YES!!!

I could not have been more thrilled last night, when "The King's Speech" garnered four Oscars...including Best Original Screenplay; Best Director; Best Leading Actor (Yaay!); and Best Picture!!! An (almost) total sweep!

Here's what I wrote on 1/13:

Review of “The King’s Speech”
Directed by Tom Hooper
Screenplay by David Seidler
Music by Alexandre Desplat
Bob & Harvey Weinstein, Executive Producers

Starring Colin Firth; Geoffrey Rush; and Helena Bonham Carter
Also starring Guy Pearce; Michael Gambon; Derek Jacobi; Jennifer Ehle; and Claire Bloom

The circumstances surrounding the abdication of King Edward VIII (Guy Pearce) so that he can marry his lady love, Wallis Simpson of Baltimore—during the rise of Hitler to power and the ultimate confrontation that would lead to World War II—provide the backdrop for what is, in essence, a story of friendship based on mutual admiration and respect.
Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush), a self-styled speech therapist from Australia, had first heard King George V’s (Michael Gambon) younger son, Prince Albert, the Duke of York (Colin Firth), give a speech as early as 1925. The poor Duke embarrassingly stuttered his way at the time; which led to long pauses as the audience waited to see if and how he could finish it. His wife, Elizabeth, the Duchess of York (Helena Bonham Carter), stood patiently by his side; always aiming to comfort and console her distressed husband, who had stammered since he was a little boy.
Fast-forward to 1934: in vain, the Duke had been seeing “experts” for years. The Duchess actually found Lionel Logue through an advertisement; and went to see him on her own; using the pseudonym that the Duke had used while he was in the service of the Royal Navy during the First World War. At first one can detect a battle of wills even between the Duchess and Lionel; including when she reveals her true identity; and that of Lionel’s potential “client.”
The Duke agrees to go meet Lionel on his own terms (which is the only way Lionel will see him). The Duke is known to have a short fuse; and quickly displays it. However, he agrees to read the “To Be; or Not to Be” speech while listening to music through headphones, all the while that Lionel is using new technology to record a recording of what the Duke is saying. The Duke’s temper flares up again; the session is cut short; but Lionel offers him the recording as a parting gift.
There is even talk of betting in this first session; which is rather difficult for a Royal to do, given that he never carries money! However, the most amazing thing is the informality that Lionel insists on: namely, that he be called Lionel; and that he call the Duke “Bertie,” which is what only members of his own family are normally allowed to do!
Back at home, the Duke eventually listens to the recording one evening. His voice sounds perfect; without a trace of a stutter! Elizabeth looks on, dumbfounded. So they agree to work with Lionel on his terms.
Lionel tends to use “unconventional, unorthodox” methods (“Not two of my favorite words,” says the Duchess.) They end up meeting every day; jumping this way and that; doing throat exercises; singing; and, eventually, even cursing, to help cure the Duke’s stutter. For Lionel is sure that his problem stems from fear—of his father, the formidable King George V; and from ridicule by his other brothers, including David, the Prince of Wales (Guy Pearce)—and the heir to the throne.
Bertie’s story interweaves with David’s; who has always done precisely what he wants; and eschews public duty, more and more, especially as he falls under the spell of Wallis Simpson (Eve Best). An ailing King George tells Bertie that he might very well have to take on more and more of his brother’s responsibilities.
On the other hand, we see an example of perfect domesticity in the private lives of the Yorks; who carry through with their public duties; and dote on their two daughters, the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret.
The time comes when King George passes away. His widow, Queen Mary (Claire Bloom), is stoic (as a Royal, she was raised this way). David throws himself at his mother, crying; she does not respond in kind. She obediently kisses his ring; as he is now King Edward VIII. His brother, the Duke of York, follows suit.
But what about Wallis? That’s all David can think of; cares about. By this point in time, he’s convinced he wants to marry her. Not possible! Twice—soon to be, thrice—divorced. With David as the Head of the Church of England! Government officials—plus the Archbishop of Canterbury (Derek Jacobi) begin to become quite concerned.
