Oral Make Mine Marvel

The Amazing! Incredible! Uncanny Oral History of Marvel Comics
by Sean T. Collins in Maxim



THE GOLDEN AGE

Before Marvel became the near-billion-dollar entertainment juggernaut it is today, the company started as humble Timely Comics. This disposa-ble pulp factory from publisher Martin Goodman—staffed by a skeleton crew of teens and twentysomethings—launched in 1939 with Marvel Comics #1, starring Carl Burgos and Bill Everett’s grim, garish heroes the Human Torch and Namor the Sub-Mariner, respectively. Far from hoping to build a multimedia empire, staffers Joe Simon, Jack Kirby, and Stan Lee (above) just wanted to make a living.

Joe Simon (editor, 1939–1941; cocreator of Captain America): This was the Depression, and I was out of a job. An art director in New York looked at my portfolio and suggested a new type of magazine making a lot of waves—comic books.

Stan Lee (editor in chief, 1941–1942, 1945–1972; cocreator of Spider-Man, X-Men, the Hulk, the Fantastic Four, Iron Man, Thor, Dr. Strange, and Daredevil): My cousin’s husband, Martin Goodman, published men’s magazines, romance magazines, pulps, all kinds of things. His philosophy was: Find out what’s selling and copy it. He was the great follower.

Joe Simon: We had the Human Torch and the Sub-Mariner. [Writer-artist] Jack Kirby and I used to get ideas and put them on our shelves. We didn’t trust anybody in those days. When Martin Goodman came to me and asked if I had anything, there was almost a whole issue of Captain America ready to go.

Stan Lee: I heard that Martin needed an assistant, so I figured I might as well get out into the real world. I’m still waiting to get out there.

Joe Simon: Stan Lee used to follow us around. He was our little kid, made us laugh. Kirby hated him from the beginning. I thought he was cute.

Stan Lee: I don’t think becoming editor in chief had to do with my qualifications—there was nobody else.

Joe Simon: The royalty Martin paid us was never realistic. We got a little pissed off.

Stan Lee: Suddenly, Kirby and Simon left. Martin looked around and said, “Hey, do you think you could hold down this job until I can get an adult?”

Joe Simon: Stan was always embarrassed about being related to Martin. Three years ago he called me and said, “When I do interviews, I tell the story that I was walking down the hall and ran into Martin, and Martin says, ‘What are you doing here?’ I tell Martin, ‘I work here,’ and Martin says, ‘Wow, that’s a coincidence!’” I said, “Stan, that couldn’t have happened.” He says, “Why not?” “We didn’t have a hall.”



THE MARVEL UNIVERSE"S BIG BANG

When the superhero craze died down after World War II, Goodman ordered his comics company—renamed Atlas in 1951—to crank out romances, westerns, funny animal books, horror stories, anything that sold. It wasn’t until the fall of 1961, when Goodman instructed Lee to chase the sales of rival publisher DC’s Justice League of America, that Stan and Jack Kirby (now back in the fold) really struck out on their own with The Fantastic Four #1. An instant sales phenomenon, rivaled the next summer with the debut of Spider-Man, the book gave birth to the shared world of heroes and villains known as the Marvel Universe. Its flawed characters appeared in one another’s comics, teamed up against one another’s enemies, and learned from their experiences. Kicking off a comic book revival known as the Silver Age, it changed the industry forever.

Stan Lee: I felt I wasn’t getting anywhere. I used to say to my wife, “Should the company go out of business”—and once or twice we came close—“what do I do?” You couldn’t go to Time magazine and say, “I wanna write for you. I used to write Silly Seal and Ziggy Pig.” I loved doing comics, but where was the future?

Joe Sinnott (Fantastic Four inker, 1965–1981): At the time Stan created the Fantastic Four, we thought it was just another story. We were wrong.

Roy Thomas (editor in chief, 1972–1974; Conan the Barbarian writer, 1970–1980; cocreator of Red Sonja and Iron Fist): I bought Fantastic Four #1 off the stands. I fell in love with the Thing.

Joe Sinnott: Stan mailed me Fantastic Four #5 to work on. I had never seen anything like that before.

Marv Wolfman (editor in chief, 1975–1976; cocreator of Blade): The characters acted very differently from the other comics. They weren’t always friendly, and they seemed to live between episodes. That idea of continuity was picked up by all media, not just superhero comics. In the past every episode of a TV show was stand-alone. Marvel changed that.

