一個年輕人之死 - A Renán…

A Renan ...
By José Manuel Torres Funes


It is strange to write about a boy aged 22 was killed in his apartment, which also presumably could have been tortured and, above all, a few days before his death, confessed that he was afraid. Renan afraid, but not for home, the home of his parents, back in Roatan. And he was in Tegucigalpa, who knows why. And for the record, no one confuses it with cowardice because fear has nothing to do. Fear is a very respectable, is a deep human feeling and extreme; cowardice is superficial, is to fragile and banal.

As I write some words about it, I imagine here, right in the chair that is on my side, reading the words I type for him. I can see him smiling, thinking of this strange perversion known to be dead and loved by others. I can speak for him, though not belonging to his close circle of friends, because I was also a friend. With Renan talked about everything for hours. Not too often because they lose weeks or even months. But every time we reencontrábamos was to continue any unfinished conversation. We talked about architecture, art, film, politics, photography, Bay Islands, the English island, food.

No, not only died a "partner in resistance," such epithets as well as "martyr" are important but they are also cyclical. A Silvio Rodríguez Renan liked but Norah Jones, talking about social injustice, but also talking about Gustav Kilmt. There we were in cinephilia, usually always saw when I played Time change, sitting at the bar, drinking beer and eating German black one piece of pizza. Sometimes he stayed until the close of cinephilia, in such cases, we always got along (especially my parents) to their apartment. You know when a child is without his parents, and Renan in Tegucigalpa walking, walking, eating food where you will find the way, while losing a lot. Normal, as any student in another city.

Renan was humble. I remember the day we took the pictures he painted for cinephilia. With my brother we are amazed and admire the expression had been achieved in the reproduction of "The Great Dictator" ...; Renan was slow (several months) in delivery of paintings, but they changed her appearance to any cinephile, gave him more respect the place. Professionals make things respected. No need to talk much, just do. And he would not accept the payment because we said we were friends and had fun doing it. But in the end, of course, we pay, because they are paid professionals work.

He also liked Carla Bruni, Sarkozy's wife, I told him it was a very mellow singer but he was struck, said he liked her voice. Bruni addition, we also provided a record of Amy Winehouse, so what metiéramos on the computer - which incidentally we were robbed, and that more than the theft, we were very upset to have lost all that music. When we spoke of the islands told me about the abuses that make the owners of the power companies over there, ever go to Roatan also plan to do some "special report" to the inventory. But it never materialized. Renan was lost, I sometimes find him in the street, always climbing the same hill, which led him to his apartment, always coming to the center, Cafe Paradiso, in some way, some coffee or printing Lopez, where learned with Don Evaristo Lopez, the owner of the printing press and photographer, the art disclosed. For Renan, though he liked the digital camera, also appeal to him the ancient art of the camera mechanics and reels and reels in black and white.
Or eating a croissant, took a coffee and after battle against vice, smoking a cigarette, which were then two, three, four. As always, between good talks, cigarettes disappear.

Nothing was wrong in him, a very gentle personality, easy to talk, to befriend, to laugh, with well-fitted values also very critical. This period was hard to pass Honduras and he was going to grow, who knows if it would help change the country? Maybe, maybe not, maybe nobody ever will in any case, he would continue to grow, that's for sure, reading more, taking more pictures, painting more. Security was going to put an architecture, maybe then he would also leave the country, to get some expertise and have experience of life elsewhere. Who to tell? Anyway, I had talent, like few others.

I say what has become the head of Renan, why not be returned early to the Bay Islands. Maybe if he were actually present here and not only in my imagination, I would say perhaps that in these last days, I felt the presence of death. And could, perhaps, until he was seduced by it, without knowing it, rather, seduced and seducing snakes and poisons. Maybe he lost sleep over, perhaps took the appetite, strength. I can not know, for months since I've seen. A mutual friend told me that he found on Monday and who was sad, nervous. I was afraid but would not return because they refused to leave his apartment.

Yesterday I went out and I felt defeated, like everyone else. They took him away in a bag. And the police, as always, were complacent and are without any trace of anything in their faces used to collect sick and dead. There is something rotten in this country. And this is beyond the coup, the usual politicking. Something rotten in the interior, in the heart of this country.

But I do not recall Renan's end with that last look. I go with an image of her that I want to share all those who appreciated it as I do, my family, my friends. It was a Saturday, we were in cinephilia. That day we decided we were going to put "Satyricon" of Fellini, the film is long and people started going. We could not see the film because we were behind the bar, serving people, but every once in a while we leaned out to see who was watching, who had left, if someone wanted something. Finally. In the last section of the film and there were only two people, Renan and another mutual friend. I was glad to see them there, watching good movies, movies heavy, as it should be. Renan was highly concentrated, smoking and with eyes wide open. It was obvious that the film had cost him, as I said, is dense, but there it was, a few minutes to defeat it. He felt my gaze and from inside I asked if he wanted anything. He raised his thumb as a sign that all was well and did not want anything at the time. I'll take that Renan.

But as I also thought that is here, perhaps sees me as I write about it. I do not know, I do not believe in God, I do not think he believed, I think I was agnostic, maybe I'm wrong, I do not know if I ever said, maybe I'm inventing. Anyway, I found a poem that I think you might like, is Pier Paolo Pasolini, the great director terribly murdered Italian fascism during the seventies.



It's called "Late Analysis" and is for our friend Renan:

Late Analysis

I know, I know I'm at the bottom of the pit;
that everything I touch I've played;
I am a prisoner of indecent interest;
each recovery is relapse;
the waters are stagnant and everything tastes of old;
I do not do anything but reduce it back to the old;
no attempt yet to recognize who I am;
I've lost patience to the old goldsmith;
that old age brings out only the miseries of impatience;
that will never leave here more to smile;
I turn from side to side on the ground like a caged beast;
that I have so many strings that I ended up pulling one;
I like muddy field because the clay is poor and therefore pure;
I love the light only if it offers no hope.

很長的英文文章，這篇文章原文是西語，我從一位宏都拉斯的藝術家臉譜上轉載。我並不認識這個年輕人，但每次我讀這篇弔文時都忍不住鼻酸。

文章的情境近乎我的生活圈。一個年輕人聚集的地方，討論音樂，藝術，建築，和一些不著邊際的話題。我不知道年輕人如何去世，發生什麼事，但身處中美洲，宏都拉斯的我，對於一個年輕拉美人在自己公寓中死亡的訊息，感到非常深刻，就像自己朋友死亡的消息一樣。