Cuatro retratos de Mi Amiga Upe. Four portraits of My Friend Upe.
Girl with Pinwheels
Oleo sobre Lino
Oil on Linen
24″ X 18″
A Little Kiss
Acrilico sobre Lino
Acrylic on Linen
30″ X 24
Little Bird
Oleo sobre Lino
Oil on Linen
16″ X 12″
Young Girl with Dragonfly
Oleo sobre Lino
Oil on Linen
16″ X 12″
Mi Amiga “Upe”
Por Francisco Mora.
Muchas cosas habían pasado por su vida antes de que yo conociera a Lupe la Muda.
La conocí por primera vez en la casa de mi abuelo Cecilio. “Upe” –como yo la conocía– era la hija de Cuca, la sirvienta, ayudante y secretaria de la casa familiar. Cuca era una mujer joven, recia, de mejillas angulares y hombros amplios, el pelo y los ojos negros, la piel del color del barro y las manos siempre frías.
Cuca, lavaba, planchaba, hacía de comer, iba al mandado y renegaba todo el día maldiciendo a quien se le atravesara, a veces en español y a veces en Purh’e.
Upe, cuyo nombre era realmente Guadalupe o Lupe, la seguía por todas partes, a veces tratando de ayudar y hacerse útil y, otras tratando de evitar un regaño o un escobazo bien dado.
Entre chismes y cuentos vine a saber que Cuca había estado casada con un hombre, mitad campesino y mitad borracho, que aprovechaba cualquier oportunidad para agarrarlas a cuerazos. Después, les pedía perdón, a Cuca le decía que nunca lo volvería a hacer, que era el diablo en la botella, y agarrándole las nalgas se la llevaba a la cama.
Un día, discurrió llevarlas a Uruapan, las montó en el caballo y a los tres pasos el caballo respingó y tiró a Guadalupe por un lado. Nunca supe cuánto tiempo pasó y mucho menos cuándo fue que se dieron cuenta, pero Guadalupe ya no hablaba, sólo hacia unos ruidos muy raros y lloraba todo el tiempo. La caída del caballo le ocasionó una pequeña fractura y el golpe en la cabeza hizo que perdiera el sentido del oído.
Éramos unos niños cuando yo la conocí, Guadalupe ahora se hacía entender con un lenguaje a señas que ella se había inventado. Total, en la casa no había más que lavar, planchar y barrer; señas todas fáciles de interpretar.
La familia era también fácil de describir a señas, así que no había problema.
Un día finalmente me acerqué, le dije como pude que mi nombre era Pancho y yo le pregunté el suyo. “Upe!” me dijo, con una voz gruesa y dulce pero no fácil de entender ¡Después de un tiempo vine a saber que a mí me había identificado como el de los pelos parados hijo de la del pelo corto!
Durante las vacaciones, mi Mamá religiosamente nos llevaba a visitar a mi abuelo. El autobús en que viajábamos desde la ciudad de México llegaba a Uruapan en la madrugada, la estación estaba en la plaza a sólo unos cuantos pasos de la casa familiar. Mi abuelo tenía una mercería y su casa justo a la mitad del mercado, rodeada de puestos de increíbles objetos, colores y perfumes, mangos y plátanos.
Todas las mañanas yo veía a mi abuelo caminar lentamente por el patio regando poco a poco sus macetas. Después se acercaba a desayunar, siempre en silencio, siempre lo mismo, chocolate, pan, calabaza en tacha y un vaso de leche.
Mi abuelo Cecilio era medio sordo, pero no completamente. Yo creo que él prefería el silencio, no hablaba más de lo debido y escuchaba sólo lo que quería. Lupe por otro lado conocía muy bien el silencio y definitivamente no le gustaba, y desde la cocina alegaba airosamente a gritos y señas golpeando las cazuelas.
Había un juego muy especial entre mi abuelo y Lupe, él le pedía agua y ella le traía leche, le pedía el pan y le traía calabaza, mi abuelo le hacía una seña de enojo y Lupe le traía frijoles, con las cejas altas y la sonrisa de un diablo, como si no entendiera qué quería.
Desde niños mis primos trabajaban muy duro con su padre, yo -que iba de vacaciones- no tenía nadie con quién jugar durante el día, así fue como conocí a Lupe.
Yo la veía barrer, lavar la ropa, y después comer sola en la cocina. En las tardes planchaba la ropa de mi abuelo ¡Lo hacía con una plancha vieja que tenía un falso contacto que cuando rociaba la ropa daba unos toques eléctricos horribles! A mí me daba mucha risa verla brincar cada vez que tocaba la orilla de la plancha, ¡ella sólo me miraba con el ceño fruncido!
A veces teníamos tiempo de jugar, subir a la azotea, corretear a las gallinas y ver a las aparitas trepar por el naranjo. Y después, otra vez a trabajar.
Lupe tenia un espíritu muy fuerte. Era una mujer joven, recia, de mejillas angulares y hombros amplios, el pelo largo y los ojos negros, la piel del mismo color del barro y las manos siempre frías.
Cuando yo empecé a pintar me gustaban los paisajes y las naturalezas muertas, pero pasado el tiempo decidí pintar sólo de mis recuerdos. Hay muchas historias que podría contar de Lupe, unas muy tristes y otras muy divertidas, yo quise pintarlas así como me acuerdo.
Con el tiempo Cuca murió y Lupe se fue a trabajar a otras casas, finalmente dejó la ciudad, se casó y tuvo un hijo.
