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    Francamente, Frank
    Francamente, Frank
    Francamente, Frank
    Ebook229 pages5 hours

    Francamente, Frank

    By Richard Ford

    3.5/5

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    En su trío de novelas aplaudidas por crítica y público –El periodista deportivo, la ganadora del Premio Pulitzer y el PEN/Faulkner El Día de la Independencia y Acción de Gracias– Richard Ford iluminaba el Zeitgeist de toda una generación a través de las intuiciones y agudezas de su ahora célebre cronista literario, Frank Bascombe, que es, sin duda, uno de los más imborrables, provocativos y queridos personajes de la moderna literatura americana. En Francamente, Frank Ford regresa con cuatro historias narradas por el icónico Bascombe. Ahora tiene sesenta y ocho años y de nuevo está cómodamente instalado en la zona residencial de Haddam, Nueva Jersey. Bascombe ha salido airoso –en apariencia, aunque no del todo– de las secuelas de la devastación del huracán Sandy. Como en todos los libros protagonizados por él, el espíritu que guía a Ford es la vieja máxima cómica que promete que si las cosas no resultan graciosas, no son realmente serias. La desolación sembrada por el Sandy, que ha arrasado casas, zonas costeras e innumerables vidas, es probablemente el arranque más tremendo que se pueda imaginar para una narración. Y sin embargo se convierte en el perfecto telón de fondo y en la piedra de toque para Ford y Bascombe. Dotados de una precisa sensibilidad de comedia y de una inteligencia arrolladora, estos relatos abordan un completo catálogo de asuntos muy americanos: el envejecimiento, el racismo, la pérdida de la fe, el matrimonio, la redención y el desplome del mercado inmobiliario. A través de Bascombe –irónico, blasfemo, emotivo, sabio y a menudo políticamente incorrecto– nos sumergimos en las aspiraciones, pesares, anhelos, logros y fracasos de la vida americana en los albores del nuevo siglo. Richard Ford trae de vuelta a Frank Bascombe en toda su imperfecta gloria para decir (a menudo de un modo hilarante) lo que todos pensamos pero pocos se atreven a expresar en voz alta.

    LanguageEspañol
    PublisherEditorial Anagrama
    Release dateJun 21, 2017
    ISBN9788433936516
    Francamente, Frank
    Author

    Richard Ford

    Richard Ford is the author of The Sportswriter; Independence Day, winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award; The Lay of the Land; and the New York Times bestseller Canada. His short story collections include the bestseller Let Me Be Frank With You, Sorry for Your Trouble, Rock Springs and A Multitude of Sins, which contain many widely anthologized stories. He lives in New Orleans with his wife Kristina Ford.

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    Reviews for Francamente, Frank

