The new story of Marcelo Birmajer: Don Alonso de la Cancha

Alonso sat down at the bar table and ordered a toasted cheese and tomato on crumbless bread. Since childhood, because of his name, he has been associated with the surname of crack number 10 in River. In the year 75, her attention and memory of him captured the formation of the two-time champion River. But for the rest of the time, even in his fiftiesnever registered team members again.

Hardly a Francescoli, an Alzamendi, a Buonanotte. He gradually lost all interest. Nor did he know how the national team was formedexcept Messi.

The waitress brought a dazzling toast: crunchy, perfectly au gratin, colorful. The coffee in a jar, freshly cut, flawless. The waitress’s face, smooth, discreet, magnetic, created an aura of mystery in the retreat and as she turned, her body unfolded a constellation of wonders in the bar, other worlds appeared, boundaries vanished. But there were no more napkins.

Alonso looked for something to wipe his hands with, in the midst of sandwich delight, and discovered that absence. He looked around: there were maybe seven other customers, no napkins. How could a human being face a meal without napkins? He had assisted him on other occasions: a roast, a pasta, even a cake, without napkins.

This circumstance left him perplexed. He suddenly he understood the truth: the maid was in the hands of a very evil sorcerer, she was a princess, a queen or a famous for her shepherd beauty of hers. The undelivered napkins were actually letters written in secret ink; no one could read them except Alonso. Otherwise, there were simply no napkins. For Alonso it was a message.

The medium was not necessarily the message; the absence of him, yes: save me from this bad sale, do not allow my imprisonment to continue. take me to the sea But how? The slightest movement could cost him in turn to be bewitched and imprisoned by the Malandra.

He decided to go every morning to order the same toast, which always came without napkins: seek in repetition the solution to that challenge. But at the end of the first week, the maid was removed from her sight. He has never appeared again. She should have been sent to the basement, punished for asking for help.

The waiter who replaced her – before acting as a cashier – left the napkins on the tables. Evidently Alonso had been defeated: he accepted his bet and went back to his routine, with no toast, no waitress, no napkins. Chimeras are also short. He had had it all: a perfect toast, an anxious waitress, an adventure in preparation.

His breeding and lack of determination prevailed: empty hands.

He had never been absent as a production designer at the Teatro de la Notch, but that afternoon it seemed like a comeback, disheartened. He set up the armchair in faux marble, the coffee table with the magazines of the 70s, including The graph with the folding poster of the 75-, Yurkin’s paintings and the built-in kitchen with the always steaming kettle.

The actors and the director occupied the dressing rooms. At 20:30 they gave space. In front of a good amount of audiences, the feature ran smoothly, with no glitches or flashes.

At the beginning of the third act, when the housewife revealed her identity, and her nudity, a woman appeared on the scene, completely out of script and out of any anticipation: she entered as if she were one of the actresses, playing an unknown character. to the cast. Alonso, looking to the side behind the curtain, behind the scenes, perplexed, speechless, he was the only one who recognized her: the maid.

The text was consistent and performed well. For the audience, unless some viewer had already seen the show, it wasn’t particularly surprising. The cast managed to indulge him. When the housewife undressed – in the libretto she was the foot for the second part of the third act, and suspended all objections among the male population – they knew they had caused a scandal.

The waitress skilfully interpreted her extra lines (she spoke of the impossibility of freeing oneself, of the pretense of believing that inside everyone there was a real being, that life always continued its course), left the scene and retired. They never saw her again either at the greetings or at the exit.

Even without the audience, between the dressing rooms and the hall, the actors and actresses, and the generally thrifty director, were excitedly commenting on the event. DoWhere did the crazy one come from? Would he be a spectator? A daring media actress seeking fame? Only one footprint remained on the stage: an empty napkin holder.

Alonso attached him to the other elements of the props and silenced his acquaintance. Had he come looking for him? What other answer could there be? He had managed to escape, with one act, from the unlikely Malandra, and had appeared out of nowhere on the scene! Now it was his turn to find her at the bar, where she would no doubt be waiting for him.

He bet everything on the plenary one and lost. She wasn’t there. But behind the transparent and greyish glass door she made out … Ah, yes … Merlo Mustard. And was that Comelles? There were also Morete, Luque, Pedro González and Jota Jota López. Alonso sat next to Passarella, who gave him a friendly blow on the shoulder, as if to give him a penalty kick. Beto himself had disappeared. Then entered Angelito Labruna.

They met at a central table that the waiter set up, Labruna explained the strategy. After 18 years without being champions, River would once again be La Maquina. They would not repeat Perón’s mistake after his 18 years in exile. The country needed direction; 75 was a turning point: either it took off, or it sank.

Beto, Ángel said to Alonso, what do you think? Alonso meant it wasn’t Beto. It was a confusion: the name of the surname. Passarella continued to look at him expectantly. still in the attitude of giving him the penalty shot.

At his silence, voices dropped, faces dimmed. The waiter handed out the triolé, the vermouth, the napkins, but no one took them. They went away whispering, talking to each other, they had already won the Metropolitan and National championships, Luque put a hand on Pinino Más’s shoulder; strangely, they coincided with Morete and Ortiz, heading for new challenges.

They were like the Kennedy brothers when they walked away from the White Houseand catastrophe, after overcoming the missile crisis.

Alonso remained at the bar. The diners spoke in low tones, only one lady was out of tune giving orders to a niece on the cell phone. They came to get him: his niece and the maid. He had to go home: that evening he premiered a new set. The pot, the casserole, the stew had to be stopped. The waitress waited for her to leave, she walked into the half-empty bar, emptied the table, picked up the tip and wiped it lightly.

wd