CALÌ VELELA, FROM ITALY TO INDIA: A VOICE AGAINST INVISIBLE WOUNDS

Literary awards, Milan Design Week, a new book and her participation in IMMERSIVE VOICES: the Italian author’s work crosses the boundaries between psychology, literature and rebirth

There are wounds that leave no marks on the skin. Calì Velela has chosen to write about them. Today, her voice is beginning to travel beyond Italy’s borders.

With a degree in Clinical and Community Psychology and eighteen years of previous registration with the Professional Register in the Emilia-Romagna Region, Calì Velela is today a writer and communicator working at the intersection of psychology and literature.

At the heart of her writing lie the less visible dynamics of violence: psychological manipulation, the gradual loss of self-determination, isolation, silence and the fragmentation of identity. Yet her work does not stop at the wound itself. Above all, it seeks the moment when a person begins to recognise themselves again.

Her new book, Ho ballato con il diavolo (I Danced with the Devil), published in 2026 by Pegasus Edition, is an epistolary memoir built around a true story of violence, loss and rebirth. Through its protagonist, Estella, and a correspondence that gradually brings the fragments of a life back together, the book leads readers into the most intimate dimensions of abuse, survival and resilience.

Calì Velela’s literary journey has already received significant recognition.

With La Rishika – colei che vede dove nessuno guarda (La Rishika – She Who Sees Where No One Looks), she won Third Prize in the Unpublished Fiction section of the International Juan Montalvo Literary Art Prize.

The same work also received the Special Prize for a Book Outside Competition at the 8th International Literary Award Carità è Donarsi.

A further recognition connected to La Rishika followed at the 9th edition of the 2026 International Poetry and Literature Prize Isola d’Elba – Ascoltando i silenzi del mare.

The title itself contains an essential part of Velela’s poetics: seeing where others do not look, recognising what remains submerged, and giving words to experiences too often lived in silence.

Calì Velela has also appeared on one of Italy’s most important cultural stages.

In April 2026, during Milan Design Week, she was among the guests at Custode, an event by 03STUDIO LAB held at the historic Rotonda della Besana and dedicated to USIC – Unione Sindacale Italiana Carabinieri.

She was joined by Dr. h.c. Milena Renzi, writer, journalist and international cultural communicator, and architect and poet Rodolfo Vettorello, a candidate for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2020.

The evening brought together art, design, literature and music, with performances by countertenor Angelo Bonazzoli, accompanied on piano by Mateus Gardellini.

That Milan experience has become another stage in a cultural path that is now continuing in the prestigious setting of Brera.

Calì Velela and Dr. h.c. Milena Renzi are currently developing the cultural and educational project La violenza che non lascia lividi (The Violence That Leaves No Bruises), created to address psychological violence without sensationalising it or reducing violence solely to physical aggression.

The project explores the “sloping path” through which trust can become imbalance, manipulation can lead to isolation, and fear can result in the loss of self-determination — before moving towards recognition, the recovery of one’s voice and, ultimately, reconstruction.

Velela’s books thus become part of a broader cultural project in which literature and psychological knowledge can serve as tools for awareness and prevention.

Now, a new chapter is taking her writing beyond national borders.

Calì Velela is among the poetic voices selected for IMMERSIVE VOICES – Poems of Sensitivity and Sublimity, a new international anthology promoted by the International Academy of Ethics – IAE, an India-based institution fostering dialogue between ethics, education, literature and the arts.

The International Academy of Ethics is led by Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, Founder President, an internationally recognised Indian poet, philosopher and author, together with Dr. Maja Herman Sekulic, Vice President, poet and scholar of international standing.

Its international cultural network also includes Greek poet and author Eva Lianou Petropoulou, World Ambassador of the International Academy of Ethics, India, whose commitment to international literature has helped create meaningful connections between writers, poets and cultural figures from different nations.

A special and heartfelt acknowledgment goes to Eva Lianou Petropoulou for the passion, generosity and tireless cultural work through which she continues to build bridges between people, countries and traditions. Her ability to bring together voices from different parts of the world has made possible encounters that go far beyond geographical borders, creating genuine spaces for dialogue, friendship and cultural exchange.