    3.5/5

    164 ratings21 reviews

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    • 4/5
      I was very much enjoying this novel despite not having read the earlier books in the series. The narrator is both looking forward and back in his late 60s with a great deal of insight into both his life and that of those he knows. Because of my personal experience with both storms (this is set just after Sandy has hit the NJ coast) and northeastern attitudes, I found many of Frank's attitudes both familiar and pointed -- particularly his relationship, however reluctant, with his first wife. However, I was highly disconcerted about 80% thru the book (I read it on a Kindle) by a section that repeated many of the background details set out early in the book. Bad editing? Nonetheless, I found the book more than interesting enough to order a set of the earlier installments. I'd like to find out how Frank approached those times as he lived them, rather than in retrospect. Couldn't get into "Canada" -- glad I gave this one a chance.
    • 4/5
      "Let Me Be Frank With You" (LMBF) is an entirely different book from Ford's "Canada" which, as my first exposure to the author, I greatly enjoyed about three years ago. Reading LMBF as a Frank Bascombe newbie, I arrived at this movie well after it was underway. LMBF paled in comparison to "Canada" (which I thought was masterful) but was good enough to pique my interest in reading one or more of the earlier books at some point in the future.What I liked most about LMBF was the author's awesome powers of observing and depicting contemporary American society and mores. The awful hurricane destruction of the New Jersey seaside was a wonderful setting for that, and Ford's observations about it bound the stories together into a cohesive whole. In addition, Ford demonstrated well-observed, acute empathy for any number of not-very-nice characters -- a knack that was also evident in "Canada". In the final story in particular, I enjoyed and appreciated the author's masterful pacing, language, and powers of description as evidenced in Bascombe's driveway meeting with evangelist Fike Birdsong. Brief though it was, this delicious episode was well worth the investment of time and energy to read the book.
    • 5/5
      A satisfying and fitting conclusion to Ford's landmark Frank Bascombe series. In four vignettes Ford manages to touch lightly on the themes and threads of the three prior volumes.
    • 5/5
      Richard Ford has blessed us with an original Frank Bascombe book every decade. Each work stands on its own and is a brilliant depiction of Frank's individual state of mind at the particular age of the protagonist, and a grander and just as interesting commentary on the zeitgeist of the era in question. LET ME BE FRANK WITH YOU appears eight years after THE LAY OF THE LAND. Frank is essentially retired, which gives him even more occassion to ruminate on the challenges of getting older and watching the inveitable destruction of people (his friends and ex-wife, Ann), places (his former house at the Jersey Shore) and things (the very foundation of American civilization). These four interconnected novellas, which I enjoyed in the AudioBook version through the magnificant voice-over work of Richard Poe who has come to embody every aspect of Frank Bascombe's personnae, are resonant with the foreshadowings of death and departure...not unreasonable for the inner musings of a 68 year olf retiree who sees so much devastation at every turn. The magnificence of the Ford's presetation of the workings of Frank Bascombe's inner self is the beauty and artistic accomplishment of these fine pieces of fiction. The thoughts which are voiced by Bascombe are not meant to be shared publicly...thus, the offense taken by reviewer "thewanderingjew", is not just a misperception of Ford's intent, but seems to entirely miss the point and artistry of these "slice of life" small sections of Frank Bascombe'e present life. I do believe that the pastiche presented demands a familiarity with Ford's prior trilogy and cannot possibly be truly enjoyed absent a full knowledge of the extraordinary life path (extraordinary only in its uniqueness as each of our life paths are unique) of Frank Bascombe. I am deeply saddened to feel that Frank is about at the end of that road and that there may not be a follow-up in due course to the Christmas Holiday events of LET ME BE FRANK. But, that fact, too, would be consistent with the history of Mr. Bascombe. Not a great work, nor Pulitzer worthy, but a valuable semi-coda to a most engaging and interesting mind and life.
    • 2/5
      I think if I were twenty years older I would better understand and probably love this book. It's for an older demographic, in terms of the subjects, humor, references and characters.
    • 3/5
      There is a sense of quality about the writing here - not a single sentence is allowed on the page until it is perfect in every way. There is a also a sense of time being taken by a now retired narrator who has plenty of time on his hand - to appreciate and analyse everything around him. I would perhaps have enjoyed it more if I had read the previous books about this character, but on the other hand it didn't give away too much about those previous books meaning I could still go back and do so. Of the four loosely linked stories I enjoyed the second one the most, but all had their good points
    • 4/5
      3.5 Frank now retired and no longer living on the coast, is quite happy not having anything to do, and looks forward to his own quiet, introspective life. As we know though, life very seldom let's us alone and so in these five vignettes Frank is approached by five people from his past, people he finds himself unable to say no to, one being his ex-wife.As minds tend to do, his mind constantly wanders and so, even if involved in one thing, off we go with his wandering mind to another. He has so shortage of opinions, memories and pontifications. Though since these were after hurricane Sandy, it was heartbreaking reading about all the destruction to property and coast.So many of these lines were humorous, this man is funny and so are his thoughts. But, at times it got tiresome, seriously I don't even find my mind wanderings all that interesting. Well interesting to me maybe, but not to others who have not been there or done or saw that. So that became my problem, loving many of his comments, as I posted them, but getting overloaded with anothers thoughts. Still well worth the read for all the amusing bits, just don't expect a straightforward or on task story.ARC from publisher.
    • 5/5
      Richard Ford is simply a great writer. This book is the 4th Frank Bascombe book. For those of you familiar with New Jersey and the Jersey Shore, you will find this a good story. It would probably help to have read the previous 3 Bascombe books but this one can stand on it own. It is really 4 stories that link together. They take place in December following Hurricane Sandy. It is told in the first person and it is a joy to get into the head of Frank Bascombe. His life philosophy told from his 68 year old retiree perspective struck a chord with me. He is funny and cynical in his head but his actions turn out be more generous than what goes on inside his head. This is a short book and a great introduction into one of our best writers. If you like this, then go out and read the other 3 Frank Bascombe novels that Richard Ford has written.
    • 5/5
      If Frank Bascombe, Richard Ford's Everyman, showed up to read the Facebook Privacy Rules, I'd pull up a front row chair and listen. Although you'd be a better person for having read the 3 prior Bascombe novels, you can jump right into this group of 4 connected stories. Richard Ford's genius is in recreating what Frank is thinking (most of which is the same as you would think in his situations) and WHAT THE HELL WAS FRANK THINKING? Frank is a man's man, and as a woman I treasure the reveal of his thoughts. In the first story, he meets up with a former real estate client as they ponder the destruction of Hurricane Sandy and Frank's old house, which he sold to Arnie and which is now gone, baby, gone. In the second, Frank shows his own home to a former resident who has the most horrific of reasons to want to see those rooms again. The third finds Frank delivering a special orthopedic pillow to his ex-wife Ann at her "Carnage Hill" senior living apartment, and the final story has Frank paying a final deathbed visit to his old friend Eddie, who needs to unload one last secret onto his acquaintance.Each of these stories is chock full of what we enjoy most about Richard Ford and his (maybe) doppelganger: the strongest honesty and wisdom about suburban life, with small doses of fear and self pity serving as the spice. Live on, Richard Ford, live on.
    • 5/5
      I like Richard Ford. I enjoyed all of the Frank Bascombe trilogy and these four stories of the now 68-year-old retired Frank suited me down to the ground as I lay on my hospital bed recovering to become (I hope) a 'prostate survivor' like Mr Bascombe. Sure, I identified very much with the particular circumstances in which Frank Bascombe and his friends and colleagues find themselves, but there is a much deeper story here. Ford is asking significant questions about the role of friends, marriage partners, work, money and possessions. These issues are seen with a different perspective as we approach the end of life, as a number of Ford's characters are doing - and so too am I. Yes, he does approach from a white middle-class western cultural direction, but that's where I've come from too, so I'm happy for Ford to share his insights with me.
    • 3/5
