Read Three Messages and a Warning Online
Authors: Eduardo Jiménez Mayo,Chris. N. Brown,editors
Three Messages and a Warning (25 page)
Away from her body flew Clara’s two small hands, moving as fast as her mouth.
“Ah, Doc, don’t say that, please. You have no idea what we went through to finally figure out the trick with the drop. Don’t look at me like that; you may not believe it, but that drop keeps my Ana alive. Yes, really, that water gives her life.”
Meanwhile, the doctor listened resignedly to the old woman’s story, helping her place the IV on its stand, unaware of how his assistance was making his residency there take on a new reality.
“Listen, one day Ana received a letter that told her her boyfriend was dead. She cried and cried. Her eyes were drained. She wouldn’t eat or come out of her room. She had me and her father, God rest his soul, really worried . . . but we decided not to bother her. Until one day, we didn’t hear her crying or making any noise at all. You can imagine my distress. I ran up the stairs to see what was wrong, and when I came into the room, I found her sitting in the corner, watching some water drop from the ceiling. I asked her what she was doing there, but she didn’t answer my questions, even when I shouted at her.
“Then we called a doctor, who said she was in a state of shock because of the loss she’d suffered. Ah, Doc, right away we had the leak fixed, just like the doctor told us to. He said that would make her come out of it, but wouldn’t you know, instead of coming out of it, she started dying on us. She aged a lot, and was getting worse every day. Then I remembered how peaceful she looked with the drop. So I ran to her dad’s room to find one of those droppers he used for his medicine and I stood in front of my daughter and I started dripping drops into the bottle.
“Miraculously, almost right away she started getting better, and the age started leaving her skin. For months or maybe years, I don’t even know anymore, Doctor, my husband and me took turns with the dropper until one fine day, on my way home from the grocery store, it occurred to me to stop in that store on the corner where all the doctors are.
“First I explained what was wrong with my Ana and they looked at me like I was crazy, and probably just to get me off their backs they said that what I wanted was a drop, and that bottles could hold a lot of them. I knew they were making fun of me, but I didn’t care, especially when one of those guys showed me the little hose that comes out of the bottle that makes the water come out drop by drop.
“I bought ten of those bottles, that now I know are for IV fluid, and I was sure that everything had changed, and it did, Doctor, everything changed. I know it’s hard to believe, but from that moment on we could rest: her father, when he was alive, me, and, of course, my Ana. If you insist on studying her, go ahead. I’ve already lost count of how many doctors have come, and left as fast as they got here. And don’t think I’m saying that because I have some kind of chip on my shoulder. It’s not that. I’m just sure that you’re gonna get tired of this too, just like all the other doctors—although, you know, I have a good feeling about you. On top of it all, I’ll make you a deal: if in six months you haven’t managed to make my Ana come back, then you’ll knock it off. Because we both know my daughter’s not going to get better.”
Without looking at him, she turned toward Ana and, winking, said, “Right, honey?”
She left the room while the doctor looked around himself: the old wood floor, the bed, and a huge mirror shaped like a full moon, reflecting Ana’s entire body. She was dressed in white, with her curly hair falling over her shoulders, and her discreet beauty, that filled the room, respectful of the sound and movement of the drop.
As time passed, the doctor became more and more familiar with the house. First he set about studying any reaction Ana could have to anything other than the drop. There was nothing. Regardless, he decided that music and literature would be the beginning of a common language with Ana. As for Clara, she believed herself witness to the devotion the doctor showed to her daughter.
One morning, the malicious mother went upstairs to change the IV bottle. Upon entering Ana’s room she found the doctor reading aloud. Without a second thought, she interrupted him midsentence and said, “See, Doc? I told you you weren’t gonna fix anything; and today the six months that we agreed upon are up.”
Annoyed, the doctor looked up from his book. Seeing him, the old lady realized how far removed she was from the atmosphere that now reigned in the room, and she left like a child caught misbehaving.
She had not yet shut the door when the doctor said to Ana, “See? Your mother is making fun of me. She doesn’t think you hear me, but I know you do.”
Imperturbable, Ana stayed in the same position.
The doctor raised his voice. “Don’t you understand that today is my last day with you and that if you don’t stop with the drop and the silence I won’t be able to keep coming to see you?”
