Darío Herrera: La nueva Leda

–La tarde está linda, mamá; hoy no siento ninguna fatiga, no he tosido desde esta mañana... ¿Ves? Respiro muy bien, y creo que pronto estaré buena. Déjame ir a Palermo: no es día de corso y el paseo me pondrá mejor... te lo aseguro.

La madre contempló a la hija con su angustiosa mirada de siempre, y un rayo de esperanza brilló en aquellos ojos. Sobre la demacración terrosa del rostro de la joven, aparecía difun­dida una leve aurora; las pupilas tenían resplandores más in­tensos, y todo el semblante ostentaba inusitada animación, cual si en aquel organismo, corroído por la tisis, comenzara a realizarse una resurrección milagrosa.

El permiso fue concedido; y de la Avenida Alvear la victo­ria partió, al trote del vigoroso tronco. Recostada sobre los cojines del carruaje, Julia bebía con fruición el aire oxigenado de la gran calzada. Iba sola, y esto la contrariaba. Experimentaba la necesidad de hablar; una alegría secreta, cual fluido mágico, le circulaba por los nervios. Nunca se sintió en tan benéfica disposición moral; sus ideas tejían sueños luminosos, y su cuerpo impregnado de ese jocundo baño interno, se aligera­ba, llenábase como de vida nueva, e imprimía a sus músculos agilidad y fuerza... Sí, experimentaba la necesidad de hablar, de comunicarse con alguien, y lamentaba no llevar a su lado a alguna amiga. Pero carecía de amistades íntimas, hacía va­rios años. El mal se inició durante el paso peligroso de la in­fancia a la pubertad, y su manifestación más significativa fue una melancolía constante, que la retrajo de todo trato social. No se la veía desde la época en que, sana y fresca como las yemas primaverales, vertía en torno suyo el encanto de su in­teligencia precoz y la gracia de su prometedora belleza. Así, atravesó en su victoria, inadvertida, por entre los concurren­tes de Palermo, y fue a situarse junto al lago, bajo la radiosa calma vespertina...

Y en la tarde declinante, el lago esplendía como un espejo, en su quietud bruñida. Los árboles de la orilla lo circundaban, proyectando sus sombras en el agua hospedadora. Por inter­valos, desprendíase alguna hoja seca, voltejeaba en el vacío, y descendía a posarse sobre la superficie temblorosa. De las ave­nidas inmediatas, sordos e intermitentes, llegaban el ruido de los carruajes, el rehilar de las bicicletas, o el murmurio de las pisadas de los paseantes. Y la sensación de soledad del sitio, rota un momento, recobraba su imperio; y entonces, vibraba más claro y musicalmente el vuelo de la brisa entre el ramaje sonoro. Arriba, el cielo lucía incólume su azul, pálido como seda antigua; y en el horizonte, una gran nube de violeta epis­copal, era como un suntuoso catafalco que la noche prepara­ba al sol.

Henry James: Sir Edmund Orme

The statement appears to have been written, though the fragment is undated, long after the death of his wife, whom I take to have been one of the persons referred to. There is, however, nothing in the strange story to establish this point, which is, perhaps, not of importance. When I took possession of his effects I found these pages, in a locked drawer, among papers relating to the unfortunate lady’s too brief career (she died in childbirth a year after her marriage), letters, memoranda, accounts, faded photographs, cards of invitation. That is the only connection I can point to, and you may easily and will probably say that the tale is too extravagant to have had a demonstrable origin. I cannot, I admit, vouch for his having intended it as a report of real occurrence – I can only vouch for his general veracity. In any case it was written for himself, not for others. I offer it to others – having full option – precisely because it is so singular. Let them, in respect to the form of the thing, bear in mind that it was written quite for himself. I have altered nothing but the names.

If there’s a story in the matter I recognise the exact moment at which it began. This was on a soft, still Sunday noon in November, just after church, on the sunny Parade. Brighton was full of people; it was the height of the season, and the day was even more respectable than lovely – which helped to account for the multitude of walkers. The blue sea itself was decorous; it seemed to doze, with a gentle snore (if that be decorum), as if nature were preaching a sermon. After writing letters all the morning I had come out to take a look at it before luncheon. I was leaning over the rail which separates the King’s Road from the beach, and I think I was smoking a cigarette, when I became conscious of an intended joke in the shape of a light walking-stick laid across my shoulders. The idea, I found, had been thrown off by Teddy Bostwick, of the Rifles, and was intended as a contribution to talk. Our talk came off as we strolled together – he always took your arm to show you he forgave your obtuseness about his humour – and looked at the people, and bowed to some of them, and wondered who others were, and differed in opinion as to the prettiness of the girls. About Charlotte Marden we agreed, however, as we saw her coming toward us with her mother; and there surely could have been no one who wouldn’t have agreed with us. The Brighton air, of old, used to make plain girls pretty and pretty girls prettier still – I don’t know whether it works the spell now. The place, at any rate, was rare for complexions, and Miss Marden’s was one that made people turn round. It made us stop, heaven knows – at least, it was one of the things, for we already knew the ladies.