Life continues in the Logue household, too. There are several vignettes that show—actually—comparable (in their own way) scenarios to the way that the Yorks conduct themselves. Bertie and Lionel have more in common than they probably originally realized.
The cursing in the sessions finally draws the attention of Logue’s own children. The Duke and Lionel go for a walk. By this time, they know a great deal about each other. Lionel dares to bring up that Bertie would make an excellent King. “That’s treason!” he thunders. And, after making unkind references to Lionel’s background, he storms away.
Meanwhile, the government is poised to strike. The Wallis situation is out of control. After some serious talks all around, David decides he has no choice: he must abdicate the throne of England to Bertie. So he does just that, at Fort Belvedere; and then gives the famous speech in which he refers to not being able to carry on “without the woman I love.”
Shortly before this, Sir Winston Churchill (Timothy Spall) had had a conversation with Bertie. “Albert? Too Germanic, Sir. How about a good English name: George VI? A nice continuity to your father.”
Bertie needs Lionel. And, fast. He and Elizabeth show up for tea at the Logues’; startling Myrtle Logue (Jennifer Ehle) to no end!
Preparations begin for the Coronation. At one point, Bertie is besides himself; with Elizabeth comforting him, as always. At the rehearsal, though, he insists that Lionel be seated in the King’s Box, much to the consternation of the Archbishop! With Lionel’s assistance, King George VI is duly crowned.
He finally confronts Lionel about his not having any formal training. “Life has taught me. I’ve learned everything through experience.” Bertie already knows that. Over the objections of the Archbishop, Lionel continues to be the King’s speech therapist.
When Hitler invades Poland, England has no choice but to go to war. The King must prepare to give the biggest speech of his life.
Lionel is summoned to Buckingham Palace. They don’t have much time. However, singing and cursing his way through the preparations (in private, of course), Lionel divides the speech into manageable bits (and shortens it). “Read it to me. As a friend.”
Much to the relief of Queen Elizabeth; the government; and the nation, as a whole, the King reads his first wartime speech over the wireless “with just a little stammer on the w,” Lionel notes.
The Royal Family then goes out on the balcony; for the traditional greeting to the crowd.
But not before we catch a glimpse of Lionel’s eyes: they’re shining a bit, with tears. He’s very proud of his friend, Bertie.
Lionel Logue continued to assist King George VI with every wartime speech. The King came to be known as a symbol of England’s resistance.
In 1944, he awarded Lionel the Royal Victorian Order, reserved only for individuals who had performed a personal favor or contribution to the monarch.
They remained friends for the rest of their lives.
-----------------------------------------------------
It is very difficult for me to decide who was better in this movie: Colin Firth, as Bertie; or Geoffrey Rush, as Lionel. It was probably more of a stretch for Firth to portray the stammering, short-tempered—but good hearted—King. I felt that Rush was in his element. Helena Bonham Carter was perfectly cast as the supportive—and resourceful—Queen Elizabeth. I still remember Derek Jacobi from “I, Claudius.” Guy Pearce would not have been my personal depiction of David (but he played him right). Michael Gambon and Claire Bloom had brief roles; but they knew what to do with them. And the two princesses and the Logue children were delightful: Elizabeth was portrayed as being very perceptive and observant, even then. And it was nice to see Jennifer Ehle again: my chief memory of her is from “Sunshine.”
The clothing was perfect! The men: impeccable. Queen Elizabeth: precisely as we remember her. The princesses: yes, they were more often than not dressed alike when they were children.
All the “British” touches: the tea; the huddling around the wireless in sweaters; the Corgis at both 145 Piccadilly and at the Palace! All: very well researched.
At the end of the day, though, this was the story of a very special friendship between King and commoner—that probably would not have developed quite the way it did if world circumstances were to have been different.
I hope Colin Firth finally wins his Golden Globe (and, maybe, Oscar)!

Copyright, 2011 by Georgina Marrero 1461 words

Well...YES, HE DID!!! CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL AFFILIATED WITH THIS WONDERFUL MOVIE!