Through her work for the International Academy of Ethics and her wider commitment to international literature, Eva has become a vital link between different cultures. Calì Velela and Dr. h.c. Milena Renzi wish to express their deepest gratitude to her for believing in the value of these connections and for helping Italian voices enter an increasingly broad international conversation.

IMMERSIVE VOICES is edited by Dr. h.c. Milena Renzi, writer, journalist and international cultural communicator, with Dr. Jernail Singh Anand serving as Chief Editor.

The anthology brings together poets from different countries and cultures, united by a form of poetry that speaks to sensitivity, the human condition, shared values and the challenges of contemporary life.

For Calì Velela, participation in the anthology also marks a new stage in her own journey: from narrative prose to poetry, from Italy to India, and from individual experience to international literary dialogue.

Her voice thus enters a cultural community that sees literature as a means of crossing geographical, linguistic and social boundaries.

Awards, books, cultural encounters and new international collaborations tell only part of Calì Velela’s story.

The thread running through all her work remains something deeper: giving a voice to what often remains unseen.

Recognising manipulation before it becomes a prison. Giving a name to one’s own experience. Transforming silence into awareness. And remembering that, even after losing oneself, a path back to one’s identity can still exist.

From La Rishika to Ho ballato con il diavolo, from Milan to India through IMMERSIVE VOICES, Calì Velela is now taking her writing into an international dimension, making literature not only a means of telling the story of a wound, but also a tangible possibility for rebirth.

An Italian voice that has chosen to look where others often do not — and that is now ready to be heard beyond every border.

———————————————————

stubborn old nurse

spent most of my sunday

in two different emergency

rooms with my disabled

mother exactly one week

and eight falls later than

she should have gone

into the emergency room

i was of course an asshole

for even suggesting it

since she’s a stubborn

old nurse, and if you know

stubborn old nurses,

you know…

but, i was far from being

the asshole when the doctor

came out and told mom

she broke nearly every rib

on her left side, she now

has to go to the main

hospital downtown

i told her look on the

bright side

you’re going to get all

the drugs i can’t keep

in the house

enjoy them and keep

some for me

i’m going to fucking

need them as well

————————————————

jagged paradise

here in

what is

left of a

jagged

paradise

a day

of tears

memories,

at least

some

of them,

never fade

good luck

trying to

escape

trapped

in a bed

bound to

what little

patience

is left

get your

rest

the war

is just

beginning

—————————————-

loudest in the room

screaming voices from afar

back in the days of the loudest

in the room was always right

no one believes in heaven

anymore

it is simply a time for death

while the rest of us hurry up

and wait

raised on choices and consequences

and understanding that life is what

happens in the margins of the chaos

they say she had the voice of god

but that creole soul ended up

on the toilet all night

whispers against an endless hatred

against anything that tests your

limited belief in each other

and yes, it was always going

to be this difficult

stubbornness isn’t a virtue

love is the last splinters left

in the wreckage

———————————————————–

why

why do nurses

always have

asses to die

for

why is the

sky blue

why must

jagermeister

be served cold

why do i cheer

for the heels in

wrestling

why does it take

males longer to

mature

why are humans

training their

replacements

why does anyone

trust their government

just fucking why

————————————————–

within seconds

it is a vast loneliness

life in the margins

scribbled on old

newspaper

the laughter fades

within seconds

so, begin to trick

your mind into

thinking this is

always what you

wanted

the broken genius

somehow surviving

in the wreckage of

this world

let the imagination

run and maybe a

woman will come

by and reward your

patience or whatever

all this is

the kind of place

where they might

find you dead a

week or two after

the actual event

a hazy sunday

morning

hoping to be

amused

may the voices

finally move on

to something new

---

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is a three time Best of the Net nominee and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Misfit Magazine, Yellow Mama, Mad Swirl and Drinkers Only. His latest book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available at Amazon by going here: 

https://a.co/d/075vzAkv

Ready

Waking up

to another day

sitting in my mother’s

rocking chair

air on

cooling my shoulders

feeling good

snuggling into myself

ready

before the world

tries to force

my attention

back into the blackness

spin of dizzying sin.