Óscar Esquivias: Biológicas: una lectura providencial

Dasha Paskualova Susinos, hija de la única «niña de la guerra» burgalesa que encontró cobijo en la Unión Soviética, es una mujer extraña. Parece una de esas posaderas tenebrosas que salen en las películas de Terence Fisher, una aldeana de los Cárpatos o algo peor. Esa fue la primera impresión que tuve de ella. Cincuentona, con los cabellos blancos alborotados, vestía como una misionera seglar o como alguien acogido por la beneficencia: ropas que en alguna época remota fueron corrien­tes y nunca bonitas. Llegó a mi despacho hace casi ocho años. Venía recomendada por el párroco de San Gil, quien ya me había puesto en antecedentes sobre su persona e intenciones. Traía una carpetilla ceñida por gomas, de donde fue sacando varios diplomas que, en cirílico, debían de acreditar sus conocimientos académicos. Sin embargo, lo que a mí me interesaba era el relato de su vida, que me narró con todo su aplomo y vozarrón, como un poema épico. Su historia, de tan descabellada, debía o ser enteramente cierta o fruto de una alucinación. La di por buena y no me equivoqué. Su vida y sus principios se sostenían sobre su profunda fe, transmiti­da por su madre, y una visión providencialista de la historia, la existencia y el futuro. Al cuello, como grandes escapularios, llevaba tres imágenes de la Virgen: el icono de la de Chestojova, protectora de los alejados de su patria, y en su reverso el retra­to de Juan Pablo II; la Virgen Milagrosa, que predijo la unión de Europa bajo su bandera mañana, y en su envés, Jacques Delors con halo; y la Virgen de Fátima, que profetizó la con­versión de Rusia: en el reverso (que en esta ocasión no me ense­ñó) llevaba la revelación de los misterios de Fátima que quedaban por descubrir al mundo y que la propia sor Lucía, vestida de pastora y a lomos del arcángel san Gabriel, le había dictado en sueños. Con el régimen comunista su vida había sido un calvario. A los diez años y siguiendo el ejemplo de las santas precoces, había agredido a las gentes que esperaban ante el mausoleo de Lenin, por idólatras. Fue en un rapto de inspi­ración divina en el que, además, los lápices escolares se le con­virtieron  en  piedras.  Por  una vez  estas  explicaciones convencieron a la policía (y eran los tiempos de Stalin), pero no así a su familia: su madre, a pesar de ser creyente, no quería tener en casa a una santa Juana de Arco en potencia y no dio crédito al milagro de los lápices y las piedras, y su padre, un conductor de tranvías en una línea donde no se montaba nadie, no entendió nada, pero le hizo mucha gracia tener una hija tan aguerrida. Fue el primer episodio de una vida desdichada que nuestros lectores conocen bien porque la hemos publicado varias veces y con lujo de detalles. Al fin, después de una exis­tencia marcada por la persecución oficial, la cárcel y el exilio de su Moscú natal, pudo aprovecharse de la mayor tolerancia del régimen de Gorbachov y, con ciertas ayudas del gobierno espa­ñol, consiguió salir de la Unión Soviética. Escogió la ciudad materna para asentarse y esperar la muerte, o mejor, el tránsi­to, pues ella había de ascender en cuerpo y alma a los cielos de cumplirse una visión que tuvo a los catorce años en Irkutsk, ya en el destierro. Tenía una pensión modesta que cobraba puntualmente y que le permitía vivir en una casuca desvencijada pero aseada de la calle Corazas, donde ella misma había pintado al fresco escenas de la vida de la Virgen. Dasha paseaba su facha de anacronismo con leotardos, de reta­blo ambulante, con la dignidad de una reina en el exilio. Asistía a todos los oficios en la iglesia de San Gil y solía rezar de pie, balanceándose, en medio del círculo que formaba en el suelo con velas pequeñas, temblonas, veletas de mil vientos rastreros, que acababan consumidas en un charco de cera. Siempre reza­ba en ruso y a veces se le oían, entre dientes, cantos abismales de un fervor arcaico y febril. Sólo con estos precedentes, que ella misma me contó con su voz de trombón del Apocalipsis, se podrá entender que la acogiera con entusiasmo: al fin y al cabo el mío es un periódico católico y local, y no todos los días apa­rece una mujer de ascendencia burgalesa, recién llegada de la URSS comunista y atea y con semejante biografía a sus espaldas. Bien contada, sin necesidad de novelar en exceso, su historia haría las delicias de nuestros lectores. Allí había material como para medio centenar de entregas. Una mina. No hubo ningún problema en convencer a Dasha: de hecho tenía escritos una suerte de apuntes autobiográficos, totalmente inéditos, que podíamos utilizar y modificar a nuestro antojo, siempre que no faltáramos a la verdad. No quiso cobrar nada por el relato de su vida, alegando que los derechos de autor correspondían a Dios. En lo que sí tenía interés, me dijo entonces, era en que, sin periodicidad fija, un par de veces al mes o cosa así, le concedié­ramos un espacio de pocas líneas junto a la sección de necroló­gicas. Entonces creí entender que pretendía publicar alguna reflexión sobre la vida. Me habló de los recién nacidos, de la tesis agustiniana de que «nada ocurre en la vida humana, por ínfimo que parezca, que no haya sido programado por la Providencia». Es una idea que yo, en mi humildad, comparto, y que, dados los tiempos que corren, a veces me avergüenzo de sostener. Pero, ¡qué duda cabe!, la fe es uno de los pilares de la nación, como siempre digo. Le di plena libertad y para que tuviera confianza en mis palabras, hice llamar al jefe de redac­ción y allí mismo di órdenes de aceptar sin ninguna cortapisa cuantos textos trajera y de publicarlos al día siguiente de su recepción, en un recuadro de doble hilo, con el título engatilla­do y junto a la sección de necrológicas, como ella quería. Unas palabras aleccionadoras sobre la vida nunca están de más en un periódico como éste. Dasha se despidió con una reverencia de violinista en noche de éxito. La acompañé hasta la puerta y observé cómo se alejaba con sus pasos torpones pero acelerados por la calle San Pedro de Cárdena mientras sentía el contento de haber hecho un buen negocio con aquella mujer.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Terrible Old Man

It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva, for that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery.

The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.

Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless grey-beard, who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.

Edgar Allan Poe: The Sphinx

DURING the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement of his cottage ornee on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death. That palsying thought, indeed, took entire posession of my soul. I could neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was of a less excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical intellect was not at any time affected by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.

His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into which I had fAllan, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain volumes which I had found in his library. These were of a character to force into germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition lay latent in my bosom. I had been reading these books without his knowledge, and thus he was often at a loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been made upon my fancy.

A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens-a belief which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously disposed to defend. On this subject we had long and animated discussions-he maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in such matters,-I contending that a popular sentiment arising with absolute spontaneity- that is to say, without apparent traces of suggestion-had in itself the unmistakable elements of truth, and was entitled to as much respect as that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.

Óscar Acosta: El vengador

El cacique Huantepeque asesinó a su hermano en la selva, lo quemó y guardó sus cenizas calientes en una vasija. Los dioses mayas le presagiaron que su hermano saldría de la tumba a vengarse, y el fratricida, temeroso, abrió dos años después el recipiente para asegurarse que los restos estaban allí. Un fuerte viento levantó las cenizas, cegándolo para siempre.

John Fante: Mama's dream

MAMA ANDRILLI SAT at the kitchen table preparing lunch. The hot white sun of the Sacramento Valley hurst into the room from the south windows

— big cascades of sunshine over the red linoleum floor where slept Papa's cats, Philomina and Costanza. Both were males, but Papa recognized only one sex in cats.

In less than an hour he would be home from work. Papa was seventy now, and worse than ever; except for a weakening of his eyes, he still laid brick and stone as fast as a young mason. But the years — no matter how blasphemous his denials

— had taken their toll, and by now Mama had given up all hope of a quiet old age.

When a man reaches seventy you would think he might mellow. But no: the past ten years, with their three sons married and gone, had been the worst. Now Papa would never soften and grow gentle. Until his last breath he would go raging and shouting, with Mama always there, patient to the end. It had been so for forty years, and now Mama was sixty-eight, with white hair and sometimes excruciating agony in her withered hands. Papa still had his red mustache and only traces of grey at his temples. He still pounded his chest with furious blows as he entreated God to strike him down and remove him from this valley of travail. Years ago, when she was young and strong, Mama took comfort in the thought that she would leave her noisy husband as soon as her children were grown. The notion was a tiny jewel she hoarded in secret. But it was lost now, misplaced in some teapot of the past, and Mama had forgotten it.

