Marcelo Birmajer’s new story: The shirt

My producer’s first indication for the show’s promotional notes in Córdoba -almost two days before the presentation- was that I will disguise myself as a person.

I didn’t get my dirty t-shirt from the 8 hour journey by bus. But I had to go straight from the terminal to the first radio appointment, which was 11am. The next, on TV, in the same place, was 1:00 pm I no longer have time to be decent and go back.

I thought that as a residential neighborhood, between 11:30 and 1:00 I could go out and get a shirt, an elegant sweater, a second-hand jumper. But there isn’t even the lowest local dress about it. Just one store of work safety clothing, another wedding dress, another of sports and fishing apparel. They are chasing me.

It happens often: they find out about my arrival and they have a shed contrary to my needs.

It’s not in one particular area — in fact, the Cordovans treated me well, before, during and after the show—, but an international organization led by the magician Frestón, big enemy of Alonso Quijano, Professor Plones and to you really: they are the same employees of the evil sorcerer who refuses to acknowledge my pronunciation of the word ginger in Tel Aviv.

Here they spared me the simple sweater. Desperate, because the trip t-shirt was really not presentable, even by my standards, a dry cleaner unexpectedly caught my attention.

A misconception in society Whisper of his inspiration: what if I ask the certain gentle gentleman at the dry cleaners to rent me a new laundry shirt and refund it after the interview?

Given the inevitable situation, I allowed myself to cross the threshold of commerce and proposed my original exchange with the mute oriental gentleman to attend to him. I don’t like him. He shook slightly, but the intention of that gesture was clear, from the beginning of time, the ferocity and determination of the epic samurai.

I tried to convince him: – Sir, venerable sensei, you are Japanese, I am Jewish, our grandparents came to this land without knowing how to speak Spanish, which binds us as people, we are part of the same contingent of second generation Spanish speakers.

The charade he unleashed on him – not necessarily coherent, I admit – annoyed him as if he was insulting his ancestors.

– Whiptail, I don’t know who you are, the more I’m not interested. But I came from a Filipino grandfather, at that time the greatest Spanish expert in Manila, director of the Pacific Islands Spanish Academy. Your guilt is unforgivable. Withdraw before I am forced to retaliate.

– I will offer you three times the cost of a laundry in exchange for a newly ironed shirt – I insisted, having directed the discussion in the area of ​​commerce, where many people have been able to reconcile interests that do not work in another places (since I was an adult I have discovered that whenever that trade is despised as a venal and greedy activity, the alternative is always worse).

“Not for all the gold in the world,” he denied me.

But then the phone rang. The dyer temporarily left our hot council and attended as part of his duties. Her face flushed. He exchanged a few words in the dialect. He locked his gaze on my face as if in mortal combat.

He removed the phone to his ear — an unlikely landline — and dropped the call. He looked at me as fixed as phone, and solemnly declared: – A miracle has happened. One client, Mr. Lisandro, has passed away; Your aunt just told me. You can’t get your shirt off.

The last part of the sentence is alone. But I avoided mentioning it.

– You can lend it to me! I exclaimed euphorically, without ceasing to express my condolences on Lisandro’s death.

– For the quintupled amount of a wash explanation of the dyer. And he left me the ID to guarantee the return of the dress.

– Can I pay by debit? -I consulted.

For the cost of the sixth laundry, Mr. Narciso -same place name-, I was allowed to change in the back of the room. The seventh laundry I paid for the dirty shirt: something I had to wear when I returned the shirt. What I didn’t know was how I would pay to get back from the channel to the hotel: I was left with no money.

The interview on channel 12 was great. As Peter Falk told Actors Studio: Even in the dream I did not think that they would treat me well. But when I was back at Narciso’s dry cleaner, a woman in her sixty -six years grabbed me by the shoulder and slapped me: – I just saw it on TV! This shirt belongs to my late husband! Why do you have it?

Fearing that the consequences of that unworthy action would fall to Mr. Narciso and, I confess, being also partially aware of the penalties which I myself should assume, I freed myself to the extent. as much as I could from the fingers of the accuser me and ran towards the reference room.

I relied, by speed, to confuse my pursuer, return the shirt, put on my shirt and flee to an uncertain destination. But I do not consider that I, too, will soon be sixty years old, and my training no longer matched my expectations in the past.

Mrs. He not only overtook me in speed, but also in cunning. He waited for me, like Officer Matute, at the door with Narciso Dry Cleaners written on it. Mr. Narciso himself, with his arms crossed. They seem to be on the side of my opponents. Frestón left no space for chance.

“Really,” I said to myself, “Alea jacta est.” The die is discarded. Let it be what God wants.

Not only did the lady overtake me in my unfortunate speed competition, she had plenty of time to exchange explanations with Narciso, negotiate and give me a fine: The eighth and ninth laundry were paid to the lady, by bank transfer.

For the price of a tenth wash, they allowed me to transcribe the story (because the shirt rental was originally agreed upon with a confidentiality clause).

The T-shirt hasn’t dried yet: I can pick it up the next day, if the weather helps. As I was walking and naked – people greeted me and at the same time surprised -, crossing valleys and hills towards the distant hotel, I heard them whispering in Filipino and laughing in the universal language of jarana. I was so frightened that the widow had not been trustworthy in her pretended anger.

WD