Paris, 11/22 - 12/1/09

Me standing in front of the plaque denoting that Clovis Vincent practiced neurosurgery in this batiment (pavilion) at the (then) Pitie Hospital. 11/27/09

Borrowed from another piece:

The Air France flight was smooth. I arrived very early, the morning of November 22.
Let it suffice that I became a “subway rat”, running from Metro to Metro, with my self-made map in hand. Jose had guided me around back in 01; I’d muddled my way through in 00; and I did so, again. Food was not essential (with the exception of the celebratory meal at the Closerie des Lilas on the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing [which had me running back to the hotel and lying, prone, watching CNN International just as the Tiger Woods story was breaking: a half-bottle of red wine; and steak tartare? A no-no.]) Clothing: well, I did rediscover Le Mouton a Cinq Pattes; found Kookai too expensive; and—yes!—H&M, Trend—which I could no longer get in D.C. I also did a little window shopping at Galeries Lafayette and at Le Printemps. Jewelry: I was able to afford a pair of earrings at The Parthenon (it had been three necklaces for about $150 in 01). Gibert Joseph: a little purchasing.
Most of my time, however, I spent at the Louvre, which I hadn’t seen since I was seventeen (I kept returning to the Carrousel du Louvre on a regular basis; especially after I’d discovered the parfumiers, Fragonard!); the Musee d’Orsay (too much construction); the Musee des Arts Decoratifs (where the Madeleine Vionnet exhibit beckoned, almost as if on cue!); the Jewish Museum (which I found very interesting—I wish it hadn’t been raining so much as I explored the Marais)…and what made the trip for me: the Musee Rodin.
I’d tried getting into the Pompidou Center…twice. On strike: only the French…A brief outing on the Champs Elysees: too cold. No Montmartre: quel dommage! Le Quartier Latin: off and on. Cluny: I’d already done that in 00 and in 01. L’Hotel des Invalides: I’d already done that in 00. No Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame: I’d done those with Jose in 01. No Pantheon (I think I went there in 00.) At least, I’d salivated at the rue du Mouffetard my first groggy day. (And the Closerie constituted Montparnasse.)
However, it was the Musee Rodin—apart from exploring my parents’ hospitals—that made the trip for me. And it was sunny that Thursday: so sunny my digital camera didn’t allow me to snap all the outside pictures! I didn’t wander the gardens beyond Le Penseur and the Burghers of Calais, though: again, too cold.
Inside, however, I discovered a world I did not know existed. I’d seen a version of Camille Claudel’s Le Mur at D’Orsay; and wondered, “Who’s the artist?” Being exposed to her work—in a room to itself—kept me returning, over and over. I couldn’t believe I’d never really been exposed to her (or didn’t think I had)—only to Rodin.
It just so happened that my little hotel with its grandiose name of “Le Grand Hotel des Gobelins” is almost right around the corner (well, a bit of a walk) from the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where one finds the mega-complex that is now known as the Pitie-Salpetriere. It was there that my father learned neurology; neuropathology; and neurosurgery. Jose and I had briefly explored it back in 01; but we were primarily interested with finding the neuropathologist Professeur Hauw so that I could hand over my father’s booklets containing formulae and notes he had learned from his teacher, the renowned neuropathologist, Don Pio del Rio Hortega. It was a comfort to have the Pitie-Salpetriere so close! My mother often spoke about the Gare d’Austerlitz, the train station close by. She never told me about the Pitie-Salpetriere’s chapel, though.
On a very cold Friday—armed with my new H&M coat and a stylish tartan-like beret/cloche hat—I stepped forth to locate, first, L’Hopital Broca, where my mother had served her first rotation in General Surgery. Conveniently enough, it was also situated in the 13th arrondissement (though I had to walk in the opposite direction). I kept looking; and looking; until I found it: a small modern hospital with the shell of a medieval monastery on its side, fronting a garden. As with all the hospitals I encountered, there was obviously an attempt at historical preservation; if not, downright, restoration. I took its picture; and then headed back whence I’d come—past my little hotel—to the Boulevard de l’Hopital, where the Pitie-Salpetriere complex is to be found.
Now this was not quite as neat and tidy as the Broca! For, it is massive; with paved paths; dirt routes; hills; and signs. Signs, everywhere! I decided to veer to the left, first, where I soon encountered—around a rather long curve—the pathway leading to the Salpetriere’s chapel. (It is otherwise known as “L’Hospice de la Salpetriere.”)
Let me backtrack a bit: I’d been fiddling with the camera. For some reason, I could only produce black and white pictures, now! And, actually, I’d begun my explorations down the central path (of what must have originally been the Pitie). And…I’d seen the batiments (pavilions) with plaques on them denoting that Vincent had worked in one; and Babinski, in another. I was so thrilled! And, fortunately, I found a nice man to take my picture in front of the Vincent plaque.
And it was then that I’d decided to round the curb; and had found myself walking down that path toward the chapel. All French hospitals appear to have one: always distinguished by its cross spiraling toward the sky.
I’m not a religious person by nature (though, spiritual); and I felt I was intruding a bit. However, curiosity got the better of me; and I entered what turned out to be a beautiful chapel; with various altars; beautiful murals; and row upon row of votive candles! The place was nearly deserted; so I felt emboldened and took some pictures (still in black and white; which I found gave them a special historical glow). There were a number of flyers scattered about: I collected them all. I finally stumbled into someone praying; and backed away as gracefully as I could.
The image of the chapel stayed with me long after I’d departed. I walked back down that long curve; wandered around here, there (and even went into a building!)—perhaps I was looking for the Bibliothèque
