Mario Mukhnik knew something about me that I did not even know. We met a little over twenty years ago, though I have known Mario for a long time, thanks to one of those books that changes your life.
The book was nothing more than “The Rage of Life,” a memoir Mez Mezrow, a jazz clarinetist whose life experience has been the constant arrival and departure of prisons and hospitals where he trembled in search of a heroin shot.
It was one of those mornings in Madrid in the early 90’s when I saw “La Rage de Vivir” in a bookstore that no longer exists, passing through the Cuatro Caminos scalextric and as you arrive Bravo Murillo. The cover caught my attention Mez On stage, Mesrow blows a clarinet over an old photo taken from a play made in the forties to announce performances.
On a whim and late at night, I spent time until the bookstore opened for me. Without hesitation, rotten at night and literature, I paid a copy fee, which I began to take out to a nearby cafeteria, among office workers and clerks who were resting before the end of the workday. Because of this I have always felt privileged to be one of those guys who starts one foot in the fight for life at the finish line. And not exactly because he had the money, but vice versa. What happens is poor people like me know that money, no matter how small, is one of the few things in life that makes it a pleasure to spend.
That morning I bought a cigarette where the pepper was in the gazebo, and at breakfast I filled my nude appetite with milk coffee to quench my whim and literature. Mesrow’s book covered my needs until the morning, which lasted until noon, when my eyes were full of sleep and the sound of jazz clubs surrounded me and made me kiss him out loud, like one of those mezrou bullets. Spoke and that they were like a compliment.
When I met Mario Mu მუხnik, I thanked him for this book. His eyes lit up and he told me this story. Mario Mesrow was treated in the early 1970s, shortly before the clarinetist’s death. It was at an American hospital in Paris that Jacobo Muნიnik, Mario’s father, was hospitalized for an ulcer that he had been battling for twenty-five years. Next to me in bed was a clarinetist from Chicago; A true jazz legend who periodically went to the hospital to get a dose of morphine. In short, they immediately became friends, and when Jacobo was released from the hospital, Mezie met for dinner at a cliché tavern. As Mario told me, it was a sad dinner because Mezrou had done nothing but get up from the table.
– Yes, I said, I think Mez I went to the bathroom every two or three times, this is what happens to drug addicts. “Then Mario looked at me silently. Friend, Mezie got up to make a phone call in the United States; His friend Sachmo (Louis Armstrong) was dying. ”
What do you want me to tell you if after the death of Mario Muნიnik I feel that Mezrow must have felt that night in a cliché tavern when an orphan was raining deep in the open field. Just as Armstrong was for Mezrow, the good old Mario will be unique to me as one of his friends who forever takes things in stride that he did not even know existed.
Source: El Diario
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