      I love Richard Ford, and especially when he speaks through Frank Bascomb. Every writer falls down once in a while though, and this was Ford's banana peel moment. The three star is a gift becuase I love him too much to give him a lower rating. (It's like when they gave Pacino the Oscar for Scent of a Woman because he had not won before even though its a terrible movie in which he chews every piece of scenery.)One of things I have most loved about Bascomb is his sense of humor, which is always engaged and always really dark and odd. I should have guessed from the cheesy-pun title of this book that Frank's sens of humor had grown flaccid. Mostly he sounds like Andy Rooney (not a compliment.) Most everything serves for him to vent his silly affluent baby boomer white guilt. Black folks are all salt of the earth, everyone who didn't vote for Obama is a buffoonish racist, a white person can't hold a conversation with a black person without Tourrette's like racist emissions. Oddly, for a book so desperately PC, there is one scene with a trans woman that is so offensive it is painful to read. He implies that a person has to be uncomfortable in her skin unless she has had bottom surgery. Its so jarring and pathetic. Ford ties up some loose ends which is satisfying for those of us who have read the other three books, but unless you are a Frank Bascomb completist, there is not much reason to read this.
    • 4/5
      This collection of four novellas describes the latest stage in Frank Bascombe's life now that he's 68 and feeling old. Beginning with a story about the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy on the Jersey Shore, we become familiar with Frank's musings, as irreverent and thoughtful as they are. In turns poignant and laugh-out-loud funny, this collection is a unified whole about a guy we wish we knew--or maybe we do.
    • 3/5
      I like Richard Ford's writing. I like the way he reminds me that the world is just people trying to muddle through, doing their best and occasionally getting it wrong. I like that I recognise myself in the women in his books. I like his character Frank Bascombe. I like the way Ford writes him, and the way I get an insight into how the male mind works, and how men see women. Men like Frank, anyway, who is a man like my father, my brother, a little bit my husband. This time around, though, Frank makes me uncomfortable. I don't remember him being so plainly racist in the other books. The way he describes Charlotte Pines, his attitude to the Mexican and Chinese people who live in his town, dressed up in the bluff of telling it how it is that seems a universal characteristic of people over a certain age, makes me want to look away. He is, or Ford is, acknowledging the conflict he feels as a white man speaking to a person who doesn't share his ethnic background, who isn't racist but is keen to prove himself not racist and so ends up being racist. Unlike Fawlty Towers' 'Don't mention the war', this doesn't make me laugh. It makes me cringe.There's also the habit Ford has of making Frank tell us things more than once. It doesn't always come off as a trope, as a nod to people getting older and forgetting what they've said and to whom. At times it seems as though Ford has forgotten what he'd written already just a few pages before, or as though a bad editing job has been done on the book. Some passages read like plot development notes that Ford forgot to delete.But still, I like Frank and, despite its minor faults and awkwardnesses, the slight feeling of disappointment it gave me for not living up to my expectation, the book is still an engaging read.
    • 3/5
      Let Me Be Frank With You is a collection of four connected stories narrated by Frank Bascombe, the protagonist of a series of four novels by Richard Ford. Unfortunately, this is the first novel of the series that I've read and it is the last one that has been published so far. I had read Ford's really great novel Canada, which is not part of the series, so I thought I could just pick this one up when I saw it. As it turns out, I did not really enjoy it as much as I enjoyed Canada. Now I cannot say whether this is due to not having read the previous three novels or whether I would not have found it all too interesting anyway. Since I do like the character of Frank Bascombe I assume that the book will unfold its potential if read after the prequels. As it is, three stars.
    • 3/5
      Decent, but it is largely missing the Richard Ford touch. It takes a long time for the writing to warm up. Eventually it is starting to get there, with Bascombe's pithy, occasionally contradictory but always considered, thoughts on life–but then the story ends! It's too short, especially when the first 50-100 pages could be cut off without losing much. > Character, to me, is one more lie of history and the dramatic arts. In my view, we have only what we did yesterday, what we do today, and what we might still do. Plus, whatever we think about all of that. But nothing else—nothing hard or kernel-like.
    • 1/5
      I found the book depressing and deceptive. I felt physically accosted by the author’s political views and personally insulted by them. If he wants to impugn the reputation of a former President or former presidential candidates, let him do it in a forum other than a novel meant to entertain. I found the book insulting to my intelligence and the intelligence of his readers. An author may write a novel about anything, but to insult the reader for having different views using verbal abuse and vile language is not worthy of any reader’s time or energy.I finished the book simply to give the author more respect than he gave to me in the hope that at some point the story would legitimately prove me wrong and illustrate a good reason for the invective, illustrate the point that he was trying to prove, but instead it turned into a gratuitous political attack in the guise of a story about an angry, unpleasant, unfulfilled, 68 year old retired realtor. If he is an example of a liberal Democrat, it is not an attractive picture. He is selfish and self-centered. Under the guise of a book that seeks to address the unfairness of life and death, the tragedy of Hurricane Sandy, failed marriages, the loss of a child, illness at the end of life, among other things, we have a diatribe condemning the Republican with such blatant insults and filthy language, that the book is definitely not worth reading, unless of course, you are a bleeding heart Liberal! Then by all means, read it and enjoy the trashing of those who don’t agree with you. While it is an immature way to deal with disagreements, it seems to be the common approach of many liberal authors. I didn’t ever think I would have to give a litmus test to the authors of prospective books, but now I may have to research their politics before I choose to read their books. Perhaps he is a liberal who falls at the feet of Obama, but not all his readers are of that ilk, and whether or not they are, it is improper for him to imply that those who disagree with his views are “asinine” or brown shirts or racists.This is the third in a series and I have no desire to refresh my memory about the other two. I am truly sorry, I read this one. If the author wants to voice his political opinion he should run for office or write a non-fiction piece informing the reader of his intent.If I wanted a book about political partisanship, I would have searched for one. He intentionally disparages the Tea Party, Mitt Romney, former President Bush, among others, while he lays wreaths at the feet of Obama. If it weren’t for the abject pandering to liberals and their views, there might have been some saving grace in the novel, but as it stands now, there was not. The book was dry with inappropriate comparisons of events and inappropriate moral equivalents. I failed to find the humor in it satisfactory or appealing, rather it was bleak.The author used his pen to voice his political beliefs calling Governor Christie the candied yam and comparing members of the Tea Party to Brown Shirts, describing them as Jew hating, white lovers. If name-calling is the calling card of the Democrat, don’t count me among them and definitely save me from anymore of these disguised political treatises. This author owes many of his readers an apology.
    • 4/5
      An older man contemplates the difficulty and humor of aging and death. Listened to interview with author on "Fresh Air,' Oct 30, 2015. Sounds entertaining and instructional.Amazon: "A brilliant new work that returns Richard Ford to the hallowed territory that sealed his reputation as an American master: the world of Frank Bascombe, and the landscape of his celebrated novels The Sportswriter, the Pulitzer Prize and PEN/Faulkner winning Independence Day, and The Lay of the Land.In his trio of world-acclaimed novels portraying the life of an entire American generation, Richard Ford has imagined one of the most indelible and widely discussed characters in modern literature, Frank Bascombe. Through Bascombe—protean, funny, profane, wise, often inappropriate—we’ve witnessed the aspirations, sorrows, longings, achievements and failings of an American life in the twilight of the twentieth century.Now, in Let Me Be Frank with You, Ford reinvents Bascombe in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. In four richly luminous narratives, Bascombe (and Ford) attempts to reconcile, interpret and console a world undone by calamity. It is a moving and wondrous and extremely funny odyssey through the America we live in at this moment. Ford is here again working with the maturity and brilliance of a writer at the absolute height of his powers."
    • 4/5
      I was looking to read a "period" piece. I wanted to read about a character who I could identify with, particularly when it comes to age. Frank Bascombe is 68 years old – – a little older and a bit more cynical than I am. I have not read any of Richard Ford's other books so I plunged into this without the advantage of reading any of the previous stories. One of the neat things about the book is that the action takes place in New Jersey and shortly after the arrival and destruction from Hurricane Sandy. I also enjoyed his comments and thinking about retirement and getting older. For example,