My memories

making me smile

something to live for

another day in the dreams

of an old man

helping the horizon up

rocking slow

and powerful

in yesterday

ready

for today.

IRON DEFICIENCY ANEMIA DURING PREGNANCY: IMPACT ON MATERNAL AND FETAL HEALTH  

Feruza Jumanazar qizi Boymurodova

Student, Faculty of Medicine, Karshi State University  

ABSTRACT

This article analyzes the etiological factors, pathogenesis, clinical manifestations, diagnosis, impact on maternal and fetal health, as well as modern approaches to the prevention and treatment of iron deficiency anemia during pregnancy. Iron deficiency anemia is one of the most significant hematological conditions encountered during pregnancy and can substantially affect both maternal and fetal health. The expansion of maternal blood volume during pregnancy, along with increased iron requirements for placental and fetal development, heightens the risk of developing iron deficiency. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), more than 40% of pregnant women worldwide suffer from anemia, with at least half of these cases attributed to iron deficiency.  

Keywords: pregnancy, iron deficiency, anemia, hemoglobin, ferritin, fetus, maternal health, prevention, iron supplements.  

INTRODUCTION  

Pregnancy represents a period marked by complex physiological adaptations within the female body. Significant changes occur in the circulatory system, endocrine system, metabolism, and hematopoiesis during this period. To support fetal growth and development, maternal requirements for iron, folate, and other essential trace elements increase.  

Anemia ranks among the most common hematological disorders during pregnancy, primarily caused by iron deficiency. According to data from the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, failure to maintain adequate iron stores amid heightened physiological demands can lead to adverse maternal and fetal outcomes.  

Iron deficiency leads not only to reduced hemoglobin synthesis but also impairs tissue oxygenation. Therefore, early detection, identification of underlying causes, and timely management of anemia remain vital priorities in obstetric practice.  

MATERIALS AND METHODS  

In preparing this paper, modern clinical guidelines and scientific literature regarding iron deficiency anemia during pregnancy were evaluated. The diagnostic significance of hemoglobin and ferritin levels, as well as preventive strategies and iron supplementation protocols, were examined. The WHO highlights serum ferritin concentration as the primary biomarker for evaluating body iron stores.  

RESULTS AND DISCUSSION  

Increased Iron Requirement During Pregnancy

Maternal blood volume expands substantially throughout pregnancy. Concurrently, adequate iron supply is required for placental and fetal growth. Consequently, the demand for iron increases significantly compared to pre-pregnancy levels. Inadequate dietary intake or depleted baseline iron stores accelerate the progression of iron deficiency.  

Primary Causes of Iron Deficiency Anemia:  

Inadequate dietary iron intake;  

Low baseline iron reserves prior to pregnancy;  

Unrestored iron stores following previous pregnancies and deliveries;  

Impaired intestinal iron absorption;  

Chronic blood loss.  

Diagnostics

A complete blood count plays a key role in identifying iron deficiency anemia. Reduced hemoglobin levels confirm the presence of anemia. However, serum ferritin remains the definitive parameter for accurately assessing iron reserves. Depending on the clinical scenario, suspected iron deficiency warrants the following evaluations:  

Complete blood count;  

Hemoglobin concentration;  

Red blood cell indices;  

Serum ferritin levels;  

Additional iron metabolism parameters as clinically indicated.  

Not all cases of anemia should automatically be attributed to iron deficiency. Folate or vitamin B12 deficiencies, acute or chronic hemorrhage, hemoglobinopathies, and other underlying pathologies can also precipitate anemia.

Prevention and Management

Preventing iron deficiency anemia relies on balanced nutrition, continuous medical monitoring starting from preconception planning, and adherence to prescribed iron-folic acid supplementation. Prophylactic administration of 30–60 mg of elemental iron and 400 mcg of folic acid daily is recommended for pregnant women. This regimen lowers the risk of maternal anemia, postpartum infections, low birth weight, and preterm labor.  

