cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/39014173
Excerpt:
“Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim [He falls into Scylla while trying to avoid Charybdis].”
Homer, The Odyssey
On January 15, 2007, after conducting some research in the subsoil of the Valley of the Emperors in Mexico, and following an uncomfortable three-hour flight in an old Tucano twin-engine plane, I was landing on the island of Roatán in the Central American Caribbean when I received a voicemail alert on my cell phone:
“My dear Bruno Colono, it is urgent that you contact me. Your presence in Moscow is mandatory. Call me as soon as possible to coordinate your arrival with the staff of the Marine Research Society. Your friend, Dimitri Pavlovich.”
Indeed, it was the powerful, impossibly lyrical Slavic voice of my friend Dimitri. I immediately remembered the wild nights in Russian land, soaked in vodka and mazurkas in the grachevka taverns, where we used to recite Pushkin’s poems and laugh uproariously at the charm of Afanasyev’s tales. And how could I forget the sweetest Olesya, that perfect girlfriend, a real Barbie doll, whom I had left behind with the deepest regret at old Abramovich’s house! Those were my best days. In those fabulous times, Dimitri and I had explored the Atlantic rifts, funded by the Russian government, mapping the abyssal floors, measuring their depths to make way for fiber-optic cables that would connect that country to the rest of the world. And most astonishing of all, we had done these dives with the help of an ancient bathyscaphe, the Thresler—a relic from the days of the great Piccard.
As soon as I stepped off the plane at Moscow airport, the Society’s staff welcomed me. One of them was Mr. Svyatoslav Chernov, a member of the Central Committee and an excellent marine geologist, and Mr. Yuri Kamkov, a submariner specialized in marine archaeology.
“Welcome,” Chernov greeted me in his schoolboy Spanish, kissing me on the cheek.
“Iá jarachó ravariú pa rússki,” I replied with a little smile.Kamkov, surprised, burst out laughing and hugged me, giving me another kiss. I asked about Dimitri, and they laughed again: “Oh, Pavlovich, on miédlenna guliáit!”—referring to the astonishing calm with which my friend usually faces everything.
We arrived at the Society’s building, a true masterpiece of Baroque architecture, and soon my eyes met Dimitri’s. He was waiting for me, leaning with arms crossed beside an archaic metal diving suit—none other than Fréminet’s famous “hydrostatergatic machine”!—smoking a cigarette.
“You’re standing before a monument!” I pointed out.
“In Russia everything is monumental!” Dimitri returned the greeting warmly. “Kak dela?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and extending his hand.
“Normalna,” I answered, and we embraced.We moved to a meeting room. Amid rolls of nautical charts, compasses, and measuring instruments, Chernov spoke..."
--Read more in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com , an open source Spanish community of writers--