      "Life's a matter of gradual subtraction, aimed at a solider, more nearly perfect essence, after which all mentation goes and we had off to our own virtual Chillicothes."

      "end of days time otherwise known as retirement..."

      " Being 'older' makes you worry that you reek like a monkey's closet."

      "the gramps shuffle being the unmasked final journey approach signal."
    • 5/5
      “A few good words,” observes Frank Bascombe at the end of the final novella of Richard Ford’s, Let Me Be Frank With You, and “the day we have briefly shared is saved.” It summarizes Frank Bascombe’s near elegiac take on grief, death and the fear of death, and what makes life worth living. And it perfectly captures my take on Richard Ford’s latest.For those who have followed Frank Bascombe from The Sportswriter, through Independence Day and on to The Lay of the Land, there was always one more holiday looming. The earlier novels took place, over the course of Frank’s life, at Easter, July 4th, and Thanksgiving. So it will come as no surprise that the four linked novellas, or long short stories, here mark the the last few weeks leading up to Christmas. Frank is now 68, retired, living once again in Haddam with his second wife, Sally. It is the aftermath of hurricane Sandy and the destruction that followed in its wake has peeled back the skin of The Shore. Vast amounts of real estate are destroyed, including Frank and Sally’s old house (they sold up and moved inland 8 years previous). The survivors, one way or another, are receiving grief counselling. And maybe all of us, including Frank though he denies it, are in such need. Endings are in evidence. Indeed, as Frank notes, “that things end is often the most interesting thing about them.” Frank’s end is still being postponed, though death surrounds him, suffusing even the house in which he and Sally live (due to a horrific scene that occurred there 30 years earlier), placing its determinate finger on Frank’s first wife, Ann, who has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and rattling its last rasp in the form of Eddie “Ole Olive” Medley, a former friend of Frank’s from the years shortly after his divorce. Only the reassuring presence of Ezekiel Lewis and those few good words of Christmas cheer and fellowship can stem the tide. It doesn’t seem like much, but it is enough.Ford’s Bascombe has moved on from his Permanent Period to the Next Level, which is characterized as much by letting go (of friends, real estate, cares and concerns) as by Frank’s identification with his Default Self. But of course Frank can never really hold to his stated intentions. Perhaps his true essence just keeps seeping through, as Ann might say, or maybe it is just hard for someone without an essence, as Frank would claim, to hold on to things, especially things as insubstantial themselves as intentions.It might sound odd to describe Ford’s return to Frank Bascombe as a breath of fresh air. But fresh is exactly how this feels. A few good words, indeed. Highly recommended.
    • 4/5
      Ever since 1968 Richard Ford has been gracing American letters with his portrait of the reflective Frank Bascombe. I've read all four of these novels that started with the Sportswriter. He then won a Pulitzer Prize with Independence Day. In his latest novel called Let Me Be Frank with You, our narrator is now a 68-year-old retired real estate agent. We see him in four different chapter scenarios. First, he visits his old shore house which has been wiped out by hurricane Sandy, luckily after he sold it to someone else. In the second part he is visited by a woman who used to live in his current house in Haddem, New Jersey. In the third chapter he brings a bamboo pillow to his former wife who now resides nearby in a fancy assisted living community. And in the final chapter an old friend by the name of Ernie pleas with him to come visit; he is dying from prostate cancer and dying to confess something before he passes. Four chapters, each providing a forum for reflection. That's what Frank does. He says one think but thinks another, wishing he could take it back. I feel like I have known Frank Bascombe for 30 years as he illuminates the American existence, the dreams unfulfilled and a possible satisfaction that comes from a life doing as little harm as possible. From NYT:Droll, bemused, hyper-observant, occasionally exasperating and punctuated by sighs of both resignation and contentment (often at the same time), Bascombe’s voice has offered a running commentary on the last four decades of, as he put it in “The Sportswriter,” “the normal applauseless life of us all."Like Updike's Rabbit novels, Richard Ford has left us one of the defining characters in American Literature.
    • 5/5
      Library copy.Canada is the only other Richard Ford book I have read. I liked it very much. Let Me Be Frank With You is very different. It covers a short period in the life of sixty something year old Frank Bascombe. It's divided into four parts, each one could stand alone as a short story or novella.Frank muses about his life, marriages, children, and acquaintances. He claims that in his retirement he doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do--then he proceeds to tell about four things he's doing that he really doesn't want to do. He has an uncomfortable meeting with a former associate whose house (which he bought from Frank) on the shore has been destroyed by Hurricane Sandy. Next, he lets a woman who used to live in the house Frank now lives in enter the house for a "look around" and he listens to her story (which he really doesn't want to hear). Then he visits his ex-wife who is in a retirement home suffering from Parkinson's disease. In the final chapter/story he visits a dying man-a former acquaintance that Frank never really liked.All this is related with humor and wisdom (or not) and there are some likeable characters, but not too many and I'm not sure Frank is one of them. It is a fun read, but I'm uncertain about reading more Frank Bascombe books. I do want to try one of Ford's short story collections. I waver between four and five stars on this one, perhaps because I liked Canada better.

