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 ESPAÑOL PORTUGUÊS |
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The elephant and the pigeon. The butterfly and the toad. The fragility and the mountain. Diego and me. The encounter of the volcanoes Popocatépetl and Ixtaccíhuatl. Diego, the second accident in my life. Running over me with his whirl of colors, surprises and delusions. I called him "toad face". He laughed. He really had a toad face. We fell in love and got married. Twice. Nobody could understand. Him, the giant of modern painting, a man for many countries, with multiple lives, in love with the lame girl who painted her own reflection on a mirror.
Old, fat, ugly, bohemian, communist, atheist. Unfaithful. Nothing mattered. For him I changed my masculine outfits, my insolent boy manner, for lace petticoats, long skirts, color ribbon hairdos, jewelry and dressy shawls. To please Diego, I became the most Mexican of Mexican women. To perpetuate Diego within me, I wanted to be Frida-mother, a Frida I could never be.
Translated by Thereza Christina Rocque da Motta
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