Stealing someone else's two cents
So I've been a little bit AWOL this week, seeing as I still don't have internet in the new apartment. The strike continues, so I only had half of my classes, but they were all awesome, and the week culminated with Singing in the Rain on a big screen and a guest lecture by Richard Leacock, who made his first movie at the age of 13 in 1934, more or less invented synchronized sound, and foresaw the DVD in the '70s.
I've also been following the newer discussions about antisemitism - and wow, do more just pop up every single day. I won't link to the latest two here since the heat's passed by now and they're more or less over, but I read Yair Lapid's column in Yediot yesterday and man, he hit all the points being discussed on the spot.
And then I discovered that all his columns can be found online, and in English, too! (FYI - Yair Lapid's column is one of my few weekend paper constants. I love him, and I'm sure you will too, and this is just an example) to show you why.) Yesterday's column won't appear online for about two weeks, but since it fits now, I've taken the liberty of translating it and posting it here, and I hope he forgives me (and also doesn't find out.)
A short story, this time. Contemporary antisemitism rearing heads and such.
El Marranos
It was an unpleasant conversation, but the stranger insisted on continuing with it. They were sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Grand Melia, across from the Plaza de Colón - the second largest square in Madrid - tucked deeply in the purple-black velvet cushions, looking for a way to make a quick exit, but the stranger kept on talking. He rested his hands on the table and they looked restless though they did not move. “You can deny it until tomorrow,” he said, “but it’s in your blood, you’re like that.”
His Spanish was passable, but he spoke slowly and you could hear the traces of a faraway Argentinean accent. ‘A grandmother from Buenos Aires, perhaps,’ Armando thought to himself, ‘or whoever it was who taught him the language.’
Armando was good looking, in that slightly effeminate way of thin aging Spanish men with whitening hair that fell below his neck, tight black pants and a red sweater tossed around the shoulders, tied in the front in the tidy style used as a uniform of the true Madridlenos, the ones who didn’t immigrate here from less fortunate countries.
“In 1492 you expelled us all,” the stranger said, “you put us on ships and just threw us out of the homes in which we grew, I mean the people the Inquisition didn’t torture and kill. The ones who agreed to convert you called marranos - pigs.” Despite the sharpness of his words he did not change his posture, nor remove his hands from the table.
‘What does he want from me,’ Armando asked himself with sudden anger, ‘Am I also responsible for the 15th century now?’ He glanced at Miguel who looked bored and estranged and hoped he looked like that too.
They’d already tried to sell the stranger their real estate consultation company, ”Macro Uno”, in 2005, for five and a half million Euros. They had 18 employees working in offices on the Parque empresarial La Finca, an avenue of black glass houses that was built at the same time as the launching of the Euro, and they’d made more money than they’d dreamed possible. Eighty percent, they emphasized at the start of every meeting, eighty percent of Spain’s residents live in houses they personally own, we’re Europe’s record makers. Except then the market fell prey to speculators and everyone decided - on the same day, apparently - to stop buying houses and to put their money in Google shares, which would naturally continue to rise for all eternity. Today they’d be lucky if the stranger agreed to give them four million, and the stranger knew it. ‘They always know things like that,’ Armando told himself with growing anger, knowing that the mere use of the word ellos - they - reaffirmed what the stranger was trying to say.
“Do you know in what year the expulsion was repealed?” the stranger asked, “1869. Until then, Jews weren’t allowed to live here.”
Armando hadn’t known that. “Franco let the Jews enter during the Great War,” he said and immediately regretted it. “He was the only one.”
The stranger distorted his face. They have a lot of expressions, Armando thought, much more than us.
“He wanted their money,” the stranger said, “it’s always like that. They say all we’re interested in is money, and then they kill us to take it.”
Miguel finally showed a spark of interest. “An interesting technique,” he said.
The stranger leaned back, reluctantly removing his hands from the table.
“There are two ways to negotiate,” Miguel continued, “you either make friends with the other side, or you make them feel uncomfortable.”
He was using tu, the direct form of address, instead of usted, the respectful form. Armando wondered if the stranger knew this was a declaration of war. The South Americans, as opposed to the Spanish, tend to drop the usted after the first few minutes of conversation, so maybe he was used to it.
“So, didn’t you think about it?” the stranger said.
“About what?”
“The appointment with the Jew. Isn’t that what you said in the office today, before you came, ‘we have to go, we’re late for the appointment with the Jew’?”
They were fifteen minutes late to the appointment, but Armando had hoped it had passed without the stranger noticing. The damn Americans had gotten the world accustomed to being punctual, the Japanese are always five minutes early. Everyone’s so eager to prove how important their time is, how important they are.
“Yes,” Miguel said, “that’s what we said. It’s just like you say, ‘I’m late for the appointment with the Portuguese’ or ‘I’m late to the appointment with the Chinese guy’.”
His face darkened and Armando suddenly got the feeling that he didn’t know him. Thirty five years they’ve been together, since the third grade, but Miguel had always had an uncontrollable side.
“How many Jews are there in Spain?” the stranger asked.
“I’m not sure,” Armando said quickly, fearing Miguel, “probably two hundred thousand.”
“Twelve thousand,” the stranger said, “you always think there are more of us. Jews under every rock.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re going to say it now,” said the stranger directly to Miguel.
“Say what?”
The stranger rose. He had a long body and wasn’t wearing a tie, jut a dark suit and a light blue shirt. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he said.
