Entrevista a lo Fitzgerald a la menda

 Entrevista del Fitzgerald a mí misma

Descríbete en una palabra: impulsiva

Burger favorita de Fitzgerald: ¿cuentan los nuggets?

¿Si Netflix sacara una serie sobre mí, cómo se llamaría? Doña Sandra la Loca

Tu mejor viaje: verano en Islandia 🇮🇸

¿Por qué Fitzgerald? Porque tienen unos platos exquisitos

Serie favorita: Juego de Tronos

¿Cuál es tu mayor aprendizaje de Fitzgerald? Que es un local muy grato, con mucho ambiente 

Un superpoder: hablar varios idiomas 

¿Qué recuerdo conservarías para siempre? Mi fiesta de graduación 🎓 en el Casino del Grao de Castellón 

¿Qué es lo más loco que has hecho? abordar una zodiac ajena en el lago Vänern

¿Podrías vivir sin móvil? Puedo, pero no quiero 

Un deseo imposible: estar siempre alegre 

Tu apodo: Pupusa

Algo muy tuyo: mi pasión por la astrología 

¿Qué animal serías? Una libélula azul

¿Qué le dirías a alguien que acaba de entrar en Fitzgerald? Willkommen, bienvenu, welcome,

Fremde, étranger, stranger...

Una manía: comerme las uñas 

Una canción: El universo sobre mí, de Amaral

Lo primero en lo que te fijas de una persona: si lleva algo de Hogwarts o de su signo zodiacal

LA VERDADERA HISTORIA DE LA COVA DEL LLOP MARÍ

Durante esta semana, estoy pasando unos agradables días en la isla de Tabarca, en la costa de Alicante. A menudo he hecho snorkel en una cala con una oscura y misteriosa cueva, cerca del acogedor hotel Boutique, donde me alojo con mi padre. Esa cueva marina parece tener algo mágico y el testimonio de un anciano capitán nacido y criado en esta isla ha confirmado mis sospechas. He aquí su relato, que puede tener algo de verídico:

Quisiera compartir con vosotros esta extraña historia de la Isla de Tabarca, que conocí durante mi infancia en la Isla:

LA VERDADERA HISTORIA DE LA COVA DEL LLOP MARÍ

Llaúd, embarcación típica de Tabarca

Recuerdo perfectamente aquella mañana del mes de agosto, en la que tendría alrededor de los 13 años, cuando Pepe Pianelo, bogando en su pequeño llaúd de apenas cuatro metros, nos conducía a mi padre y a mí, a conocer la misteriosa “Cova del Llop Marí”, de la Isla de Tabarca.

En el sollado del barco se encontraban nuestras gafas y aletas, y en la voz de este marinero se escuchaba la verdadera historia de los extraños acontecimientos sucedidos en la época de sus abuelos, transmitidos con respeto de manera generacional, y que dieron lugar a la “Leyenda de la Cova del Llop Marí”. Nada tiene que ver este extraordinario relato, con lo que algunos escritores alicantinos bienintencionados, nos han hecho creer que fue el hallazgo de una pareja de “Focas Monjes”.
Antes de nada os hablaré de la foca monje, de las cuevas de los lobos marinos, y por supuesto de la dimensión personal de Pepe Pianelo.

La foca monje recibió este nombre, porque por su timidez y costumbre de criar en pareja, buscaba los recovecos y cuevas del litoral donde guarnecerse, para sobrevivir del ataque de sus predadores naturales y poder parir a sus crías con seguridad y tranquilidad. Como el monje, buscaba tranquilidad y aislamiento, y sin ser una especie especialmente prolífica, habitaba en todo el litoral de la cuenca mediterránea. Tenían tendencia a refugiarse siempre en las mismas cuevas.

Los marineros las conocían perfectamente, sabían que eran capaces de romper sus más elaboradas artes de pesca y que la cantidad de pescado que necesitaban para su subsistencia, hacía imposible que se pudiera obtener alguna captura decente en los alrededores de donde se encontraban estos animales. Motivo cruel que llevó a su caza indiscriminada y a su extinción casi total. No juzguemos al pescador, su familia dependía de su habilidad pesquera, y azares malditos como el viento, temporales de mar, y criaturas como estas, constituían la diferencia entre ver crecer a sus hijos, o que el hambre más atroz los consumiera sin esperanza.

