2001 September 15. Mexico City. 19:12 h.
From the plane, the city appears as though someone had scattered lights over a black surface.
Bernardo does not remember ever seeing it like this.
Of course he has seen it.
He was born here.
That does not mean knowing it.
As they descend, he thinks he has come to say goodbye.
To Mexico.
To his mother.
To a life he no longer wants.
He does not know he will return many times.
He does not know that in a few years he will speak of this trip as though it had been inevitable.
He knows almost nothing.
That is the wonderful thing about being inside a life.
They never know the plot.
Only afterward do they pretend it was there.
2001 September 15. Mexico City. 19:12 h.
From the plane, the city appears as though someone had scattered lights over a black surface.
Bernardo does not remember ever seeing it like this.
Of course he has seen it.
He was born here.
That does not mean knowing it.
As they descend, he thinks he has come to say goodbye.
To Mexico.
To his mother.
To a life he no longer wants.
He does not know he will return many times.
He does not know that in a few years he will speak of this trip as though it had been inevitable.
He knows almost nothing.
That is the wonderful thing about being inside a life.
They never know the plot.
Only afterward do they pretend it was there.
2001 Septiembre 15. Ciudad de México. 19:12 h.
La ciudad aparece desde el avión como si alguien hubiera tirado luces sobre una superficie negra.
Bernardo no recuerda haberla visto así.
Claro que la ha visto.
Ha nacido aquí.
Eso no significa conocerla.
Mientras descienden piensa que viene a despedirse.
De México.
De su madre.
De una vida que ya no quiere.
No sabe que va a regresar muchas veces.
No sabe que dentro de unos años hablará de este viaje como si hubiese sido inevitable.
No sabe casi nada.
Eso es lo maravilloso de estar dentro de una vida.
Nunca conocen la trama.
Sólo después fingen que estaba allí.