Ambrose Bierce: The Famous Gilson Request

It was rough on Gilson. Such was the terse, cold, but not altogether unsympathetic judgment of the better public opinion at Mammon Hill—the dictum of respectability. The verdict of the opposite, or rather the opposing, element—the element that lurked red-eyed and restless about Moll Gurney's "deadfall," while respectability took it with sugar at Mr. Jo. Bentley's gorgeous "saloon"—was to pretty much the same general effect, though somewhat more ornately expressed by the use of picturesque expletives, which it is needless to quote. Virtually, Mammon Hill was a unit on the Gilson question. And it must be confessed that in a merely temporal sense all was not well with Mr. Gilson. He had that morning been led into town by Mr. Brentshaw and publicly charged with horse stealing; the sheriff meantime busying himself about The Tree with a new manila rope and Carpenter Pete being actively employed between drinks upon a pine box about the length and breadth of Mr. Gilson. Society having rendered its verdict, there remained between Gilson and eternity only the decent formality of a trial.

These are the short and simple annals of the prisoner: He had recently been a resident of New Jerusalem, on the north fork of the Little Stony, but had come to the newly discovered placers of Mammon Hill immediately before the "rush" by which the former place was depopulated. The discovery of the new diggings had occurred opportunely for Mr. Gilson, for it had only just before been intimated to him by a New Jerusalem vigilance committee that it would better his prospects in, and for, life to go somewhere; and the list of places to which he could safely go did not include any of the older camps; so he naturally established himself at Mammon Hill. Being eventually followed thither by all his judges, he ordered his conduct with considerable circumspection, but as he had never been known to do an honest day's work at any industry sanctioned by the stern local code of morality except draw poker he was still an object of suspicion. Indeed, it was conjectured that he was the author of the many daring depredations that had recently been committed with pan and brush on the sluice boxes.

Prominent among those in whom this suspicion had ripened into a steadfast conviction was Mr. Brentshaw. At all seasonable and unseasonable times Mr. Brentshaw avowed his belief in Mr. Gilson's connection with these unholy midnight enterprises, and his own willingness to prepare a way for the solar beams through the body of any one who might think it expedient to utter a different opinion--which, in his presence, no one was more careful not to do than the peace-loving person most concerned. Whatever may have been the truth of the matter, it is certain that Gilson frequently lost more "clean dust" at Jo. Bentley's faro table than it was recorded in local history that he had ever honestly earned at draw poker in all the days of the camp's existence. But at last Mr. Bentley--fearing, it may be, to lose the more profitable patronage of Mr. Brentshaw--peremptorily refused to let Gilson copper the queen, intimating at the same time, in his frank, forthright way, that the privilege of losing money at "this bank" was a blessing appertaining to, proceeding logically from, and coterminous with, a condition of notorious commercial righteousness and social good repute.