On the table stood a bowl of bell peppers, green and fat. Mama cut them into strips for frying and thought again of last night's dream. Papa had slept badly, his kidneys heckling him, tumbling him from bed half a dozen times. Naturally he blamed Mama. Not enough peppers in his diet. Papa was a sort of primitive medicine man with some ancient Italian notions about food. You ate fish for the brain, cheese for the teeth, eggplant for the blood, beans for the bowels, bread for the brawn, chicory for the nerves, garlic for purity, olive oil for strength, and peppers for the kidneys. Without these a man faced quick decay.

Javier García Sánchez: Duncan

Un día le contaron la historia de Duncan, y desde entonces vivió obsesionado. En cierto modo cambió su vida, aunque con frecuencia hablaría de ella en términos de fantasía, y a veces incluso de broma. Era la historia de alguien, un tal Duncan, que se tiró desde la azotea de un edificio con la intención de suicidarse, pero nunca llegó al suelo.

Años antes, el padre de Carlos entró cierta tarde en casa. Venía del trabajo. Entonces vivían en Madrid. Aquella tarde el padre dijo a su esposa nada más llegar: «Duncan se ha suicidado». Luego explicó los pormenores hasta donde él sabía. Al parecer, los hechos ocurrieron hacia media tarde. Duncan, como el padre de Carlos, trabajaba en una compañía norteamericana, unos grandes almacenes. Tenía un puesto importante, en concreto el de Gerente de Compras para España. Después de comer, Duncan llegó a los despachos situados en pleno Paseo de la Castellana. Fue hacia las tres y media, como todos los días, y al poco le dijo a su secretaria que pensaba acercarse hasta Coslada para supervisar perso-nalmente la llegada de cierto pedido procedente de la central de Chicago. En las oficinas se cruzó con varios ejecutivos y técnicos de la empresa, a los que saludó cor-tésmente, entre ellos el padre de Carlos. Después tomó su auto y, unos veinte minutos más tarde, llegó a esa zona periférica de la ciudad, no muy alejada del Aeropuerto de Barajas.

En el almacén de Coslada estuvo durante hora y media aproximadamente. Se mostró cordial con los empleados que había por allí, y también bastante ajetreado yendo de un sitio a otro. Incluso ayudó a descargar un material pesado. Fue hacia las cinco y cuarto cuando entró en uno de los despachos. Habían llamado por teléfono preguntando por él. Después se supo que se trataba de un hombre con acento inglés que se limitó a decir: «¿Mr. Duncan, por favor?» Duncan estuvo en aquel despacho apenas un minuto. Dos empleados pudieron observarle, serio el semblante pero en apariencia no especialmente preocupado. No hablaba, más bien parecía atender a lo que su interlocutor le decía. Sin embargo, otro empleado creyó oírle comentar una frase en inglés. La estructura acristalada de aquellos despachos permitía oír lo que se decía dentro si no sonaba ninguna máquina cerca, algo que era bastante usual.

Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Birth-mark

In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control over Nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength of the latter to his own.

Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.

"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?"

"No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth it has been so often called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."

"Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband; "but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection."

"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot love what shocks you!"

Ronal Kayser: In the Dark

Is was a tale of sheer horror that old Asa Gregg poured into the dictaphone

The watchman's flashlight printed a white circle on the frosted-glass, black-lettered door:

GREGG CHEMICAL CO., MFRS.

ASA GREGG, PRES.

PRIVATE

The watchman's hand closed on the knob, rattled the door in its frame. Queer, but tonight the sound had seemed to come from in there.... But that couldn't be. He knew that Mr. Gregg and Miss Carruthers carried the only keys to the office, so any intruder would have been forced to smash the lock.

Maybe the sound came from the storage room. The watchman clumped along the rubber-matted corridor, flung his weight against that door. It opened hard, being of ponderous metal fitted into a cork casing. The room was an air-tight, fire-proof vault, really. His shoes gritted on the concrete floor as he prowled among the big porcelain vats. The flashlight bored through bluish haze to the concrete walls. Acid fumes escaping under the vat lids made the haze and seared the man's throat.

He hurried out, coughing and wiping his eyes. It was damn funny. Every night lately he heard the same peculiar noise somewhere in this wing of the building.... like a body groaning and turning in restless sleep, it was. It scared him. He didn't mention the mystery to anyone, though. He was an old man, and he didn't want Mr. Gregg to think he was getting too old for the job.

"Asa'd think I was crazy, if I told him about it," be mumbled.

Ángel Olgoso: Árboles al pie de la cama

Volvía del trabajo, al anochecer, cansado, casi enfebrecido, cuando se me ocurrió que me gustaría ser un animalillo silvestre, que sabría administrar esa vida simple, limpia de la confusión y el alboroto de las preocupaciones, que podría acomodar con facilidad mi conciencia a ese estado ideal. Como una bendición, alguien, lejos de escamotear mi deseo, me dio la forma de una criatura peluda y diminuta y me soltó en el bosque. Era, como vi después, una vida descorazonadora: no sentía interés por otra cosa que no fuera acarrear alimentos, avariciosa e infatigablemente, hasta mi agujero al pie del tronco de un árbol podrido; los límites de cada territorio desencadenaban continuos litigios entre los habitantes de la fronda; las voces de los pájaros me ensordecían; los parásitos habían invadido mi pelambre; los apareamientos resultaban tan gravosos como los espulgos; y mis ojos revolaban de pánico en sus órbitas cada vez que presentía a los rapaces. Aquel desconsuelo, por fortuna, no duró demasiado. Un día se acercó con sigilo un trozo de oscuridad y, aunque husmeé su hedor a distancia y oí luego las pisadas y los furiosos ladridos, apenas tuve tiempo de entrever sus dientes cerrándose sobre mí.

Norman Partridge: In Beauty, Like The Night

The beach was deserted.

Somehow, they knew enough to stay out of the sun.

Nathan Grimes rested his elbows on the balcony and peered through his binoculars. As he adjusted the focus knob, the smooth, feminine mounds that bordered the crescent-shaped beach became nets of purslane and morning glory, and the green blur that lay beyond sharpened to a crazy quilt of distinct colors—emerald, charcoal, glimpses of scarlet—a dark panorama of manchineel trees, sea grapes, and coconut palms.

Nathan scanned the shadows until he found the golden-bronze color of her skin. Naked, just out of reach of the sun's rays, she leaned against the gentle curve of a coconut palm, curling a strand of singed blonde hair around the single finger that remained on her left hand. Her fingertip was red—with nail polish, not blood—and she thrust it into her mouth and licked both finger and hair, finally releasing a spit curl that fought the humid Caribbean breeze for a moment and then drooped in defeat.

Kara North, Miss December.

Nathan remembered meeting Kara at the New Orleans Mansion the previous August. She'd posed in front of a bountifully trimmed Christmas tree for Teddy Ching's centerfold shot, and Nathan—fresh off a plane from the Los Angeles offices of Grimesgirl magazine—had walked in on the proceedings, joking that the holiday decorations made him feel like he'd done a Rip Van Winkle in the friendly skies.