They stayed silent for a moment, staring at the space he had filled, and then Miguel laughed. “Fucking Jew,” he said. “There, he was right, I said it.”
The stranger returned. They closed the deal at 3.75 million Euros.
(Madrid, October 2007)
I've also been following the newer discussions about antisemitism - and wow, do more just pop up every single day. I won't link to the latest two here since the heat's passed by now and they're more or less over, but I read Yair Lapid's column in Yediot yesterday and man, he hit all the points being discussed on the spot.
And then I discovered that all his columns can be found online, and in English, too! (FYI - Yair Lapid's column is one of my few weekend paper constants. I love him, and I'm sure you will too, and this is just an example) to show you why.) Yesterday's column won't appear online for about two weeks, but since it fits now, I've taken the liberty of translating it and posting it here, and I hope he forgives me (and also doesn't find out.)
A short story, this time. Contemporary antisemitism rearing heads and such.
El Marranos
It was an unpleasant conversation, but the stranger insisted on continuing with it. They were sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Grand Melia, across from the Plaza de Colón - the second largest square in Madrid - tucked deeply in the purple-black velvet cushions, looking for a way to make a quick exit, but the stranger kept on talking. He rested his hands on the table and they looked restless though they did not move. “You can deny it until tomorrow,” he said, “but it’s in your blood, you’re like that.”
His Spanish was passable, but he spoke slowly and you could hear the traces of a faraway Argentinean accent. ‘A grandmother from Buenos Aires, perhaps,’ Armando thought to himself, ‘or whoever it was who taught him the language.’
Armando was good looking, in that slightly effeminate way of thin aging Spanish men with whitening hair that fell below his neck, tight black pants and a red sweater tossed around the shoulders, tied in the front in the tidy style used as a uniform of the true Madridlenos, the ones who didn’t immigrate here from less fortunate countries.
“In 1492 you expelled us all,” the stranger said, “you put us on ships and just threw us out of the homes in which we grew, I mean the people the Inquisition didn’t torture and kill. The ones who agreed to convert you called marranos - pigs.” Despite the sharpness of his words he did not change his posture, nor remove his hands from the table.
‘What does he want from me,’ Armando asked himself with sudden anger, ‘Am I also responsible for the 15th century now?’ He glanced at Miguel who looked bored and estranged and hoped he looked like that too.
They’d already tried to sell the stranger their real estate consultation company, ”Macro Uno”, in 2005, for five and a half million Euros. They had 18 employees working in offices on the Parque empresarial La Finca, an avenue of black glass houses that was built at the same time as the launching of the Euro, and they’d made more money than they’d dreamed possible. Eighty percent, they emphasized at the start of every meeting, eighty percent of Spain’s residents live in houses they personally own, we’re Europe’s record makers. Except then the market fell prey to speculators and everyone decided - on the same day, apparently - to stop buying houses and to put their money in Google shares, which would naturally continue to rise for all eternity. Today they’d be lucky if the stranger agreed to give them four million, and the stranger knew it. ‘They always know things like that,’ Armando told himself with growing anger, knowing that the mere use of the word ellos - they - reaffirmed what the stranger was trying to say.
“Do you know in what year the expulsion was repealed?” the stranger asked, “1869. Until then, Jews weren’t allowed to live here.”
Armando hadn’t known that. “Franco let the Jews enter during the Great War,” he said and immediately regretted it. “He was the only one.”
The stranger distorted his face. They have a lot of expressions, Armando thought, much more than us.
“He wanted their money,” the stranger said, “it’s always like that. They say all we’re interested in is money, and then they kill us to take it.”
Miguel finally showed a spark of interest. “An interesting technique,” he said.
The stranger leaned back, reluctantly removing his hands from the table.
“There are two ways to negotiate,” Miguel continued, “you either make friends with the other side, or you make them feel uncomfortable.”
He was using tu, the direct form of address, instead of usted, the respectful form. Armando wondered if the stranger knew this was a declaration of war. The South Americans, as opposed to the Spanish, tend to drop the usted after the first few minutes of conversation, so maybe he was used to it.
“So, didn’t you think about it?” the stranger said.
“About what?”
“The appointment with the Jew. Isn’t that what you said in the office today, before you came, ‘we have to go, we’re late for the appointment with the Jew’?”
They were fifteen minutes late to the appointment, but Armando had hoped it had passed without the stranger noticing. The damn Americans had gotten the world accustomed to being punctual, the Japanese are always five minutes early. Everyone’s so eager to prove how important their time is, how important they are.
“Yes,” Miguel said, “that’s what we said. It’s just like you say, ‘I’m late for the appointment with the Portuguese’ or ‘I’m late to the appointment with the Chinese guy’.”
His face darkened and Armando suddenly got the feeling that he didn’t know him. Thirty five years they’ve been together, since the third grade, but Miguel had always had an uncontrollable side.
“How many Jews are there in Spain?” the stranger asked.
“I’m not sure,” Armando said quickly, fearing Miguel, “probably two hundred thousand.”
“Twelve thousand,” the stranger said, “you always think there are more of us. Jews under every rock.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re going to say it now,” said the stranger directly to Miguel.
“Say what?”
The stranger rose. He had a long body and wasn’t wearing a tie, jut a dark suit and a light blue shirt. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he said.
They stayed silent for a moment, staring at the space he had filled, and then Miguel laughed. “Fucking Jew,” he said. “There, he was right, I said it.”
The stranger returned. They closed the deal at 3.75 million Euros.
(Madrid, October 2007)