29 sept. 2007

ENTRE HORTAS E PORTAS (Xosé Manuel González)
12. Pobres, estraños e chegados.



Miña avoa en paz estea, Vicenta Saavedra, morreu cando a Franco lle quedaba pouco; ela, de noventa anos lía sen lentes e camiñaba seguramente máis ca min. Logo de botar décadas na cidade, ao final era a mesma cervantega (“Que teis, nenín?”) con cara sucada, pano na cabeza e loito perpetuo. Imaxe corrente, paisana e velliña, que axiña empezou a rarear. Pero volve.

Non eramos destino inmigratorio, aínda que vir, algún viña de fóra. A palabra maragato, estraña eufonía, distinguía certos veciños normalmente comerciantes; concidadáns ao cabo, facíase algo raro que os nosos maiores chamasen igual ao foráneo que xurdía, con mula e barullo de rozamento fráxil, pregoando “Botijo finoo!”. Como for, xa que o maragato de liñaxe e residente non adoitaba facer uso do galego, podía dalgún modo ser relacionado con xente coma Julián ou Fusalba.

O señor Julián tiña camión e aquí casara. En San Roque era un veciño coma outro, por certo apreciado en virtude do carácter aberto e garimoso cos rapaces; diferenciábao porén o falar sempre castelán nada vacilante, con tempos verbais compostos e fonética expansiva, es e os nin abertos nin pechados que posiblemente o habilitarían para actuar como locutor de radio, pois era factor de marca negativa o “acento gallego” coma outros noutros lados: Vázquez Montalbán escribira unha vez sobre os radiofonistas cataláns que no franquismo, a forza de hipercorrección, acadaban unha prosodia inverosímil, “que non era deste mundo”. Aínda vin a Julián hai poucos anos, sempre xovial, un lugués de Valladolid.

Máis adusto se conducía Rafael Fusalba, quizá preventivo ante o bulir do mocerío enredando nas postais, ao mellor avisado por anterior e dispendiosa substracción ou estrago. Libreiro de vello, o seu portal na rúa da Raíña seica fornecía con material dificil algúns lugueses que o valoraban e o pagaban; da miña banda, lembro o prezo que lles puxo ás fotos de Mike (doce pesetas do 1967 ou 68) cando Los Bravos viñeran a Lugo e unha recepción tumultuosa, con relatado episodio de histeria feminina, ateigara a mencionada rúa e dera lugar a indignada estupefacción dalgún mozo local e traballador: “Pero que ten ese tío que non teña eu?”. Como seica Fusalba sabía do negocio, debeu vender as fotos; ao xubilarse volveu para Barcelona.

A vida traía algúns portugueses que, por obvio motivo, acababan maiormente confundíndose na poboación autóctona igual ca, inversamente, os galegos en Lisboa, São Paulo ou Mozambique; só se o interlocutor che dicía que anos atrás chegara de Viseu interpretabas o seseo ou tal modismo (“adeus”) diverxente do coloquial lugués e un pouquiño pavero. Os eonaviegos igual toda a vida seguían dicindo “camín”, “millois”, “fillolas” e “síntol”, pero non era habitual telos por asturianos; xaora nunca tal consideramos o Pepín da Muria, á fin e ao cabo militante nacionalista, pero tampouco a pai nin nai, por moito que a familia de Ibias procedese.

Rostros sucados, mans con dureza. Afeitos ao traballo, nos anos sesenta a vida podía ser alegre pero a comodidade non sobraba. A maioría tiña qué comer, onde gorecerse e tempo para dedicar a algún aseo; pero non todos. Unhas casas abaixo de nós estaba a do señor Antonio, o chatarreiro; ingresos non sei, trato razoable, hixiene pouca. No portal petaba cada día algún pobre de pedir; case sempre os mesmos, ficou na miña lembranza “o da muleta”, na convicción popular home riquísimo, fincas e todo iso, que pedía quizá por costume, talvez por avaricia. En calquera lado, a xitana aparecía para che ler a buenaventura. Ao final, con doce anos, tiven que saber o que era aquilo e soltei o peso solicitado indo camiño do Instituto; administrou ela longa ladaíña, botando man de cruz e todo. Prometía maiores grazas correlativas a novo desembolso que non outorguei, e aquí me teñen.