Foca monje (Monachus monachus)

El hombre de mar reconoce a las distintas especies marinas, con lo que diferencia perfectamente lo que es una foca monje de lo que no lo es.

¿Era la Cueva del Lobo Marino de Tabarca la única existente? Por supuesto que no. Existen en nuestro cercano litoral dos cuevas conocidas con este mismo nombre, una en El Campello, y otra en Xávia, y fueron llamadas así, porque también eran refugio de estos animales, que por desgracia sufrieron el mismo final. Probablemente existan otras cuevas con igual nombre, tanto en el litoral catalán, como en el andaluz, o más allá, en otros mares.

Y como dato final, La Cova del Llop Marí era nombrada así, mucho antes de los extraños acontecimientos que dieron nombre a la Leyenda. Se puede observar en planos y mapas antiguos de L´Illa, que a este lugar se le denominaba con este nombre.

¿Y qué fue lo que ocurrió tan sorprendente e increíble, que generó esta “leyenda”?.

Primero quisiera hablaros de Pepe Pianelo….

Remando con maestría, el pequeño llaud de Pepe, avanzaba cortando el mar como un cuchillo. Cuando doblábamos la “Punta del Bol”, le dijo a mi padre: ….”ché Juanito, en poder, me haré con una embarcación a motor, se acabarán estas penalidades del remo, y podré ir a calar un poco mas lejos”……La vida no se había presentado fácil para este gran hombre. Talla media y fornido, la bondad y amabilidad personalizada, pelo negro abundante y anillado, y unas varices precoces que le llevaban a mal traer. Su familia no era de las más pudientes de Tabarca, y un Dios Menor toco a su hijo varón, otorgándole para siempre la inocencia reservada a los buenos de corazón. Empleado como jardinero por el Ayuntamiento de Alicante y con pequeñas pesqueras al alcance de su embarcación, conseguía un más que meritorio sustento para su familia. Un gran hombre hecho de madera de mar, y así es como lo recuerdo.

Llegados a este punto comienza la increíble narración que estáis esperando, ávidos y curiosos lectores.

Corría el final del siglo, sentados los marineros en el Jardinet, primero como un susurro y después como conversación, se escuchó hablar de una extraña criatura que merodeaba alrededor de la Cova del Llop Marí. Nadaba con furia y desespero, describiendo semicírculos alrededor de la cueva, sin separarse de ella mas de 200 metros, como si quisiera evitar que alguien se acercara y protegerla de posibles peligros.

Lo mas curioso era su aspecto. Las descripciones de los marineros variaban entre sí. La criatura parecía ser tímida y cuando se sentía acechada inmediatamente se zambullía, quedando fijada en la retina del observador una imagen muy difusa de su fisionomía.

Todos coincidían en un punto; al sumergirse dejaba entrever una gran cola grisácea cubierta de escamas, rematada por una aleta transversal de media luna, semejante a los “búfanos” (en tabarquino) o delfines (en castellano). Pero donde no había acuerdo, era en la forma de la mitad superior de su cuerpo. Algunos decían que tenía brazos rematados en manos palmeadas con 3 dedos de largas uñas. Otros decían que su cabeza semejaba a la humana, con orejas puntiagudas y branquias detrás de ellas, con dos pequeños orificios donde se sitúa la nariz. Y los mas atrevidos comentaban que el torso superior de la criatura era un hombre.

Era Invierno en L´Illa.

“¡¡ Lobo Marino !!”, exclamó una tarde en el Jardinet, un marinero avezado y arrugado por mil Levantes. “Lobo Marino no.....Sirena”, susurró otro patrón del mar curtido por el agua y la sal, “Yo lo he visto...”

Inmediatamente estas opiniones de dos venerables y respetados hombres de mar, generaron una polémica de si es esto, no es esto, no puede ser, es posible, existen, cuentos de abuela, ya oí hablar de ellas, son las focas que han vuelto, etcétera, etcétera. ¿Y que era lo que tan celosamente guardaba o protegía en el interior de la cueva?. Esta cuestión despertó la suspicacia y curiosidad de los marineros. Alguno habló de un gran tesoro.....