At that moment, Ana’s head turned as if she were a doll on a string, and with a hoarse voice said, “Doctor, water evaporates, leaving behind only silence. It neither ages nor dies.”
She immediately returned to the same position in which she had been. The young doctor looked at her disconsolately at first, but a few minutes later a slight smile drew itself across his face. He said nothing else, grabbed his books, and put them in a bag. He also unplugged the radio and left the room that had been his home for the last six months.
The next morning, Clara entered the room with two IV bottles. She left them on the table and opened the curtains, whistling. Then, with unusual care, she placed the two bottles on the stand, and said sweetly to the doctor, “Thanks, Doc, I knew you were coming back. Now I don’t have to worry: now my Ana’s got someone to keep her company.”
Triumphant, the old lady walked towards the door. At the threshold she turned her head to look at the two inanimate bodies that listened attentively to the drops fall, like strange music from other worlds.
José Luis Zárate
Translated by Bernardo Fern
á
ndez
and
Chris N. Brown
The wolves came at twilight, melted into the shadows. At first we thought they were mist coming down from the mountains—it was impossible to think that there were millions of white bodies, thousands of creatures sliding down the snow. Their voices convinced us it was them, their long, sad howls, the occasional growling and fights among them. We’ve never seen such a herd. It’s impossible to gather one on these lands. The wolves we know around here are solitary, ferocious animals, always stealthy. We’ve never seen them trot into a village. They don’t run away from men out of fear; their temperament demands that they always hide—all carnivores are furtive. Once in a while they steal a sheep, a deer, some child left in the woods that surrounds us.
They are always fleeting, small paces pursuing us in our nightmares. No one has seen them for a long time. All the encounters are fortuitous, almost ethereal. The man or the wolf flees immediately. There’s something terrible about staring at the beast, at its deadly eyes, its wild fur, its great strength. Only the victims get to see the wolf in all its magnificence, not casual observers. One senses it’s part of a timeless ritual: the ultimate encounter. The voluptuousness of death, of blood spilled on the snow, of flesh offered without resistance to longing
fangs.
No one has ever seen how the wolf kills. We imagine a terrible and satisfying ceremony for the beast. At night they cry out their nostalgia for the sweet moments of death.
Wolves are part of nature, brothers of the the blizzards without end, kin to the high-pitched winds. It’s the wolves who know which tree is going to fall, the place where the ice across the lake is going to crack, how we will lose our crops. They walk with the certainty that comes with hunger. We do not hate them. We cannot hate that which is part of the cycle of all things. We are just wary of them, keeping our edge.
No one has ever killed a wolf, because to try to do so is as pointless as trying to hold back the snow.
The wolves don’t hate us, either—that would make it too easy to kill them. How would we catch them when we are hiding in our houses behind fragile windows?
And now they are coming, a blizzard of wolves, thousands, millions, coming down from the mountains.
What has happened to the villages that found themselves in the path of this bizarre flood?
We don’t know. The river of wolves has isolated us from the world. We can see its unending advance, but not its end. Where do they come from? Where are they going? What will become of us?
We have fortified ourselves as best as we can, reinforcing the doors, boarding up the windows, storing enough grain to survive a few days. We have prayed without answer.
We wait.
First the steps, like a steady rain, then the sense of their advance, the fur of the multitude rubbing against our walls, the oppressive odor of their breath.
They are not trying to tear down our houses. They are not fighting to rip our flesh. They trot, just passing by, one, two, three, dozens, hundreds, thousands. We are in the middle of a living current, occasionally interrupted by a small fight—no more.
The river flows without end.
We have opened the windows and not a single wolf has leapt for our throats. They pass by. Their march is not forced. They don’t appear to be fleeing.
They walk as if it were natural for millions of wolves to walk among humans.
Days go by and the rhythm does not lessen. The flow is unending. At night we listen to their footsteps. Their smell has impregnated everything. Sometimes we find ourselves growling at each other, drawn into their march. Where are they going? What is waiting for them at their destination?
After dark we come out to observe them, envying their strength, their determination, feeling ourselves part of the current.
We dream of fresh blood, of the endless woods that belong to us, of seeing the world through bestial eyes.
The air pulses with an immense power. Nothing will hold back the sea of wolves.
This morning I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. Maybe I was dreaming. Or not. The neighbors’ doors are open and I have seen more wolves joining the flood. Is that why it is infinite? Because everything it touches, everything it attracts, everything it sees turns into a wolf?