    Book preview

    Francamente, Frank - Benito Gómez Ibáñez

    Índice

    Portada

    Aquí estoy yo

    Todo podría ser peor

    La nueva normalidad

    Muertes de otros

    Agradecimientos

    Notas

    Créditos

    Kristina

    Aquí estoy yo

    Extrañas fragancias lleva en la costa el agitado aire invernal esta mañana, dos semanas antes de Navidad. Balsámicos vapores en un mar sombrío causan expectación en los incautos.

    Es, no hay duda, el aroma a reparación y rehabilitación de viviendas a gran escala. Madera recién aserrada, PVC blanco y limpio, el tufillo a lejía del Sakrete, el picor de la silicona, el efluvio dulzón de la tela asfáltica y el alcohol desnaturalizado. La almidonada esencia del Tyvek mezclada con la urdimbre sulfurosa del mar y el hedor proveniente de la bahía de Barnegat. Es el aire del desastre en toda regla. En mi nariz –experta en esas cosas en otro tiempo– nada huele a ruina de forma tan fragante como los primeros intentos de rescate.

    Lo noto primero en el semáforo rojo de Hooper Avenue, y luego cuando lleno el depósito de mi Sonata en la Hess, antes de dirigirme al puente hacia Toms River y Sea-Clift. Aquí, entre los intensos olores de la gasolinera, una brisa invernal me agita el pelo mientras los dólares se me van como en una tragaperras bajo las crecientes nubes de diciembre. La brisa ha puesto en movimiento los plateados molinillos de Bed Bath & Beyond, el almacén de artículos para el hogar que anuncia su Grandiosa Reapertura en el parque comercial de Ocean County («Sólo un colchón nuevo podrá tumbarnos»). A lo largo de su kilométrico aparcamiento, con una décima parte ocupada a las diez de la mañana, el Home Depot –un remedo del Kremlin, pero con un enigmático aspecto de «soy tu amigo a pesar de todo»– ha abierto sus puertas temprano y de par en par. Sale un reguero de clientes que, con paso incierto, llevan en equilibrio cajas de nuevos inodoros, nuevas placas base, nuevos circuitos de cableado, bisagras retractiladas, puertas de alma hueca, toda una escalinata de entrada tambaleándose sobre un gigantesco carrito de la compra. Todo de camino a algún domicilio que aún sigue en pie tras la zarabanda del huracán: hace ya seis semanas, pero aún presente en la memoria. Todos continúan perplejos: amargados, deprimidos, dolidos pero resueltos. Decididos a «renacer de las cenizas».

    Aquí, debajo de la marquesina de la Hess, han puesto muy alto un programa radiofónico deportivo para los clientes, el Pat ’n’ Mike Show de la Magic 107 de Trenton. Una vez me conté entre sus fieles seguidores. Ya son viejos. Una voz retumbante –es Mike– declara:

    –Vaya, Patrick. El entrenador Benziwicki ha soltado todo un bombardeo de PALABROTAS, ya te digo. Como en Treinta segundos sobre Tokio pero más a lo bestia.

    –Vamos a oírlo otra vez –dice Pat por un altavoz instalado en las profundidades del surtidor–. Totalmente increíble. To -talmente. ¡Eso lo ha dicho en la ESPN!