Clarice Lispector: Miss Algrave

Ela era sujeita a julgamento. Por isso não contou nada a ninguém. Se contasse, não acreditariam porque não acreditavam na realidade. Mas ela que morava em Londres, onde os fantasmas existem nos becos escuros, sabia da verdade.Seu dia, Sexta-feira, fora igual aos outros. Só aconteceu sábado à noite. Mas na Sexta fez tudo igual como sempre. Embora a atormentasse uma lembrança horrível: quando era pequena, com uns sete anos de idade, brincava de marido e mulher com seu primo Jack, na cama grande da vovó. E ambos faziam de tudo para Ter filhinhos sem conseguir. Nunca mais vira Jack nem queria vê-lo. Se era culpada, ele também o era.Solteira, é claro, virgem, é claro. Morava sozinha numa cobertura em Soho. Nesse dia tinha feito suas compras de comida: legumes e frutas. Porque comer carne ela considerava pecado.Quando passava pelo Picadilly Circle e via as mulheres esperando homens nas esquinas, só faltava vomitar. Ainda mais por dinheiro! Era demais para se suportar. E aquela estátua de Eros, ali, indecente.Foi depois do almoço ao trabalho: era datilógrafa perfeita. Seu chefe nunca olhava para ela e tratava-a felizmentecom respeito chamando-a de Miss Algrave. Seu primeiro nome era Ruth. E descendia de irlandeses. Era ruiva, usava cabelos enrolados na nuca em coque severo. Tinha muitas sardas e pele tão clara e fina que parecia uma seda branca. Os cílios também eram ruivos. Era uma mulher bonita.Orgulhava-se muito do seu físico: cheia de corpo e alta. Mas nunca ninguém havia tocado nos seus seios.Costumava jantar num restaurante barato em Soho mesmo. Comia camarão com molho de tomate. E nunca entrara num pub: nauseava-a o cheiro do álcool, quando passava por um. Sentia-se ofendida pela humanidade.Cultivava gerâneos vermelhos que eram uma glória na primavera. Seu pai era pastor protestante e a mãe ainda morava em Dublin com o filho casado. Seu irmão era casado com uma verdadeira cadela chamada Tootzi.De vez em quando Miss Algrave escrevia uma carta de protesto para o Time. E eles publicavam. Via com muito gosto o seu nome: sincerely Ruth Algrave.Tomava banho só uma vez por semana, no Sábado. Para não ver o seu corpo nu, não tirava nem as calcinhas nem o sutiã.No dia em que aconteceu era Sábado e não tinha portanto trabalho. Acordou cedo e tomou chá de jasmim. Depois rezou. Depois saiu para tomar ar.Perto do Savoy Hotel quase foi atropelada. Se isso acontecesse e ela morresse teria sido horrível porque nada lhe aconteceria de noite.Foi ao ensaio do canto coral. Tinha voz maviosa. Sim, era uma pessoa privilegiada.Depois foi almoçar e permitiu-se comer camarão: estava tão bom que até parecia pecado.Então dirigiu-se ao Hyde Park e sentou-se na grama. Levara a Bíblia para ler. Mas- que Deus a perdoasse – o sol estava tão guerrilheiro, tão bom tão quente, que, não leu nada, ficou só sentada no chão sem coragem de se deitar. Procurou não olhar os casais que se beijavam e se acariciavam sem a menor vergonha.Depois foi para casa, regou as begônias e tomou banho. Então visitou Mrs. Cabot que tinha noventa e sete anos. Levou-lhe um pedaço de bolo com passas e tomaram chá. 

Santiago Eximeno: La madre de la animadora

¿Sí, señora? No llore, por favor, no la entiendo ¿Cómo? Sí, sí, la hemos encontrado. Sí, en el bosque. ¿Perdón? ¿Quiere saber cómo está su hija? Deme una M. Deme una U. Deme una E. Deme una R. Deme una T. Deme una A.

L. Sprague de Camp: Nothing in the Rules

Not many spectators turn out for a meet between two minor women's swimming clubs, and this one was no exception. Louis Connaught, looking up at the balcony, thought casually that the single row of seats around it was about half-full, mostly with the usual bored-looking assortment of husbands and boy friends, and some of the Hotel Creston's guests who had wandered in for want of anything better to do. One of the bellboys was asking an evening-gowned female not to smoke, and she was showing irritation. Mr. Santalucia and the little Santalucias were there as usual to see mamma perform. They waved down at Connaught.

Connaught—a dark devilish-looking little man—glanced over to the other side of the pool. The girls were coming out of the shower rooms, and their shrill conversation was blurred by the acoustics of the pool room into a continuous buzz. The air was faintly steamy. The stout party in white duck pants was Laird, coach of the Knickerbockers and Connaught's arch rival. He saw Connaught and boomed: "Hi, Louie!" The words rattled from wall to wall with a sound like a stick being drawn swiftly along a picket fence. Wambach of the A. A. U. Committee, who was refereeing, came in with his overcoat still on and greeted Laird, but the booming reverberations drowned his words before they got over to Connaught.

Then somebody else came through the door; or rather, a knot of people crowded through it all at once, facing inward, some in bathing suits and some in street clothes. It was a few seconds before Coach Connaught saw what they were looking at. He blinked and looked more closely, standing with his mouth half-open.

But not for long. "Hey!" he yelled in a voice that made the pool room sound like the inside of a snare drum in use. "Protest! PROTEST! You can't do that!"

It had been the preceding evening when Herbert Laird opened his front door and shouted, "H'lo, Mark, come on in." The chill March wind was making a good deal of racket but not so much as all that. Laird was given to shouting on general principles. He was stocky and bald.

Mark Vining came in and deposited his brief case. He was younger than Laird—just thirty, in fact—with octagonal glasses and rather thin severe features, which made him look more serious than he was.

"Glad you could come, Mark," said Laird. "Listen, can you make our meet with the Crestons tomorrow night?"

Pere Calders: L'imprevist a la casa número 10

     

De bon matí, l'imprevist es presenta a la casa número 10.

Una parella de policies amb tercerola i dos agents de la brigada social amenacen de tirar a terra la porta primera del segon pis. Un dels policies crida amb una veu que es classifica de seguida com a veu oficial. És la seva missió.