Stan Lee: Before we did Fantastic Four, we might get one letter saying, “I bought one of your books and the staple came out. I want my dime back.” I’d hang it on the wall and say, “Look, we got a fan letter!” As soon as we brought out the Fantastic Four, we started getting real letters. You didn’t need a house to fall on you to realize you were onto something.

Joe Sinnott: That’s when comic books took off—the second coming of the Superhero Age.

Stan Lee: I’d say to myself, “What kind of character hasn’t been done yet?” With Spider-Man I was just trying to think of a superpower that no one had used.

Brian K. Vaughan (Lost writer, 2007–2009; cocreator of Runaways and the Hood): If you’re an awkward nerd, it’s a slam dunk to read about Peter Parker, who is an awkward nerd with money problems and girl problems, but gets to live this other life as a wisecracking hero.

Stan Lee: We couldn’t do enough superhero books. Everybody was clamoring for them.

Brian K. Vaughan: In a couple of years, they created dozens of characters that have lasted decades and become hit movie franchises. It’s totally unbelievable how hard that is to do. It’s like the Beatles.



MAKE MINE MARVEL

For a baby boomer audience quickly outgrowing the simplistic, square-jawed superheroics of DC’s Superman, Batman, and the Flash, Lee and company’s heroes were perfect: angsty, intelligent, rejected by society, even beset by physical handicaps. Pre-emo teens looking for an outlet and college kids eager to expand their minds helped nearly double Marvel’s annual sales in four years. While artists like Kirby and Steve Ditko added personal style and psychedelic flourishes to Lee’s soap-operatic stories, Lee became an in-demand speaker on campuses and a fixture in the comics’ letters column, painting Marvel as one big, happy family fans were welcome to join.

Stan Lee: I worked with the most brilliant artists: Jack Kirby, Steve Ditko, John Romita Sr., John Buscema, Gil Kane, Gene Colan, Dick Ayers. I don’t think we’d have been so successful if not for those guys.

Louise Simonson (X-Men line writer-editor, 1980–1991): Jack Kirby is the Picasso of American comic books. The man was a genius.

Gary Groth (The Comics Journal editor, 1976–present; copublisher of Ghost World): There was a lot of pain in Kirby’s work. Ben Grimm was always pissed off about being the Thing, the Hulk was in a constant state of angst— these guys clearly suffered!

Jim Steranko (Strange Tales; Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. writer-artist, 1966–1968): Marvel was in a different dimension than DC. One embraced a bravura ideology; the other was pragmatic and elitist. One was exhilarating; the other, exhausting.

Gary Groth: Kirby drew buildings and boulders and streets that felt real, whereas the same landscapes at DC looked like they were all made out of balsa wood. His fight scenes were down-and-dirty, where people really looked like they were pummeling each other.

Chris Claremont (Uncanny X-Men writer, 1975–1991): DC’s theory was that you cycled through an audience every three years. Stan’s revolutionary concept was, Why not just keep moving ahead?

John Romita Jr. (Amazing Spider-Man, X-Men, Daredevil artist, 1978–present): My father was working for DC, and he would bring home Superman. It was so childish to me—and I was a kid! But then he left to work on Daredevil. He’d explain it: “This is Daredevil, and he’s blind.” “He’s blind? He’s surrounded! How’s he gonna get out of there?” I was hooked.

Walt Simonson (The Mighty Thor writer-artist, 1983–1987): I was in college, and I wrote to Marvel and asked for a copy of Journey Into Mystery #122. One day a copy showed up with a card that said, “Couldn’t let you down. Enjoy the comic—from Stan and the gang.” I went bat-shit.

Herb Trimpe (The Incredible Hulk artist, 1968–1977; cocreator of Wolverine): The office was laid-back—no cards, no ID, no locks—you just walked in. Sometimes fans would come in, and if someone wasn’t busy they’d show them around.

Stan Lee: After a while Jack and Steve especially were practically doing whole plots. I might have been writing an X-Men story for Jack when Steve Ditko would say, “I need the next Spider-Man story.” I couldn’t let Steve stand around with nothing to do, so I’d say, “Steve, I don’t have the script, but let’s get a villain called the Vulture; he does this and that, and then Spidey ends up beating him this way in the end. Draw it any way you want.” Jack and Steve were so imaginative—I’d just tie everything together with dialogue. I loved them. I was very sorry when they left. “Very sorry” is putting it mildly.



