De donde venía?... Nunca le preguntarón
Hacia donde iba... Era una duda que le quedaba a todos en el pueblo.
Romulo decía llamarse, pecoso, alto y entre los dientes sostenía una pipa de carey por donde salía un humo azul que le ocultaba la mirada, azul también.
Pantalones raidos, al igual que la camisa a cuadros, dos lánguidos perros le cuidaban los pasos.
Pasaba un día de por medio sin anunciarse, pero todos sabíamos que estaba llegando porque se adelantaba el aroma.
En un viejo jeep se guardaban mangos, lechozas, sandías, melones, naranjas, mandarinas, uvas, plátanos, duraznos, cerecitas y todos los colores y sabores que cultivaba la tierra.
Mientras las mujeres compraban los colores diversos, Romulo nos regalaba trozos de fruta y de sus bolsillos sacaba caramelos de coco que lanzaba al aire, para luego ver como competíamos en quien tomaba más.
Siempre había quien en la justa no obtenía ganancias, sólo mirábamos al buen Romulo y el nos recompensaba con nuevos caramelos.
El día de la espera de aquel personaje era de color y sabor.
Un día paso por las calles del pueblo como siempre, sus perros guiaban como siempre, el aroma y los colores los de siempre, recuerdo que era mayo y que los árboles se vestían de nuevo para esperar las lluvias.
Llegó el día de nuevo y ansiosos salimos los muchachos a las viejas calles, ese día no llegó, pasó uno, tres, cinco meses y Romulo no volvió más, todos nos preguntábamos que rumbo había tomado? , hasta la gente de pueblos vecinos decían que lo habían visto pasar, rumbo a las montañas violetas, pero jamás lo volvimos a ver.
Todos crecimos, nuestras madres se hicieron abuelas y nos tocó partir por los mismos caminos del vendedor de colores. Nos fuimos también.
En ciudades extrañas hicimos nidos, diferentes tareas nos tocaron a todos, a mi me toco pintar y dibujar, hacer de la vida un universo de color, un día recordé a Romulo y entre pinceles y óleos volví a mirar aquellos días.
Todavía no se a donde iría, de donde vino y porque cincuenta años después, aún vemos su sonrisa, los dulces caramelos y su cargamento de frutas.
El mismo sol, se sigue ocultando, detrás de otras montañas violetas, no son las mismas de mi infancia pero recuerdo siempre que por allí iba en su camino.
Un día los hombres nos vamos por un camino hacia el horizonte, detrás queda alguien que nos recuerda con cariño.
Antonio Evies, pintor, escultor, escritor y poeta venezolano
La primera imagen de este texto es una obra de pintura realizada por el autor, titulo: "el vendedor de frutas", óleo sobre tela y la segunda es extraída de pixabay.com.
Where did he come from?.... He was never asked
Where was he going... It was a doubt that remained with everyone in the village.
Romulo said his name was Romulo, freckled, tall and between his teeth he held a tortoiseshell pipe from which a blue smoke came out and hid his eyes, also blue.
His pants were threadbare, as was his plaid shirt, and two languid dogs guarded his steps.
He passed every other day without announcing himself, but we all knew he was coming because the scent was coming forward.
In an old jeep were stored mangoes, lechozas, watermelons, melons, oranges, tangerines, grapes, bananas, peaches, cherries and all the colors and flavors that the land cultivated.
While the women bought the different colors, Romulo would give us pieces of fruit and from his pockets he would take coconut candies that he would throw in the air, and then watch as we competed to see who would take the most.
There was always someone in the joust who did not win, we just looked at the good Romulo and he rewarded us with new candies.
The day of waiting for that character was full of color and flavor.
One day he passed through the streets of the town as always, his dogs were leading as always, the aroma and colors were the same as always, I remember it was May and the trees were dressed again to wait for the rains.
The day came again and anxiously we went out to the old streets, that day did not come, one, three, five months passed and Romulo did not come back, we all wondered what direction he had taken? Even the people from neighboring towns said they had seen him pass by, heading for the violet mountains, but we never saw him again.
We all grew up, our mothers became grandmothers and we had to leave along the same paths of the colorful salesman. We left too.
In strange cities we made nests, we all had different tasks, I had to paint and draw, to make life a universe of color, one day I remembered Romulo and between brushes and oils I looked back at those days.
I still don't know where he would go, where he came from and why fifty years later, we still see his smile, the sweet candies and his load of fruits.
The same sun is still hiding, behind other violet mountains, they are not the same of my childhood, but I always remember that she went there on her way.
One day we men leave on a road to the horizon, behind is someone who remembers us fondly.
Antonio Evies, Venezuelan painter, sculptor, writer and poet
The first image of this text is a painting made by the author, title: "the fruit seller" oil on canvas and the second one is extracted from pixabay.com.