Poden semellar historias doutra vida. Pero a avoa de Ionut, compañeiriño do meu fillo pequeno, que non fala máis ca romanés, imítaselle á miña co pano na cabeza. Os moinantes que con cartóns de viño paran onda a Estación de Autobuses ou nalgún xardín -un deles francés con can, outros quen sabe de onde- presentan o vello perfil do ir indo, quizá con novas lacras. Vense nenos xitanos na escola, tamén na rúa en horas escolares. Agora a cor, revelamos de novo o vello negativo. Seremos xa primeiro mundo?

36 comentarios:

marcos valcarcel dijo...

Magnífico artigo o de Xosé Manuel, como adoita, e excelente tamén a fotografía que nos mandou. En Auria os xitanos, na miña infancia, acampaban sobre todo beira do río Miño, moi ó carón da Ponte Vella e nos camiños que ían cara Oira (onde hoxe está o edficio da Cruz Vermella e o Conservatorio e un barrio novo, onde viven por certo aínda moitos xitanos). Tamén estaban da outra banda, no Ribeiriño, pois axudaron cos seus carros a construír aquela inmensa ponte, como ten lembrado varias veces o Bieito Iglesias, que pasou a súa infancia na Chavasqueira (zona hoxe recoñecida polas Termas onde van os actores e jet set cando veñen ó Festival de Cine).

arume dos piñeiros dijo...

Xa me parecía a mín: corre polas veas de González o mesmo sangue que correu pola do escritor do Quixote. Así explico eu o seu estilo admirablemente cervantego e saavedraño. E, como por riba trata o tema dos xitanos, todo cadra.

apicultor dijo...

Coido que este é un dos mellores textos -todos excelentes, por outra banda- da serie luguesa do amigo González. Parabéns.

Xosé M. González dijo...

Pois agora cóntolles unha historia. Eu lera o Quijote, por primeira vez, de neno; faláranme do autor na escola, non lembro cando, pero debeu ser xa en idade de Instituto cando deu en pensar que aquilo de Cervantes e Saavedra podía ter que ver connosco: meu pai apelida González Saavedra e naceu no concello de Cervantes, parroquia do Castro, aldea de Couso.

Reteñan o último dato. A miña muller é de Becerreá, e unha tía dela mestra. A pouco de empezar a tratarnos, puxo no meu coñecemento un dito que alguén, becerrense segundo me parece, dicía diante dela:

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
de Couso era.

Que Cervantes viña de por alí ("montes de León", di el) parece cousa certa, e a xinea galega dos apelidos, indiscutible. O resto, aí queda. Debo dicir, así e todo, que miña avoa, ser penso que era de Padornelo, alí ao lado.

arume dos piñeiros dijo...

Non se pode estar máis dacordo con vostede, amigo G. Saavedra.

Xoan da Coba dijo...

Non sei se se conserva o ADN de Cervantes nalgures,XM Glz.Faga que o comparen có seu.XDDD

Xaime dijo...

Como sempre, noraboa, amigo. Xenial, por aquelo dos xenes

Xoan da Coba dijo...

Góstame a foto que encabeza o post.Poderán fallar outras cousas pero percébese "a fartura de cariño",como dí o fado "Unha casa portuguesa".Anque os da foto non deben de ser portugueses.

Xoan da Coba dijo...

¡Fixádevos estes portugueses,como aproveitan un coñecido fado pra facer un anuncio...!

uma casa portuguesa

Xosé M. González dijo...

Que bárbaros, os da cadea de hipermercados! Estas cousas pasan en Portugal, con ese fraquinho que conservan pola cousa popular e de seu.

Os da foto son romaneses, penso eu que posiblemente xitanos. Procede dunha web da Deputación de Córdoba.

apicultor dijo...

o spot está tan ben feito, tan acolledor, que lle entran a un gañas a un de ir mercar aos Continente portugueses.

Xosé M. González dijo...

Élle marca nacional, Apicultor. O aquí xa mencionado centro comercial Viacatarina (rúa de Santa Catarina, no Porto) ten unha zona de alimentación co último piso que imita unha gran praza portuguesa das de casco histórico. O Arume comparárao con "El Pueblo Español" de Barcelona, e probablemente leve razón; pero dentro do que é a estética virtual e o cartón pedra, prefiro esa a outras que vexo por aquí, sexa ou non un tanto kitsch.

apicultor dijo...

Teño estado varias veces nese centro comercial de Porto, e gústame a súa estética de cartón pedra. Mesmo teño tomado unha das sopas que venden alí ao público.

Anónimo dijo...