CHANGING OF THE GUARD

In 1967 Marvel’s Spider-Man and Fantastic Four first hit the small screen in cartoon form—the opening salvo in a cultural explosion that included Spider-Man Underoos and Paul McCartney writing songs about Magneto. But Ditko had abruptly quit. Three years later Jack Kirby departed for archrival DC. Even Stan Lee left his writing and editing duties behind in 1972 when Cadence Industries (Marvel’s owner) made him the company’s publisher.

As the “Holy Trinity” faded, a younger generation—fans first, creators second—took the reins and began crafting characters with a darker edge: Blade, Ghost Rider, Iron Fist, Luke Cage, even the
satirical Howard the Duck. Though they never reached the Silver Age’s success, Marvel’s ’70s crew laid the groundwork for huge growth by revamping a failed Lee-Kirby concept: the X-Men.

Stan Lee: Really, I’m not sure what the hell happened with Jack quitting. I was the face of the company, and I’m guessing he felt, “Jesus, we’re doing this together, and he’s getting so much credit.” With Steve, again, I’m guessing—he never said why he left. I asked him once, and he said, “You should know!”

Roy Thomas: After a few years at DC, Jack wanted to come back, but he knew he had set a few fires. Stan hadn’t been too happy about this [DC character] Funky Flashman that Jack had based on him. Jack joked, “Well, it was all in fun.” It wasn’t all in fun.

Len Wein (editor in chief, 1974–1975; cocreator of Wolverine; editor of DC Comics’ Watchmen):
We were a bunch of kids running a comic book company. If anybody wore socks, it was a big day.

Herb Trimpe: We did a lot of throwaway characters for the Hulk to fight—they came in one issue and were out in the next. Wolverine was one of those.

Len Wein: Roy Thomas gave me the name Wolverine. They’re nasty little creatures with razor-sharp claws. It was the easiest thing in the world to develop. I made him a mutant because there had been some talk about reviving the dormant X-Men book. Nobody intended him to be a superstar.

Chris Claremont: We just wanted to have fun. What were the most outrageous things we could do?

Bob Harras (editor in chief, 1995–2000): X-Men was what Marvel was about: being different and misunderstood and yet still striving to do good despite the world looking at you with doubt and suspicion.


RENAISSANCE MEN

As astute an editor as he was combative a personality, Jim Shooter ushered in a new era when he became editor in chief in 1978. Under Shooter the rights and royalties afforded to Marvel’s writers and artists improved, as did the accessibility of their story lines. Taking advantage of the new “direct market” of comic book stores, X-Men killed off S&M-tinged leading lady Jean Grey, the Phoenix, and its circulation went through the roof. Shooter’s Secret Wars series proved that editorially driven “crossover” titles could drive the bottom line, while cutting-edge work like Frank Miller’s Daredevil ushered in a creative renaissance.

Yet at the same time, an ongoing dispute with Jack Kirby over thousands of pages of original art Marvel refused to return to him gave the company a major black eye. Meanwhile, Shooter’s battles with both talent and management became legendary.

Jim Shooter: When I took over, it was a train wreck.

Marv Wolfman: Jim ruined things for a lot of people, and a lot of us left after that point.

Walt Simonson: But when Phoenix died, that catapulted the X-Men into the stratosphere.

Len Wein: Jean had destroyed the planet of the broccoli people or whatever, and Jim said she had
to pay for her crime. It got a lot of press—people weren’t ready for a superhero to die.

Louise Simonson: Death sold. Comic shop owners were calling up saying, “Which book is it going to be where everybody dies? We want a whole lot of those.”

Jim Shooter: Everybody reads about how I demanded they kill Phoenix. Nobody reads about a couple of months later when Claremont buys his mother an airplane with the money he made.

Jim Lee (Uncanny X-Men artist and X-Men writer-artist, 1990–1992): It was the franchise. Nothing could touch it.

Jim Shooter: When I was editing Chris’ stuff, I’d have to say things like, “You cannot have the professor dressed in transvestite bondage gear.” The editor would tell Chris, and he’d lose his mind.