El monàrquic surt ensonyat, un bon tros sorprès. Duu un vestit clar i porta barret de palla, el segon barret de palla de la temporada, segurament.

—Sembla mentida, un home tan infelic... —comenta la portera amb una veína del tercer pis (en el qual, d'una manera insospitada, s'està forjant un drama d'adulteri).

Les dotze families habitants de la casa senten tota la importancia de la detenció. Vet ací que en vint-i-cinc anys no ha passat res d'anormal, de dalt a baix de l'immoble, i la gent, víctima d'una mala preparació, es troben incapacitats per a situar degudament el fet divers. Per un matí, el pujar i baixar dels accessoris, del desdejuni, i els diaris, coincideixen amb la visita de la policia, i els veíns es cerquen mútuament, cacant la confidència.

L'imprevist continua allí. Sembla com si s'hagués instal.lat a la casa. Va d'un pis a l'altre desgavellant situacions i creant-ne d'altres.

Al tercer pis han disparat dos trets. Algú s'ha desmaiat: una vella cubana, la qual palesament no podia pas resistir més d'una emoció en un dia. La pèrdua del coneixement l'ha arreplegada en mig d'un ditirambe sucós del monàrquic detingut. Un altre dia qualsevol de l'any, el seu desmai hauria estat celebrat degudament. Però aleshores hom es preocupa preferentment dels trets del tercer pis.

Una colla de veins comissionats per llur pròpia transcendencia, pugen escales amunt amb infinites precaucions. A mig camí la seva marxa és interrompuda per l'aparició del senyor del tercer pis, que baixa esverat, empunyant una pistola que, de sobte, llança escales avall, tot murmurant unes paraules que tiren a terra d'una manera contundent la integritat moral de la seva esposa. En fugir, diu quelcom de què es desprèn que el matrimoni del tercer no és tal matrimoni, i l'adulteri es presenta impensadament. Quina cosa més extraordinària!

Els trets no han tocat ningú, i la dona surt al replà esgrimint una ampolla de vi. El més insignificant dels gests de la senyora està controlat per l'alcohol (això es veu de seguida). Immediatament de la seva aparició, la dona descobreix un fantasma encastat a l'esmalt de la paret de l'escala, i hi projecta la seva ampolla que es desfà en mil bocins. Tot seguit, un furiós atac de nervis rebat la senyora per terra.

La comissió de veïns, detinguda mentre més amunt s'agitava alguna cosa, es refà en constatar el silenci. Pugen tots, doncs, recullen la senyora i la dipositen en un dels llits de casa seva. Mitja hora més tard, el senyor del tercer pis hi acudeix, compungit. Porta un collaret de perles falses a les mans, sense embolicar. Vol demostrar, evidentment, que porta l'armistici als dits. Des d'aquest moment l'incident perd interés, i cadascú es retira a casa seva.

Però l'imprevist, per una vegada en una eternitat, persisteix en la casa número 10. Una mica més tard, la maquineta cerebral de la vella del primer pis, que tota la vida ha funcionat malament, es desgavella d'una manera definitiva i coordina una idea singular. Surt furtivament a l'escala, truca a la porta dels veïns i, en sortir aquests, els convida a presenciar quelcom meravellós. Els veïns, que en el transcurs del dia han tingut ocasió de disciplinar les seves impressions, segueixen la vella fins a casa seva i aquesta, després d'haver tancat amb grans precaucions la porta d'entrada, els condueix davant una calaixera i els mostra una baldufa inservible, col.locada dins una formatgera de vidre.

Donald A. Wollheim: Doorslammer

 

FROM SOMEWHERE down the darkened hall a door slammed.

I looked up from my papers, looked at Mr. Wilkins questioningly. It was ten thirty at night and I had supposed we were alone in the office, probably alone in the whole gigantic office building.

"The cleaning woman come back?" I queried. She had been in an hour ago, dusting and mopping and emptying the waste baskets. It was a disturbance and a distraction. We wanted to get the books straightened out and we needed peace and quiet to do it.

Wilkins shook his head. "It was nothing. Let's get on with this."

I frowned, annoyed, went back to my ledgers. I finished four more pages, saw that the work was finished on this book. It wasn't going to be such a long job at that. I'd figured on being at the office until maybe one in the morning. I leaned back, looked up.

Wilkins looked up just then, caught my eyes, smiled a bit. I saw he'd probably realized just how close we were to being through.

