His grandfather arrived as an immigrant to the Argentine Republic, at a time when the great country generously welcomed all those in need from the world who were escaping famine and wars.
He settled in a town in the interior, and like most of those from the Middle East, he was given a nickname: "Turk."
But he wasn't really, most of the Turks did not come from the country that Ataturk governed, or was about to.
As if they were endowed with a vocation imprinted by geography in the genetic code, they used to dedicate themselves to commerce.
In the big cities, clustered around the same streets and speaking the language of wholesale, they supplied haberdashery, fabrics, clothes, tarpaulins, caps, and sneakers to retail businesses, which offered them in smaller places in the interior.
They got along well, they competed for an audience with arts that were not bad. Armenians, Syrians, Lebanese, Israelis, Russians, in the aforementioned category; Spaniards, Italians in restoration or agriculture, then the Japanese would arrive with their dry cleaners, capable of rejuvenating garments that could not grow old.
Those from the Middle East or beyond were "Turks", like "Galicians" were the Spanish or "Gringos" the Italians. The Japanese, without equivocation, were Japanese; Chinese, Bolivians, Venezuelans, Peruvians were yet to arrive.
We were talking about a specific grandfather, who ran a general store in a town in the province of Santa Fe, waiting for the arrival of customers, in the center of a place where there was no way not to know each other.
When the counters were emptied of interested parties, which could happen several times throughout a day, the grandfather would go to a neighboring bar. There he enjoyed an aperitif or whatever the hour dictated, while expressing, in a loud voice: "Ah, this is life, not the store."
The exclamation became famous in the town, and sometimes, years later, it was heard in other contexts, with different connotations: "Ah, this is life, and not..."
We leave the grandfather, because now it is time to focus interest on his grandson, -I know I'm getting confused- who lived with the slogan that the former inspired him.
Without heeding the tremendous impatience that contaminated the family blood, nor his lack of preparation to be locked in four walls, he began to study dentistry, as if it were a profession that he could develop outdoors.
And in that way, already being "Little Turk", he arrived in Rosario, to find in the faculty who would be his best friend, for a while, because then he would become a brother.
Both finished their careers to later settle in nearby locations: San Cristóbal and Ceres, sharing professional interests, training and family.
They saw each other frequently, watched their respective children grow up, and over time they achieved goals, overcoming obstacles, one in one town, another in another, the two together.
The "Little Turk", a great worker and a good person, in addition to the fury that prevented him from standing still, overcame the needs of space and freedom with soccer, which he practiced with great skill.
But he had a problem, gambling, a concern that he could not overcome, if anything, with more concern.
Chance, or rather, "gambling", took away many of the best things in his life: first marriage, then suffering the distance from a daughter he adored.
He played a lot, lost quite a bit, worked too much. In times when gambling addiction was not treated, the "Little Turk" was left alone with his friends, his hobbies and his fanaticisms.
It was madness what he felt for the Club Atlético Boca Junior, it overflowed what was known and he always told his close friends that, when he died, he wanted to be buried in the "Bombonera".
Despite his forgetfulness and distractions, he renewed to his close friends the desire for his final destination.
And this is the moment in which the story that I promised in a previous installment begins. Now that the grandfather and grandson have been introduced, we stop for a moment at his "brother": Eduardo.
One night he received a phone call from a stranger. When asked if he was who he was, he communicated: "The "Little Turk" died.
Immediately, he moved to the town of Ceres where they were watching over him.
There, standing in front of the coffin, he could see his great companion, dressed in all the attributes of Boca Junior: shirt, shorts, socks and boots, as if he were willing to defend the colors in the final match and win it.
Except for a limited group of close friends, there was no one else in the funeral home. When the hiccups and cries ceased, they "celebrated", throughout the night, the findings of the deceased, his stories and customs that were cut short prematurely.
About to board a taxi, to go play tennis?, to cards? or perhaps there where he could shout "Ah, this is life and not the store!", he fell in a fulminant way, he was 50 years old.
In the morning his ex-wife and daughter arrived, and together they decided to ratify the wishes of a passion that should remain alive.
A couple of weeks later, the "mutual" of affections, moved to Buenos Aires with his ashes.
After decades of passion for his team's goals, I don't know how, or if I do know, today it would be forbidden, the "Little Turk" managed to reach his final goal: the "Bombonera."