Nathan smiled at the memory. There were several elegantly wrapped packages under the tree that August day, but each one was empty, just a prop for Teddy's photo shoot. Kara had discovered that sad fact almost immediately, and they'd all had a good laugh about her mercenary attitude while Teddy shot her with a little red Santa cap on her head and sassy red stockings on her feet and nothing but golden-bronze flesh in between.

José Víctor Martínez Gil: Bella

Quería estar más bella que nunca. Por eso tejía en su cabellera la trenza más perfecta, más larga y elaborada. Cuando la terminó, observó con detenimiento lo que ella consideraba su obra maestra. Al llegar la noche acudió a verlo. Más guapa que nunca, más radiante que nunca, más entregada que nunca, a pesar de que él no la merecía en absoluto. A la mañana siguiente, ella, delicadamente deshizo su trenza y se marchó. Y a él lo encontraron, ahorcado, sin que pudiera determinarse el arma del crimen.

Enzo Fileno Carabba: Il buio

"I Miti e i morti popolano questo giardino notturno fatto di vento e di portentosa oscurità. Non so dire da quanto tempo è buio, né ricordo la ragione di questo: o se esiste un motivo. Da quanti anni il mio sguardo non incontra la luce del sole; cos e in fondo la luce del sole; esisteva veramente?

"Alcuni, quando capirono che il sole non tornava, che era iniziata una notte senza stelle di cui i più, fra noi, non avrebbero visto la fine, furono colti da un terrore soprannaturale. Molti si suicidarono, augurandosi di non andare incontro a una nuova oscurità. Molti uccisero i loro cari, o anche i meno cari. Certi impazzirono. Altri tuttora rantolano dementi nelle caverne, persi in qualche delirio luminoso che è soltanto il frutto del buio, una delle sue forme.

"Per parte mia, dopo un periodo di smarrimento e di angoscia, intuii il lato vitale dell'oscurità. Nel buio raggiungo un raccoglimento che mi inebria. Non reprimo più i miei istinti di cacciatore. Il buio è il labirinto che mi imprigiona e in cui mi nascondo. Vago nel grande giardino ordinato, guardo il ruscello che stilla dalla parete di muschio; la mia lunga veste struscia contro i fiori notturni. La città, laggiù, c'è, ma io non posso vederla. So che ci sono altre creature in agguato nel blu cupo, so che potrebbero saltar fuori da un momento all'altro, prendermi e portarmi via, nessuno sa dove.

Certo è che quando m'acquatto negli angoli muschiosi, non sempre rammento se lo faccio per salvarmi o per aggredire. A volte ho il dubbio di essere io stesso qualcosa di spaventoso.

"Questo buio, questa paura, questa gioia, questa soli tudine. A pensarci mi viene da ridere. A tratti, nel giardino, mi sembra di vedere angeli senza luce che mi esortano a andare dove il buio è più folto: perché lì è l'oscurità benefica. Sarei tentato. Ma temo gli inganni. Intravedo un camice da infermiere, o da veterinario assassino. Sonò scaltro. Non cedo all'invito.

Robert Louis Stevenson: Markheim

 Robert Louis Stevenson by Count Girolamo Nerli

'YES,' said the dealer, 'our windfalls are of various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are dishonest,' and here he held up the candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor, 'and in that case,' he continued, 'I profit by my virtue.'

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.

The dealer chuckled. 'You come to me on Christmas Day,' he resumed, 'when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it.' The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, 'You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?' he continued. 'Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!'

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip- toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of horror.

José María Latorre: Instantáneas

El flash disparado por el mecanismo fotográfico oculto en las entrañas de la máquina le deslumbró más de lo habitual cuan­do descargó sobre su rostro los cuatro relámpagos seguidos. Luego le pareció recordar vagamente que una de las veces había entrecerrado los ojos o fruncido el ceño, pero eso no justificaba el hecho de que las cuatro fotografías ofrecidas en una tira de cartulina barata todavía húmeda, que había sido literalmente vomitada por una de las aberturas de la máquina, mostraran el rostro de un hombre distinto: no se reconoció ni en las facciones, ni en el cabello canoso, ni en la expresión asus­tada de la persona de las fotografías. Tampoco lo explicaba la molesta sensación, mezcla de asco, angustia y temor, que había experimentado al sentarse en el taburete y hacerlo girar para adecuar su elevada estatura a la altura de la flecha negra que había marcada al lado de las instrucciones para el uso de la máquina. Ni el olor repugnante, anormal, que le había agredi­do al entrar en la cabina y que le había perturbado tanto como, creía, perturban los olores de las habitaciones que se abren des­pués de llevar cerradas varios años y el peculiar olor de los cementerios en verano. Olía como se figuraba que debían de

oler los viejos panteones y las viejas criptas. Un olor absurdo, inexplicable, porque el interior de aquella cabina de fotografía instantánea estaba continuamente ventilado, pues sólo una cortinilla de tela negra aislaba el interior del exterior, y porque no era verano sino invierno. Casi sonrió al pensar que tampo­co estaba en un cementerio, en una cripta o en un panteón. Pero olía a rancio, a polvo acumulado y a materias orgánicas en descomposición. Y las cuatro fotografías que le había entre­gado la máquina tras una especie de gruñido no eran las suyas. La única explicación posible era que pertenecieran al anterior usuario, ya que en esos aparatos automáticos las fotografías tardan cierto tiempo en salir; a veces, incluso, muchos minu­tos: a él mismo le había sucedido años atrás; un defecto del mecanismo, le dijeron. Quizás el anterior usuario, el propieta­rio de aquella cara envejecida, asustada, se había marchado, cansado de esperar unas fotografías que no recibía y pensando que debería efectuar una reclamación al nombre y al teléfono indicados en una pequeña placa metálica. Hay máquinas defectuosas y otras que se averían, pensó Elías, y ésta era una de ellas, lo cual podía significar que sus fotografías no saldrían o, en el mejor de los casos, que aún tardarían varios minutos en salir. Esperaría; no tenía prisa. Por unos momentos, la situa­ción le pareció divertida, pensando en la posibilidad de que la avería o el defecto de la máquina estuviera obsequiando a dia­rio a unos clientes con las fotografías de otros.