    Otra voz áspera, agotada, grabada –la del entrenador B–, empieza, furiosa:

    –Vale. Permitidme que os diga sólo una PUÑETERA cosa, MAL LLAMADOS periodistas deportivos. ¿Vale, CAPULLOS? Cuando seáis capaces de entrenar a un MALDITO equipo de colegialas de nueve años, entonces podré teneros una pizca de PUÑETERO respeto. Hasta entonces, CAPULLOS, podéis iros a TOMAR VIENTO desde ahora mismo hasta la PUÑETERA comida del domingo con billete de ida y vuelta. Ya lo habéis oído.»

    Vestido de blanco, con la mirada ausente, el joven empleado de la Hess que me está echando gasolina no oye nada. Me mira como si yo no estuviera allí.

    –Eso más o menos lo dice todo, supongo –reconoce Mike.

    –Y de sobra –conviene Pat–. Deja las llaves en la mesa, Entrenador. Estás acabado. Coge el PUÑETERO bus y vuélvete al MALDITO Chillicothe.

    –Increíble, PUÑETA.

    –Oye, vamos a hacer una pausa, CAPULLO.

    –¿Yo? CAPULLO lo serás tú. Ja-ja-ja. Ja-ja-ja-ja.

    En las últimas semanas, he empezado a recopilar un inventario personal de palabras que, bajo mi punto de vista, no deberían seguir empleándose en el lenguaje hablado... ni de ninguna otra forma. Y ello en el convencimiento de que la vida se reduce a una sustracción gradual, tendente a una esencia más sólida, más cercana a la perfección, después de la cual desaparece toda ideación y nosotros nos dirigimos a nuestro particular Chillicothe virtual. Una reserva de menos y mejores palabras podría servir de ayuda, creo yo, estableciendo un modelo para pensar más claramente. No es tan distinto de quien se va a vivir a Praga sin saber el idioma, y para hacerse entender acaba hablando un inglés que conlleva la especial responsabilidad de sonar claro, conciso y lleno de sentido. De todos modos, cuando uno se hace viejo, como yo, se encuentra inmerso en las acumulaciones de la vida. Que, en realidad, salvo en el aspecto médico, no se materializan. Mejor ir reduciendo cosas. Y por dónde empezar mejor que por las palabras que elegimos para expresar nuestros pensamientos, cada vez más infrecuentes, cada vez más erráticos. Podrá resultar difícil, pongamos por caso, que quien tenga el checo de lengua materna aprecie plenamente las palabras «plasta» o «joroba», o la frase «Estamos en estado interesante» o «¿Dónde está el intríngulis?». O bien, ya que estamos, «respetable» cuando sólo significa «considerable». O «sietemesino», «bisoño» o «legado». O «sin problema» cuando en realidad se quiere decir «de nada». Igual que «aterrizaje suave», «implicación emocional», «hidratarse» (cuando sólo significa «beber»), «hacer arte», «compartir», «tender la mano», «barullo» cuando significa ruido, y... a propósito de la Magic Uno-Cero-Siete: «Bombardeo de palabrotas.» En mi opinión, «cabrón» y «joder», con todos sus derivados, son términos que siguen siendo perfectamente válidos, con claros y distintos matices en su ya rica historia. El lenguaje imita el desorden público, dijo el poeta. ¿Y qué parece la vida de nuestro tiempo, sino un desorden?

    Ayer, nada más dar las ocho, una llamada inesperada me fastidió la mañana. Contestó mi mujer, Sally, pero me obligó a levantarme de la cama para hablar. Había estado en duermevela entre la completa oscuridad y la primera luz del día, fantaseando sobre la posibilidad de que en alguna parte, de algún modo, se estuviera fraguando algo bueno que me haría feliz, sin que yo me hubiese enterado todavía. Desde que dejé de vender casas (al cabo de unas décadas), echo profundamente de menos las expectativas de esa clase. Aunque es lo único, teniendo en cuenta cómo ha ido la cuestión inmobiliaria y todo lo que me ha pasado. Estoy contento aquí, en Haddam, con sesenta y ocho años, disfrutando del Siguiente Nivel de la vida, el último, previsiblemente: integrante de esa parte de la población que ya ha limpiado su escritorio, libre para hacer el bien en estado puro en el mundo, si así lo decidiera. Con ese espíritu, viajo una vez a la semana al aeropuerto Liberty de Newark con un grupo de veteranos, para dar la bienvenida a los soldados que, cansados y perplejos, vuelven a casa de Irak y Afganistán después de su periodo de servicio. No lo considero en realidad un «compromiso» ni un auténtico «corresponder», porque no resulta muy incómodo estar allí de pie, sonriendo, alargando la mano, alzando la voz para decir: «¡Bienvenido a casa, soldado (o marinero o aviador)! ¡Gracias por su servicio!» Es más un gesto para la galería que una declaración seria, y está encaminado sobre todo a demostrar que nosotros seguimos siendo importantes, con lo que al mismo tiempo garantizamos que no lo somos. En cualquier caso, mis sensores particulares están alerta para otras cosas positivas que pueda hacer en la recta final de mis días..., también conocida como «jubilación».

    –¿Frank? Soy Arnie Urquhart –restalló ásperamente por el teléfono una voz masculina, muy fuerte, entre un lejano y aparatoso ruido de tráfico. Se oía música en segundo plano: Peter, Paul & Mary cantando el «Lemon Tree» del remoto 1965. «Le-mun tree, ve-ry pritty / and the lemun flower is sweet...» Desde donde estaba, en pijama, observando por la ventana que daba a la calle al empleado de la Elizabethtown Water, que subía a la acera para leer el contador del agua, mi memoria dio un salto hacia el rostro de la ultrasensual Mary, con su boca cruel, primitiva, el pelo rubio escalado, la voz de contralto prometiendo un coito sin tonterías por el que uno renunciaría a toda su dignidad, aun a sabiendas de que no iba a estar a la altura. Muy distinta de como acabó su vida años después, irreconocible y envuelta en aquel sayón informe. (¿Cuál de los otros dos era el exhibicionista? Uno se fue a vivir a Maine.) «... but the fruit of the poor lemun is im-poss-i-bul to eat...»

