Thursday, June 17

All about my mother | People

My friend, the actor Millán Salcedo, once explained to me that the world of entertainment and politics must stay away. “It never works out,” he told me, recently moved to Madrid. These long years have proved him right. I saw myself appearing in photos with a popular Basque mayor or in a video with a socialist candidate to later hear the reproaches of a Catalan friend: “You got into the usual group, I thought you were more modern.” To this day, I still don’t understand what the modern group is. But I understand the need not to mix with them. Plus, it’s so hard to be faithful! And I am not saying this out of banal and interested transfuguismo.

It is something else, it is anxiety caused by the freedom that comes and the Tao that goes away. And also a certain sense of paranoia: it happens to me that every time I watch a successful program I feel that I have something to do with the protagonists, that I have met them or that they use my voice but not my face to illustrate interviews from years ago. It is as if I could write a book and title it: “I met them all.” When I hear Rocío Carrasco advance in her televised crusade, I remember the nights I spent with Antonio David Flores in Martian Chronicles. The same thing begins to happen to me with the reappearance of Antonia Dell’Atte, pointing out a situation similar to that of Carrasco with her ex-husband Alessandro Lecquio. It was always difficult to sustain that triangle of companionship, pain and deep waters. I find necessary that fight against the cover-up and the inertia of the macho society that portrays that time so well that it seemed modern but, in reality, it had too much grease and dust.

As we are far from the fat of the electoral campaign, Rubén and I went to a classic restaurant on Zorrilla street behind the Congress of Deputies. We arrived without a reservation because now we have lunch at 1:30 pm. They sat us, very friendly, at a very cute and strategic table. And soon the casting dreamed of any morning show, Cintora or La Sexta. “Don’t give it any importance, you are no longer among the most powerful gay men,” my husband told me, savoring it. Then a stream of stardust air crossed the restaurant: was he a sorcerer’s apprentice? Was he Tinkerbell? Not! He was a defector. Yes, it was Toni Cantó, with two companions, a figure without a phrase that he did not present, he shook my hand almost with the same certainty as Florentino Pérez, he asked me not to get up and I suggested that they “enjoy La Ancha”, because saying “good profit ”I choke. I ended up absorbed in my vegetable cream remembering that I had just seen again Everything about my mother, where Cantó plays a transsexual father and quite a turncoat. I was glad that Almodóvar appeared, invoked, at that moment. To remind us of the Spain that we are and that we can become. Perhaps to comment on that and to exhibit myself among the editors, producers and political advisers that populated the restaurant, I went to the adjoining room, where Mr. Cantó was enjoying his lunch. She was wearing a black knotted sweater. They are very fashionable, by the way, but the knot is lost in a fabric so black and so in spring. “The turncoat thing” whispered to me, from her table, a friend who is an expert in fashion and politics, but it is true that it brought an existentialist point to the actor, not the politician. I found, not without envy, that he had dessert. “Wow, I didn’t dare to try it,” I said and noticed how the acoustic polarization of the room was moderated. “I always save myself for dessert,” he replied, with a methodical voice and a smile typical of a lively eighties. I heard myself insist: “Always, always?” “Yes, always,” he finished with a laugh.

Then I remembered Millán’s advice.

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