Por certo. O Pepín da Muria ,nacionalista galego,é o que sostén a bandeira da UPG no curuto da igrexa de Xove na famosa Mancha Antinuclear.
Pasaron 30 anos !

http://www.galizacig.com/imxact/2007/04/197704_teima_18_xove1_1024.jpg

ARUME DOS PIÑEIROS dijo...

Unha fantástica (por insólita e fascinante) reseña de Paul Theroux sobre o libro STANLEY: The Impossible Life of Africa’s Greatest Explorer.
By Tim Jeal.

Poor Africa, the happy hunting ground of the mythomaniac, the rock star buffing up his or her image, the missionary with a faith to sell, the child buyer, the retailer of dirty drugs or toxic cigarettes, the editor in search of a scoop, the empire builder, the aid worker, the tycoon wishing to rid himself of his millions, the school builder with a bucket of patronage, the experimenting economist, the diamond merchant, the oil executive, the explorer, the slave trader, the eco-tourist, the adventure traveler, the bird watcher, the travel writer, the escapee, the colonial and his crapulosities, the banker, the busybody, the Mandela-sniffer, the political fantasist, the buccaneer and your cousin the Peace Corps Volunteer. Oh, and the atoner, of whom Thoreau observed in a skeptical essay: “Now, if anything ail a man so that he does not perform his functions ... if he has committed some heinous sin and partially repents, what does he do? He sets about reforming the world.” Thoreau, who had Africa specifically in mind, added, “Do you hear it, ye Wolofs?”
These people have been in and out of the continent since the beginning of the 19th century, much earlier if we include the Arab slave traders and the tourist Herodotus. A common denominator in this assortment of foreign visitors — high-minded pests and exploiters alike — is their wish to transform themselves while claiming they want to change Africa.

Henry Morton Stanley is a classic case. “We went into the heart of Africa self-invited — therein lies our fault,” Stanley confided to his diary. The words are quoted in this magnificent new life of the man, by Tim Jeal, a biography that has many echoes for our own time.

Burton and Speke poked at the edges of Lake Victoria, and Livingstone walked in circles around Lake Bangweulu speculating on the source of the Nile, pretending to be a missionary. Jeal was the first to reveal in his 1973 life of Livingstone that the melancholy Scot had made just one Christian convert (who later lapsed). Even the Arab slave traders stayed away from l’Afrique profonde. But on his second African journey, a few years after finding Livingstone, Stanley thrust his way through the midsection of Africa from east to west, and later from west to east. His journeys were valiant, well organized, and the man was a hero. But he was also prone to exaggeration in reporting the events of his travels, and he had many personal secrets.

“Yet despite the pain and weakness of his physical body,” Jeal writes of Stanley’s exhaustion after the first traverse of Africa, an almost unthinkable 7,000-mile journey to crack the secrets of the central African watershed, “Henry pulsed with almost mystical self-belief: ‘For my real self lay darkly encased, & was ever too haughty & soaring for such miserable environments as the body that encumbered it daily.’ ”

This “real self” is the one that Jeal gets to grips with. Most of what we have been told of Stanley, and much of which he wrote himself, is wrong. Jeal nails the falsehoods as “misguided lies.” For one thing his name was not Henry Morton Stanley. He was not, as he claimed, an American from New Orleans. He had not been adopted. It was not The New York Herald’s idea for him to find Livingstone, and the Livingstone he found was not, as he claimed, a saintly figure devoted to the uplift of Africa. He did not utter the words “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” He was not the violent hanger and flogger he was reputed to be, nor was he a willing cat’s-paw for King Leopold’s infernalities. But, as this book demonstrates in a way that makes it a superb adventure story as well as a feat of advocacy, Stanley was probably the greatest explorer ever to set foot in Africa.

The man we know as Stanley was born John Rowlands in North Wales to a dissolute mother, and at the age of 6 was confined to the misery of a workhouse. He escaped once but was sent back by ashamed and indifferent relatives. He was discharged from this semi-prison at 15, got a job on an American ship, which he jumped in New Orleans. He worked awhile there, experimented with a new name and identity and joined the Confederate Army, in a local regiment, the Dixie Grays, in 1861. He fought at the battle of Shiloh, was captured by a Union patrol, clapped into prison at Camp Douglas and given the choice of fighting for the North or rotting. He changed sides, marched under a Union flag, then deserted and sailed to Wales, where he was again rejected by his mother: “Never come back to me again unless you are in far better circumstances than you seem to be in now.”