Charcot; where Jose and I had deposited my father’s notes back in 01? After slipping and sliding around a bit—and getting colder by the minute—I decided it was time to leave the Pitie-Salpetriere. It is truly a massive hodge-podge of buildings!
I did manage to take one more look at Vincent’s and Babinski’s batiments, though, before I took the Metro to my standby, the Quartier Latin, where I browsed through the Gibert Josephs and had an Ile Flottante at the Viennese Pastry Shop on the rue de l’Ecole de Medicine, which I had discovered back in December of 00, during my first trip back as an adult. I’d been dreaming about having one of these for years now! However, it didn’t taste as good as I remembered: perhaps I got the last, slightly stale piece of the day?
And, after wandering about a bit more, I ended up at La Creperie de Cluny—which Jose and I had frequented—before I headed back to the Gobelins.
On Saturday—oh, what fickle weather!—I returned to the Broca; for I hadn’t really taken more than one picture the day before. The sun was out enough for me to get some shots of the monastery—still in black and white—before I got on the Metro and headed toward the Laennec and the Necker; both on the rue de Sevres.
This was the special day of the trip—the day why I’d come: November 28, 2009, the tenth anniversary of my mother’s passing. No longer with tears; but with joy; I greeted this day. She was happy I was there, in her Paris. So was my father.
The weather, alas, was turning. I was able to take only outside shots of the Laennec, which must be a huge complex inside! This is where I feel my parents met; where they shared a rotation in Chest Diseases under Dr. Rist. Papers were plastered all over this (since 2000) abandoned building. What would the French do with the land, I wondered. Since the trip, a decision has been reached. Condos: no surprise. Prime real estate in the 7th arrondissement.
By the time I reached the Necker/Hopital des Enfants Malades (where my mother had externed in pediatrics), the rain was coming down. And—at some point—I pulled a toggle this way or that on the camera…and the pictures again came out in color! This happened shortly after I reached the Necker: another combination of the old and the new (with the old prominently in front; on the side fronting Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower; in the 15th arrondissement). This part of Paris I’d actually gotten to know—around the Boulevard Pasteur—when I’d visited our great family friend, Ramon Morales, in 00 and 01.
I felt comfortable here, although I was being pelted with rain. I just kept snapping away.
At this point, I wasn’t that far from Montparnasse, where I’d be lunching at the Closerie des Lilas. Some very kind folks directed me toward the correct bus.
I’ve already talked about the lunch. The next day—recuperated, fortunately—I visited my cousin, Jacqueline. She picked me up at the hotel. It was another horribly rainy day; but I was indoors the whole time. I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome. Her husband, Michel, directed me and waited with me until the right bus came along to take me back to the Gobelins.
Monday: my last full day in Paris. I’d done the museums as best I could; shopped; perhaps not quite done justice to the sights (but it was so cold; and the weather was so unpredictable!). I had two hospitals left to explore (and this time I really was to find myself in terra incognita: in the 10th arrondissement for L’Hopital Saint-Louis; and in the 12th for the Hopital Saint-Antoine). The weather was not too bad.
I loved the 10th arrondissement! Very eclectic and ethnic; very…real. This was where my father had had his first rotation, at L’Hopital Saint-Louis, in General Surgery. I walked down the street and rounded the bend, following the road until I found the cobblestoned path that led down to the hospital. To the left, I saw old. Finally—on the right—I saw new. A banner strewn across the front of the building proudly proclaimed, “400 Years of French Medicine.”
It was what was on the left that interested me; and which I explored to the fullest. Archway after archway led to courtyard after courtyard; all flanked by the batiments! The Laennec and the Necker must be something like this. Always, the cross spiraling toward the heavens over the chapel; not too far behind the central archway.
I walked around, almost mesmerized. So this is what young Efrain first encountered as an extern; after having finished his competitive examinations! General Surgery would only be the beginning…
The weather was holding up. It was time to go visit my final hospital: L’Hopital Saint-Antoine; in the 12th arrondissement. This is where my mother had externed in Internal Medicine; after having spent two years at the Necker. From all indications, she was getting set to become a pediatrician.
Set back from the street, across from the Metro, this hospital also had its combination of the old and the new. One could notice where old buildings meshed into new ones. At its end, the modern building faced outward. In and out: very busy. A very different feel on the Right Bank than on the Left.
But L’Hopital Saint-Louis had left an indelible impression on me. Truth is, I’d begun the day by leaving a yellow rose in front of the Vincent plaque in front of his batiment at the Pitie-Salpetriere; where French neurosurgery had begun. Where my father had learned his craft.
I had wanted to go to the Musee Guimet; to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery (to pay homage to Oscar Wilde; Edith Piaf; even Jim Morrison!): there was so much I had not gotten around to doing.
By the time nightfall arrived that last evening, the rains had begun again. In earnest. I’d run, bareheaded, from the Metro to the wonderful Pho restaurant I was now experiencing for the second time.
And then I returned to Les Gobelins for—well, not the last time—for the following morning I made a mad dash through the neighborhood. I bought a half-bottle of champagne; and a half-bottle of crème de cassis. What a nice Kir this would make, I thought. Perfect for New Year’s.
And at the airport I bought a bottle of Chanel Number Five for Katharina. I had promised her I’d bring her back one.
The Air France flight back to Washington was, however, not very not eventful: it was downright turbulent! I’d never been on a 777 that, I guess, was encountering such bad winds!