La situación duraba ya alrededor de una semana. Cierto día por la tarde se juntaron tres en el bar de Pepet en el Carrer d´en Mig, y tras unos largos vasos de vino se decidieron a averiguar que escondía la cueva y que hacía allí ese ser. Uno, vigilaba arriba de la muralla el ir y venir de la criatura en sus círculos natatorios. Los otros dos, a través de una oquedad que se encuentra en la parte superior de la cueva al pie de la muralla, ayudados con cuerdas se deslizaron en su interior.

Cova del Llop Marí en el siglo XVIII

Avanzaron con el agua por las rodillas hasta el fondo, y con la luz mortecina del atardecer, vislumbraron lo que no olvidarían en sus vidas. Al final, en una pequeña playa de piedras, yacía un ser mitad mujer y mitad pez. Su aspecto era malo a su entender, tenía los ojos cerrados, la piel pálida, la cola deslustrada y dañada, y respiraba con mucha dificultad. Y lo mas sorprendente era que entre sus brazos y apoyado en sus senos, sujetaba con fuerza a una pequeña criatura semejante a ella, inerte y que aparentemente había muerto. Sintieron un escalofrío, y al momento oyeron el silbido de alerta del compañero vigilante en la muralla. La criatura volvía a la cueva. Corrieron y treparon por las cuerdas saliendo al exterior. Contaron su hallazgo a todo el que quería oír y escuchar, y todos supusieron que esta pareja con su cría, enfermos o atacados por algún depredador, se refugiaron en la Cova.

Esa misma noche, en el exterior de la cueva comenzaron a escucharse aullidos desgarradores de dolor y muerte, e inmediatamente lo supieron. Su hembra, su pareja había fallecido.

Dos días duraban ya los gritos y lamentos del sireno, ya no salía al exterior. Los Tabarquinos conmovidos por este dolor no sabían que hacer para ayudarlo. He hicieron lo que hacían siempre, calar una red alrededor de la cueva para poder atraparlo, e intentar socorrerlo aunque todavía no sabían cómo. De una manera trágica surtió efecto.

Durante la noche, el marinero que se encontraba de guardia en el bote amarrado a una de los extremos del arte, sintió unos fuertes tirones en la red. Alertó a gritos a sus compañeros y comenzaron con presteza a “salpar”. En la mitad de la red, enmallado, se encontraba un gran bulto. Fueron desenredando las capas de hilo y al acceder a la bolsa se encontraron con la criatura muerta. En su desesperación se había lanzado con tal fuerza contra la red, que rompió la malla y quedaron atrapadas sus branquias con el hilo. Murió asfixiada. Murió, o se suicidó, nada la retenía allí.

Las sorpresas no terminaron ahí. Al día siguiente, en cónclave marinero, se decidió llevar a las dos criaturas a Alicante, donde se encontraba la autoridad. De la pequeña cría no se encontró rastro y supusieron que había sido víctima de los depredadores. Zarparon en un llaúd, y a su llegada al puerto atracaron frente a la Comandancia. Comunicaron su hallazgo, y al poco tiempo se presento una pareja de guardias uniformados y con galones. Se hicieron cargo de los cuerpos, y dijeron que su destino era disecarlos y exponerlos en el museo.

Nunca se expusieron en ningún museo. Nunca más se supo de ellas. Nunca mas se habló de estas criaturas. Comenzó a narrarse que en Isla de Tabarca se habían atrapado dos ejemplares de foca monje, los últimos de su especie en el litoral alicantino. Esta noticia tapó la verdadera.

Pero los que vivieron aquellos extraordinarios momentos, sabían la verdadera historia que dio pié a la “Leyenda de la Cova del Llop Marí”.

Y yo lo sé, porque un mes de agosto me lo contaron.

Cova del Llop Marí en la actualidad 

THE DEATH OF IASE PENDRAHUL OF IBRIA

The Ibrian ambassador, Iase, paranoid and terrified of poison, was constantly tossing whatever he was served out the closest window.

*****

 After attending to her maquillage, Ursula put her muffler back into place and nodded approvingly at her public face in the mirror.

"Everything is arranged with the guards. Mistress," Flotsam hissed.