    –Baja el volumen de algo, Arnie –dije entre la confusión de ruidos al sitio del planeta en el que se encontrara–. No te oigo.

    –Ah, sí. Vale.

    Un cristal que se cerraba automáticamente sorbiendo el aire. La pobre Mary se quedó callada como la losa bajo la que está enterrada.

    La conexión se hizo más nítida, para luego quedarse muda durante un largo momento. Ya no hablo tanto por teléfono con la gente.

    –Joder, ¿por qué todos los hombres del tiempo nos desean que pasemos un buen día? –dijo Arnie, alejado ahora del teléfono. Había puesto el manos libres y parecía hablar desde el pasado.

    –Está en su ADN –dije desde la ventana de mi casa que daba a la calle.

    –Ya, ya. –Arnie emitió un hondo y sonoro suspiro. Dondequiera que estuviese, pasaban coches zumbando.

    –¿Dónde estás, Arnie?

    –Parado en el puñetero Garden State, cerca de Cheesequake. Voy a Sea-Clift, o a la mierda que quede de ese lugar.

    –Ya veo –le dije–. ¿Cómo está tu casa?

    –¿De verdad lo ves, Frank? Bueno, pues me alegro de que lo veas, joder.

    Allá en los buenos tiempos de la burbuja inmobiliaria, ya pinchada, le vendí a Arnie no simplemente una casa, sino mi casa. En Sea-Clift. Una mansión de playa, alta, de cristal y madera de secuoya, diseñada por un arquitecto, justo frente a lo que parecía un mar benigno y resplandeciente. Lo que todo el mundo sueña como segunda residencia. Vi cómo Arnie se sacudía un buen montón de pasta (dos punto ocho, sin «comisión» por ser una venta entre particulares). Sally y yo habíamos decidido mudarnos al interior. Yo estaba dispuesto a cerrar la agencia. Este otoño hizo ocho años; dos semanas antes de navidades, como ahora.

    En mi defensa, ya había hecho varias llamadas a la residencia habitual de Arnie en Hopatcong, para saber cómo había capeado el temporal su/mi casa de la playa. También a varios de mis antiguos clientes, así como a mi socio de la agencia. Todas las noticias fueron malas, malas, malas. En Haddam, Sally y yo sólo perdimos dos pequeños robles (uno ya había fenecido) y la mitad del tejado de su cobertizo del jardín, aparte del parabrisas resquebrajado de mi coche. «Tanto ruido para nada», como decía mi madre, antes de remedar un pedo con los labios, haciendo pppttt y soltando una carcajada.

    –Te he llamado unas tres veces, Arnie –dije, percibiendo la siniestra y vertiginosa sensación de ser un embustero, aunque no fuera verdad; en eso, no.

    El empleado de la Elizabethtown, dirigiéndose a su furgoneta, me hizo un signo de aprobación. Nuestro consumo de agua en noviembre, ningún problema.

    –Eso es como hablar con un cadáver para decirle que lamentas que se haya muerto. –A través del manos libres, la voz de Arnie se apagaba y volvía a surgir desde Cheesequake–. ¿Qué ibas a proponerme, Frank? ¿Invitarme a comer? ¿Volverme a comprar tu casa? Allí no queda ni rastro de la puta casa, zopenco.

    Para eso no tenía respuesta. Visibles muestras de amabilidad, conmiseración, camaradería, pena compartida y empatía: débiles aliadas en la lucha contra las grandes pérdidas. Yo sólo quería saber que no había pasado lo peor; y así era, según veía. Aunque en Sea-Clift fue donde la gran oleada llegó a la orilla, como en Dunquerque. Ninguna posibilidad de esquivar las balas.

    –No te echo la culpa a ti, Frank. No es por eso por lo que te estoy hablando por el canuto.

    Arnie Urquhart es un antiguo miembro de los equipos deportivos de la Universidad de Michigan, como yo. Curso del 68. Hockey. Finalista de una beca Rhodes. Fraternidad Lambda Chi. Cruz de la Armada. Todos hablábamos así en aquellos despreocupados e inquietos días. El canuto. El tigre. El pulguero. La biblio. El ojal. Quiquis. Chorras. Peras... Es un milagro que se nos permitiera ejercer alguna vez un trabajo asalariado. Arnie es el propietario y gerente –o lo era– de una marisquería para clientes selectos al norte de Jersey con la que ha ganado una fortuna vendiendo huevas de sábalo, caviar iraní y exquisiteces importadas del Mar Negro de las que la Agencia de Seguridad Alimentaria no tiene la menor idea, todo ello entregado en furgonetas blancas sin identificación alguna a directivos de la Schlumberger para festejos privados de los que nadie tiene noticia, ni siquiera el presidente Obama, a quien de todos modos no invitarían porque, según el refinado punto de vista de los republicanos, en el menú no habría menudillos ni morro de cerdo.

    –¿En qué puedo ayudarte, Arnie?

    Estaba viendo cómo se alejaba por Wilson Lane la furgoneta de la Elizabethtown. El primer blanco que se ofrece a la vista de los clientes cuando la venta de una casa sale mal –no importa cuándo– suele ser el agente inmobiliario, cuyas intenciones son casi siempre buenas.