Memories/Memorias

Ninina: Xmas, 1959, Cuba (left); and November 27, 2009, Paris (right)

Merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad!

The picture on the left is the picture of me I used on my Xmas card this year (along with Bianca's picture, of course). The picture on the right is the one a kind and techno-savvy stranger took of me in front of the batiment (pavilion) at the Pitie-Salpetriere where Papi learned the craft of neurosurgery from Dr. Clovis Vincent.

Same little girl, eh? Fifty years apart.

Fifty years during which Papi would have to abandon his dream of devoting himself to his passion, neuropathology (which he was learning under the tutelage of the renowned Spaniard, Don Pio del Rio Hortega), after he would have retired from active nuerosurgery at age sixty. He ended up in the throes of starting a new practice in the United States, instead, after having had to go through hoops with the Board of Neurological Surgery.

And Mami: well, she became a doctor. Again. After not practicing between 1941 and 1965. And in 1967 she became a resident in psychiatry. And in 1972 she became a practicing clinician at South Florida State Hospital.

The little girl at five was aware of very few things; except that she'd had to be baptized at age four, so that Castro wouldn't send her to Russia. She'd had her famous--nay, infamous--fifth birthday party; with a magician; and everything! She'd enjoyed her day; though Papi and Mami were already worried about what might lie ahead. They'd been pursued by the Bolsheviks in Paris during the 1930's.