Leonid Andreyev ( Леонид Николаевич Андреев ): Андреев (Lazarus)

Leonid Andreyev by Repin

I

Когда Елеазар вышел из могилы, где три дня и три ночи находился он под загадочною властию смерти, и живым возвратился в свое жилище, в нем долго не замечали тех зловещих странностей, которые со временем сделали страшным самое имя его. Радуясь светлой радостью о возвращенном к жизни, друзья и близкие ласкали его непрестанно и в заботах о пище и питье и о новой одежде утоляли жадное внимание свое. И одели его пышно в яркие цвета надежды и смеха, и когда он, подобно жениху в брачном одеянии, снова сидел среди них за столом, и снова ел, и снова пил, они плакали от умиления и звали соседей, чтобы взглянуть на чудесно воскресшего. Приходили соседи и радовались умиленно; приходили незнакомые люди из дальних городов и селений и в бурных восклицаниях выражали свое поклонение чуду — точно пчелы гудели над домом Марии и Марфы.
И то, что появилось нового в лице Елеазара и движениях его, объясняли естественно, как следы тяжелой болезни и пережитых потрясений. Очевидно, разрушительная работа смерти над трупом была только остановлена чудесной властью, но не уничтожена совсем; и то, что смерть уже успела сделать с лицом и телом Елеазара, было как неоконченный рисунок художника под тонким стеклом. На висках Елеазара, под его глазами и во впадинах щек лежала густая землистая синева; так же землисто-сини были длинные пальцы рук, и у выросших в могиле ногтей синева становилась багровой и темной. Кое-где на губах и на теле лопнула кожа, вздувшаяся в могиле, и на этих местах оставались тонкие, красноватые трещинки, блестящие, точно покрытые прозрачной слюдой. И тучен он стал. Раздутое в могиле тело сохранило эти чудовищные размеры, эти страшные выпуклости, за которыми чувствуется зловонная влага разложения. Но трупный, тяжелый запах, которым были пропитаны погребальные одежды Елеазара и, казалось, самое тело его, вскоре исчез совершенно, а через некоторое время смягчилась синева рук и лица и загладились красноватые трещинки кожи, хотя совсем они никогда не исчезли. С таким лицом предстал он людям во второй своей жизни; но оно казалось естественным тем, кто видел его погребенным.

Guy de Maupassant: Sur l'eau

J'avais loué, l'été dernier, une petite maison de campagne au bord de la Seine, à plusieurs lieues de Paris, et j'allais y coucher tous les soirs. Je fis, au bout de quelques jours, la connaissance d'un de mes voisins, un homme de trente à quarante ans, qui était bien le type le plus curieux que j'eusse jamais vu. C'était un vieux canotier, mais un canotier enragé, toujours près de l'eau, toujours sur l'eau, toujours dans l'eau. Il devait être né dans un canot, et il mourra bien certainement dans le canotage final.

Un soir que nous nous promenions au bord de la Seine, je lui demandai de me raconter quelques anecdotes de sa vie nautique. Voilà immédiatement mon bonhomme qui s'anime, se transfigure, devient éloquent, presque poète. Il avait dans le coeur une grande passion, une passion dévorante, irrésistible : la rivière.

“ Ah ! me dit-il, combien j'ai de souvenirs sur cette rivière que vous voyez couler là près de nous ! Vous autres, habitants des rues, vous ne savez pas ce qu'est la rivière. Mais écoutez un pêcheur prononcer ce mot. Pour lui, c'est la chose mystérieuse, profonde, inconnue, le pays des mirages et des fantasmagories, où l'on voit, la nuit, des choses qui ne sont pas, où l'on entend des bruits que l'on ne connaît point, où l'on tremble sans savoir pourquoi, comme en traversant un cimetière: et c'est en effet le plus sinistre des cimetières, celui où l'on n'a point de tombeau.

“La terre est bornée pour le pêcheur et dans l'ombre, quand il n'y a pas de lune, la rivière est illimitée. Un marin n'éprouve point la même chose pour la mer. Elle est souvent dure et méchante, c'est vrai, mais elle crie, elle hurle, elle est loyale, la frande mer ; tandis que la rivière est silencieuse et perfide. E le ne gronde pas, elle coule toujours sans bruit et ce mouvement éternel de l'eau qui coule est plus effrayant pour moi que les hautes vagues de l'Océan. “ Des rêveurs prétendent que la mer cache dans son sein d'immenses pays bleuâtres, où les noyés roulent parmi les grands poissons, au milieu d'étranges forêts et dans des grottes de cristal. La rivière n'a que des profondeurs noires où l'on pourrit dans la vase. Elle est belle pourtant quand elle brille au soleil levant et qu'elle clapote doucement entre ses berges couvertes de roseaux qui murmurent.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Moon-Bog

Somewhere, to what remote and fearsome region I know not, Denys Barry has gone. I was with him the last night he lived among men, and heard his screams when the thing came to him; but all the peasants and police in County Meath could never find him, or the others, though they searched long and far. And now I shudder when I hear the frogs piping in swamps, or see the moon in lonely places.

I had known Denys Barry well in America, where he had grown rich, and had congratulated him when he bought back the old castle by the bog at sleepy Kilderry. It was from Kilderry that his father had come, and it was there that he wished to enjoy his wealth among ancestral scenes. Men of his blood had once ruled over Kilderry and built and dwelt in the castle, but those days were very remote, so that for generations the castle had been empty and decaying. After he went to Ireland, Barry wrote me often, and told me how under his care the gray castle was rising tower by tower to its ancient splendor, how the ivy was climbing slowly over the restored walls as it had climbed so many centuries ago, and how the peasants blessed him for bringing back the old days with his gold from over the sea. But in time there came troubles, and the peasants ceased to bless him, and fled away instead as from a doom. And then he sent a letter and asked me to visit him, for he was lonely in the castle with no one to speak to save the new servants and laborers he had brought from the North.

The bog was the cause of all these troubles, as Barry told me the night I came to the castle. I had reached Kilderry in the summer sunset, as the gold of the sky lighted the green of the hills and groves and the blue of the bog, where on a far islet a strange olden ruin glistened spectrally. That sunset was very beautiful, but the peasants at Ballylough had warned me against it and said that Kilderry had become accursed, so that I almost shuddered to see the high turrets of the castle gilded with fire. Barry’s motor had met me at the Ballylough station, for Kilderry is off the railway. The villagers had shunned the car and the driver from the North, but had whispered to me with pale faces when they saw I was going to Kilderry. And that night, after our reunion, Barry told me why.

Rafael Llopis Paret: Una visión de la muerte

El señor ministro dio un salto en el asiento del coche oficial en que viajaba y agitó la maño por la ventanilla. —¡Me ha visto, estoy seguro de que me ha visto! —dijo—. Fue mi mejor amigo cuando éramos niños. Le he reconocido al instante. Ver su cara me ha traído mil recuerdos olvidados, todo el aroma de una época de mi vida. ¡Dios mío, qué maravilla! Nunca le había vuelto a ver. Tengo su imagen metida en el corazón, sé que hemos sido íntimos amigos, realmente él ha sido mi único amigo en la vida...Pero qué curioso, no consigo recordar ni cuándo ni dónde le conocí. Ni siquiera me acuerdo de su nombre.Éstas fueron las últimas palabras del señor ministro.

Richard Garnett: Demon Pope

"So you won't sell me your soul?" said the devil.

