was born in Rosario/Argentina. She is a member of several writers collectives. Her work was selected by the Argentine Writers Guild for the anthology “Histrias sin fin” (stories without end).
She is the author of several video scripts – “Guernika: A War Rehearsal”, “Quinquela Martin: His life and his work”, “The Little Prince” – a free adaptation of St.Exupery’s work. Her work “La Huida” can be read on http://raquelpartnoy.tripod.com/ArtProject/id10.html (Spanish)
Black Eyes
The very same look in his eyes. His deep black eyes moved me so much that I began to shake. But I was not able to keep looking at him for a long time. The memory of those other eyes had not left my thoughts yet.
As usually, the coffee was getting cold, and I had to swallow it at once.
Then, the game began, or rather, it continued like every morning.
I hid my face in the newspaper, faking to read it carefully, moving my lips along with the words.
He was looking at the door, as if waiting for somebody. Or maybe with the certainty that somebody would approach his table.
The time was exactly ten o’clock. I had to leave.
However, that morning I was decided to take every risk. No longer was I going to spy from behind my newspaper the way he held his cup with both hands, the perfect line that parted his hair.
This time he had to notice me. So many times I had rehearsed that moment!
Dialogue would be tough, I knew my purpose but I was not aware of his possible reactions.
I couldn’t, rather, I shouldn’t tell him who I was.
My hands were shaking and I could hardly hold on to the paper. I folded it and placed it on the table. I began to think of ways to start a conversation. It would be interesting to pass out when he walked by my table, then I would be able to appreciate that he was a good person, somebody that could help a stranger.
The thought made me laugh, and I discarded that possibility; it was absurd, ridiculous.
Now, he was looking for something in his pockets. He found a comb and fixed his hair. When we get acquainted, I’ll remind him of that move, I’ll scold him. A young man from his background should not comb himself in public. I wonder what kind of home he comes from. He probably ended up with a couple with no class whatsoever.
I would drink another coffee. Maybe not, too much caffeine is going to keep me awake all night.
I could send him a note with the waiter, although I wouldn’t know what to write on it, what could I discuss to spark his interest?
Now he stands up, he gets his backpack and, carelessly, he pockets a couple of sugars. I am dismayed by that move. It is not him, it cannot be him. He is too young, his walk is different too, I do not recall his height but it is surely not his.
I stay on my chair. I would order another cup of coffee. I would drink it right away, hot this time, with lots of saccharin.
At my age, and sick with diabetes, I cannot take any sweets.
Tomorrow, perhaps, someone else will come and I will see if I can find in his eyes the black eyes of my own son. An his look, the one that pierced my heart the morning they came to take him away.
Translated by Silvia Lorenzati and Alicia Partnoy