"I'm done with this one," I said. "Going to stretch my legs a bit." He watched me, said nothing. I got up, walked over to the water cooler at the door, took a drink, looked out into the dark corridor leading towards the editorial offices. I couldn't see what door had slammed. They were all shut, all the little cubbyholes at the far end, the ones with the view of the river from twenty stories up, the best offices reserved for the sensitive souls in Editorial - with the big brains and the lowest salaries.

I walked down the hall towards that end. It was dark and deserted, and there were no lights behind the chilled glass windows of the doors. It's eerie in an office building after hours, darned eerie. I came back. Wilkins had finished his ledger, was leaning back, lighting a cigarette.

"Nobody there," I said. "But somebody slammed a door before. I heard it. And there's no drafts."

He nodded soberly. "I know. I heard it too. Often hear it late at night like this. Ifs nobody. Only Alice."

"Alice?" I asked. 'Thought you said we were alone. Is Alice the cleaning woman's name?"

He shook his head. "No, not Mrs. Flaherty. Just Alice . . . You remember." -

I sat down. "Who're you kidding? I don't remember any Alice."

WILKINS LOOKED at me, took his cigarette out of his mouth. "Oh, that's right. You never knew her. You came after her time. Well . . . it's Alice, anyway. Alice Kingsley, I thinkwas her name. Alice C. Kingsley. Mrs."

"So?'' I said. "So this Alice is working here tonight. Why doesn't she come in and say hello? One of those stuck-up editors?"

"Alice isn't working here tonight," said Wilkins mildly. "She hasn't been working here for a couple of years. Not here. Not nowhere."

"So who are you talking about?" I asked, beginning to get a little piqued. "First you say Alice, then no - so what Alice is here now?"

Santiago Roncagliolo: El pozo

 Debería verlo antes de partir -me dijo Wordsworth- Es algo que no se puede perder… Si se atreve, claro.

Wordsworth solía ponerse pedante a ciertas horas de la madrugada, cuando ya sólo quedábamos los solteros y los decididamente alcohólicos en el bar del Grand Hotel des Wagons Lits. En realidad, yo detestaba a ese tipo. Me molestaban su arrogancia y sus aires de superioridad. Pero en el Pekín de 1937, no había mucha gente más con quién compartir una noche de copas. Los japoneses acampaban a pocas millas de la ciudad, preparando la invasión. El gobierno había trasladado la capital. Los occidentales se marchaban. Los pocos que quedábamos vivíamos encerrados en el barrio de las legaciones. Salir de noche se consideraba un suicidio. Aún así, le dije:

-Lléveme. Vamos ahora.

-No me haga sacar el coche si luego va a echarse atrás -dijo Wordsworth, tras una pantalla de humo de cigarrillos.

-¿No me ha oído? He dicho que nos vamos.

En esos tiempos, todo el mundo hablaba del club del Loto. Supuestamente era el más exclusivo de Pekín, pero por eso mismo, nadie admitía ser miembro. Era tal la leyenda del club que yo pensaba que no existía en realidad. Pero Wordsworth, con su enorme boca y su borrachera, acababa de admitir que era socio, y se había ofrecido a llevarme.

-Sólo hay una condición -advirtió-: debe jurar que no contará a nadie lo que ocurra ahí.

-¿Por qué? -preguntaba yo- ¿Qué pasa ahí que sea tan importante?

-He jurado no contarlo -respondía Wordsworth, enigmáticamente.

-¿Y qué pasa si un socio traiciona el juramento?

-A nadie se le ocurriría -sonrió.

Yo también me marchaba. Al día siguiente. Acababa de vender todos los negocios de mi familia en la ciudad. En Londres me esperaba mi prometida Mina, cuya familia poseía un patrimonio considerable. Me preparaba para una vida cómoda pero aburrida. Echaría de menos los fumaderos de opio contrabandeado de Manchuria, las brochetas de alacranes y las prostitutas coreanas. Así que esa noche, no quería dormir. Quería saborear cada segundo en Pekín. Quería aventuras. Y acepté su condición.

-Está bien, lo llevaré -dijo Wordsworth ahora, aplastando su colilla contra un ostentoso cenicero de porcelana-. Será un regalo de despedida. Supongo que se lo ha ganado.

Montados en su Voisin blanco, abandonamos el barrio de las legaciones y penetramos en la China real, entre lámparas rojas de papel y patrullas militares. Wordsworth condujo hasta los hutongs cercanos a la Ciudad Prohibida y se detuvo en uno de ellos, ante una construcción gris y silenciosa.

-¿Está usted seguro? -me dijo mientras apagaba el motor.