Tom DeFalco (editor in chief, 1987–1994): Shooter got the trains to run on time, he had a lot of great ideas, and he assembled an incredible crew.

Frank Miller (Daredevil writer-artist,1979–1983, 1986): I felt comfortable with Daredevil. He couldn’t do the extraordinary stuff, so I could get closer to the crime stories I wanted to do.

Jim Shooter: We invented the mega-crossover, got all the good guys and all the bad guys in one series. They’d say, “30-year-old fans hate it.” So what? The kids are what’s important. To this day there are people who blame me for all kinds of things. The whole situation with Kirby—I had a say? It was the board of directors, the lawyers, the principals.

Gary Groth: I remember one particularly grotesque moment on a pro-Kirby panel at San Diego during which Shooter got into a screaming match with Kirby’s wife, Roz. It was unbelievable.

Tom Brevoort (executive editor, 2007–present): There were a lot of bitter enemies at Marvel who would cross the street to avoid each other on the sidewalk, but they totally agreed on Jim. Some good comics came out, but the word was that he was making everyone crazy.

Jim Shooter: The board of directors took the company private and immediately tried to sell it. I thought it was a scam to cheat the stockholders. They had to get rid of me. But we had a mini-golden-era.



THE BOOM AND THE BUST

As pop culture went grunge, Marvel Comics went glitz. Purchased by Revlon cosmetics mogul Ron Perelman in 1989, the company embarked on an orgy of expansion, purchasing trading card companies, toy manufacturers, comics distributors, and more. A new breed of flashy, ambitious young artists like Todd McFarlane and Jim Lee became nearly as famous to fans as the characters they drew. The hit series of these young Turks—Spider-Man, X-Force, X-Men—purged veteran talent like Claremont, attracted “speculators” looking to buy future collector’s items, and shattered sales records.

But greed wasn’t good. When McFarlane, Lee, and five other superstars quit Marvel to form their own company, Marvel resorted to convoluted crossovers and multiple gimmick covers in a desperate attempt to maintain sales. Speculators vanished, forcing the direct market’s collapse. Meanwhile, Perelman’s overreach earned Marvel a mountain of debt. A decade that began with blockbusters ended in bankruptcy.

Todd McFarlane (Amazing Spider-Man artist and Spider-Man writer-artist, 1988–1991): That was the heyday, I’m telling you. Life was pretty good.

Tom Brevoort: Everyone had expense accounts. Christmas parties became decadent affairs—the hotel in Grand Central Station, big ice sculptures of Spider-Man, crazy DJs in a control room like Pro-fessor X. It was an insane spectacle of excess.

Chris Claremont: Regimes changed, attitudes changed. Some people felt that X-Men needed stirring up. I’m not the one to ask.

Jim Lee: As far as Chris Claremont, he didn’t see eye to eye with the execs on the future of the X-Men. The company won out. I learned that you just rented time on characters you didn’t own—though you were literally bringing them to life month in, month out.

Todd McFarlane: I set a sales record, then all of a sudden they thought my stories were too dark. I was like, “I’m selling more books than anybody else in North America! Why are we even having this conversation?”

Joe Quesada (editor in chief, 2000–present): Marvel was a place you could go to make money. But if you wanted to be treated like an artist and a human being, you didn’t want to be there.

Todd McFarlane: Those of us who left were the rebels. But there was very little downside. If I said
to Marvel, “I’m tired of running my own company. Can I do Spider-Man again?”—what, they’re gonna say, “No”?

Tom DeFalco: Marvel had this genius who decided if you’re doing 120 titles and you cut it down to 60, they’d sell twice as well. I laughed in his face.

Bob Harras: Crossovers became a cross you had to bear, because they’d work.

Bill Jemas (COO and president of publishing, 2000–2004): Marvel Comics were almost unintelligible. Each new story tied into every other story for 40 years. The learning curve was so steep that it was all but impossible to sell comics to kids.

Tom Brevoort: Perelman’s company used Marvel stock to buy up everything. When the market
slipped, suddenly there was a huge amount of debt that didn’t have anything to do with Marvel.

Tom DeFalco: Because we only went up seven percent and didn’t do the normal double digits, they got rid of me. A year later they went bankrupt.