"Thank you," replied the student, "I had rather keep it myself, if it's all the same to you."

"But it's not all the same to me. I want it very particularly. Come, I'll be liberal. I said twenty years. You can have thirty."

The student shook his head.

"Forty!"

Another shake.

"Fifty!"

As before.

"Now," said the devil, "I know I'm going to do a foolish thing, but I cannot bear to see a clever, spirited young man throw himself away. I'll make you another kind of offer. We won't have any bargain at present, but I will push you on in the world for the next forty years. This day forty years I come back and ask you for a boon; not your soul, mind, or anything not perfectly in your power to grant. If you give it, we are quits; if not, I fly away with you. What say you to this?"

The student reflected for some minutes. "Agreed," he said at last.

Scarcely had the devil disappeared, which he did instantaneously, ere a messenger reined in his smoking steed at the gate of the University of Cordova (the judicious reader will already have remarked that Lucifer could never have been allowed inside a Christian seat of learning), and, inquiring for the student Gerbert, presented him with the Emperor Otho's nomination to the Abbacy of Bobbio, in consideration, said the document, of his virtue and learning, well-nigh miraculous in one so young. Such messengers were frequent visitors during Gerbert's prosperous career. Abbot, bishop, archbishop, cardinal, he was ultimately enthroned Pope on April 2, 999, and assumed the appellation of Silvester the Second. It was then a general belief that the world would come to an end in the following year, a catastrophe which to many seemed the more imminent from the election of a chief pastor whose celebrity as a theologian, though not inconsiderable, by no means equalled his reputation as a necromancer.

Edgar Allan Poe: Thou Art the Man

I WILL now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound to you-as I alone can-the secret of the enginery that effected the Rattleborough miracle-the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.

This event-which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable levity-occurred in the summer of 18-. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy-one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough-had been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention of proceeding to the city of-, about fifteen miles distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded, too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.

The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy-a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was universally called, "Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley Goodfellow." Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the face, as much as to say: "I have a clear conscience myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean action." And thus all the hearty, careless, "walking gentlemen" of the stage are very certain to be called Charles.

Laura Freixas: Final absurdo

Eran las ocho y media de la tarde, y el detective Lorenzo Fresnos estaba esperando una visita. Su secretaria acababa de marcharse; afuera había empezado a llover y Fresnos se aburría. Había dormido muy poco esa noche, y tenía la cabeza demasiado espesa para hacer nada de provecho durante la espera. Echó un vistazo a la biblioteca, legada por el anterior ocupante del despacho, y eligió un libro al azar. Se sentó en su sillón y empezó a leer, bostezando.

Le despertó un ruido seco: el libro había caído al suelo. Abrió los ojos con sobresalto y vio, sentada al otro lado de su escritorio, a una mujer de unos cuarenta años, de nariz afilada y mirada inquieta, con el pelo rojizo recogido en un moño. Al ver que se había despertado, ella le sonrió afablemente. Sus ojos, sin embargo, le escrutaban con ahínco.

Lorenzo Fresnos se sintió molesto. Le irritaba que la mujer hubiese entrado sin llamar, o que él no la hubiese oído, y que le hubiera estado espiando mientras dormía. Hubiera querido decir: «Encantado de conocerla, señora...» (era una primera visita) pero había olvidado el nombre que su secretaria le había apuntado en la agenda. Y ella ya había empezado a hablar.

—Cuánto me alegro de conocerle —estaba diciendo—. No sabe con qué impaciencia esperaba esta entrevista. ¿No me regateará el tiempo, verdad?

— Por supuesto, señora —replicó Fresnos, más bien seco. Algo, quizá la ansiedad que latía en su voz, o su tono demasiado íntimo, le había puesto en guardia—. Usted dirá.

Joe Hill: Bobby Conroy Comes Back From the Dead

Bobby didn't know her at first. She was wounded, like him. The first thirty to arrive all got wounds. Tom Savini put them on himself.

Her face was a silvery blue, her eyes sunken into darkened hollows, and where her right ear had been was a ragged-edged hole, a gaping place that revealed a lump of wet red bone. They sat a yard apart on the stone wall around the fountain, which was switched off. She had her pages balanced on one knee—three pages in all, stapled together—and was looking them over, frowning with concentration. Bobby had read his while he was waiting in line to go into makeup.

Her jeans reminded him of Harriet Rutherford. There were patches all over them, patches that looked as if they had been made out of kerchiefs; squares of red and dark blue, with paisley patterns printed on them. Harriet was always wearing jeans like that. Patches sewn into the butt of a girl's Levi's still turned Bobby on.

His gaze followed the bend of her legs down to where her blue jeans flared at the ankle, then on to her bare feet. She had kicked her sandals off, and was twisting the toes of one foot into the toes of the other. When he saw this he felt his heart lunge with a kind of painful-sweet shock.

«Harriet?» he said. «Is that little Harriet Rutherford who I used to write love poems to?»

She peered at him sideways, over her shoulder. She didn't need to answer, he knew it was her. She stared for a long, measuring time, and then her eyes opened a little wider. They were a vivid, very undead green, and for an instant he saw them brighten with recognition and unmistakable excitement. But she turned her head away, went back to perusing her pages.

«No one ever wrote me love poems in high school,» she said. «I'd remember. I would've died of happiness.»

«In detention. Remember we got two weeks after the cooking show skit? You had a cucumber carved like a dick. You said it needed to stew for an hour and stuck it in your pants. It was the finest moment in the history of the Die Laughing Comedy Collective.»

David Torres: Palabras para Nadia

Nadia, es cierto que no te llamas Nadia, pero qué importa eso ahora, en medio de esta noche interminable. Déjame recordar otra vez nuestro viaje, escúchame mientras mi dedo recorre despacio las líneas suavemente irreales del atlas, podemos salir de Bucarest con destino Brasov y luego, allí, hacer el transbordo a Sighiosara, el tren se bambolea ligeramente al rozar con las letras de los Cárpatos mansamente apaisadas en el mapa; no te inquietes, Nadia, ya sé que tienes miedo a los trenes, que no te gusta que te llame Nadia. En cambio, ahora que lo pien­so, Nadia es un nombre que te sienta muy bien porque es como el femenino de nadie, y en cierto modo tú no eres aún más que un poco de nada y miedo y niebla, no existes más que en virtud de este ensalmo compuesto de nombres de ciudades y estaciones: no existes tú ni tus alumnos ni el resto de tu inundo diurno, sino sólo palabras, lentas palabras que deletreo a medida que mi mano las acaricia sobre el atlas. Transilvania, por ejemplo, fíjate que palabra tan bella, Nadia, parece hecha