“Unloved and deeply sensitive, but angry, too,” Jeal writes, Stanley searched for a way to prove himself. In being rejected he had also been liberated, and his reading (especially travel books) was another liberation. He made a disastrous journey to Turkey and was for a while a war correspondent, reporting on the massacre of American Indians in Iowa and Ethiopians in Magdala. Then, at 31, he persuaded James Gordon Bennett Jr. of The New York Herald that he could make headlines finding David Livingstone, who was not exactly lost but who hadn’t been heard from for a while and was fading from the public memory.The success of this African trip from the coast to Livingstone’s hut near the shores of Lake Tanganyika was a great coup and a bold headline, and it had the effect of transforming the fortunes of both men. Stanley proved himself a more than able explorer — he was a real leader and he had stamina. His account of the trip showed him to be a persuasive writer, though in his wish to justify the effort, he over-egged his descriptions of Livingstone and thus canonized him, obscuring the man’s oddities and failures. In Livingstone, the fatherless Stanley found a powerful (and idealized) father figure, whose stated mission to explore and improve Africa could be his own. Importantly (and this is one of the many modern dimensions of Jeal’s book) he found a continent where he could transform himself. Africa gave a man who had experimented with multiple identities a name, a face, notoriety, a mission, problems to solve, and it confirmed his greatness as an explorer.
One of the enduring but creepier features of the emotional life of the British is envy. I see it as arising out of the rigidity of the class system. Jeal anatomizes this corrosive quality in describing how throughout Stanley’s life the British press, the big bugs in the Royal Geographical Society, statesmen and rival adventurers spent much of their time making sport of the shy man, trying to tear him down and belittle his achievements. By inventing and improving his past, Stanley gave them lots of ammo. A self-made man in every sense, he had concealed or prettified so much of his early life that he never seemed anything but dubious — there were always whispers and there were often attacks on his character. Nor did his tendency to exaggerate help him in his quest for respectability. Even in Africa, when he efficiently managed to fight off the spears and arrows of an onslaught of attackers, with a small loss of life, he increased the death tolls, overcolored the encounters, made them emphatically incarnadine and portrayed himself as a battler. No one quite knew who he was, and he didn’t want anyone to know. Jeal movingly describes how even at the end of his life, wishing to write his autobiography, Stanley wandered the streets and cemeteries of New Orleans looking for a plausible family history, “all because he could not endure the thought of admitting that his adoption had never happened.”

Yet look what he achieved. The driven workhouse boy dreaming of fame broke free of his class and his country, Americanized himself (he cultivated the accent and the brashness) and became a world-renowned reporter. He single-handedly created the myth of the saintly Livingstone. He then set forth, and in an epic three-year journey he established “the true parent of the Victoria Nile” and followed the Congo River to the Atlantic. Recrossing Africa, he rescued the elusive Emin Pasha (Eduard Schnitzer, a slippery fez-wearing German who was ambivalent about being rescued) and — duped by King Leopold, believing that he was civilizing the Congo — established trading posts as far as Stanley Falls. Five years later, Captain Korzeniowski would steam upriver in the Roi des Belges and identify the area as the Inner Station, the Heart of Darkness.

The irony was that in spite of his idealism, his boldness in opening the heart of Africa to the world, he was (Jeal writes) “one of the unwitting begetters of the historical process that led to the terrible exploitation and crimes against humanity on the Congo.”

But Africa was the backdrop for Stanley’s real life. “I was not sent into the world to be happy,” he wrote. “I was sent for special work.” The epitome of his work, as he saw it, was an ordeal. He was most at ease with Africans and Englishmen from humble backgrounds like his. The well-born white officers who wished themselves upon his expeditions were usually a source of pain and scandal.

Adventure travelers in Africa are nothing new. In the late 19th century they took the form of wealthy young men who bought their way onto a journey. They were the feckless and disobedient officers in Stanley’s Rear Column who caused the great scandal that dogged Stanley’s reputation. Take the abominations of James Jameson, the Irish whiskey heir, who stayed behind while Stanley went on searching for the reluctant Schnitzer. “Fascinated by the subject of cannibalism” and something of an amateur sketcher, Jameson bought an 11-year-old girl while bivouacked on the Congo and handed her over to a group of Africans; and while they stabbed her, dismembered her, cooked her and ate her, Jameson did drawings of the whole hideous business.

Stanley’s nickname was Bula Matari — “the breaker of rocks” — in Africa, but he was shy everywhere else, and diffident when pursuing a woman. His love affairs were all failures. He was wooed by a woman who insisted on his marrying her, and she stifled him, refused to allow him to return to Africa, got him to run for Parliament, which he detested, and sent him to exile in an English country house and death at the age of 63. Because he had been scapegoated so often he was refused a burial in Westminster Abbey.