Tom Brevoort: The offices were empty, like a ghost town. They were shortsighted and arrogant the way they ran the place. But I think Perelman personally walked away with $800 million out of this, so it was shortsighted in a profitable way.



NU-MARVEL

When writer, artist, and self-publisher Joe Quesada and his partner Jimmy Palmiotti made a deal with Marvel to create an independent imprint called Marvel Knights in 1998, few could have imagined that Quesada and his cohorts—"Clerks" director Kevin Smith, indie crime writer Brian Michael Bendis, maverick Scottish writers Grant Morrison and Mark Millar—would soon be handed the keys to the kingdom. Marvel had emerged from bankruptcy and had nowhere to go but up. Teaming with controversial president Bill Jemas, Quesada gave edgy creators carte blanche. Some fans were incensed, but many more were enthralled.

Joe Quesada: Marvel was spending too much time writing love letters to the past. Nostalgia can put you out of business because you’re only appealing to a dying fan base.

Mark Millar (Ultimates writer, 2000–present): They tried radicalism. Thankfully, radicalism worked.

Grant Morrison (New X-Men writer, 2001–2004): We felt anything could happen. There was this sense that we’d taken over the principal’s office.

Mark Millar: The guys that made Marvel a success in the early 2000s were from the risky areas of the industry and guys like Kevin Smith who’d come from independent film. We’d say, “Let’s take these things everyone is obsessed with and start them over from scratch.” It was incredibly liberating.

Brian K. Vaughan: I’d e-mail Joe, “What if we did Spider-Man as a bad guy called the Hood?” He’d reply, “OK, your first script is due. Go.” It happened that fast.

Bill Jemas: I revealed the origin of Wolverine, banned smoking from the books, created a black Captain America. Sales picked up.



MARVEL GOES HOLLYWOOD

As it once again became the hottest property in comics, Marvel conquered Hollywood. First through outside studios, then in-house as Marvel Studios, the company’s movie operation launched a string of smashes. The X-Men and Spider-Man franchises played leapfrog with each other’s records, while the nearly universally acclaimed Iron Man showed Marvel could make hits all on its own. And everyone—not just fanboys—has ears wide open for any details about the upcoming Thor, Captain America, and Avengers movies. The one sour note is the issue of royalties, which are often few and far between for the characters’ creators; Stan Lee himself sued Marvel in 2002 for his slice of the Spider-Man pie.

Tom DeSanto (X-Men and X-2 executive producer): Comic book movies were considered box office poison after Batman & Robin came out, so when we released X-Men, the studio was just blindsided by the success. Spider-Man got green-lighted that Monday.

Sam Raimi (Spider-Man director): I felt a lot of pressure from the comics world. People want to be sure that the character they love is not being massacred.

Louis Leterrier (The Incredible Hulk director): Comic book fans are very vocal. It wasn’t like, “Don’t fuck it up or I’ll find you!” It was more, “Please, please, we hope someone comes along and does it justice.”

Joe Quesada: We’re very hands-on with the official made-by-Marvel movies. I remember a call late at night: “What do you think of Robert Downey Jr.?”

Frank Miller: In Iron Man the wit of the original Marvel comics was beautifully portrayed by Robert Downey Jr. The Incredible Hulk was extremely good, too. How do I put it? These movies feel drawn.

Stan Lee: What’s “your fair share”? Everybody thinks they deserve more than they got.

Len Wein: I have not seen a dime off of any Marvel stuff, nor do I have a credit on the Wolverine film. Hugh Jackman is a lovely man, and at the premiere he told the audience that he owed his career to
me and had me take a bow. It was very gratifying and very nice. I would have preferred a check.



WAR AND PEACE

Today Marvel is responsible for 46 percent of all the comics sold in the direct market. Their characters are a licensing bonanza for everything from Hulk Hands to the upcoming Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark Broadway musical, featuring songs by Bono and the Edge. The company that sprang from the minds of Stan, Jack, and friends in 1939 has become a veritable universe of its own.

Brian K. Vaughan: Marvel and DC are my divorced mom and dad. DC is my stable, loving, nurturing mom. Marvel is my weird dad who lives in a condo and doesn’t know how to cook, but he’ll let you stay up until three in the morning watching RoboCop 2.