Entre chismes y cuentos supe que Lupe había estado casada con un hombre, mitad campesino y mitad borracho, que aprovechaba cualquier oportunidad para agarrarla a cuerazos. Después le pedía perdón, le decía que nunca lo volvería a hacer, que era el diablo en la botella y así, agarrándole las nalgas, se la llevaba a la cama.
Pasada la infancia solamente la volví a ver en mis pinturas. Hace un mes supe que Upe había muerto, ¡pero yo sé que está bien viva, y que por ahí anda, alegando airosamente a gritos y señas y golpeando las cazuelas
My Friend “Upe”
By Francisco Mora.
Many things had gone through her life before I met Lupe, la Muda (Lupe the Mute).
I met her for the first time at my Grandfather Cecilio’s house. “Upe,” as I met her, was Cuca’s daughter–the maid, assistant, and secretary in the family home. Cuca was a young, tough woman with angular cheeks and broad shoulders, black hair and eyes, clay-colored skin, and ever-cold hands.
Cuca, did the wash, ironed, cooked, went to the market and grumbled all day long, cursing whoever would get in her way; sometimes in Spanish and sometimes in purh’e.
Upe, whose real name was Guadalupe or Lupe, followed her everywhere. Sometimes trying to help making herself useful. Other times trying to avoid a scolding or being hit with the broom.
Through stories and gossip, I came to learn that Cuca had been married to a man, half peasant and half drunk, who took any opportunity to whip them both with a belt. He would later apologize to Cuca, telling her that he would never do it again, that it was the devil in the bottle; and grabbing her by the ass he would take her to bed.
Early one day–and still drunk, he decided to take Cuca and Lupe to Uruapan, he helped them get on a horse and after just three steps, the horse winced, throwing Guadalupe to the side. I never knew how long it was, much less how long it took her parents to realize it, but Guadalupe no longer spoke. She cried all the time and whenever she tried to speak she could only voice strange sounds. The fall from the horse caused a small fracture and the blow to the head caused her to lose her hearing, and as a consequence, the ability to speak.
We were young children when I met her. By then, Guadalupe made herself understood with a sign language of her own; one that she had invented. Ultimately, there was nothing to do around the house beyond “wash,” “iron,” “sweep,” and, perhaps: “cook.” Signs that were all too easy to interpret.
The family was also easy to describe, so there was no problem.
One day, I finally approached Lupe, I told her, not without some difficulty, that my name was Pancho, and I asked about hers. “Upe!” She said to me, in a thick and sweet voice, though not easily understandable. After a while, I found out that I had identified myself as the one with the standing hair, son of the one with the short hair!
During the holidays, Mom would religiously take us to visit my grandfather. The bus we were traveling on from Mexico City arrived at Uruapan usually at dawn. The bus station was in the square downtown, just a few steps from the family home. My grandfather had a haberdashery, and his house was right in the middle of the market, surrounded by stalls with incredible objects, colors and perfumes; mangoes and bananas.
Every morning I would see my grandfather walk slowly through the yard, watering his flowers little by little. Then he’d come in for breakfast, always silent, and having always the same hot chocolate, French bread, a small plate of baked pumpkin and a glass of milk.
My grandfather Cecilio was somehow deaf, but not completely. I think that he preferred the silence. He spoke no more than what he should and listened only to what he wanted to hear. Lupe, on the other hand, knew silence very well and certainly did not like it at all, so all the way from the kitchen, she would shout loudly and beckoned beating pots and pans.
There was a very special game between my grandfather and Lupe, he asked for water and she would bring him milk, if he asked for bread, she would bring him baked pumpkin. If my grandfather showed a sign of anger, Lupe would bring him a bowl of beans, raising her eyebrows with a devilish smile, as if she hadn’t understood what he wanted.
My cousins worked hard with their father since they were very young, and this was a problem for me, as I was on vacation and had no one with whom to play. That’s how I met Lupe.
I used to see her sweeping, washing clothes and hanging them out to dry. Then she would sit alone to eat in the kitchen. In the afternoon, she would bring in the clothes and ironed my grandfather’s shirts with an old iron that had an electrical short. Touching the iron after spraying water over the shirts would give her horrible electrical shocks! I thought it was funny as she jumped and cursed whenever it happened. She didn’t think this was funny, though, and would look at me with a frown!
Sometimes we had time to play. We would go up to the rooftop to played with the chicken and watched the caterpillars climb up the orange tree. Then, it was time to work again.
Lupe had a very strong spirit. She was a young, tough woman with angular cheeks and broad shoulders, black hair and eyes, clay-colored skin and ever-cold hands.
When I started painting, I liked to do landscapes and still lifes, but after a while, I decided to paint only from my memories. There were many stories I wanted to tell about Lupe, some rather sad, and some very funny. Still, I wanted to share them as I remember.
In time, Cuca died, and Lupe went to work in other houses. Then, she finally left the city, got married and had a son.
Through tales and gossip, I came to learn that Lupe had married a man, half-peasant, half-drunk, who took any opportunity to whip her with a belt. He would later apologize, telling her that he would never do it again, that it was the devil in the bottle, and grabbing her by the ass, he would take her to bed.
After our childhood I only saw her again in my paintings. Not long ago, I heard that Upe was dead, but I know that she is well and alive; and she is around, shouting loudly, beckoning hitting the pots and pans!
FRANCISCO X. MORA 