"Excellent. Now all I need to do is figure out this mess." She pointed at her throat, not bothering to whisper. No one was around who mattered. With a wave, she dismissed Vareet. The little maid scampered off, hopefully to make sure the rest of the royal apartments were being cleaned properly. That stupid dog's hair got everywhere.

"Perhaps a new voice would help? A new ...donor?" Jetsam suggested.

"That's not a bad idea," Ursula said thoughtfully. "Not a bad idea at all. I'll get right on that, later. So much to do.... cementing our relationship with Ibria so I can proceed with our military plans. ...But right now I have to deal with a petitioner. Ridiculous, really."

Her receiving room was little more than a large study with a few bookshelves and a partially hidden door in the back that led to the library proper. Taking up most of the space was a large naval-style desk strewn with the books she was currently reading, sheaves of notes, a log for meetings, and a small burner for the teas and tisanes she told people she enjoyed for their... medicinal properties.

Which was not entirely a lie. While being princess gave her a different land of power than she was used to—power over people rather than mystical forces—well, call her old-fashioned, but magic was still magic. Its potential for destruction surpassed everything else.

And she had none in the Dry World.

So she set to work researching magic of the land. Among the many occult trinkets she kept hidden were bloodstained crystals; the tongues of several extinct beasts; a curvy: evil-looking knife with a shiny black blade—and several books bound in strange leather that did not smell very good. They explained many things, from the proper sacrifice of small children to the use of certain herbs.

***

She played with the new golden chain around her neck and considered.

No, not yet. ... And an end to her fun with Tirulia! She had such plans for the little nation.... Maybe she would pursue the matter later. For now she would work with her rather prodigious non-magical powers: manipulation, deception, and all the gold in the coffers of the kingdom.

And as for the kingdom, right then she had to deal with more pressing princess duties. She settled herself primly mto a tiny, very ornate golden chair with delicate curled legs that ended m the sweetest little tentacles.

Flotsam took a polished brass urn from a shelf and carefully tapped out leaves that resembled ashes more than tea. Jetsam decanted water from a crystal jug into a tiny copper kettle and set it on the burner. How he lit it would have been unclear to any human watching the scene.

One never knew when a tea like this would be needed...

******

"Send in the next," Ursula said with a chuckle. The meeting with the fisherman had put in her a surprisingly good mood after all.

"Iase Pendrahul of Ibria," Flotsam announced.

With rather more sureness than she liked, the ambassador—spy—sauntered calmly into the room. Now that's a powerful gait, the sea witch thought. His skin was clear and his cheekbones high, his hazel eyes lit from within like an ember you thought you had put out. Thick, curly brown hair attacked the air around his head, barely contained in a riotous ponytail.

"My dear Iase," Ursula whispered indicating the only other chair—a stool, really, with no back, set there for the express purpose of making the other person feel lesser. Yet the representative from Ibria took it and sat arrogantly at ease.

"I've heard you have a cold. A thousand blessings on your health," he said, touching his heart.

"Forget about it, it's nothing," she whispered. "Let's talk about our alliance."

"We can talk—or at least I can," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "but I do not see any advantage to our siding with you. Your fleet is still short three of the warships you swore to provide—six, I believe, was the original promise. Your land skirmishes have been of questionable success at best. Burning down defenseless villages isn't really much of an accomplishment—I'm fairly certain Gaius Octavius would agree with me on that one. Ibria is wealthy enough. We have no reason to spend resources on a war that doesn't directly lead to our advantage."

"Oh, but it will," Ursula whispered, putting a hand on his arm.

Iase stared at her fingers with distaste.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked.

"It will, " she hissed louder.

"You'll forgive me. Your Highness, but you have given me no proof of that. I see no reason to make deals with a princess who dresses prettily but lacks any strategic ability."

"You refuse to deal because I am a woman?" Ursula growled, perhaps a little loudly, in her own voice.

"On the contrary," Iase said, patting her hand and then removing it from his arm. "I have had many dealings with fine women I respect. Including at least one pirate captain. It is you, personally, Princess Vanessa, whom I am hesitant to entrust the resources or future of ray country with."

The two were silent for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. His were steady and dark; hers glittered strangely.