a medida para ti, que temes a los trenes, puesto que suena a tren, es una lenta locomotora de vocales por donde cruzan viajeros misteriosos y brisas nocturnas, pero también otras cosas porque también hay en ella tránsitos, selvas, silbidos y vesania. O Valaquia, como una reina hermosa y cruel, con la uve mayúscula que recuerda vagamente el colmillo del vampiro y esa suave aspiración de la última sílaba que tiembla entre los labios entornados con el estertor de una vena marchita. «Las leyendas dicen que los vampiros nacieron en Valaquia, pero sabemos que son mucho más antiguos», es una frase con la que inicias a menudo tus clases, ese universo rutinario hecho de escepticismo, conferencias, tópicos, ese lugar donde intentas demostrar a tus jóvenes alumnos de antropología que los vam­piros no existen ni existieron nunca, que son una urna vacía, un mito, una metáfora o, en el mejor de los casos, un buen pretexto para escritores sin imaginación. Entonces hay un mundo donde tú y el tiempo y el espacio son algo más que palabras, donde sonríes y hablas monótonamente a un audito­rio aburrido, donde respondes a otros nombres y a veces te acuestas con algún amante casual, tal vez uno de tus alumnos, y mientras te acaricia no se te va de la cabeza la idea de que, a pesar de tu belleza, lo hace para subir nota, los alumnos son así hoy día, y suspiras añorando otras épocas que no conociste, y después del amor empiezas a dormir lentamente, un sueño sin orillas donde, detrás de los párpados cerrados, un gemido, un tumbo del cuerpo que descansa al otro lado de la cama puede engendrar al monstruo, dar inicio al viaje: el chirrido de las vías muertas, el lento despegue del tren, la estación que va que­dando atrás, la palabra Transilvania.

Enrique Murillo: Elogio del transporte público

Cuando oía hablar del placer o pronunciaba yo mismo esta palabra, siempre había creído saber de qué se trataba, de manera que, aunque me precio de ser una persona analítica que no se conforma con ideas prestadas, nunca me detenía a darle vueltas a un concepto que tan obvio parecía. Dicho de otro modo, yo era de los que saben qué es el placer por experiencia propia, como suele decirse. Y no porque hubiese disfrutado mucho de mi mujer, cuya capacidad de abstinencia la convertía en un claro caso de vocación fallida —y no sólo en este sentido; su talento organizador y su sentido estricto de la disciplina me parecían dignos de una madre superiora de la vieja escuela — , sino porque sí lo había hecho de mis mujeres, al menos hasta que de repente las dejé prácticamente abandonadas. A lo sumo, cuando mi carácter reflexivo me llevaba a pensar en ellas, a veces se manifestaba cierta perplejidad, cierta vacilación debida no tanto a la duda sobre el signo inequívocamente placentero de las horas que pasaba con ellas como al recuerdo de la sensación de hastío que acostumbraba a aparecer como indeseable pero al mismo tiempo inseparable compañero del placer o, por decirlo con una imagen profesional, como un socio inevitable de una empresa que bien podría calificarse de perversa en la medida

en que el capital —no escaso— que en ella se invierte no solamente no persigue la obtención de beneficios sino que trata de garantizar las pérdidas. Y justamente ahí donde yo creía hilar fino, cuando, en un esfuerzo de sinceridad, esa ausencia de pureza en el goce me impulsaba a temerme que quizá mis placeres, por contaminados de displacer, no fueran tales, es donde más me equivocaba, pues no hay placer sin dolor ni excitación digna de ese nombre que no vaya acompañada de unos sentimientos negativos tan intensos como ella. Mi equivocación consistía en concebir cada emoción como un ente puro, en esperar que algún día se presentase el placer limpio de polvo y paja —términos cuyas connotaciones no se me escapan y que más bien quiero subrayar porque demuestran la medida del error—, y, así, no llegué de hecho a conocerlo hasta que fui capaz de comprender que sólo se obtiene —resplandeciente como el sol y vil como la basura más hedionda— el día en que el impulso irresistible de disfrutarlo coexiste con el pavor más absoluto a su obtención, el instante en que te sientes aterrado por lo mismo que te arrastra y, pese a ello, te dejas llevar. 

Joe Hill: Abraham's Boys

Maximilian searched for them in the carriage house and the cattle shed, even had a look in the springhouse, although he knew almost at first glance he wouldn't find them there. Rudy wouldn't hide in a place like that, dank and chill, no windows and so no light, a place that smelled of bats. It was too much like a basement. Rudy never went in their basement back home if he could help it, was afraid the door would shut behind him, and he'd find himself trapped in the suffocating dark.

Max checked the barn last, but they weren't hiding there either, and when he came into the dooryard, he saw with a shock dusk had come. He had never imagined it could be so late.

"No more this game," he shouted. "Rudolf! We have to go." Only when he said

have it came out hoff, a noise like a horse sneezing. He hated the sound of his own voice, envied his younger brother's confident American pronunciations. Rudolf had been born here, had never seen Amsterdam. Max had lived the first five years of his life there, in a dimly lit apartment that smelled of mildewed velvet curtains, and the latrine stink of the canal below.

Max hollered until his throat was raw, but in the end, all his shouting brought only Mrs. Kutchner, who shuffled slowly across the porch, hugging herself for warmth, although it was not cold. When she reached the railing she took it in both hands and sagged forward, using it to hold herself up.

This time last fall, Mrs. Kutchner had been agreeably plump, dimples in her fleshy cheeks, her face always flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Now her face was starved, the skin pulled tight across the skull beneath, her eyes feverish and bird-bright in their bony hollows. Her daughter, Arlene-who at this very moment was hiding with Rudy somewhere-had whispered that her mother kept a tin bucket next to the bed, and when her father carried it to the outhouse in the morning to empty it, it sloshed with a quarter inch of bad-smelling blood.

Pedro Montero (bajo el sobrenombre P. Martín de Cáceres): El bebé sin nombre

Hoy en día no resulta difícil para una estudiante obtener unos ingresos extra dedicándose a cuidar niños algunas noches por semana. Hay matrimonios jóvenes que no renuncian a salir al cine o al teatro y necesitan de vez en cuando de los servicios de lo que en argot se denominan «canguras». Generalmente el trabajo no tiene complicaciones, salvo cuando se trata de niños difíciles, y si eso ocurre basta con tachar de la lista la casa en cuestión. Pero, cuidado, porque también podéis encontraros con casos especiales que en un principio parecen no ofrecer dificultad: un angelote rubio que duerme como un tronco en su cunita justamente hasta que sus padres abandonan el piso, y entonces, sólo entonces, se despierta y se le ocurre pedir pipí, agua, un caramelo y caprichos que en otras circunstancias no se le hubieran antojado. Si alguna se topa con un asunto de estos es seguro que ya no se podrá seguir en paz la película de la televisión, o mantener una mínima continuidad en la sesión de achuchones con el amigo de turno, que generalmente llega una vez que el matrimonio ha abandonado el piso.

