Por Obed Arango

“Tardes de bici en Filadelfia” – foto por Obed Arango, 2016 ©

“Cuánto gozaron ambos en caminar de la Graduate School of Education al Houston Hall. ¿No fue acaso esa la primera vez que verdaderamente hablaron y se conocieron?”

Cápitulo XI

Ernesto guardaba una esperanza. Sabía que ella debía terminar su doctorado y volver algún día para presentar su proyecto y su tesis. Pero cuando revisó las listas, su nombre no aparecía con fecha de presentación. ¿Sería posible que no terminara su doctorado? ¿Que lo abandonara a él? Para Ernesto, eso era como enterrar todos sus sueños. ¿Por qué regresar a Argentina?

Con poco dinero en el bolsillo, compró un boleto de avión para Argentina, con salida en unos meses. Para él, era un asunto existencial: necesitaba claridad, necesitaba respuestas. No podía seguir en el limbo. El abandono de Ana Luisa lo había dejado suspendido en una vida sin dirección. Si era necesario, la buscaría hasta el fin del mundo, hasta la misma Tierra del Fuego. Sabía que la clave era Don Ramiro, que debía encontrar las direcciones que ella le había mencionado. Pero para él, esas calles eran sólo nombres en el aire, sin número, sin ubicación precisa. Era como buscar fantasmas, como buscar desaparecidos. Lo único que tenía era un viejo pedazo de papel: una invitación incompleta a una celebración de confirmación, donde también había sido invitado el dictador Videla. En el papel amarillento, apenas se distinguía el nombre del barrio: Barrio Norte, Buenos Aires. Y nada más.

En su idilio, ambos vivieron el presente, un día a la vez, una clase a la vez. Cuánto había gozado Ernesto caminando con ella desde la Graduate School of Education hasta el Houston Hall. ¿No fue acaso la primera vez que realmente hablaron? La vio acomodando cajas con una sensualidad que lo cautivó. Se acercó y le ofreció ayuda. Ella, con su sonrisa radiante, lo reconoció de inmediato; él había presentado en el foro. Decidieron juntos asistir a la última sesión.

¿Cuánto puede durar el trayecto de un pasillo de cien metros? A lo mucho cuatro minutos si se camina despacio. Pero para ellos, fue una eternidad suspendida. Flotaron, se perdieron el uno en el otro. Cuatro minutos fuera del tiempo, sin tic-tac de reloj. Al llegar a la escultura de “LOVE”, Ernesto pausó y le tomó un retrato en blanco y negro. En la imagen, ella lo miraba a los ojos. En su mente aparecieron imágenes fugaces, como destellos: calles desconocidas, voces de radio difusas, pasos marciales vistos desde el suelo. “Ernesto, Ernesto”, llamó ella, y continuaron caminando.

Fue la primera vez que Ana Luisa le tocó la mano. Él ya no la soltó. Así entrelazados entraron al Houston Hall.

Ana Luisa regresó a casa después de ese día en la biblioteca. Encontró a su padre descalzo en el patio, leyendo. Desde lejos, él abrió los brazos. Pero ella, contrariada, corrió directo a su cuarto. No sabía qué pensar. A sus cartorce años, sus ojos verdes no solo se abrían al mundo exterior, sino también al interior. Su sensibilidad y el arte que la habitaba la humanizaban, le daban una visión amplia de un mundo que le había sido negado. Se distanció de su padre, rechazó sus caricias, y una brecha irreversible comenzó a crecer entre ellos. Su madre culpó a la pubertad.

Meses después, Ana Luisa no pudo resistir y le pidió a su padre que la llevara a la Casa Rosada. Con una falda juvenil y una blusa de moda de finales de los setenta, llamó la atención de los jóvenes a su paso. Bajo el andamio donde Don Ramiro trabajaba, lo llamó con firmeza, pero su voz se quebró.

Don Ramiro tardó en reconocerla. Ya no era una niña de pasadores y vestidos infantiles. Cuando bajó del andamio, ella le pidió ir al parque. Esta vez, ya no le tomó la mano. Se sentaron en un banco.

—¿Por qué trabaja para un dictador, Don Ramiro?

El silencio se extendió.

