Mañana (lluviosa) en Bourbon Street

«Estábamos a finales de otoño, semanas antes de su operación y Susan, que odiaba el frío, quería ir a algún sitio cálido. Divertido y cálido, y no demasiado lejos. "Nunca has estado en Nueva Orleans, ¿verdad?". No. (Se había convertido en un diálogo familiar: "¿Nunca has visto Las bodas de Fígaro?"."¿Nunca has comido Sushi?". "Nunca has estado en el Festival de Cine de Nueva York?". Cada vez que yo decía que no, Susan respondía: "Ah, pues te espera una sorpresa". Y así era siempre). David y ella habían estado en Nueva Orleans; conocían a gente allí; era, ambos estaban de acuerdo, el destino perfecto para un viaje corto.
    Nos alojamos en el Barrio Francés, aunque un día unos amigos nos llevaron a hacer una larga excursión por los pantanos. Recuerdo que comimos de maravilla ("¿Nunca has probado los cangrejos?"), y todos los desconocidos que encontrábamos tenían historias que contarnos sobre el Mardi Gras. Recuerdo una cena en la que un chico muy guapo recitó de memoria "Mornings on Bourbon Street" de Tennessee Williams y me dio un ejemplar de In the Winter of the Cities, el libro en el que aparece ese poema» (Sigrid Nunez, SIEMPRE SUSAN. RECUERDOS SOBRE SUSAN SONTAG, pp. 77-78)

MORNINGS ON BOURBON STREET

I knew I would say it. But could I believe it again?

I thought of the innocent mornings on Bourbon Street, of the sunny courtyard and the iron lion’s head on the door.

I thought of the quality light could not be expected to have again after rain, the pigeons and drunkards coming together from under the same stone arches, to move again in the sun’s faint mumble of benediction with faint surprise.

I thought of the tall iron horseman before the Cabildo, tipping his hat so gallantly towards old wharves, the mist of the river beginning to climb about him.

I thought of the rotten-sweet odor of Old Quarter had, so much like a warning of what I would have to learn.

I thought of belief and the gradual loss of belief and the piercing together of something like it again.

But, oh, how my blood had almost turned in color when once, in response to a sudden call from a window, I stopped on a curbstone and first thought,

Love. Love. Love.

I knew he would say it. But could I believe it again?

I thought of Irene whose body was offered at night behind the cathedral, whose outspoken pictures were hung outdoors, in the public square, as brutal as knuckles smashed into grinning faces.

I thought of the merchant sailor who wrote of the sea, haltingly, with a huge power locked in a halting tongue –

Lost in a tanker off the Florida coast, the locked and virginal power burned in oil.

I thought of the opulent antique dealers on Royal whose tables of rosewood gleamed as blood under lamps.

I thought of my friends.

I thought of my lost companions, of all I had touched and all whose touch I had known.

I wept for remembrance.

But when I had finished weeping, I washed my face, I smiled at my face in the mirror, preparing to say to you, whom I was expecting:

Love. Love. Love.

But could I believe it again?

TENNESSEE WILLIAMS (1911-1983)