Ramón’s Night
Sometimes he folds his body up and sometimes he curls into a ball and, other times, he sleeps all stretched out. It seems to have something to do with the hour and temperature: he contracts when it’s cold and expands when it’s warm. But I tend to think that, beyond the particular circumstances, Ramón does this or Ramón does that simply because he wants to. As a matter of fact, when he climbs into bed at the end of the day (and I’m already there, struggling against my addiction, that is, not being able to stop reading), Ramón seems to take three or four minutes (turning over three or four times) to decide whether to curl into a ball or stretch or spread out.
I know what’s going on even if I don’t see it, because the action is taking place on my feet, if not between my legs. So what Ramón does, the place he prefers, the position he finally takes, will decide how I sleep, how my own night in the bed will be spent, stretched out or twisted, straight or diagonal, curling up my legs or lengthening my legs toward my feet; how simple or laborious the process will be (laborious in an attempt to be discreet, quiet, trying not to bother him). This all determines how I will sleep during the night—on my side to face-up, from face-up to the other side.
Around five in the morning in the summer or at seven or half past seven in the winter, that is, when night begins to end and the sky starts to reveal the domain of the day, Ramón wakes up, gets himself together, arches up tense and full of fibers just as he is, leaves the bed, pushes the door and goes into the bathroom. Once he’s in the bathroom, he climbs up to the window, pushes it open and weasels his way through it, jumping onto a wall and, from the wall, he jumps again into his very own life, so full of freedom and adventure, this life that he does not share or reveal to anyone and which we generically call “life on the rooftops.”
Now I have my bed all for myself. For one or two hours, very rarely more than that, but at least in the rest of the night, night that is now day, I can decide on what position I take and how I move, without having to exercise caution, to move my legs however I want, and even to toss and turn without guilt or thought. And then the alarm clock goes off and I must begin my day.
Sometimes I ask myself if Ramón knows what I do for him, and if he knows, if he’s grateful. I’d like to think so. But I know that’s not the case. It’s part of this air of aloof sovereignty that makes him so fascinating.
Las Noches de Ramón
Por Martín Kohan
Algunas veces se repliega y se encoge y otras veces, en cambio, duerme más bien estirado. Algo tiene que ver con el tiempo y la temperatura, evidentemente: se contrae si hace frío, se alarga si hace calor. Pero tiendo a pensar también que, más allá de esas circunstancias, Ramón hace esto o aquello, Ramón duerme de esta manera o de esta otra, simplemente porque se le antoja. De hecho cuando acude en el final del día a la cama (y yo ya estoy ahí, luchando contra mi enfermedad, es decir, no pudiendo parar de leer), Ramón parece tomarse unos minutos (esas tres o cuatro vueltas que da) para decidir qué es lo que hará: si enroscarse o extenderse, si envolverse o desplegar.
De todo esto yo me entero aunque no mire, porque ocurre en sentido estricto en mis pies, si es que no entre mis propias piernas. De manera que, lo que haga Ramón, el lugar que prefiera, la postura que finalmente adopte, decidirán de qué manera habré de dormir yo mismo, cómo será mi propia noche en la cama; si derecho o si torcido, si recto o en diagonal, si envolviendo con las piernas o avanzando con los pies; qué tan sencillos o laboriosos (laboriosos por discretos, por mitigados, cuidando de no molestar) serán los cambios de postura durante la noche, de costado a boca arriba, de boca arriba al otro costado.
A eso de las cinco de la mañana en verano, y a las siete o siete y media en invierno, es decir cuando la noche se va terminando y en el cielo ya se distingue lo que será el imperio del día, Ramón se despierta, se incorpora, se arquea tenso y fibroso como es, deja la cama, empuja la puerta, pasa al baño. En el baño trepa a la ventana, la abre y se escabulle, salta a una pared y, desde esa pared, salta de nuevo hacia esa vida tan suya, tan de libertad y aventura, esa vida que no comparte ni revela, y a la que genéricamente denominamos “los techos”.
Entonces sí la cama queda para mí. Por una hora o por dos, raramente más que eso; pero al menos en ese resto de la noche, de la noche que ya es día, puedo decidir cómo me pongo y qué hago, moverme sin tan extremas cautelas, llevar las piernas adonde desee, incluso dar vueltas y vueltas sin culpas ni contemplación. Después suena el despertador y también para mí empieza la jornada.
A veces me pregunto si Ramón advierte lo que yo hago por él, si lo advierte y lo agradece. Me encanta suponer que sí. Pero sé perfectamente que no. Es parte de ese aire de soberanía remota que lo vuelve tan fascinante.
Martín Kohan is an Argentine academic, essayist and novelist.
Martín Kohan es un escritor y docente universitario argentino.
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