Therapeutic management must be established strictly by a physician, tailored to the severity of anemia, confirmed iron status, gestational age, gastrointestinal tolerance, and individual patient profile. Self-administration of iron supplements is strongly discouraged.  

CONCLUSION  

Iron deficiency anemia during pregnancy remains a major clinical challenge directly influencing maternal and fetal well-being. Early identification requires routine monitoring of hemoglobin levels and serum ferritin assessments when indicated. Timely diagnosis and targeted treatment improve maternal physiological status and mitigate the risk of adverse obstetric outcomes. Prophylactic strategies, including healthy nutrition, family planning, antenatal care, and physician-guided iron and folic acid supplementation, are critical components of optimal maternal-child healthcare.

Feruza Jumanazar qizi Boymurodova was born on May 22, 2005, in the Kitob district of the Qashqadaryo region. Currently a student at the Faculty of Medicine at Karshi State University, she engages in scientific research at the intersection of medicine and social projects.

She has actively participated in the “AI Girls Bootcamp” startup program held in Tashkent, as well as on the “RISE&GLOW” and “Kelajak” platforms. She has served as a volunteer in organizations such as “Salomatlik,” “Vitamed,” and “Oltin Qanot,” and took part in the “Best Promoter” (Eng yaxshi targ‘ibotchi) contest.

On an international level, she has been accepted as a member of the Argentine Society of Writers. Her scientific articles have been published in international academic proceedings

While Looking at Jennifer Lopez’s Photo

–

Your photo in underwear

Affects the human subconscious.

Your body is like an ancient hourglass,

And you are a modern lady.

Time itself grows old, but you do not.

–

Your body is like an hourglass,

And perhaps because of this,

You have as many admirers as grains of sand.

–

Your body is like an hourglass.

The wristwatches of those who are in love with you

Check their pulses like doctors.

They have found heart pain.

–

Your body is like an hourglass,

And

Wall clocks have grown old.

Now the hands of those clocks

Are like old people walking on three legs.

–

And

You, on two legs, are both

The most beautiful woman in this world

And the most beautiful in heaven.

–

You are also like wine.

As the years pass, your quality increases,

And you drive people out of their minds.

–

But your voice

Is melodious like the sound of a clock.

In what pleasant hour

Of God’s good mood did you come into this world?

–

This is the most beautiful poem

Written for you.

Save its author

From this hell.

The Prankster Goose 

As a child, I loved reading a short story by Constancio C. Vigil titled ‘The Prankster Goose.’ About twenty years later, a series of personal events brought that story back to mind. Because of this, I decided to borrow the same title for the autobiographical episode you are reading now.

My interest in literature was, and still is, much stronger than my interest in education. Consequently, to strike a balance, I studied just enough to get by, managing to graduate as a Language and Literature teacher.

Around that time, to supplement my small teacher’s salary, I took a job as a freelance proofreader for Editorial Zahorí. The publishing house, which specialized in the humanities, was located in the San Telmo neighborhood.

I have no modesty when it comes to praising myself. My dedication to work, deep knowledge of the Spanish language, and passion for exploring grammar and style—combined with an obsessive eye for detail—quickly led to my promotion as an independent editor for published works.

Back then, before computers were everywhere, my job was to carefully read through manuscripts typed on Underwoods, Remingtons, or Olivettis. Using a pen or pencil, I cleared away the errors and absurd blunders that authors—including doctors, sociologists, historians, psychoanalysts, and even language and literature teachers—frequently made. I then replaced them with the correct, or at least sensible, terms. I found that task highly enjoyable. 

However, the work wasn’t steady. There were often long pauses—sometimes lasting months—when my skills weren’t needed at all. Even so, my occasional visits to the publishing house gradually helped me get to know the team. As it turned out, they were generally very pleasant and kind people. 

Because of my work, I dealt almost exclusively with the editor-in-chief, a young woman slightly older than me. Everyone warmly called her ‘Profe Tita,’ though her legal name was Josefina Titorelli. Now and then, I also chatted briefly with three or four other young women, whom I would call ‘junior editors’—meant with no offense.