Stephen Crane: Ominous Baby

   A baby was wandering in a strange country. He was a tattered child with a frowsled wealth of yellow hair. His dress, of a checked stuff, was soiled and showed the marks of many conflicts like the chain-shirt of a warrior. His sun-tanned knees shone above wrinkled stockings which he pulled up occasionally with an impatient movement when they entangled his feet. From a gaping shoe there appeared an array of tiny toes.

   He was toddling along an avenue between rows of stolid, brown houses. He went slowly, with a look of absorbed interest on his small, flushed face. His blue eyes stared curiously. Carriages went with a musical rumble over the smooth asphalt. A man with a chrysanthemum was going up steps. Two nursery-maids chatted as they walked slowly, while their charges hob-nobbed amiably between perambulators. A truck wagon roared thunderously in the distance.

   The child from the poor district made way along the brown street filled with dull gray shadows. High up, near the roofs, glancing sun-rays changed cornices to blazing gold and silvered the fronts of windows. The wandering baby stopped and stared at the two children laughing and playing in their carriages among the heaps of rugs and cushions. He braced his legs apart in an attitude of earnest attention. His lower jaw fell and disclosed his small even teeth. As they moved on, he followed the carriages with awe in his face as if contemplating a pageant. Once one of the babies, with twittering laughter, shook a gorgeous rattle at him. He smiled jovially in return.

   Finally a nursery maid ceased conversation and, turning, made a gesture of annoyance.

   "Go 'way, little boy," she said to him. "Go 'way. You're all dirty."

   He gazed at her with infant tranquillity for a moment and then went slowly off, dragging behind him a bit of rope he had acquired in another street. He continued to investigate the new scenes. The people and houses struck him with interest as would flowers and trees. Passengers had to avoid the small, absorbed figure in the middle of the sidewalk. They glanced at the intent baby face covered with scratches and dust as with scars and powder smoke.

   After a time, the wanderer discovered upon the pavement, a pretty child in fine clothes playing with a toy. It was a tiny fire engine painted brilliantly in crimson and gold. The wheels rattled as its small owner dragged it uproariously about by means of a string. The babe with his bit of rope trailing behind him paused and regarded the child and the toy. For a long while he remained motionless, save for his eyes, which followed all movements of the glittering thing.

Lucía Puenzo: Cohiba

El hombre roza mi mano en la oscuridad. Tiene la piel caliente y áspera. El pelo corto, los rulos aplastados con algún ungüento casero que brilla hasta en la penumbra del cine. Su olor se desprende del resto. Me mira de reojo y yo a él. Todo lo que tiene es nuevo: la camisa blanca, el reloj, la mochila abierta con un par de libros de arte afrocubano. Es un profesor joven o un alumno a punto de recibirse. Treinta años, no más. Saco la mano del apoyabrazos y la escondo entre mis piernas. En la pantalla el protagonista habla a cámara desafiando al Imperio: la comida chatarra es culpable de la obesidad del mundo. Presenta a su novia naturista y a los médicos que van a seguir el desbarranco de su cuerpo embutido de basura un mes entero. Con un movimiento suave, que nadie ve, el hombre deja caer su mano sobre mi pierna. Un segundo nada más –una caricia– y todo desaparece…, la gente, la película: él es lo único que existe, su respiración pausada. Espero agazapada contra la mujer de la derecha. Podría pedirle permiso, decir que tengo que ir al baño, esperar en el hall del cine. Pero no hago nada. La mujer se corre para que mi brazo no siga rozando el suyo. Los tres miramos al frente en silencio. En la pantalla el cuerpo americano empieza a descomponerse. Hinchado, flácido, sin deseo, vomita en la puerta de un McDonald’s y el cine estalla en una carcajada. El hombre ríe con ellos, mientras apoya su pierna contra la mía. Esta vez no me muevo. Se da cuenta que estamos jugando una pulseada (le gusta). Acomoda la mochila en su pierna izquierda y la prepara para que el extraño que está del otro lado no lo vea. Su mano busca el pantalón, desabotona, baja el cierre. Sin girar la cabeza puedo ver cómo la saca. Con la mano derecha la acaricia, la izquierda sostiene la mochila. Arriba y abajo, cada vez más rápido. Sin dejar de mirar la pantalla (arriba, abajo) ríe cuando todos ríen (arriba, abajo) en la fila de adelante un alemán se recuesta en la butaca sin saber que le apunta a la nuca (arriba, abajo), su respiración se agita, se entrecorta, nadie se entera de nada (arriba, abajo), su mano enloquece, señala (alemán, español, argentina) un telégrafo en medio de la guerra (extranjeros blancos, rodeado) la apunta hacia mí (no voy a irme, no voy a darle el gusto) su respiración nos envuelve a los dos (no voy a…) acaba con los aplausos, la mirada fija en la pantalla, salpica la butaca del alemán, las puntas de su pelo rubio, pinta la madera de espasmos y la firma con una última gota de semen. Se queda quieto, recomponiéndose, mientras los créditos anuncian que el americano ganó todos los premios del cine independiente. Cuando las luces se encienden se levanta y pide permiso para que lo dejen pasar. Es el primero en pararse, aunque estamos en medio de una fila. La gente levanta rodillas, alguno se queja por su apuro. Cobarde y huidizo como una rata abandona la sala con la mirada clavada en el suelo. Camina encorvado, su altura lo incomoda. El cine se vacía de a poco sin que pueda arrancar mis ojos de su obra de arte, la expresión más efímera del arte moderno. En la fila de adelante la novia del alemán le acaricia el pelo y saca la mano pegoteada.