—No es tan sencillo, Ana Luisa. No trabajo para él. Trabajo para la nación. Pero sobre todo, trabajo para ellas.

Señaló a las Madres de Plaza de Mayo quienes caminaban en círculo. Ana Luisa sintió un golpe en el pecho. Quiso abrazarlo, pero se contuvo. Don Ramiro le contó sobre la desaparición de su sobrino Ernesto Ardiles. Las iniciales del pañuelo eran de él.

—En tu vitrina, debajo de la cubierta, tallé los nombres de los desaparecidos. Con una linterna puedes verlos. Son jóvenes y señoritas que el régimen ha desaparecido. Allá está su madre quien caminaba con la mirada perdida.

Ana Luisa lloró en silencio. Su familia estaba dividida para siempre.

Años después, Ernesto fue a la casa de ella en la calle Annin en el sur de Filadelfia. Pero la puerta había cambiado de color. Las macetas de talavera ya no estaban. Una pareja habitaba la casa. Tocó. Una mujer joven le preguntó si se le ofrecía algo. No supo qué decir.

Dentro de esa sala, Ana Luisa y él habían hecho el amor por primera vez. Ella había extendido un zarape multicolor, con copas de vino y libros de Miguel Ángel de Quevedo. “Hazme el más bello de los desnudos”, le pidió.

Ahora, todo eso era un eco en su memoria.

Bajó la escalera con los ojos empapados. La mujer le preguntó si estaba bien. Negó con la cabeza. Se subió a su bicicleta y salió a la calle Broad.

Había vuelto a buscarla. Pero Ana Luisa se había esfumado.

THE COIN

“La mirada de Ernesto” – foto por Obed Arango, 2008 ©

“How much fun it was for both of them to walk from the Graduate School of Education to Houston Hall. Wasn’t that the first time both really talked and got to know each other?”

Chapter XI

Ernesto still held onto hope. He knew she had to finish her doctorate, that she would eventually have to return to present her thesis. He just had to pay attention, to wait for the announcement. But as he scanned the lists, her name was still missing.

Was it possible that she wouldn’t finish? That she had abandoned not only her work but him as well? If she never returned, what would become of the dreams they had woven together? Why would she ever come back to Argentina?

With little money in his pocket, Ernesto bought a plane ticket home. The departure was months away, but for him, the decision was existential. He needed clarity—both in his head and in his heart. He couldn’t keep drifting in limbo, stuck in an aimless life. Ana Luisa’s disappearance had buried him alive. If he had to search the ends of the earth for her, even as far as Tierra del Fuego, so be it.

He had few clues—only fragments of memories, whispers of places she had mentioned in passing. Names of streets without numbers, neighborhoods that felt like mirages. It was like chasing ghosts, searching for the missing. His only tangible lead was a crumpled piece of paper—an incomplete invitation to a confirmation ceremony where the dictator Videla had once been a guest. The ink had faded, the street name barely visible, but he knew it had been in Barrio Norte, Buenos Aires. That was all. It was like trying to find a lost soul in the desert.

In their days together, Ana Luisa and Ernesto had lived entirely in the present—one class at a time, one moment at a time. How he had cherished those walks from the Graduate School of Education to Houston Hall. Wasn’t that the first time they truly spoke? It felt like an eternity. He could still see her, standing at the tables, arranging boxes, her effortless sensuality pulling him in.

He had approached, offering to help. She had smiled, recognizing him from his forum presentation. Together, they decided to return to the last session.

How much time does it take to walk a hundred-meter hallway that cuts through the university gardens? Four minutes, at most, if you walk slowly. That day, those four minutes stretched beyond time itself. They floated, lost in each other, as if the ticking of the clock had ceased to exist.

When they reached the “LOVE” sculpture, Ernesto paused. He pulled out his sketchpad and, in black and white, captured her face. She held his gaze. Flashes of other times flickered through his mind—images of unfamiliar streets, distant voices from an old radio, the sound of martial footsteps echoing in his memory.

“Ernesto, Ernesto,” she had called, pulling him back to the present.

It was the first time Ana Luisa touched his hand. He didn’t let go. Together, they walked into Houston Hall, hand in hand. How many steps? Maybe twenty, plus the stairs.

