En español
love poetry ever since I was a child.
It was ten minutes before five when we arrived at Santiago de Chuco. Just getting off the Rogero bus was the hardest thing. The springtime parade in the city of Trujillo didn’t even compare to what went on in this place.
The porter began to unload the luggage from the roof of the bus, yelling for someone to catch the packages
he dropped. Then the children started shoving to go to the bathroom. I wasn’t in a hurry and decided to wait.
That afternoon there was a downpour, and the people got out their buckets to put under the leaks. My turn came to leave, and everyone stared at me. The kids, with their dirty, crusty faces, looked at me like some strange animal. Without warning a boy with a pink, wind-burned face came closer and asked my name.
“Lucero,” I answered. He stuck out his tongue and ran to hide himself in his mother’s lap.
A hand on my shoulder made me jump. I looked up from my notebook and, to my surprise, saw that it was the poet César Vallejo, who I wanted to interview. He looked about 24 years old, and his brown face told me I had met the famous mestizo. He didn’t even let me introduce myself, but took off his poncho and put it over my shoulders…
As we walked he asked me if I had read “The Black Messengers.” My eyes shone with emotion, and I said, “In life there are blows so heavy—” “—I don’t know,” the poet added. “Blows like God’s hatred,” I replied, deeply moved. “As if before them the undertow of all that is suffered should be dammed up in the soul. I don’t know,” he continued with profound anguish. The writer concluded, “It was a very hard time, and two events shaped my life: the death of my mother and my wrongful imprisonment in Trujillo.”
Tears coursed down my cheeks from the emotion of being with the poet. And then, line by line, I quoted him the poems from Trilce and Human Poems. Vallejo pulled a stiff, white handkerchief from his pocket and tenderly dried my tears. I looked in his eyes, and he, too, was crying. I didn’t waste time and asked him what “The Black Messengers” meant in his life. He responded that he had written it under some very sorrowful circumstances of his existence. He cast a downward glance at his sandals and asked if I had read the story “Paco Yunque.” I answered that I liked it very much. Vallejo blinked for a moment and, with his hand covering his face, whispered, “That’s me,” and then went quiet… It was a simple conversation, but I understood the Weltanschauung of the poet; I could identify with the suffering man at my side.
The interview was very brief, but in its brevity I learned that writing wasn’t as simple as I thought. I climbed back on the bus to return to my city, pondering over everything I had discussed with César Vallejo. Through the window I could see his indigenous face, and, raising his hand, he seemed to say, “Next time will turn out better. Goodbye, Lucero!” The alarm clock woke me with a start. Without realizing it, I had fallen asleep on my notebook, and the first line read “Exchanging Glances…”