The woman at fifty-five found herself shivering her way through late November in Paris. (A new coat--to boot--H&M Pink Label--which she couldn't get any more in D.C.). It was a particularly cold and blustery afternoon when she devoted her time to wandering around the Pitie-Salpetriere. She'd ended up at the chapel, first, of the "Hospice de la Salpetriere"; and taken black and white pictures of religious scenes which actually looked better that way! More mysterious and mystical...Then she'd wandered up and down the "main" street of the hospital complex...and stumbled upon the sign on the building indicating that Clovis Vincent had practiced neurosurgery in that particular pavilion! She all but jumped up and down with joy; for that meant that her Papi had been in that building, with Vincent, too! She started snapping pictures; fiddled with her camera. A kind man offered to take her picture.

She also saw the pavilion where Babinsky--Vincent's professor, the great neurologist--had worked.

And she returned the following Monday--on Monday, November 30, 2009--to lay a yellow rose at the base of Vincen's plaque. In Vincent's honor. In her Papi's honor.

It's one year and a little under a month later, now. Xmas Day, 2010. Papi would have turned 100 years old on March 14 of this year. Ninina was back in Florida to be able to go to the niche on June 18 to lay some flowers, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his demise. She wouldn't have missed doing that for anything!

But now it's Xmas Day, 2010. Memories/Memorias. And promises of a future to come...

A Prayer for My Mother

Ana Raab Marrero, 1913-1999

A Prayer for My Mother
Yom Kippur Eve
Friday, September 17, 2010

(This must be doubly special, occurring on a Friday.)

Dear Mami,

I can only hope that you can hear me--yes, I know you can.
As the sun begins to want to set within the next hour,
I want you to know--what?--that I know you've/you're being with me
During these troubled times.
The mother in you wishes that your child were not quite so angustiada.
The doctor in you knows that I have to tolerate this regimen so that,
little by little, I'll get well. (And you agree with the good doctor, who
removed the ancient drug for which you had recetarios, pens, and probably even
bookmarkers!)
Dear Mami, I know you wish you could make it all go away--

But, then, I wish I could have removed some of your pain, especially while you were alive.
I didn't always side with you, then.
But you hid your feelings so carefully--even from me--that I couldn't always tell what and how you felt at any particular moment.
(And then--out of the blue, or so it seemed--you blasted me away with a humor I can only begin to approach when I am at my best.)

Which leads me to Grandpa Zoltan, the other person who comes to mind this Yom Kippur Eve.
"The best person in the world; the person in the world with the best sense of humor; the devoted son who wrote letters to his mother every day of her life; the artist who wrote poetry--"
Well, so did his daughter.
And so--after a fashion--does his granddaughter.

Mami and Grandpa Zoltan, please keep an eye on me through these troubled times.
And I promise to cherish and remember you. Always.

Lovingly,
Your daughter
Your granddaughter

The Kiss

I know; I know. Charles is now married to Camilla...

Nonetheless, I'd like to acknowledge that today marks 29 years since Diana married Charles. My mother; my then husband; and I were in Montreal at the time. I made everybody get up at 6 a.m. to watch the spectacle! I vividly remember almost every moment--especially, The Kiss. It was so daring for the times!

I think I'm noting this more as a commentary on the passing of the past 29 years in my life--it's beginning to mount up...

Oh, well.

Cirujia!

Parte de esta vineta verdaderamente que ocurrio--sabes cual?

LA LOQUITA DEL ZIG-ZAG: CIRUJIA!