Stan Lee: I’m still the chairman emeritus of Marvel, although I have no idea what that title means. [Laughs] These characters are not really mine anymore. There are other people writing them, other people drawing them. Which is wonderful, it’s as it should be, but it’s hard for me to feel a sense of belonging to these characters when I have nothing to do with them anymore. I’m happy that they’ve succeeded, of course. I was always saying, “We should be another Disney!” And now we’re getting close.

«Ya somos el olvido que seremos» Decia el poema

Yo no me acuerdo ya del momento en que esta historia empieza para mí. Sé que fue el 25 de agosto de 1987, más o menos a las seis de la tarde, en la calle Argentina de Medellín, pero ya no me acuerdo bien del momento en que metí una mano en el bolsillo de un muerto y encontré un poema. En este caso tengo suerte; apunté en mi diario, aunque supongo que nunca pensé que lo fuera a olvidar, que había encontrado un poema en el bolsillo de mi padre muerto. Es un apunte muy breve: “Lo encontramos en un charco de sangre. Lo besé y aún estaba caliente. Pero quieto, quieto. La rabia casi no me dejaba salir las lágrimas. La tristeza no me permitía sentir toda la rabia. Mi mamá le quitó la argolla de matrimonio. Yo busqué en los bolsillos y encontré un poema”. Hasta ahí el diario, en la entrada del 4 de octubre del año 87.

Héctor Abad

La historia completa:

Parte 1
Parte 2
Parte 3

Queda entre borrachos

Dios da bebida a esos borrachos que se despiertan al amanecer
Farfullando sobre las rodillas de Belcebú, totalmente destrozados,
Cuando una vez más espían a través de las ventanas
Acechando, el terrible puente cortado del día.

Albert Finney es Malcolm Lowry...
o podria ser al reves...

Eco de Pupilas de Acero

Una muerte en la familia

James Agee

Voy a hablar ahora de las tardes de verano en Knoxville, Tennesse, durante la época de mi niñez en que tan feliz viví allí. Era como una especie de caserío habitado por gente de la clase media. Las casas, construidas entre los últimos años del siglo pasado y los primeros del actual, eran de madera, de medianas dimensiones, de bonito aspecto, con porches, con uno o dos resaltos a cada lado, patios delantero y laterales pequeños, un patio interior más espacioso que éstos, y árboles en todos ellos. Los árboles eran de madera blanda, álamos y tuliperos. Un par de casas tenían cerca, pero los patios estaban separados, a trechos, sólo por setos de poca altura. Eran contados los buenos amigos entre las personas mayores, y no eran éstas lo bastante modestas para tener un trato más íntimo; pero todos saludaban con una inclinación de cabeza y conversaban, hasta llegaban a charlar un rato de cosas triviales, y los habitantes de las casas contiguas sostenían conversaciones más largas cuando se veían. Nunca se visitaban. Los hombres eran casi todos pequeños comerciantes, dos de ellos desempeñaban cargos de poca responsabilidad, otro par ejercía oficios manuales y algunos eran empleados de escritorio; y en gran parte hallábanse entre los treinta y los cuarenta y cinco años de edad.

Pero yo hablo de aquellas tardes.

Se cenaba a las seis y se acababa ésta hacia las seis y media. Había aún luz del día, empañada, que brillaba suavemente como el interior de una concha marina. Las lámparas de carbón, en lo alto de las esquinas, estaban ya encendidas. Cantaban las cigarras, se mostraban las luciérnagas y unas cuantas ranas saltaban a la hierba llena de rocío al tiempo que salían los padres con sus niños. Los chiquillos echaban a correr como locos, llamándose a voces por sus nombres. Los padres se sentaban despacio, sujetos los pantalones con tirantes cruzados, y sus propios cuellos parecían más largos por haberse quitado el de la camisa. Las madres seguían en la cocina, lavando y secando, poniendo las cosas en su sitio, iban y venían sin dejar huella de sus pisadas, como los viajes que hacen toda su vida las abejas, midiendo el coco seco para el desayuno; cuando salían, ya sin delantal, mostraban las faldas mojadas, y se sentaban en mecedoras en los porches, en silencio.

