stopped before a large and silent door: that of the children’s hospital.
Suddenly, in the distance, I heard the trill of a marimba. It really caught my attention, because almost no one plays in the city.
I hesitated for a moment: “I don’t think that there’s a marimba in here.” I had barely finished thinking those words when, from deep inside the hospital, the music came to me again, strong and clear.
Very quiet, led by my ears, I moved through the hallways. I entered a ward where various children played guessing games. “What color was Napoleon’s white horse?” one of them asked. I whispered the answer, but no one heard me.
I followed my way along staircases, wards, and rooms where boys and girls rested, or played, or simply waited for their illnesses to go away so they could once again run happily through the plazas of their towns.
On reaching the last hallway, my ears signaled to me that the music came from a small room. There, a boy was seated on his bed. “Hello,� I said, without knowing why. Then something astonishing happened.
“Who’s there?” the boy asked. “I’m Amanda. How can you hear me if I’m so far away?”
“I’m Miguel and I am also traveling through my ears... I can even hear the clock in your room that is ticking very, very loudly.”
“This is my first time. I came to you by following the sound of your marimba,” I said. “They let me bring it because I am going to be here for a very long time. They say that my heart is tired, can you believe it? I am waiting for them to give me a new heart.”
Without quite understanding very well all this about having a new heart, I wanted to be a friend of this boy with such a large smile that it could be seen with my ears.
After that day, every afternoon, when I came home from school, I sat on my bed with the television turned off, concentrated and traveled all the way until I met up with Miguel.
I know that Miguel, for his part, waited for me and always, before saying anything, he played a piece with his marimba to cheer me up. That’s what we did every day, for weeks and months.
But one day I didn’t find him in his room. It grew later and then night fell and then it was the next day and the next afternoon and the afternoon after that, and Miguel still didn’t return. Some time later, his bed was occupied by another boy. What had happened? Did they find another heart for him? I spent many afternoons and nights moving through the entire hospital with my ears, but I never heard anything that gave me a clue.
Sometimes I wanted to cry, but I preferred to think that Miguel was OK, that he had returned to his town high in the mountains. Some months later, after feeling much sadness, I decided to stop looking for my friend.
“I think that I am never going to hear him again,� I thought, already without hope. And at that precise instant, it seemed to me that I heard the ringing of his marimba coming from somewhere.
I ran to my room, tripping on the cat, I tried not to get distracted by the sound of my little brother brushing his teeth and crossed the noise of the neighbor’s broom.
I leaped over the hoarse rumble of the motorcycles, I dodged the sharp whistles of the traffic warden and those of the referee marking a penalty in a stadium five blocks from my house. I fled from the shouts coming from the bleachers, from the deafening blow of the storm and from the immense black clouds that covered the city.
This time my ears traveled further than ever: they crossed rivers and forests, valleys and mountains, ranches, plazas, fields of crops, and schools.
Then I began to hear a marimba, and then another, and soon it was the clamor of hundreds of marimbas that sounded sweetly, playing different tunes.
And the sound of all the marimbas echoed in the heavens like the beating of a heart.
Jaime Gamboa Goldenberg Una vez, cuando tenía 9 años, aburrido de practicar el violín se me ocurrió dejarlo a un lado y abrir una edición ilustrada de El Principito. Así descubrí que la lectura me devolvía el apetito por la música y viceversa, por lo que la combinación se me convirtió en un hábito. A los 14, para descansar del contrabajo leía Rayuela y años después, mientras estudiaba literatura en la Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, seguí siempre con mi carrera de músico. Ese vaivén entre la música y la literatura me convirtió en letrista de canciones, oficio al que le debo más alegrías de las que jamás imaginé.
Publicado por: Grupo Amanuense, S.A. Dirección: 3ra. Avenida, Tronco 2, Sección A,
Actualmente escribo libros, formo parte del grupo musical costarricense Malpaís y redacto textos en una agencia publicitaria, donde por suerte no tengo que pedir permiso para levantarme a tocar la guitarra cada vez que me canso de escribir.
Lote 5, El Encinal. Zona 7 Mixco. Guatemala, Centroamérica. Teléfonos: (502) 2434-7831 / 2431-8243 editorial@grupo-amanuense.com www.grupo-amanuense.com ISBN: 978-9929-633-06-3
Elissambura Primera edición 2014 ©2014 Grupo Amanuense, S.A. Texto: ©2014 Jaime Gamboa Ilustraciones: ©2014 Elissambura
De pequeña quise ser veterinaria, tener un zoo y pasármela leyendo. Pero la vida tiene vueltas y luego de pasar unos años con la biología y de intentar con las letras, encontré en la ilustración la mezcla exacta entre animales, investigación, fantasía e historias. Entonces estudié y me hice Ilustradora Profesional en la Escuela Superior
Todos los derechos reservados. Cualquier solicitud de derechos podrá hacerse a: literaria@grupo-amanuense.com Impreso en MAYAPRIN, Guatemala.
de Artes Visuales Martín Malharro (Mar del Plata, Argentina). Mi trabajo consiste en contar historias, crear personajes y poner imágenes donde sea necesario. Lo mejor de mi profesión: aprovechar la magia de las ilustraciones para llegar donde las palabras solas no pueden y hacer visible la imaginación.
Siguiendo las instrucciones de su abuela, Amanda aprendi贸 a viajar con los o铆dos. En su recorrido por la ciudad, se hace amiga de Miguel, un ni帽o que toca la marimba mientras espera que le pongan un coraz贸n nuevo.