My conversations with Tita could easily last over an hour. As anyone in publishing knows, editing is a delicate task that requires treading carefully and leaving nothing to chance.

We fine-tuned text details in a spacious main room. Towards the back, behind a wood-and-glass partition, sat the accounting office headed by Mr. Jeremiasz Schmar. His sharp features, fair skin, and pale blue eyes made it obvious he was from Eastern Europe. He was about forty-five years old and spoke Spanish with a high-pitched voice and a thick foreign accent that made him instantly recognizable.

Sometimes, Don Jeremías (as he was respectfully called) would politely interrupt Tita and me to briefly discuss the company’s finances. During these short chats, I got a clear sense of how he spoke.

Once, he complained slightly about the poor public transit he had to take to the publishing house.

‘Wait, really?’ Tita asked, surprised. ‘I thought you walked here…’

‘I used to, back when I lived at Tacuarí and Avenida Belgrano,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve moved far away now—to Pasaje Calíngasta, in Villa Santa Rita.

I became fascinated by the way Don Jeremías spoke Spanish. One day, once he was out of earshot, I leaned in and whispered a few sentences to Tita, perfectly imitating his accent. 

To my surprise, Tita completely forgot her usual serious self. Though she was often sarcastic, she rarely lost her composure—but this time, she burst into a loud, roaring laugh. It was a jarring sound in a place usually dedicated to quiet books and culture. 

From then on—much to Tita’s delight—I often mimicked Don Jeremías’s eccentric speech. I would mock his harsh s sounds, his habit of mixing up r and l, his strange vowel sounds, his misplaced accents, and his grammar mistakes.

Since I love a good comedic exaggeration, it didn’t take long for me to expand my audience. With the help of Brunelda—a rather plump young woman who worked as the cheerful receptionist—I started pretending to be Mr. Jeremías whenever I called the office. Our phone calls always followed the exact same routine: 

ME (in a highly exaggerated voice): Good afternoon. Would you do me the favor of putting me through to the lovely teacher, Miss Tita?

BRUNELDA (cracking up): Sure, of course. Who is calling, sir?

ME (polite but firm): It’s Mr. Jeremías. How could you not recognize my voice after all these years?

BRUNELDA (mock-apologetic): Oh, yes, you’re right, Don Jeremías. Please forgive me! I’ll put you through to Teacher Tita right away.

Our little theater routine between Brunelda, Tita, and me continued unchanged. It wasn’t the most thrilling pastime, but it was fun and added an amusing twist to our professional relationship. This went on for at least six or eight months.

Eventually, I noticed that Mr. Jeremías was no longer around the publishing house. I even started to worry that he might have passed away.

Thankfully, my fears were unfounded. Tita told me that Don Jeremías had simply resigned to join another company—apparently for better pay.

Even though he was gone, there was no reason to stop my imitation. You might think a joke like that would eventually get old, but the three of us truly enjoyed these silly, harmless antics.

The routine was interrupted, however, by a long silence. Three or four months passed without a single call from the publishing house.

It was late August, and a cold, gray winter was settling over Buenos Aires. Troubled by the thought that Zahorí Publishing might be unhappy with my work, I finally mustered the courage one afternoon to call them.

ME (in the voice of Mr. Jeremías): Good afternoon. Would you do me the favor of connecting me with the lovely teacher, Miss Tita?

NEW VOICE: Who is calling, sir?

ME (polite but firm): Mr. Jeremías. How could you not recognize my voice after all these years?

NEW VOICE: I don’t understand, sir. I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean…

ME (realizing something is wrong): Wait a moment! Am I not speaking with Miss Brunelda?

RECEPTIONIST: No, sir, I’m sorry. Brunelda is no longer with the company. I am the new receptionist.

ME: Good heavens! What a surprise! Tell me, what is your name, my lovely new telephone operator?

RECEPTIONIST: My name is Amalia.

ME: Ah, Amelia! And what is your last name?