Ursula wished she were underwater. She wished she had her tentacles. She wished she had her old necklace. She wished she had anything she could smite him with—frankly, a large piece of coral would have done nicely.

First she lost her stolen voice, and with it the charm and forget spells that made dealing with the humans around her easier. Now it looked like she was losing a potential—and very powerful—ally. Not only would this be a severe setback for her war plans, but her failure would be the talk of the court. She would look weak and pathetic and incapable of mustering the help they needed to conquer their neighbours. And the weak were devoured. It was the way of the world.

"Thank you for your honesty-," she finally whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, never mind. I need some tea for my throat. Join me?" 

She indicated the bubbling teapot: this gesture was perfectly clear, even if what she said was not. Flotsam was suddenly at the desk, laying out a pair of beautiful Bretlandian teacups, golden spoons, a fat little jar of honey, and some lemon slices. 

"Don't mind if I do," Iase said carelessly. "Feel a tickle in my throat myself."

She put the pretty gold strainer—not silver, no no, never silver; when prepared properly the metal had the power to negate certain desired effects of a potion—over his cup and poured, and over her cup, and poured. Strangely grey liquid came out, neither opaque nor completely translucent. It was precisely the same color at different depths.

Each person doctored the drink the way he or she liked: lemon, two lumps... Ursula put a candied violet in hers—one that had a silver dragee as its center.

"Good for the throat, eh?" he asked, holding the cup up to toast her. 'To life!"

"To friends," Ursula whispered over the rim of her teacup.

He raised his cup again before bringing it to his mouth—but waited until she sipped before taking a draught himself. She watched him, the grey liquid pouring over his lips and into his mouth... and he swallowed...

*****

Grimsby appeared like a shadow at his side.

"Yes, we met, we'll talk later—" Eric began.

"It's not that," Grimsby said, keeping pace and not looking at the prince, as if the two were just speaking casually. "The emissary from Ibria was found while you were out... dead. On the unused balcony on the third floor. Causes unclear."

Eric cursed under his breath.

"Poor fellow. Not the worst sort, for a known spy."

"Absolutely regrettable. But it's a dangerous occupation, sir."

Then the prince considered the situation more deeply, and the possibilities it presented him.

"Er, it's in rather poor taste, I know, but I could use the distraction right now to follow up on something... privately. If you would make sure Princess Vanessa directs the inquiry until I officially take part, that would be extremely helpful."

"Princess Vanessa direct...?" Grimsby said, eyes widening.

"I need her attention elsewhere," Eric said, giving him a look.

"Ah. Very good, sir. At once."

Like a well-trained military horse, Grimsby peeled away, intent upon his mission.

*****

In the world of operas, when a hero is searching for something, be it the identity of a woman who rescued him or the letter that will free his daughter from being unjustly imprisoned, the tenor sings heartbreakingly about his quest, wanders around on stage, picks up a few props, and looks under them. He finds the thing! Voilà. Done.

Real life was a lot more tense and a lot less satisfying.

And, unlike in opera, Eric's search was often interrupted by real-life stuff: sudden appearances of Vanessa or her manservants, meetings, rehearsals for the opera's end-of-summer encore, formal events he had to attend, or princely duties—such as hearing a coroner's report on the death of the Ibrian.

(No foul play discovered, although why such a healthy youngish man had keeled over would remain a mystery for the ages. Vanessa had no trouble getting along with his replacement, who was much more amenable to collusion anyway.)

Often when interrupted Eric would forget which was the last object he had looked at and have to start a room from the beginning.

****

As soon as the chef was gone Vanessa gave him a nastily patronizing smile. 

"Don't fret, darling. I really do have Tirulia's best interests at heart." 

"I highly doubt that you have Tirulia's best interests anywhere near what passes for a heart on you."

"Well, I suppose hearts are a mostly human condition, aren't they? Especially yours. You're so full of love and feeling for everyone around you. Your country, your little mermaid, your dumb dog, your butler.... Say, speaking of hearts, his is rather old, isn't it?"

Her words chilled Eric to his bones.

"Hate for anything to happen to it. A man at his age probably wouldn't recover from an attack," she said thoughtfully.

"I... I'm not sure how you could arrange that," the prince stuttered. "Since we just established you don't perform your witchery anymore."