Stanley’s life speaks to our time, throwing light on the nannying ambitions that outsiders still wish upon Africa. Among other things it is a chronicle of the last years of the Arab-Swahili slave trade, which was fairly vigorous as little as a hundred years ago, and which Stanley opposed. What would have happened if the Arab-Swahili slavers had remained unopposed throughout Africa? “Darfur provides a clue,” Jeal muses.

There have been many biographies of Stanley, but Jeal’s is the most felicitous, the best informed, the most complete and readable and exhaustive, profiting from his access to an immense new trove of Stanley material. In its progress from workhouse to mud hut to baronial mansion, it is like the most vivid sort of Victorian novel, that of a tough little man battling against the odds and ahead of his time in seeing the Congo clearly, its history (in his words) “two centuries of pitiless persecution of black men by sordid whites.”

ARUME DOS PIÑEIROS dijo...

Perdón pola extensión, pero crin que podía merecer a pena: é do Sunday Book Review de mañán do New York Yimes, que, como supoño saberán, sae o sábado á tarde. Titúlase "Stanley, I presume".

Xoan da Coba dijo...

Eu,sempre que me piden pola rúa,dígolles,"n´am nimic" (nu am nimic) "Nonteño nin migalla".Non insisten.Facede a proba.

marcel swann dijo...

Magnífica evocación, coma sempre, da cidade e dos tipos lucenses.

Xosé M. González dijo...

Interesantísima reseña, con datos sobre Stanley que agradezo coñecer, dado que é personaxe que non infrecuentemente xorde na aula, aínda que só sexa pola famosa frase; por certo: era "Mr. Livingstone, I presume?" ou "Mr. Livingstone, I guess?".

Os datos que se achegan sobre o viaxeiro parece que poden ser fiables. Non sei se outro tanto os apuntamentos "desmitificadores" sobre Livingstone; un santo non sería, pero eu tendo a desconfiar das desmitificacións neste tempo de tanta devoción desmitificadora. E un último detalle: ben interesante encontrar contextualizados os gentlemente inexpertos das películas de Tarzán ou o cazador Clark Gable; o artigo non perde por deixar de mencionalos, aquí podemos puntualizalo.

E, coma sempre, ben agradecido pola súa -de todos- xenerosidade no eloxio.

apicultor dijo...

A frase era "Mr. Livingstone, I presume?"

E si, si que era un auténtico fillo de p. o Livingstone de marras. Hai tempo que fixemos mención aquí do libro de Adam Hochschild "El fantasma del Rey Leopoldo" (Península, 2002), onde tamén se fala del.

arume dos piñeiros dijo...

For one thing his name was not Henry Morton Stanley. He was not, as he claimed, an American from New Orleans. He had not been adopted. It was not The New York Herald’s idea for him to find Livingstone, and the Livingstone he found was not, as he claimed, a saintly figure devoted to the uplift of Africa. He did not utter the words “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” He was not the violent hanger and flogger he was reputed to be, nor was he a willing cat’s-paw for King Leopold’s infernalities.
Este párrafo parece o colmo da desmitificación. E a entrada da reseña é maxistral.

apicultor dijo...

Velaí as palabras do propio Stanley:

Henry M. Stanley, How I Found Livingstone (1872)

I pushed back the crowds, and, passing from the rear, walked down a living avenue of people until I came in front of the semicircle of Arabs, in the front of which stood the white man with the grey beard. As I advanced slowly towards him, I noticed he was pale, looked wearied, had a grey beard, wore a bluish cap with a faded gold band round it, had on a red-sleeved waistcoat and a pair of grey tweed trousers. I would have run to him, only I was a coward in the presence of such a mob - would have embraced him, only he being an Englishman, I did not know how he would receive me; so I did what cowardice and false pride suggested was the best thing - walked deliberately to him, took off my hat, and said:

"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?"

"Yes," said he, with a kind smile, lifting his cap slightly.

I replace my hat on my head, and he puts on his cap, and we both grasp hands, and I then say aloud:

"I thank God, Doctor, I have been permitted to see you." He answered, "I feel thankful that I am here to welcome you."