    –Ahora voy para allá, Frank. Me ha llamado un cabrón de italiano. Quiere comprar el solar con la casa, o lo que queda de ella, por quinientos mil. Necesito consejo. ¿Podrás darme alguno?

    Más coches que pasan zumbando.

    –Mis consejos ya no me sirven ni a mí, Arnie –le dije–. ¿Cómo está la situación por ahí?

    Ya estaba al tanto, desde luego. Todos lo habíamos visto por la CNN, y luego lo vimos una y otra vez hasta que ya nos daba lo mismo. La costa de Nagasaki..., con la tentación de los Giants y los Falcons en otro canal con sólo darle a un botón.

    –Te lo vas a pasar de miedo, Frank –dijo Arnie, incorpóreo en su coche–. ¿Dónde vives ahora?

    –En Haddam.

    Sally había entrado por la puerta de la cocina con su atuendo de yoga, llevándose a los labios un tazón de té, soplando el humo, mirándome como si acabara de enterarse de alguna desgracia y yo debiera colgar.

    El estridente bocinazo de un camión rompió el silencio donde Arnie estaba.

    –Gili Pollas –gritó Arnie–. Haddam. Muy bien. Bonito sitio. O lo fue una vez. –Arnie dio un golpe al teléfono con algo–. Mi casa, tu casa, está ahora a sesenta metros de la orilla, Frank. De lado; si es que tiene lados. Los vecinos están aún peor. Los Farlow intentaron aguantar en su habitación de seguridad. Ya no lo cuentan. Los Snediker salieron por pies en el último momento. Acabaron en la bahía. Barb y yo estábamos en Lake Sunapee, en casa de mi hijo. Lo vimos. Vi mi casa por la tele antes de verla en persona.

    –Supongo que eso es una buena noticia.

    Arnie no contestó.

    –¿Qué quieres que haga, Arnie?

    –Voy para allá a ver a esos cabrones. Compañías fantasma. ¿Has oído hablar de eso? Especuladores. –Arnie había empezado a hablar con una especie de gruñido de tipo duro, con un deje de gángster de Jersey.

    –He oído hablar de eso.

    Lo había leído en el New York Times.

    –Entonces ya ves cómo están las cosas. Necesito tu consejo, Frank. Eras un tipo honrado.

    –Llevo bastante tiempo fuera del mundo inmobiliario, Arnie. Me ha caducado la licencia. Lo único que sé es lo que leo en el periódico.

    –Lo que te hace aún más digno de confianza. No tienes la motivación del beneficio. No pienso pegarte un tiro, si eso es lo que te preocupa.

    –Todavía no he llegado a eso, Arnie. –Aunque sí lo había pensado. Ya había ocurrido. Una vez en Ortley Beach, otra en Sea Girt. Agentes asesinados en su escritorio, mecanografiando ofertas de venta.

    –Bueno. ¿Vas a venir? Yo diría que me debes una. –Otro devastador bocinazo de un camión a toda velocidad–. Joder. Estos mamones. Me van a matar si sigo aquí. ¿Entonces qué?

    –De acuerdo, iré –dije, sólo para que Arnie saliera del arcén y llegara a la escena de la destrucción.

    –Mañana a las once. En la casa –dijo Arnie–. O donde antes estaba la casa. Puede que la reconozcas. Conduzco un Lexus plateado.

    –Allí estaré.

    –¿Vamos a ganar la LNH este año, Frank?

    Hockey. Equilibra la destrucción.

    –No sigo mucho la liga, Arnie.

    –Esos jugadores tarados –dijo Arnie–. Tuvieron la mejor oportunidad de su vida. Ahora tendrán que conformarse con menos. ¿Te suena familiar? –Como siempre, Arnie se situaba en el bando de la dirección–. Gloria a los vencedores, Frank.

    –Campeones del Oeste, Arnie.

    –Mañana en la mañana.¹ –Lo que parecía ser la manera de Arnie de dar las gracias.

    En el Little League World Champions Boulevard, en Toms River, no parece haber ningún cambio radical relacionado con la tempestad. Desde una perspectiva puramente visual, la isla de barrera que cruza la bahía ha desempeñado una función milagrosa para las poblaciones del interior, aunque por aquí, en las zonas residenciales, se ven muchas ruinas. Hay un tráfico anémico por el tramo al que antes se aludía como Miracle Mile, en dirección al puente. Está claro, sin embargo, que Toms River se ha ganado cierta reputación de superviviente. Un Santa Claus sin barba está sentado en una caja de plástico roja de envases de leche frente al café Launch Pad (mexicano, a todas luces), con un letrero rojo de cartón apoyado en la rodilla. EL CAFÉ DA ÁNIMOS. FELIZ NAVIDAD. Lo saludo con la mano, pero él sólo se me queda mirando, como si fuera a hacerle un corte de mangas. Un poco más allá, a la entrada de la casa de fianzas Free At Last sólo hay un coche aparcado, igual que frente a un par de bares de estructura cuadrada y fachada lateral de amianto situados al fondo de los terrenos de grava. Hubo un tiempo –antes del redescubrimiento de la costa, cuando los precios se pusieron por las nubes– en el que se podía venir en coche de Pottstown con los niños y la parienta, y el fin de semana completo te salía por unos doscientos. Ahora ni lo sueñes, incluso después de la tormenta. Un gran letrero –parte de su mensaje arrancado por los vientosanuncia la gira de

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