POR NININA MAMEYEZ

“Ven aquí, Ninina” Rosita Torre De Viento me estaba extendiendo un dedito gordo, tratando de que yo la acompañe en el solar cerca de mi casa en La Nueva Ventana. Acababa de escampar; el terreno estaba muy mojado. “VEN”! casi chillo.
Pensé. “No quiero hacerlo, Rosita.”
“Y por que NO?” me pregunto, haciendo pucheros.
“Por—porque…” Me estaba poniendo más y más nerviosa.
“Cobarde! COBARDE!” empezó a chillar Rosita. Echo una carcajada atrás de la otra: “Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha HA!”
La miré de reojos. Me estaba poniendo más y más brava. “Quien tu crees que tu eres?” Salté de la acera; tropecé con una piedra; me caí, boca arriba, en el fango. Y empecé a llorar: “Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaah!”
Rosita estaba casi doblada, carcajeando, mas y mas alto: “HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAA…” Casi se cayó, estaba chillando tan alto.
La miré a través de mis lágrimas; sollocé: “Rosita, no me puedes ayudar? NO ME PUEDES AYUDAR?”
“No hay nada que puedo hacer,” gruño casi como un buey. De repente, se apareció su hermano, Adalberto.
“Qué paso aquí? Por qué esta Ninina en el fango?” nos preguntó.
“No supo saltar de la acera, Adalberto.” Y se empezó a reír, otra vez.
Adalberto me miro. Estaba al punto de ayudarme, cuando Rosita dijo: “No te embarres, Adalberto. Sabes como se pone mami…; de todos modos, porque estas aquí?”
“Mami me mando a recogerte. Tenemos que ir de compras.”
“Bueno...” Me hizo una mueca, y dijo, “Vamonos,” halando a su hermano de la mano. “Oow,” pude oír al pobre Adalberto. Rosita se viro una última vez, y se empezó a reír otra vez: “Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha HA!”
Yo me estaba levantando del fango; había parado de llorar; y casi ni sollozaba más, tampoco. Pero sentí detrás de mi muslo derecho: estaba rojo. Sangre. Empecé a llorar otra vez: “WAAAAAH!”
Esta vez me oyó El Chino. Vino corriendo. Mami y La Linda habían salido de compras; La Golondrina estaba visitando a su sobrino. El estaba en cargo de supervisarme, pero había estado lavando al Olsmobil, y no me había oído.
“NININA! QUE TE PASO?” Me encontró sentada en el medio del fango; llorando; aguantando a mi pierna derecha; tocando a la sangre con mis deditos.
“NINA! Que es eso?” Cuando se dio cuenta, me recogió en sus brazos, y se lanzó para la casa. “Doctol? Doctol? La niña se hirió!”
Papi nos oyó desde la biblioteca, y vino corriendo.
“NININA! QUE TE PASO?” El Chino me había entregado a Papi.
“AY, PAPI! Rosita…Rosita…” Estaba sollozando.
“Que te hizo? (Se puso bravo.) Cuantas veces no te he dicho que no debes de jugar con esa (pensó antes de decir nada mas) chica?”
Empecé a llorar otra vez, hasta mas fuerte: “WAAAAAAAH!”
“Shh! Shh” acaricio a mi cara. (Me vio mirando a mi pierna.) Pero que es esto? SANGRE? Déjame examinarte! Chino, tráeme el alcol y algodón, por favor.”
“Oh, NOO!” Ahora si que empecé a llorar.
Papi y El Chino me acostaron boca arriba encima de la mesa de examen en la esquina de la biblioteca. Papi me limpio a la herida con mucho cuidado. Horrorizada, al principio, me estaba calmando mas y mas, porque Papi es un muy buen doctor.
“Hmm,” me examino cuando la herida estaba limpia. “Ninina, parece que tienes a un poco de fango debajo de la piel. Tendremos que ir al Doctor Seso.”
“OH, NOOOO!”
“Pero a ti te gusta el Doctor Seso.”
“Qu-que me va a hacer?”
Papi guiño. “Tu veras; no te va a doler nada.”
Nos metimos en la maquina, y El Chino nos llevo a la oficina del Doctor Seso. La secretaria del doctor nos dejo entrar a Papi y a mí.
“Ninina! Como estas? Hmm, que paso?” Examino a la herida. El y papi se miraron; estuvieron de acuerdo. “Si.” (Mirándome a mí.) “Ninina, vas a dormir por un ratico.”
“QUE? No tengo sueno!”
“Pues, si.” El y papi me acostaron en su mesa de examen. “Te voy a (me miro de reojos, porque sabe que a mi no me gustan las inyecciones) dar una pequeña…”
“OH, NOOOOO!”
Papi me miro; me imploro. “Aguántate, niña. No va a doler.” Se sonrió.
Mirándolo a el todo el tiempo, deje que el Doctor Seso me inyecte. No se que paso después, porque me quede rendida. Cuando me desperté, lo único que vi fue a un pequeño vendaje detrás de mi rodilla derecha. Como papi me había dicho, nada me dolió.
Sonriéndome, salté de la mesa de examen. Bese a papi, y le di un abrazo al Doctor Seso. Todos nos sonreímos una vez más antes de que El Chino nos devolvió a la casa en el Olsmobil. El se estaba sonriendo, también.
“Ten cuidado con chicas como Rosita en el futuro, me entiendes, m’ija?” me dijo papi cuando estábamos sentados en su biblioteca.
“AY, PAPI! Me acabo de dar cuenta…”
“…de que, Ninina?”
“De que hoy tuve a una cirugía!” Me sonreí, y me reí. Pero no a carcajadas.
Y la próxima vez que vi a Rosita, chillando como siempre, y a Adalberto corriendo detrás de ella, los huí.
Es propiedad de Georgina Marrero, 2008 861 palabras