Κωνσταντίνος Καβάφης (Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis): Εις το φως της ημέρας

 

Εκαθήμην μίαν εσπέραν μετά το δείπνον εις το Καζίνον του Αγίου Στεφάνου, εν Ραμλίω. Ο φίλος μου Αλέξανδρος Α., όστις κατώκει εις το Καζίνον, μας είχε προσκαλέσει εμέ και ένα άλλον νέον πολύ σχετικόν μας να δειπνήσωμεν μαζύ του. Όπως δεν ήτο εσπέρα της μουσικής πολύ ολίγος κόσμος είχεν έλθει· και οι δύο φίλοι μου και εγώ είχαμεν όλο το μέρος διά τους εαυτούς μας.

     Ομιλούσαμε περί διαφόρων πραγμάτων, και όπως δεν είμεθα εκ των πολύ πλουσίων ήλθεν αρκετά φυσικά η ομιλία περί χρημάτων, περί της ανεξαρτησίας την οποίαν δίδουν και περί των ηδονών αι οποίαι τα ακολουθούν.

     Ο είς εκ των φίλων μου έλεγεν ότι ήθελε να έχη 3.000.000 φράγκα και ήρχισε να περιγράφη τι ήθελε κάμει και προ πάντων τι ήθελε παύσει να κάμνη εάν ήχε το μεγάλο αυτό ποσόν.

     Εγώ, ολιγαρκέστερος, ηρκούμην εις 20.000 φράγκα εισόδημα τον χρόνον.

     Ο Αλέξανδρος Α. είπεν,

     «Εάν ήθελον θα ήμην τώρα ποιος ξεύρει ποσάκις εκατομμυριούχος ― αλλά δεν ετόλμησα».

     Οι λόγοι αυτοί μας εφάνησαν περίεργοι. Εγνωρίζαμεν καλά την ζωήν του φίλου μας Α. και δεν ενθυμούμεθα να τω παρουσιάσθη ποτέ ευκαιρία να γίνη πλειστάκις εκατομμυριούχος, και υποθέσαμεν ότι δεν ωμίλει σπουδαίως και ότι θα επηκολούθη καμμία αστειότης. Αλλά το πρόσωπον του φίλου μας ήτο πολύ σοβαρόν και τον εζητήσαμεν την εξήγησιν της αινιγματικής φράσεώς του.

     Εδίστασεν επί μίαν στιγμήν ― αλλ’ έπειτα είπεν·

«Εάν ήμην εις άλλην συντροφιά ―αίφνης μεταξύ των λεγομένων “ανεπτυγμένων ανθρώπων”― δεν θα εξηγούμην, διότι θα με περιγελούσαν. Αλλά ημείς ευρισκόμεθα κομμάτι πλέον υψηλά από τους λεγομένους “ανεπτυγμένους ανθρώπους”, δηλαδή η τελεία πνευματική ανάπτυξις μας έκαμε πάλιν απλούς, αλλά απλούς άνευ αμαθείας. Εκάμαμεν όλον τον γύρον. Όθεν φυσικώς επιστρέψαμεν εις το πρώτον σημείον. Οι άλλοι έμειναν εις τα μισά. Δεν ξεύρουν, ουδέ εικάζουν, πού τελειώνει ο δρόμος».

     Οι λόγοι ούτοι δεν μας εξέπληξαν διόλου. Είχαμεν απόλυτον υπόληψιν ο καθείς δι’ εαυτόν και διά τους άλλους δύο.