Saber qué casa es recomendable o cuál debe ser cuidadosamente evitada es algo que acaba intuyéndose a base de experiencia. Pero ni las más avezadas «canguras» pueden asegurar que no va a surgir un imprevisto que les amargue la noche. Se cuentan casos como el del matrimonio que desapareció sin dejar rastro, abandonando a su hijo en manos de su cuidadora (y, lo que es peor, sin haber abonado sus servicios), o el de la que tuvo que habérselas con un subnormal de quince años que pretendía ejecutar con su colaboración actos que, por otra parte y a todas luces, deberían ser considerados normales.

Sea como fuere, y descartando cualquier ánimo moralizador, sirva el relato de esta verídica historia para advertencia de las intrépidas «canguras» que se comprometen, quizá demasiado alegremente, en una tarea que, lejos de resultar cómoda, puede convertirse a veces en algo sumamente inquietante.

Thomas Ligotti: The Red Tower

The ruined factory stood three stories high in an otherwise featureless landscape. Although somewhat imposing on its own terms, it occupied only the most unobtrusive place within the gray emptiness of its surroundings, its presence serving as a mere accent upon a desolate horizon. No road led to the factory, nor were there any traces of one that might have led to it at some time in the distant past. If there had ever been such a road it would have been rendered useless as soon as it arrived at one of the four, red-bricked sides of the factory, even in the days when the facility was in full operation. The reason for this was simple: no doors had been built into the factory, no loading docks or entranceways allowed penetration of the outer walls of the structure, which was solid brick on all four sides without even a single window below the level of the second floor. The phenomenon of a large factory so closed off from the outside world was a point of extreme fascination to me. It was almost with regret that I ultimately learned about the factory’s subterranean access. But of course that revelation in its turn also became a source for my truly degenerate sense of amazement, my decayed fascination.

The factory had long been in ruins, its innumerable bricks worn and crumbling, its many windows shattered. Each of the three enormous stories that stood above the ground level was vacant of all but dust and silence. The machinery, which densely occupied the three floors of the factory as well as considerable space beneath it, is said to have evaporated — I repeat, evaporated—soon after the factory ceased operation, leaving behind only a few spectral outlines of deep vats and tanks, twisting tubes and funnels, harshly grinding gears and levers, giant belts and wheels that could be most clearly seen at twilight — and later, not at all. According to these strictly hallucinatory accounts, the whole of the Red Tower, as the factory was known, had always been subject to fadings at certain times. This phenomenon, in the delirious or dying words of several witnesses, was due to a profound hostility between the noisy and malodorous operations of the factory and the desolate purity of the landscape surrounding it, the conflict occasionally resulting in temporary erasures, or fadings, of the former by the latter.

Patricia Highsmith: The Artist

At the time Jane got married, one would have thought there was nothing unusual about her. She was plump, pretty and practical: she could give artificial respiration at the drop of a hat or pull someone out of a faint or a nosebleed. She was a dentist’s assistant, and as cool as they come in the face of crisis or pain. But she had enthusiasm for the arts. What arts? All of them. She began, in the first year of her married life, with painting. This occupied all her Saturdays, or enough of Saturdays to prevent adequate shopping for the weekend, but her husband Bob did the shopping. He also paid for the framing of muddy, run—together odd portraits of their friends, and the sittings of the friends took up time on the weekends too. Jane at last faced the fact she could not stop her colours from running together, and decided to abandon painting for the dance.

The dance, in a black leotard, did not much improve her robust figure, only her appetite. Special shoes followed. She was studying ballet,. She had discovered an institution called The School of Arts. In this five—storey edifice they taught the piano, violin and other instruments, music composition, novel—writing, poetry, sculpture, the dance and painting.

‘You see, Bob, life can and should be made more beautiful,’ Jane said with her big smile. ‘And everyone wants to contribute, if he or she can, just a little bit to the beauty and poetry of the world.’

Bob happened to be there, because he was to have fetched Jane at 5 p.m. He had heard about the bomb rumour, but did not know whether to believe it or not. With some caution, however, or a premonition, he was waiting across the street instead of in the lobby.

Henry James: The romance of certain old clothes

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Towards the middle of the eighteenth century there lived in the Province of Massachusetts a widowed gentlewoman, the mother of three children, by name Mrs Veronica Wingrave. She had lost her husband early in life, and had devoted herself to the care of her progeny. These young persons grew up in a manner to reward her tenderness and to gratify her highest hopes. The first-born was a son, whom she had called Bernard, in remembrance of his father. The others were daughters – born at an interval of three years apart. Good looks were traditional in the family, and this youthful trio were not likely to allow the tradition to perish. The boy was of that fair and ruddy complexion and that athletic structure which in those days (as in these) were the sign of good English descent – a frank, affectionate young fellow, a deferential son, a patronising brother, a steadfast friend. Clever, however, he was not; the wit of the family had been apportioned chiefly to his sisters. The late Mr William Wingrave had been a great reader of Shakespeare, at a time when this pursuit implied more freedom of thought than at the present day, and in a community where it required much courage to patronise the drama even in the closet; and he had wished to call attention to his admiration of the great poet by calling his daughters out of his favourite plays. Upon the elder he had bestowed the romantic name of Rosalind, and the younger he had called Perdita, in memory of a little girl born between them, who had lived but a few weeks.

When Bernard Wingrave came to his sixteenth year his mother put a brave face upon it and prepared to execute her husband’s last injunction. This had been a formal command that, at the proper age, his son should be sent out to England, to complete his education at the university of Oxford, where he himself had acquired his taste for elegant literature. It was Mrs Wingrave’s belief that the lad’s equal was not to be found in the two hemispheres, but she had the old traditions of literal obedience. She swallowed her sobs, and made up her boy’s trunk and his simple provincial outfit, and sent him on his way across the seas. Bernard presented himself at his father’s college, and spent five years in England, without great honour, indeed, but with a vast deal of pleasure and no discredit. On leaving the university he made the journey to France. In his twenty-fourth year he took ship for home, prepared to find poor little New England (New England was very small in those days) a very dull, unfashionable residence. But there had been changes at home, as well as in Mr Bernard’s opinions. He found his mother’s house quite habitable, and his sisters grown into two very charming young ladies, with all the accomplishments and graces of the young women of Britain, and a certain native-grown originality and wildness, which, if it was not an accomplishment, was certainly a grace the more. Bernard privately assured his mother that his sisters were fully a match for the most genteel young women in the old country; whereupon poor Mrs Wingrave, you may be sure, bade them hold up their heads. Such was Bernard’s opinion, and such, in a tenfold higher degree, was the opinion of Mr Arthur Lloyd. This gentleman was a college-mate of Mr Bernard, a young man of reputable family, of a good person and a handsome inheritance; which latter appurtenance he proposed to invest in trade in the flourishing colony. He and Bernard were sworn friends; they had crossed the ocean together, and the young American had lost no time in presenting him at his mother’s house, where he had made quite as good an impression as that which he had received and of which I have just given a hint.