"Oh, there are other magics, my dear," she said coyly. "And things besides magic when one must make do."

Eric fumed, unable to think of a snappy retort. The dead Ibrian lay like an unspoken nightmare in the middle of their table.

"So while you're keepmg everyone's best interests at heart''' she continued through clenched teeth, "perhaps it's best if you stay out of my way. If I so much as suspect you're helping the little redhead, Grimsby will be dead before the day is out. And if anything should suddenly happen to me, he is also dead. Along with a few others I have my eye on. Am I clear?"

"As seawater," Eric said, through equally clenched teeth.

And that was how the chef found them, glaring silently at each other, when he came back in with the sorbet. He shifted from foot to foot for a full minute before fleeing back mto the kitchens.

*****

She played with the heavy golden chain she wore under her dress: thinking. Things were in fact getting a tiny bit out of hand in Tirulia. Although the stubborn Iase had been taken care of, his otherwise agreeable replacement wasn't taken seriously by the long of Ibria. She was still three warships short of the fleet she had promised potential allies. The number of soldier recruits were down this week—the townspeople were growing uneasy about her military maneuvers.

****

Eric blinked.

He reread the instructions:

TO BE DELIVERED DIRECTLY TO THE HANDS OF KING OVREL III OF IBRIA, AND NOT A SERVANT OR FOOTMAN. ALSO CONDOLENCES ON THE LOSS OF YOUR EMISSARY, FROM PRINCESS VANESSA.

****

Eric looked out the window she had indicated, at the neat rows of flowers before the willow grove. Everything looked normal, if a little dull smce his grandmother had grown too frail to keep taking a personal hand in the seaside garden.

Then, squinting, he saw a patch that looked different from the rest. Freshly turned, and irregularly planted.

He leapt downstairs as fast as he could and ran outside.

The fact that there was an entirely new, if tiny, garden on castle grounds that Eric hadn't heard anything about was... disheartening. It was just one more detail that cemented Eric's flailing, ignorant, and useless place in his own castle. His grandmother would have known about it immediately. Would have been told the moment the gardeners started spendmg their time on anything besides her heirloom roses and exotic perennials.

The plants growing in this new patch were not roses—though they did more or less fall into the category of exotic perennial. Eric studied the leaves and little identifying tags.

Artemisia. Okay, that was like wormwood, what they made absinthe out of. His grandmother had always liked their pretty woolly silver leaves.

Belladonna. Clary sage, henbane. Old-fashioned herbs.

Mandrake.

He recognized the last because a sailor had once shown him a particularly fine specimen of the root; it looked like a little person. "There's folks in Bretland will pay a king's ransom for this. I just have to tell them it screamed when the farmer pulled it out of the soil."

Eric shook his head in wonder. Even to someone more skilled in the arts of the sea and music than farming, it was obvious Vanessa was trying her hand at a witch's garden.

Her magic didn't work on land. So she was trying to learn new magic. Land magic.

Was that... a thing?

Was witchcraft real?

If it was, could Vanessa harness its powers? Would she be able to summon undead armies to do her bidding, call down storms and plagues on countries they were at war with?

Would she be able to cast new charms? Would Eric once again find himself foggy and forgetting, hypnotized and half-awake? Would he do everything his terrible wife said?

He swallowed, trying to control the panic that was coming on.

Boneset. Some said it was good for aches and pains. Modern doctors disagreed.

Wolfsbane.

Foxglove. A pretty flower, and dangerous to animals. It was also known as digitalis and contained a substance that destroyed the heart—literally. Eric remembered his father telling him not to let Max anywhere near it if they found some im the woods.

Whether or not witchcraft was real, poison certainly was.

No one really believed the Ibrian had died of natural causes. And here, more or less, was the proof: holes in the ground where some of the flowers had been pulled out. Used. The plant could be put into anything: tea, soup, tobacco mix for a pipe... Vanessa could make good on her threat at any time. Grimsby would keel over from a heart attack and no one would suspect anything—it would be sad, but an entirely natural, predictable death.

Nothing Eric could ever do would convince the butler to abandon his post, short of tying him up and putting him on a boat to the lands in the west against his will. Eric ran his hands through his hair, frustrated and at wit's end.