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Quico a la arrabbiata

11/8/2021

 
Por Juan Carlos Salazar del Barrio es periodista y narrador. Ha recorrido varios países de América Latina y Europa como corresponsal y ha publicado varios libros de crónicas y semblanzas. Es autor de “Semejanzas” (Plural, 2018) y coautor de “La guerrilla que contamos” (Plural, 2017) y “Che: Una cabalgata sin fin” (Página Siete, 2017), entre otros. Ha recibido el Premio Nacional de Periodismo en 2016.
(Texto original)
By Juan Carlos Salazar del Barrio he is a journalist and narrator. He has toured several countries in Latin America and Europe as a correspondent and has published several books of chronicles and portraits. He is the author of “Semejanzas” (Plural, 2018) and co-author of “La guerrilla que contamos” (Plural, 2017) and “Che: Una cabalgata sin fin” (Página Siete, 2017), among others. He has received the National Journalism Award in 2016.
(Translated text)
Quico era así. Todo bonhomía. Parsimonioso, arrastraba su buen talante como su propia sombra, con sonrisas cargadas de ternura y nostalgias acumuladas quién sabe desde cuándo. “No puedo pintar cuando estoy fuera de Bolivia”, me confesó en México, donde había buscado refugio tras el asesinato de su amigo de siempre, Marcelo Quiroga Santa Cruz. “Es como si mi paleta estuviera vacía”, agregó. Salía de Bolivia para poder descubrir los regresos.

Vivía en un departamento de Juan Rulfo, otro ser entrañable, con quien solía platicar en la librería El Juglar o el café El Ágora de la colonia Guadalupe Inn, al sur de la capital mexicana, cada vez que el escritor lo citaba para cobrarle el alquiler. ¿De qué hablaban? Quién sabe. Pero se entendían. Tímidos y parcos en el trato, ambos, tenían sensibilidades y melancolías compartidas. Quería traerlo a Bolivia para que fotografiara los cielos y confines del altiplano como había retratado las nubes y magueyes de los ejidos mexicanos.

Le gustaba cocinar (por cierto, también pintar). Durante la noche electoral de junio de 1980, en vísperas de la asonada, improvisó una “arrabbiata a la  boliviana” en el departamento de Marcelo, con locotos colorados, ají verde y quirquiña. “Parece uno de tus lienzos”, le dijo el anfitrión. Quico era un adelantado en la comida fusión, cuando barajar aromas y sabores no era moda. En México preparó un estofado de pulpo con mole y ajonjolí. “La comida, como la pintura, entra por los ojos”, explicó. Pensé que era una obviedad. Hasta que presentó su invento en una preciosa cerámica de Talavera.
Quico was like that. All bonhomie. Parsimonious, he dragged his good temper like his own shadow, with smiles full of tenderness and accumulated nostalgia who knows since when. "I cannot paint when I am outside of Bolivia," he confessed to me in Mexico, where he had sought refuge after the murder of his longtime friend, Marcelo Quiroga Santa Cruz. "It is as if my palette is empty," he added. He left Bolivia to discover the returns.

He lived in an apartment of Juan Rulfo, another endearing being, with whom he used to talk at the El Juglar bookstore or the El Ágora cafe in the Guadalupe Inn neighborhood, south of the Mexican capital, every time the writer called him to collect the rent . What were they talking about? Who knows. But they understood each other. Shy and sparing in their dealings, both had shared sensibilities and melancholies. I wanted to bring him to Bolivia to photograph the skies and ends of the highlands as he had portrayed the clouds and magueyes of the Mexican ejidos.

He liked to cook (by the way, also to paint). During the electoral night of June 1980, on the eve of the assassination, he improvised a “Bolivian-style arrabbiata” in the department of Marcelo, with red lunches, green chili and quirquiña. "It looks like one of your canvases," said the host. Quico was an advance in fusion food, when shuffling aromas and flavors was not fashionable. In Mexico he prepared an octopus stew with mole and sesame. "Food, like paint, enters through the eyes," he explained. I thought it was a no-brainer. Until he presented his invention in a beautiful ceramic from Talavera.

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