     «Ναι», επανέλαβεν ο Αλέξανδρος, «αν ετολμούσα θα ήμην υπερεκατομμυριούχος ― αλλ’ εφοβήθηκα.

     »Είναι 10 χρόνων ομιλία. Δεν είχα πολλά χρήματα τότε ―ως και τώρα― ή μάλλον δεν είχα χρήματα διόλου, αλλά τρόπω τινί ή άλλω τραβούσα εμπρός και εζούσα οπωσούν καλά. Κατοικούσα εις ένα σπίτι εις την Οδόν Σερίφ πασά. Το εκρατούσε μία χήρα Ιταλίς. Είχα τρία δωμάτια καλώς επιπλωμένα και ένα υπηρέτην ιδιαίτερον, εκτός της υπηρεσίας της οικοδεσποίνης η οποία ήτο εις την διάθεσίν μου.

Rafael Dieste: A luz en silencio

Eu ben sei que o meu caso non debe dar pé a ningunha nova metafísica, e si, soamente, ás análises dalgún médico sutil. Pero se eu fose afeizoado ás trupias de concepto diríavos que aquela noite foi cando por primeira vez sentín a carón meu a terrible presencia baldeira do Señor Ninguén. Lonxe de min a intención de metervos medo, xa que, polo demais, a cousa non tivo importancia.

Direivos como foi.

Dende había algúns anos vivía na cidade. Alá na viliña onde eu nacera e finaran meus pais, quedaban do herdo familiar algunhas leiras, unha casa e, na casa, uns cantos trastos vellos…

Un labrador fiel de toda a vida, termaba de todo. Foi el quen me urxiu, nunha carta de letra revesgada, para que fose alá. Facía falta que eu mesmo remexese nos seculares feixes de escrituras para desenliar unha discordia por cuestión de extremas.

Cheguei case de noite no coche estrangoado que facía de cote a viaxe entre o meu pobo e a cabeza de partido por onde pasaba o tren. Dúas horas a oí-los berros do tralleiro e as couces que daba nas táboas do pescante para espabilar ós cabalos cativos e desventurados.

Na casa un intre de conversa co labrador, entrementres engulía a cea que me serviu a súa muller.

Despois quedei só a remexer papeis nun van amplexo —que fora sala nalgún tempo— separado da miña alcoba por un longo corredor…

Sempre tiven propensión ó sobresalto. A soedade, as tebras, o silencio, aínda hoxe me inquedan.

Aquela noite, ó me quedar só —¿por que non dicilo?— o desacougo encomenzou a escarabellar no meu maxín.

A casa, de muros balorentos e madeiras vellas, que xa de neno me impuña certo medo, agora chea de vagalumes de lembranza, parecíame aínda máis labiríntica.

Denis Johnson: The Starlight on Idaho

 

Dear Jennifer Johnston,

Well, to catch you up on things, the last four years have really kicked my ass. I try to get back to that point I was at in the fifth grade where you sent me a note with a heart on it said “Dear Mark I really like you” and I turned that note over and wrote on the back of it “Do you like me or love me?” and you made me a new note with twenty hearts on it and sent it back down the aisles and it said “I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you!” I would count there to be about fifteen or sixteen hooks in my belly with lines heading off into the hands of people I haven’t seen since a long time back, and that’s one of them. But just to catch you up. In the last five years I’ve been arrested about eight times, shot twice, not twice on one occasion, but once on two different occasions, etc etc and I think I got run over once but I don’t even remember it. I’ve loved a couple thousand women but I think you’re number one on the list. That’s all folks, over and out.

Cass (in 5th grade you used to call me Mark—full name Mark Cassandra)

 

PS—Where, you might ask, am I? Funny that you asked. After all those adventures I’m at an undisclosed location right back here once again in Ukiah, the Armpit of Northern California.

Cass

 

Dear old buddy and beloved sponsor Bob,

Now hear the latest from the Starlight Addiction Recovery Center on Idaho Avenue, in its glory days better known as the Starlight Motel. I believe you might have holed up here once or twice. Yes I believe you might have laid up drunk in room 8, this very one I’m sitting in at this desk writing this letter, which is one of the few I’ll actually be mailing

because I need a few things which are in that box in your closet, anyway I hope they’re still there. I think there’s a pair of jeans and I think there’s a few pairs of socks, and in fact if you would just bring the whole box. I’m down to one of everything, except for two of these socks, which are both white, but they’re not the same brand. My good old boots collapsed, but I have been given an excellent pair of secondhand running shoes here. But I am writing to tell you this—that I am not running anywhere, I am standing my ground, I intend to do the deal and here’s why. Because the last four years have positively kicked my ass. In the last four years I have been shot, jailed, declared insane, etc…and even though I’m just thirty-two years old I’m the only person I’ve ever met who’s actually ever been in a coma. I have been asked over and over by medical people who probably know what they’re talking about “Why aren’t you dead?”