I turn to the Arabs, take off my hat to them in response to the saluting chorus of "Yambos" I receive, and the Doctor introduces them to me by name. Then, oblivious of the crowds, oblivious of the men who shared with me my dangers, we - Livingstone and I - turn our faces towards his tembe. He points to the veranda, or, rather, mud platform, under the broad, overhanging eaves; he points to his own particular seat, which I see his age and experience in Africa have suggested, namely, a straw mat, with a goatskin over it, and another skin nailed against the wall to protect his back from contact with the cold mud. I protest against taking this seat, which so much more befits him than me, but the Doctor will not yield: I must take it.

We are seated - the Doctor and I - with our backs to the wall. The Arabs take seats on our left. More than a thousand natives are in our front, filling the whole square densely, indulging their curiosity and discussing the fact of two white men meeting at Ujiji - one just come from Manyuema, in the west, the other from Unyanyembe, in the east.

Conversation began. What about? I declare I have forgotten. Oh! we mutually asked questions of one another, such as:

"How did you come here?" and "Where have you been all this long time? The world has believed you to be dead." Yes, that was the way it began; but whatever the Doctor himself informed me, and that which I communicated to him, I cannot correctly report, for I found myself gazing at him, conning the wonderful man at whose side I now sat in Central Africa. Every hair of his head and beard, every wrinkle of his face, the wanness of his features, and the slightly wearied look he wore, were all imparting intelligence to me - the knowledge I had craved for so much ever since I heard the words, "Take what you want, but find Livingstone!"

apicultor dijo...

Como se pode apreciar, a frase exacta era "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" (Dr. e non Mr., logo).

apicultor dijo...

Corrixo un erro de identidades na miña primeira mensaxe, que tiña que dicir o seguinte:

E si, si que era un auténtico fillo de p. o Stanley de marras. Hai tempo que fixemos mención aquí do libro de Adam Hochschild "El fantasma del Rey Leopoldo" (Península, 2002), onde tamén se fala del.

Xoan da Coba dijo...

Vaia,XM Glz,cando dixo o de "fornecía con material difícil,etc..." lembréi ó persoaxe central de "o axente secreto" de J.Conrad.Hai persoaxes arquetípicas.

Pola aldea pasaban moitos portugueses pedindo,penso agora que posíbles fuxidos.Lembro especialmente ún que aparecía periódicamente acompañado dun montón de cás,e cargado cun montón de latas.
Unhos chamábanlle "o home dos cás" e outros "o home das latas".Acampaba nas proximidades da aldea e dormía ó raso,no vran.No inverno,alguén lle deixaba unha palleira.A xente dáballe o que podía,case sempre roupa vella,caldo acedo(¡comía o caldo acedo,igual que os seus cás!),touciño amarelo....Era un espectáculo velo chegar,acompañado de tódos aqueles cás,que o adoraban coma o que era: o xefe da manada.
Achegábamonos os rapaces rondando perto del,cheos de curiosidade,vixilándoo pra contar o que facía e o que non facía,incrementando as "lendas rurales" que se contaban del (moitas delas sóupenas despóis repetidas e baseadas na vida do Romasanta do que escrebéu A.Conde).Os máis mozos,rivalizaban en decir a "animalada" mais grande:que si comía ós cás,que si se "xuntaba" con eles...
Así como chegaba sempre de día e á vista de todo o mundo,marchaba sempre de noite.Ó seguinte día faltaban sempre un ou dous cás na aldea.

Anónimo dijo...

Non, Xosé manuel, Fusalba morreu el Lugo onde ten as dúas fillas casadas e con fillos á súa vez.

Xosé M. González dijo...

Pois retiro o dato. Léralle unha entrevista en "El Progreso" a pouco, supoño, de xubilarse, e quedei con idea de que volvera para Cataluña; así e todo, despois de publicado isto veume dúbida se non andaría confundido. En efecto é así, laméntoo e quede aquí constancia.

Seguramente debía pensar algunhas cousas máis a modo. Son asuntos sensibles.

Xosé M. González dijo...

Supoño que, por problemas de axenda dos posibles participantes, a pulpada das Uvas queda posposta para outra vez, a expensas do que o Xaime diga ou saiba. Pero ao San Froilán hai que vir algún ano, non renuncien vdes. a ocasión tan singular.

marcos valcarcel dijo...

DO SAN FROILÁN, pola miña banda, como xa dixen, desta non vai poder ser. Pero moitas grazas polo convite. E quedo coas gañas: agardo que para o 2008 poidamos organizalo con máis tempo e non perder esa cita.

apicultor dijo...

O 2008 todos ao San Froilán, así caia Roma con Santiago.

Anónimo dijo...

Gran texto.

Anónimo dijo...

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