She had been one of the event organizers, and before disappearing into the dimly lit corridors of that green-stone castle, she had promised he would find her again before leaving.

“Who have I just met?” Ernesto had wondered, watching her vanish like a silhouette swallowed by the university’s gothic arches.

Ana Luisa had returned home that night, her mind restless, her thoughts tangled. She found her father barefoot in the courtyard, reading. He looked up and opened his arms to her, but she did not run into them. Instead, she stormed past him, straight to her room, closing herself off in silence.

She was fourteen years old.

Her green eyes had begun to open—not only to the world around her but to the one within. Sensitivity and art shaped her, humanized her, expanded her vision beyond what she had been allowed to see.

In the days that followed, she withdrew from her father. She rejected his embraces. A chasm grew between them, one that would never fully close. The time when she had once run into his arms was now a distant memory, and for him, his green-eyed girl—his world, his everything—had changed forever.

She no longer returned to the Casa Rosada. A quiet, lingering sadness took root. Had Don Ramiro, too, aligned himself with the dictator?

Her mother dismissed her behavior, attributing it to adolescence.

But Ana Luisa could no longer keep her questions contained.

One day, she asked her father to take her back to the Casa Rosada.

She dressed differently this time—a skirt and blouse more fitting for a young woman than a child. As she walked through the grand halls beside her father, she felt the stares of young men. Her straight blonde hair fell past her shoulders, free of the childish barrettes she had once worn.

She stopped beneath the scaffolding where Don Ramiro worked.

At first, he didn’t recognize her.

“Don Ramiro,” she called. Her voice was steady, then wavered.

He looked again. This time, surprise flickered in his eyes. The girl with barrettes and dresses was gone.

She led him outside, where they found a bench. Without preamble, she confronted him.

“Why do you work for a dictator?”

Don Ramiro was silent for a moment.

“It’s not that simple, Ana Luisa,” he finally said. “I don’t work for him. I work for the nation. But above all, I work for them.”

He raised his hand, pointing toward the women walking in endless circles around the plaza.

Ana Luisa followed his gaze, stunned. The truth cut through her anger. In that instant, she wanted to embrace him, to tell him how much she had missed him. But she held back.

He remained quiet. Then, as if remembering something, he asked, “Do you still have the handkerchief?”

She nodded.

He told her then about his nephew, Ernesto Ardiles. The embroidered initials on the handkerchief were his. His sister, Ernesto’s mother, had stitched them by hand.

“My sister’s name is Susana. She’s there, with them,” Don Ramiro said.

“In your display case, beneath the cover where the artifacts are placed, I carved names—the names of the disappeared. Behind it, there’s a small door. If you open it and sit under the case with a flashlight, you’ll see them. Young men and women, stolen by this regime. Their mothers walk that circle, searching for justice.”

Tears welled in Ana Luisa’s eyes. She reached for his hand.

“Forgive me, Don Ramiro, for my coldness.”

She hugged him, and for the old cabinetmaker, it was the most tender embrace he had received in months. In that moment, Ana Luisa became family—the one person left in a world that had taken everything from him.

He hadn’t realized he was crying until she wiped his tears away.

“I don’t want you taking any risks,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’ll be fine.”

Years later, Ernesto stood outside a house on Annin Street in South Philadelphia.

The door had changed color. The Talavera pots that once lined the steps were gone. Someone else lived there now, inside the walls that had held their memories.

He knocked. A young woman answered.

“Can I help you?”

He hesitated. “I think I have the wrong address.”

The pang in his stomach was unbearable. He remembered how they had made love in that living room, the “Mexican blanket” she spread on the floor, the cushions, the glasses of wine. How she had once told him:

“Ernesto, make me the most beautiful of nudes on this blanket.”

Now, it was as if none of it had ever existed.

With tears streaming down his face, he walked down the stairs. The woman at the door asked if he was all right.

He shook his head.

Her absence was an abyss. Not even all the wisdom in the world could bring back those spring afternoons, those bike rides through Philadelphia.

He had gone back to look for her, but Ana Luisa had disappeared.

Ernesto got on his bike and rode out onto Broad Street.