Jorge Trías and Eternal Love, by David Trías

The more hours pass after the death of my uncle Jorge Trias, the more we realized not only the great person he was -we already knew that-, but also the great character he was. Almost all of his relatives and (his many) friends of his were able to enjoy it in life because Jorge was immensely generous with each and every one of us. But in the face of his reaction to his death from people so different from each other – from the world of advocacyof the politicsof the culture and of the civil society– we are checking it more than ever.

Friends as different as Enrique Villamatas -with whom he coincided in Melilla doing the military-, the Judge Garzon, Gregory Y Maria Maranon, Peter Gimferrer either Alejo Vidal Quadras, among many others, attest to it. His beloved daughters are watching these days Georgina, Eugenia Y Charlotteas well as Margaux Y Pablochildren of his third wife amelia Aranguren that he always considered as his own. Jorge always generous and loving, Jorge caring for and nurturing love, in all its meanings, with each one of us, with friends, with children, grandchildren, brothers, nephews. Brotherly love, paternal love, friendly love, passionate love, spiritual love, Eternal Love… Jorge gave each one of us our dose of loveof capital love, of good love, always watered with intelligence, joy, intellectual brilliance, a few drops of provocation and a lot of ingenuity.

In life you have to have a sense of humor and a sense of love, he said Miguel Mila. In both senses, in love and humor, Jorge was a teacher, and we his disciples. At the funeral, his little brother Miguel, a lawyer like him and always so complicit, spoke to us of that brotherly love, of Jorge’s generosity, always giving more than receiving. Her eldest daughter Georgina, for her part, referred us to her search for love for beauty, for the deepest part of her being, of her incessant path -and perhaps a happy final encounter- towards faith. Eugenia and Carlota remembered that fatherly lovethat Jorge father, that great father who taught me to learn poems by heart as well as the anthems of different countries when they returned in the car from school. And of course the great love, that true love regardless of labelsfrom Amalia. And of course also, the great and last love, that of Tatiana, love and support, the happiness shared in these last years together so full. But perhaps life, as she titled John Houston that film, is nothing more than a walk through love and death.

Jorge’s early disappearance at the 73 years, being so alive and so energetic despite his respiratory problems, adds to a fatality of the Trías men that, far from breaking up the family, has made it even more impregnable. In 1969, when my mother was pregnant with me -the firstborn of the firstborn-, my grandfather Carlos Trias Bertran He died at the age I am now, 52 years old, a victim of colon cancer, leaving behind a brilliant career as a lawyer and politician -he was to be appointed minister in the last stage of Franco-, eight children and a heartbroken widow, my grandmother Maria Teresa.

Some time later, but very soon, in 2007 my dear uncle Carlos Trías Sagnier, husband of Cristina Fernandez Cubas, writer, journalist and traveler, a great friend of his friends and, of course, also a great friend of his brothers. His early and sudden disappearance left us all heartbroken.

In 2013 my father, Eugenio, left us, a reference point for the family, an anchor as the eldest son, and having only turned 70 after a long fight against cancer. And now Jorge leaves us at 73, the third brother of the five boys. The three with a whole life ahead of them and with “intense” vital and literary adventures behind them, but above all the three with privileged minds that still had many things to think about, illuminate and write.

“For the Trías, the head works much better than the body”Jorge recognized me last month eating at Flash Flash. Now we are orphaned and very sad without the three (not at all) sad Trías, the three older brothers: intelligent, caustic, loving and with extraordinary intellectual brilliance. Fernando remains, the free soul of the brothers, and Miguel, the great pillar of the family, along with the sisters, Anita, Tere and Inés, also intelligent, caustic, loving and brilliant like them. Then came the (many) grandchildren and great-grandchildren, me being the first to wear -with pride and some fright too- the first surname Trías.

Jorge was aware of the weight of the family and knowing the obvious differences between all of us -economic, ideological, religious- he was going dealing with each otherwithout ever letting your guard down. He moved well in field of adversity, I was used to playing in the opposite field. What Catalan in Madrid; What anti-nationalist in the Barcelona more imbued in the ‘procés’; What liberal among liberals or extravagant and open among the right; What Catholic among the atheists and skeptical and doubtful among the most believers; or as monarchical in the convulsive current times, Jorge was always a “cross”now that this term is so fashionable, a person who always gave you a vision different from the common place and the obvious, someone who invited to discuss and refuteto confirm that sometimes the other can also be right.

He stood out for the passion he put into the things he did -a very Trías trait- always giving himself thoroughly in everything. His insatiable curiosity for the first editions of old books, for art – he was happy in the Prado Museum-, for the music -I was very happy in the Royal Theatre-, for the trips, for the love he had for the mountains, for painting, taking his first steps with the brush, for novels of all kinds (“send me ‘best sellers’, David, the last ones by Follet and Grisham are great, this Javier Castillo has wood…”) or with his beloved and faithful poetry whom he never abandoned.

When my father died, he told me that he was my protector. I liked hearing him say it. With him I felt cared for and understood. And more than once I consulted him on issues that worried me -professional and personal- with that “adequate distance”, as he sang Nacho Vegas, featuring the relationship between an uncle and a nephew. Because Jorge, always ready, was one of those people who, when you had a problem – abstract or very concrete – not only listened to you but also solved it for you. And believe me, there aren’t many people like that. And believe me, how necessary such people are.

He was a seducer, he told me yesterday pillar eyre, seduced us all, and in all ways. He liked women, he liked being around them, he was motivated by them. He also enjoyed my love disasters, he laughed and played down my absurd anguish. Journalist Sergio Vilasanjuan, for his part, spoke to me about the profound meaning of my uncle’s friendship, and that Jorge had taught him that after 60 you could also make new friends. Precisely with the title of ‘My dear friends’ my uncle created a WhatsApp group where personalities as different as some of those mentioned in this article – reaching more than 150 – met to discuss and share on topics as public as private, something that kept him connected and united until the last moment.

He always closely followed the political vicissitudes and was incredulous at the mediocrity of the leaders, here and there. As a good Catalan, he always had an eye on Madrid and he enjoyed the gossip that he told her about the court’s gossips. With a contagious laugh and an expert in bad jokes – “Do you know where children study in Belgium? In Brussels sprouts!” -, he was always the joker and hooligan of the family, who dressed up in front of the children and made us puppets, who taught us that grown-ups could also have a child’s soul, who made grandma and aunts furious – “oh, Jorge, you’ll be a donkey” – and who never wanted to lose that perhaps naive point that some did not know how to interpret .

A great reciter of poetry, with a privileged memory, he answered my tweets, asking me about movies, books or series because everything seemed interesting to him. But, at the same time, he enjoyed the stillness and recollection, the Spiritual Canticle of Saint John of the Cross and the Antonio Machado. And he left calm and in peace, surrounded by his women, because he knew, as he wrote in one of his collections of poems, that nothing is eternal.

“I know that nothing is ethene, perhaps the Light and the Universe. I know that nothing exists beyond the sky. That is why I ask you, Eternal Love, I ask you about the chariot of fire that will take me through the Milky Way to cross the wall of the firmament.”

Thanks for everything, uncle Jorge, thanks for so much.