RECEPTIONIST: Not Amelia—Amalia. Amalia Sortini.

ME: Oh, Sordini! Does that mean you are deaf? That you cannot hear words, music, or the barking of cats?

RECEPTIONIST: I hear perfectly well, sir. You are the one who isn’t hearing me. I didn’t say Sordini, I said Sortini.

ME: Ah, Sortini! A lovely Italian name, full of good fortune. When I visited Italy, I discovered such delicious food. In Argentina, I am used to eating nutritious pasta. I always have sorrentinos for lunch on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. On Tuesdays and Sundays, however, I prefer soup and boiled radishes!

RECEPTIONIST (in an icy tone): I will transfer you to Ms. Tita right away.

ME: Thank you very much! I’ll speak with Miss Tita right away.

As luck would have it, Tita was just about to call me to edit a new manuscript. She asked me to come pick it up the next day.

That was how I met Amalia in person. With her bristly hair, sharp triangular face, and hooked nose, she looked like a hawk—or at the very least, a fighting rooster. She was very thin, wore glasses, looked to be about forty, and carried a sour expression. She gave off the strict vibe of a veteran postal clerk or a city archivist.

Dropping the Don Jeremías act, I simply told her I was there to see Tita. Amalia buzzed me in over the intercom.

Once inside, Tita told me that Brunelda had graduated law school and was now working at a firm. Proud of my telephone performance from the day before, I told Tita all about my chat with the new receptionist, fully expecting her to laugh. Instead, she looked worried:

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to involve Amalia in your little sketches. She has less of a sense of humor than King Tut’s mummy. Honestly, Fer, she might actually get angry with you.”

“Fair enough, I’ll take your advice,” I said. “But maybe I’ll bring back the Don Jeremías persona when I call on the phone sometime.”

Tita looked doubtful. “I don’t know about that…”

She spread out the manuscript on the desk—the one I had to make readable—and explained the guidelines I needed to follow. The author was more of a media personality than a scholar, widely known for appearing on TV shows that popularized science. Out of politeness, I will keep their identity a secret.

The book was a massive eight hundred pages, and as Tita warned me, it was a total disaster. It was packed with complex charts, data tables, and random quotes in English, French, and German. To make matters worse, names were constantly misspelled throughout.

The project threw every possible hurdle at me. It didn’t help that it dealt with subjects I found completely boring—a messy jungle of psychoanalysis, sociology, epistemology, and linguistics.

Taking on this job meant earning a good amount of money, so I headed home with the massive book in my briefcase and a happy heart. Whenever I do intellectual work, I stop at the first sign of mental fatigue. The moment I feel tired, I put the project away and pick it up the next day. This method means I progress slowly, but what I lose in speed, I gain in accuracy.

So, taking my time and resting often, I forced my way into that dark jungle of a text. It was written in a style that was as overly academic as it was annoying.

On the other hand, the truly enjoyable part of my life followed a very different path. I loved reading fiction and getting swept away by stories with strange twists of fate. Like any reader, I have my absolute favorites.

I will declare, for the hundredth time, my endless admiration for the stories of Marco Denevi. I am captivated by his playful plots, his surprises, his smooth prose, his humor, and his wild imagination. He frequently writes about impostors—people who end up pretending to be someone else. This happens in Rosaura a las diez, Ceremonia secreta, and Los asesinos de los días de fiesta. Ah, those ruthless, funny brothers who lived on San Blas Street! What a beautiful novel!

One Sunday morning in September, I decided to go look for San Blas Street. Back then, I was in my thirties and full of energy, living in the Palermo neighborhood on Paraguay Street. I checked a map of Buenos Aires and realized I could easily get there by bicycle.

I rode down Juan B. Justo Avenue and made a few turns. Finding myself on streets like Meneranda, Iluminada, Honorato, Patricio de la Escosura, Anacarsis and Lucrezia… gave me a bit of a thrill.

Then, when I reached the 3300 block of San Blas Street, I crossed a small side street called Pasaje Calingasta. . I froze. I suddenly remembered that this was exactly where Don Jeremías lived!