 

Wow, I think I just took a nap. They’ve got us on Antabuse here and sometimes, blip, you just fade out and dream. In a few days that’s supposed to pass.

 

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Hotel Carcosa

En una clase de muerte el espíritu muere también, y se ha comprobado que puede suceder  que el cuerpo continúe vigoroso durante muchos años. Y a veces, como se ha testificado de  forma irrefutable, el espíritu muere al mismo tiempo que el cuerpo, pero, según algunos,  resucita en el mismo lugar en que el cuerpo se corrompió.

Ambrose Bierce, Un habitante de Carcosa

 

We are all just prisoners here / of our own device [...] You can check out / any time you like / but you can never leave.

The Eagles, Hotel California

 

Cuatro treinta de la madrugada. Sólo cuatro minutos desde la última vez que miró el despertador. Una eternidad.

Borborigmos que sacuden las cañerías, suspiros que escapan por el desagüe, silbidos, gemidos, crujidos, un rechinar persistente como el de quien, para resistir el dolor, aprieta los dientes… Abundantes y variados, toda suerte de rumores turbadoramente similares a sonidos corporales, se adueñan de la casa. A esas horas cualquier  susurro se impone en el silencio sepulcral de la noche. Y él paralizado en la cama, presa de un insomnio pertinaz, escucha atentamente cada uno de ellos. Como si en las voces de esa casa esperase descifrar un mensaje. Como si en ellas aspirase a encontrar el remedio o al menos el origen de su mal.

Y su casa está llena, llena de voces que parecen deseosas de sincerarse, de desahogarse. Ya se sabe, todas las casas viejas cargan con sus achaques. Tienen un pasado a las espaldas repleto de historias. Y esas historias no se pueden borrar.

 

“El retiro constituye un momento importante en la vida del hombre. Cuesta habituarse a las nuevas circunstancias. Es normal que echemos de menos nuestra rutina en el trabajo. Los cambios a menudo generan ansiedad, y esa ansiedad produce alteraciones del sueño. Búsquese un pasatiempo y tenga paciencia”. Eso le había dicho el médico.

Brian Evenson: A Collapse of Horses

I am certain nobody in my family survived. I am certain they burned, that their faces blackened and bubbled, just as did my own. But in their case they did not recover, but perished. You are not one of them, you cannot be, for if you were you would be dead. Why you choose to pretend to be, and what you hope to gain from it: this is what interests me.

    Now it is your turn to listen to me, to listen to my proofs, though I know you will not be convinced. Imagine this: walking through the countryside one day you come across a paddock. Lying there on their sides, in the dust, unnaturally still, are four horses. All four are prone, with no horses standing. They do not breathe and do not, as far as you can see, move. They are, to all appearances, dead. And yet, on the edge of the paddock, not twenty yards distant, a man fills their trough with water. Are the horses alive and appearances deceptive? Has the man simply not yet turned to see that the horses are dead? Or has he been so shaken by what he has seen that he doesn’t know what to do but proceed as if nothing has happened?

If you turn and walk hurriedly on, leaving before anything decisive happens, what do the horses become for you? They remain both alive and dead, which makes them not quite alive, nor quite dead.

And what, in turn, carrying that paradoxical knowledge in your head, does that make you?

I do not think of myself as special, as anything but ordinary. I completed a degree at a third-tier university housed in the town where I grew up. I graduated safely ensconced in the middle of my class. I found passable employment in the same town. I met a woman, married her, had children with her—three or perhaps four, there is some disagreement on that score—and then the two of us fell gradually and gently out of love.

Then came an incident at work, an accident, a so-called freak one. It left me with a broken skull and, for a short time, a certain amount of confusion. I awoke in an unfamiliar place to find myself strapped down. It seemed to me—I will admit this too—it seemed for some time, hours at least, perhaps even days, that I was not in a hospital at all, but in a mental facility.

But my wife, faithful and everpresent, slowly soothed me into a different understanding of my circumstances. My limbs, she insisted, were restrained simply because I had been delirious. Now that I no longer was, the straps could be loosened. Not quite yet, but soon. There was nothing to worry about. I just had to calm down. Soon, everything would return to normal.