Mi papi, el "Doctol." Para siempre.

Feliz Dia de los Padres, Papi!

Tu hijita,

Ninina

Per(oni)ambulations of a Thursday Afternoon

Sipping a Peroni, here, on a deliberately lazy Thursday afternoon...

So glad not to be surrounded by (see below). It was lovely, though, when it was coming down:



Even with my beautiful new acrylic console/desk, still not able to write anything other than this foolishness. Might as well milk it to the max:

I've been a fan of "The Tudors" on Showtime since its inception. Of course I've paid attention to Jonathan Rhys Myers' growing (in every sense of the word) interpretation of Henry VIII. I didn't realize until earlier today--when I was perusing Wiki--that Maria Doyle Kennedy--the actress who portrayed Katharine of Aragon--is in her forties! Good for her! Natalie Dormer was appropriately beautiful and perverse as Anne Boleyn. Sam Neill as Cardinal Wolsey--Jeremy Northam (of Enigma fame...and he looks just like one of my father's colleagues in France!) as Sir Thomas More--even Peter O'Toole had a brief go of it as Pope Paul III. The two actresses who portrayed Jane Seymour--why two?--and the subdued representation of the hapless Anne of Cleves: duly noted (but much more interested in Sarah Bolger's portrayal of Princess Mary: Katharine's and Henry's daughter; not Henry's sister who married the Duke of Suffolk after her brief marriage to the King of France--I'm Tweeting about all of this). And then along came Tamzin Merchant as Catherine Howard. Hard not to perk up at her (presumed) vapidity; her profound foolishness: she flitted about like a butterfly without a plan (for--having recently been observing the most beautiful butterflies flitting about, I do believe they have a plan). And she sure liked the hotties:



This handsome young man from Vancouver, B.C., Torrance Coombs, portrayed her lusty love interest, Thomas Culpepper (who also happened to be Henry's valet). Some pretty hot scenes--lots of skin--"The Borgias" has something to live up to, when it premieres next year--take a look at those eyes...I'm also following him on Twitter: appears to be the up and coming young sort. Good luck in the future, Torrance!

And then and only then did it gradually dawn on me that the real hottie has been Henry Cavill, whose portrayal of Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, has grown side by side with Jonathan's take on Henry (though not in girth):



This guy gives me palpitations.

In his interviews Henry appears to take things in stride; is just modest enough (though he doesn't have an "aw shucks" attitude, either). He must realize how hot he is: ride it, cowboy! (He's ruggedly handsome in just the right way to play a cowboy, isn't he?) I can't be the only one who feels this way, for he has multiple fan websites.

Two episodes left. I'm watching them multiple times each week. If the show's writers follow the course of history (and they don't always), the Duke should precede his best friend, the King of England, through Death's door. They've kept Margaret/Mary alive (who actually passed on about twelve years before the end events). No matter: they've stirred up enough historical interest in me that I've ordered several books on Mary and Margaret. The former: queen of France; the latter: queen of Scotland. The Tudor dynasty was something else!

BTW: you're pretty hot, too, Jonathan:



Couldn't resist including a shot of two Irish hotties (including my original one from childhood on): Sir Peter O'Toole and Jonathan Rhys Myers.

And let me not forget how happy I've been to see Joely Richardson appear as Henry's sixth--and last--wife, Catherine Parr. She looks; acts; and speaks so much like her mother, Vanessa Redgrave! My heart goes out to her family: they've had a rough couple of years.

There. I've finished my Per(oni)ambulations of a Thursday afternoon--let's see what other mischief I can get into...