I decided to ride down the passage. It was just a single, unremarkable block. I wondered which house belonged to the former accountant of Editorial Zahorí, but then caught myself: why on earth should I care? Still, a nagging curiosity buzzed in my mind like an annoying fly.

As soon as I got home, I flipped to the letter S in the phone book. Hallelujah! There it was: Mr. Schmar’s address and phone number on Pasaje Calingasta. . I don’t know why, but this discovery filled me with absolute joy.

First thing Monday morning, for no logical reason at all, I called Editorial Zahorí:

ME (using an increasingly exaggerated voice): Good morning, Miss Amalia. I hope and trust you remember me.

AMALIA (sounding annoyed): I’m not sure, sir. Who is this?

ME: My name is Mr. Jeremías Schmar. Even if you don’t recall me, I am well aware of Miss Amalia’s beauty and charm. I have often visited the publishing house and walked past your desk.

AMALIA: (Dead silence).

ME: Did you hang up? Can’t you hear me? Won’t you please answer me?

AMALIA: Yes, I hear you, but I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. I don’t know who you are. I’ve never seen you, I don’t know you…

ME: But I know you! And I must confess that I am in love with you and want to marry you as soon as possible.

AMALIA (furious): Tell me, are you crazy? What the hell is wrong with you? Stop trying to be funny, you imbecile, and don’t waste my time with your stupid clown jokes!

ME: But, Miss, list—

Amalia slammed down the phone. I have to admit, her rudeness stung.

Defeated, I went back to work. By working methodically for about three hours a day, it took me nearly ninety days to clean up that monstrosity of a manuscript. By the time I finally finished and freed myself from that heavy burden, it was the summer heat of November.

I proudly walked into Editorial Zahorí to turn it in. But when I reached the reception desk, I was shocked to find a completely new employee: a young girl, maybe eighteen, with blonde hair and bright orange freckles.

Once I was inside with Tita, I remarked, ‘I see there’s a new receptionist. It seems Amalia didn’t last very long.’

Tita smiled. ‘Well, while you were off the map, there were some major developments in our modest little circle.’

There she goes again with her sharp tongue, I thought. Slightly annoyed, I replied, ‘Don’t slander me; I didn’t drop off any map. I was busy battling that massive nightmare of a book written by Professor Gobbledygook.’

Tita smiled again, seemingly satisfied with my excuse. She pulled an off-white card from her desk drawer and handed it to me. I read:

Our moment has arrived. We are getting married and would love to share this special day with you. The ceremony will take place at Santa Rita de Casia Church (3443 Camarones Street) on Saturday, October 23rd, at 9:00 PM.

The bride and groom will greet guests at the church entrance.
Warm regards,
Jeremiasz Schmar and Amalia Sortini

I stared at it. ‘What a shame,’ I said. ‘I would have loved to see that. But Saturday the 23rd has already passed. I found out too late.’

‘Well,’ Tita apologized, ‘I thought about calling you, but with all the workplace hustle and bustle, it completely slipped my mind. Besides, I didn’t think you would actually care all that much.'”

A Note for English Readers: 

I believe it is useful to offer a few brief explanations to the English-speaking reader regarding certain “oddities” that are not oddities at all, but stem exclusively from features of the Spanish language that are absolutely untranslatable into English. 

1) The sorrentinos that “Mr. Jeremías” eats for lunch on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays do not refer—fortunately—to me or to any of the many Sorrentinos of Italian ancestry living in Argentina. Instead, sorrentinos are—like ravioli, gnocchi, etc.—one of the many varieties of pasta that exist. Consequently, it would be unfair to accuse the temperate and harmless Don Jeremías of being a cannibal.

2) In Spanish, the surname Sordini begins with the same morpheme as the common nouns sordo (“deaf”) and sordera (“deafness”). For this reason, Don Jeremías associates that surname with those nouns. 

3) A similar phenomenon occurs with the surname Sortini and the idea of ​​the adjective suertudo (“lucky”). 

That’s all.  I hope and trust I haven’t bored anyone. 

Fernando Sorrentino