Duende' is a consummate attempt in itself to capture the 'duende', the mechanics of constructing authentic art within the spirit of intellectual enquiry as to what life really means, and against the shadow of cataclysmic destruction.The first three chapters of Duende may be read for free on Amazon.Com. Support lizzie by downloading this book. Here's a bref glimpse
Chapter 1
Ignacio Ramirez Rivera quickly became Nayo thanks to his older sister who deliberately simplified his name in response to his arrival in her world. Although this diminutive form was unusual, soon Nayo’s parents were fondly referring to their baby in this way, pleased a bond had already developed between their two young children. Angelita, the little girl responsible for her brother’s title, herself had a name with a lot to live up to.
‘What did we do to produce you?’ her father laughed, ruffling her hair. His own impish streak had been tamed through several years of married life but Carlos had never fully shrugged off his Carlito. While he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, he sensed something in his daughter was keeping his mischievous spirit alive.
Nayo had no idea what he was letting himself in for when he decided to make an appearance within the living realm. Even with his parents to protect him, Angelita found ways and means to bypass their powers. Once, she insisted on the honour of feeding him as being the older sister gave her certain privileges. Manuela smiled proudly as she passed her daughter the warm bottle. Angelita received it solemnly, as if it were a chalice or some other sacred object, and walked piously towards the adjacent room. Flinging off her ceremonial garb, she unscrewed the top and forced herself to cry, watching in amazement as the tears splashed freely into the milk. She had no idea what tears tasted like but now she wanted to find out. Carefully twisting the top back on, she sat down and called her mother to bring the baby to her. She was scared of picking him up in case she dropped him.
Manuela wiped her hands free of dishwater and reassuringly lifted Nayo from his cot. His little head was too sweet not to kiss and she lowered him down lovingly on to Angelita’s lap.
Angelita received him in an equally adoring manner, making sure he was comfortably nestled in her arms before tempting him with the teat that pretended to be his mother’s nipple. She watched as his searching lips quickly found their place round the soft rubber imitation and stroked his forehead as he lapped hungrily at the milk. He ate happily for a while but then his face began to pucker and distort. A complete lack of understanding replacedhis previous contentment. A frown appeared across his forehead as his lips still searched for nourishment. Angelita wondered why he kept returning to the source of his pain but again and again his mouth hunted for the teat, expecting foolishly that normality would return. As he writhed and winced beneath her gaze, Angelita realized she had a lot to teach himand came to the conclusion that it was her responsibility to wise Nayo up to the ways of the world.
At the sound of cries, Manuela came running through and saw Angelita trying her best to console her brother, rocking him gently back and forth.
‘It’s probably wind, sweetheart,’ she reassured her daughter. ‘Just a touch of wind, that’s all. Here. Let me take him.’
Wide-eyed, Angelita let her mother make things right, slipping away timidly to put her doll’s house in order. The bedroom needed re-arranging and the kitchen hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. These porcelain people couldn’t be relied on to do anything properly. Turn your back on them for one minute and chaos ensues. While shifting miniature furniture, Angelita sighed, knowing her tears would never have harmed Nayo. They sharedthe self-same flesh and blood after all.
When he started trying to walk, Angelita providedenthusiastic encouragement. He used various objects to lever himself off the groundthenAngelita would take one of his hands. She’d tell him how well he was doing as Nayo teetered unsteadily by her side. Convinced her little brother was capable of more, she’d release her grip and gasp, slightly unnerved, as he fell with a thud on his bottom.
It was Carlos who came hurrying through at the sound of his son’s howls. Manuela was relaxing in a much needed bath. He lifted the boy up and hugged him close.
‘Hush, Nayo,’ he whispered gently. ‘Your sister’s still too young to know what to do in a crisis.’
As Nayo’s steps becamesurer, Angelita loved him even more. She clappedas he brought each foot forward with increasing confidence. Nayo’s face filled up with smiles and he gurgled excitedly. He was proud of himself but most of his courage came from this creature he’d known since his first day on earth, this thing that was like him but not, a mirror image enlarged and capable of feats which seemed unimaginable. Here she was, doting attention on him, really and truly believing in him.
When she began to run at a speed that seemed impossible, he found the strength and trust to follow her. If she could do it, so could he.
He hit the floor with such impact that blood began to seep immediately from his forehead, a strange, sticky liquid entirely new to him. All he could do was lie there, reddening the tiles as Manuela hurried through and screamed like she’d never screamed before.
It wasn’t merely the sight of her only son wounded and immobile but the fact that no tears accompanied his pain. When she picked him up, his eyes looked quizzical with no indication of distress and this alarmed her more than anything else.
‘Carlos!’ she shouted. ‘Carlos! Get the doctor! Carlos, please!’
Carlos was engrossed in Calderon’s La vida es sueno, a play he’d fallen in love with while still at school. No matter how many times he read it, he always found something different but came away never fully understanding the real nature of the work. More questions appeared and sometimes, but only sometimes, new solutions. Although the lines were famous and much analysed, he still grappled with their profundity, never satisfied with simple explanations:
¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.
¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,
una sombra, una ficción,
y el mayor bien es pequeño:
que toda la vida es sueño,
y los sueños, sueños son.
If life really is a dream and dreams are nothing but dreams then is illusion inescapably the basis of reality and if so, is that necessarily a bad thing? Are reality and illusion two sides of the same coin andprecise labels become irrelevant? Is it about language or perception? About experience or our understanding of this? If reality ceases to exist then is our fictional existence any less true or tangible on account of this?
‘Carlos!’ his wife wailed from downstairs.
‘Qué es la vida?’ pondered Carlos when suddenly his wife’s cries shook him abruptly back into the world of the here and now. He ran downstairs, almost losing his balance as he did so.
Blood on his son’s head, on his wife’s face and dress,initially made him panic but he disguised this by swiftly taking control. He collected everyone’s coats and steered his family carefully towardsthe doctor’s house.
The doctor tended to the wound and Carlos held Manuela close, using his breath to calm and soothe her. It wasn’t long before the doctor placed Nayo in Manuela’s arms and told her not to worry. These things were a normal part of childhood, however hard they were to bear at the time.
‘Accidents happen,’ he said, ‘and we have to allow for them unfortunately. Your boy’s a strong little thing. He was experimenting, that’s all. Testing his own limits. Sometimes they have to learn lessons all by themselves.’
Lizzie (on the right) at Le Salon
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