No quiero referirme ahora a los juegos con que se divertían los niños por la tarde, sino a un ambiente contemporáneo que tenía poco que ver con ellos: el de los padres de familia, cada uno en su jardín, con la camisa que se les decoloraba a la luz artificial y el rostro gris, regando las plantas. Las mangueras eran de muy diversas formas; pero, generalmente, lanzaban un bonito chorro de espuma. La lanza yacía mojada en la mano que la sostenía, y había gotas de agua en el antebrazo derecho y el agua trazaba un cono largo y estrecho, curvado, produciendo un grato sonido. Al principio, el ruido de la lanza era violento; luego irregular, de ajuste, y después íbase suavizando hasta convertirse en un tono constante y perfectamente acordado con el volumen y el estilo del chorro, como un violín. ¡Cuántos tonos de sonido salen de una manguera! ¡Cuántas diferencias corales en aquellas mangueras que estaban al alcance del oído! Fuera de cada manguera, el silencio casi absoluto de la suelta, y el suave y corto arco de las gotas grandes desprendidas, silente como el aliento contenido, y el único ruido el grato son en las hojas y el césped al caer sobre ellos cada una de aquellas grandes gotas. Eso y el fuerte silbo con el impetuoso chorro; eso, y aquella impetuosidad haciéndose, no menor, sino más apacible y dulce al ser movida la lanza, hasta aquel murmullo extremadamente tierno cuando el agua no era más que una campana lejana que daba un toque para anunciar que podía romperse el silencio.

Aunque, mayormente, las mangueras estaban colocadas de manera muy parecida, con arreglo a un convenio entre la distancia y la suavidad de la espuma -había seguramente un sentido del arte detrás de ese convenio, y un gozo profundo y sereno demasiado real para reconocerse-, los sones estaban, por tanto, graduados de un modo muy parecido, señalados por el bufido que daba otra manguera al empezar a soltar el agua, adornados por algún hombre que jugueteaba con la lanza, dando una súbita sensación de vacío cuando uno de ellos desistía; y, aun siendo todos muy semejantes, el tono era distinto en esa unisonancia. Aquellos chorros, bellos y pálidos bajo la luz, elevaban sus palideces y sus voces todos juntos; las madres mandaban a sus hijos que se callaran y estuviesen quietos, con interjecciones forzadamente prolongadas; los hombres, benévolos y callados, se encerraban cada uno, como el caracol, en el sosiego de lo que estaban realizando. Los chicos grandullones orinaban en una pared invisible, y sus micciones formaban como un ala. Y se sentían tranquilos y felices, saboreando la mezquina bondad de la vida que llevaban como la boca saboreaba la última cena que habían hecho. Entretanto, las cigarras sostenían también el ruido de las mangueras con su más alto y agudo tono. El sonido que emite la cigarra es áspero; no parece estridente ni vibrado, sino como si saliera del insecto a través de un pequeño orificio, empujado por un aliento que nunca puede agotarse. Además, nunca parece que haya una sola cigarra, sino mil, al menos. El ruido de cada cigarra está graduado con arreglo a alguna gama clásica, obra de cigarra, de la que ninguna de ellas varía más de dos tonos puros. Y sin embargo, a uno parécele oír que cada cigarra es distinta de las demás, que hay una larga y lenta vibración en su ruido, como el no bien definido arco de un puente largo y alto, y todas encuéntranse por ambos lados de los árboles, por lo que el ruido parece provenir de ninguna y de todas partes, de la amplia bóveda celeste, y tiembla en nuestra carne y atormenta nuestros tímpanos, porque es el más audaz de todos los ruidos de la noche. Y, sin embargo, es el habitual de las noches de verano; pertenece a la gran orden de los ruidos, como los del mar y los de la precoz nieta de éste, la sangre; y uno cree oírlos cuando tiene conciencia de que está escuchando. Mientras tanto, desde abajo, en la oscuridad, fuera de los bamboleantes horizontes de las mangueras, comunicando siempre a la hierba húmeda de rocío su fuerte olor de tizne pardo negruzco, emergen los regulares y espaciados ruidos de los grillos, cada uno un casto y dulce son argentino de tres notas, como el que produce una cadenita cuando saltamos tres eslabones que se habían pegado.

