Story of the local Antonio José - Part 1 (Historia del baquiano Antonio José - Parte 1)

An endearing story in two parts, from my Dad’s book Commemorations (Conmemoraciones), dedicated to those wonderful characters that make our surroundings a home. The loud but very well spoken and smelly man at the bus stop, the sweet blonde girl at the chemist, the girls at the hairdresser’s who always wave at you, the lovely Greek lady who gives you a little extra at the food markets, the café attendant who makes sure your poached eggs are nice and runny every Saturday brunch…

Story of the local Antonio José - Part 1 (Historia del baquiano Antonio José - Parte 1)

I wonder what Antonio José’s age was,

nor even us, his most intimate friends, ever knew.

He was from 1800 and something

that could have been seventy or ninety years.

The truth is that he knew old stories

that he used to tell with a lot of flair, little by little,

leaning on a round stool

with an extinguished cigar that went from side to side

of a mouth prolific with strong words.

Don Antonio was quite the character in town.

His corner house was useful for everything

and he lived in it fully.

As a convenience store it has cold beverages and cigars,

bread and books to teach children how to read,

sweets and kitchen salt and newspapers

and fireworks for the public holidays.

As a bar there was no limit, in exchange

of a guaranteed morality.

He knew good and bad and used to say over and over

that nobody could go passed him

and argued wisdom and tact in his performance.

On Saturdays he would set up his barbershop

in another room with mirrors and magazines

and he was the artist of hair styles,

keeping the same haircut himself for fifty years.

At night, on Sundays, the theatre.

He would perform al fresco:

Don Antonio would organise the audience,

charge tickets at the booth and watch out for

mischievous corners.

But the vital program of Antonio José

did not stop there.

He was not really a hairdresser

nor a shop attendant or a bartender.

His duty was the music.

He played the mandolin, the guitar, even bagpipes,

any instrument with which men could produce

and capture the melodic beauty.

He used to write with his own hand melodies

that came from within,

from his youth with no account

or from the multiple graves that he saw open

in his long terrestrial transit.

Suddenly a Mazurka or a Colombian Bambuco

jumped to the pentagram and when

the death of a friend would dress

his heart of sorrow,

a waltz of slow beats would express

what the most noble of words could not say.