I have not seen any other animals in the woods. Nothing living other than the wolves.
I stare at the moon over our heads, brilliant and obscene. I want to howl at it, rip its luminous flesh. I want to join the pack.
I can barely open the door. My hands no longer exist. I smell the scent that attracts me. Blood on the other side of the world, an ocean heated with red waters.
I stare at the moon.
Since the flood of the wolves began, the full moon hasn’t left.
When I howl my love for her, I understand why.
Bruno Estañol
Translated by Anisia Rodríguez
For Leonardo Nierman
I am the infamous Juan Manuel, and I reside in Hell. There is no place I would rather be. Soon enough I shall tell you why. For now suffice it to say that I spent my earthly life in search of treasure. I always knew that is what I wanted to do. In my childhood I learned all I could about pirates and the great treasures of the globe. The treasure of Montezuma that Cortez abandoned in Tenochtitlán on “The Sad Night” was the one that most consumed my imagination, though there were many others. As I aged I purchased scores of maps—apocryphal and authentic, ragged and yellow, worn by innumerable fingers throughout the centuries; maps with sea sand that testified to their origins, coded maps, maps that were meant to be seen only if backlit, maps that had been first sold years ago in antique shops in Cairo and London.
I dug in the countryside and in the cemeteries, in the hills and in the fields of wheat, corn, and rice. I destroyed the walls of my home. I explored deep wells and exhausted the beaches where pirates had supposedly left treasure in the form of doubloons, ingots and jewels incrusted in relics, utensils and amulets. I forgot about women, about children, about siblings and parents, about parties, books, and friends. I experienced poverty and hunger. I imagined myself sitting in my bedroom, counting Spanish doubloons and French Gold Louis carefully stacked on my table, my breast filled with inexhaustible happiness. The years passed, but I had yet to find the fabled gold. As I saw my death quickly approaching, I set out for cemeteries, prairies, and forests. I invoked the devil under the full moon to assist me in my search, but he would not deign to appear nor provide me with the slightest clue. I realized that the devil didn’t exist then, and I plunged into a deep melancholy. I realized that I had wasted my life, my health, and my money.
One night, attempting to amuse myself, I went to the theater. I slept intermittently throughout the performance. As I observed the actors moving about like puppets, my thoughts continued to center on treasure. There sat a man behind me in the shadows, and my peripheral vision encompassed his luxurious attire and the monocle over his left eye. “It’s a boring play,” he whispered softly in my ear, “the actors aren’t searching for treasure or making pacts with the devil, which would be better suited to your taste.” During the following act, he placed two large manila envelopes on my lap, and my eyes instinctively perused them. They were labeled with gothic letters: the first reading, “How to find the treasure,” and the second, “What to do after finding the treasure: Important! Open immediately after finding it, by no means before.” The letters were clear and visible despite the theatre’s dim light. I don’t know why the words immediately and before sounded urgently in my mind. I turned my head to address him, but his seat was empty. Only seconds before, the gentleman had been there. I left the theatre in haste, wishing to catch him up but not finding him; so I hurried home to open the first envelope.
It crossed my mind that someone might be playing a joke on me, for it was well known that I was obsessed with treasure. Nevertheless, by candlelight I opened the first envelope. I felt my heart tremble. The letters danced in front of my eyes: “Dig one meter below your bed” is all it said. I hardly slept that night. Early the next day, I was ready with a pick, shovel, pails, and buckets, that latter for the purpose of containing the dirt and rubble. The cement floor was as hard as stone, and it was difficult to break it with the pick. Moreover, I was afraid that the noise would be heard in the street and attract unwanted attention. I excavated for more than fifteen hours. Finally, what I had hoped for! The pick struck something metal. It was a square, rusted, iron box about a half-meter wide and a quarter-meter tall. It was extremely heavy, and with difficulty I carried it to the kitchen table. It had a small padlock on it, which I broke with a chisel, and then I removed the rust from around the edges. When I opened the box, the carefully piled coins came into view. One by one I took them out and placed them in stacks of ten. When I had finished arranging them on the table, the first rays of dawn illuminated them. Never in my life had I been happier than at that moment. I believed that occasion was worth all the suffering and sacrifice I had experienced during the course of my lifetime. If only I might preserve this moment forever, I thought.