Pero los hombres ya han hecho callar a las mangueras, las han secado y enrollado. Ahora quedan dos, luego sólo uno, y no se distingue sino la camisa, con lo cual parece un fantasma, con las gomas para sujetar las mangas, y el grave misterio de su agradable rostro, como la cara del ganado que se pregunta el porqué de nuestra presencia en una pradera oscura como boca de loco. Y él también se ha ido, y ha llegado la hora de la tarde en que la gente se sienta en los porches de sus casas, se mece despacio, habla bajito y mira hacia la calle y a las cosas que posee -árboles, aves, cobertizos-. La gente discurre, las cosas pasan; un caballo, hueco sobre el asfalto; un automóvil corriendo ruidosamente, y otro sin ruido; parejas caminando sin prisa, arrastrando los pies, desviando el peso de su cuerpo estival, hablando de cuando en cuando, despidiendo olor que sabe a vainilla, fresa, catón y a leche almidonada, llevando encima la imagen de amantes y jinetes, concordándose con payasos vestidos de color ámbar sin matiz. Un tranvía eleva su férreo lamento; se para, toca la campana y arranca; despierta y de nuevo alza su cada vez más fuerte férreo lamento, estertoroso; sus ventanillas doradas y sus asientos de paja van dejando atrás las cosas…, atrás, atrás, atrás; la fría chispa crepita y echa maldiciones sobre él como un pequeño espíritu maligno dispuesto a seguir sus pasos; la vía, el férreo lamento asciende al aumentar la velocidad, sigue subiendo, baja, enmudece; la campana suena poco fuerte, más fuerte ahora, menos, más, más, van apagándose sus sones. Olvidamos esto. Ahora es el rocío azul de la noche.

Ahora es el rocío azul de la noche. Mi padre ha secado y enrollado la manguera.

Sobre la extensión de los prados, las llamas bajas, alienta aún una hoguera que se va extinguiendo.

Contento, plateado, como atisbadero luminoso, cada grillo hace su comentario una y otra vez en el anegado césped.

Un sapo, indiferente, tropieza y se da un porrazo.

Dentro de las esquinas de sombras húmedas de los patios laterales hay chiquillos casi locos de alegría miedosa que vigilan para ver cuando se marcha el guardián de los postes telefónicos.

Junto a las blancas lámparas de carbón que están en las esquinas, las sabandijas de todos los tamaños son elevadas a sistemas solares elípticos. Las más fuertes luchan entre sí y se causan lesiones. Una de ellas ha caído de espaldas y mueve las patas.

Los padres están en los porches, se mueven sin parar. Los dondiegos del día cuelgan de cuerdecitas, mojadas sus caras de viejo.

Recrea mis oídos el áspero y alegre ruido de las cigarras.

Mis padres han extendido colchas sobre la húmeda hierba del patio interior. Todos nos tendemos allí, mi padre, mi madre, mi tío y yo también. Primero estuvimos sentados, luego uno de nosotros se tendió y después hicimos lo propio todos los demás, quién en posición lateral, quién supina o ventral. Y prosiguieron conversando. No hablaban mucho, y la conversación era en voz baja. No se decían nada de particular, nada, absolutamente nada. Las estrellas están lejos y encendidas; cada una parece una sonrisa dulcísima, y podría decirse que se hallan muy cerca. Todos los míos son más corpulentos que yo, reposados, con voces agradables e inexpresivas, como las de las aves cuando están durmiendo. Uno de ellos es artista y vive en nuestra tierra. Uno es músico y vive en la tierra que nos vio nacer. Otro es mi madre, que es buena para mí. Otro es mi padre, que es bueno conmigo. Por casualidad, todos están en esta tierra, ¡y quién pudiera decir la pesadumbre de encontrarse en ella, tendidos sobre colchones, en la hierba, en un anochecer de verano, entre los ruidos nocturnos! ¡Dios bendiga a los míos, a mi tío, mi tía, mi madre, mi buen padre! ¡Acuérdate de ellos, misericordioso Señor, en sus horas de tribulación y en la hora de la muerte!

Al poco rato me llevan a la casa y me acuestan. El sueño, benigno, sonriente, me acerca a ella y a los que me quieren bien en esta tierra; pero, ¡nadie, ninguno me dirá, jamás, nunca me dirán quién soy yo!

San Sebastian

Algo tan perfecto que casi da miedo.


La foto muestra a los operarios del ayuntamiento de San Sebastian realizando labores de mantenimiento de los modelicos ciudadanos.