The Storyteller (21 page)

“I'll see what I can do,” Moshé answered. “I imagine they keep a register of such things in the community.”

The program on the Institute of Linguistics and the Machiguengas turned out to be longer than we'd foreseen. When we gave it to Control they informed us that on that particular Sunday they'd sold space for a definite time slot, so that if we didn't cut the program ourselves to exactly one hour, the operator would do it any old way he pleased when he put it on the air. Thoroughly pissed off, we had to cut it in a rush, as time was running short. We were already editing the final Tower of Babel for the following Sunday. We'd decided that it would be an anthology of the twenty-four previous programs. But as usual we had to change our plans. For the very start of the program, I'd tried to persuade Doris Gibson to let herself be interviewed and help us compile a short biography of her life as a founder and director of magazines, a businesswoman, a fighter against dictatorship and also its victim—on one famous occasion she'd hauled off and slapped the policemen who had come to seize copies of
Caretas—
and above all, a woman who, in a society that in those days was far more macho and prejudiced than it is now, had been able to make a career for herself and achieve success in fields that were considered male monopolies. At the same time, Doris had been one of the most beautiful women in Lima, courted by millionaires, and the muse of famous painters and poets. The impetuous Doris, who is nonetheless very shy, had turned me down, because, she said, the cameras intimidated her. But that last week she had changed her mind and sent word that she was willing to appear on the program.

I interviewed her, and that interview, together with the anthology, saw the end of the Tower of Babel. Faithful to its destiny, the final program, which Moshé, Lucho, Alejandro, and I watched at my house, sitting around a tableful of Chinese food and ice-cold beer, fell victim to technical imponderables. For one of those mysterious reasons—celestial sabotage—which were the daily bread of the channel, unexpected jazz numbers appeared out of nowhere just as the broadcast began and provided background music to all of Doris's stories about General Odría's dictatorship, police seizures of
Caretas
, and Sérvulo Gutiérrez's paintings.

After the program was over and we were drinking to its death and non-resurrection, the phone rang. It was Doris, asking me whether it wouldn't have been more appropriate to have backed her interview with Arequipan yaravíes (she is, among other things, a fiercely loyal Arequipeña) rather than that outlandish jazz. After Lucho, Moshé, and Alejandro had had a good laugh at the explanations I had invented to justify the use of jazz on the program, Moshé said: “By the way, before I forget, I found out what you asked me to.”

More than a week had gone by and I hadn't reminded him, because I could guess the answer and was a little unnerved at the prospect of having my suspicions confirmed.

“It seems they never did go to Israel,” he said. “Where did you get the idea they'd left the country?”

“You mean the Zuratas?” I asked, knowing very well what he was talking about.

“Don Salomón, at least, didn't go. He died here. He's buried in the Jewish cemetery in Lima, the one on the Avenida Colonial.” Moshé took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and read: “October 23, 1960. That's the day they buried him, if you need further details. My grandfather knew him and attended his funeral. As for his son, your friend, he may have gone to Israel, but I couldn't find out for sure. None of the people I asked knew anything about him.”

But I do, I thought. I know everything.

“Did he have a big birthmark on his face?” Moshé asked. “My grandfather even remembers that. Did they call him the Phantom of the Opera?”

“An enormous one. We called him Mascarita.”

Good things happen and bad things happen. It's bad that wisdom should be getting lost. Before, there were any number of seripigaris, and if the man who walks had any doubts about what to eat, how to cure the evil, or which stones protect against Kientibakori and his little devils, he went and asked. There was always a seripigari close by. Smoking, drinking brew, thinking, talking with the saankarites in the worlds up above, he could find the answer. But now there are few of them and some of them shouldn't call themselves seripigaris. Can they counsel you? Their wisdom has dried up on them like a worm-eaten root, it seems. This brings much confusion. Wherever I go, that's what the men who walk say. Could it be because we don't keep on the move enough? they say. Can it be that we've grown lazy? We're not fulfilling our obligation, perhaps.

That, anyway, is what I have learned.

The wisest seripigari I ever knew has gone. Maybe he's come back; maybe not. He lived on the other side of the Gran Pongo, by the Kompiroshiato. His name was Tasurinchi. Nothing held any secrets for him, in this world or in the others. He could tell which worms you can eat by the color of their rings and the way they crawled. He looked at them like this, wrinkling up his eyes, with his deep gaze. He would study them for a good while. And there it came; he knew. Everything I know about worms I learned from him. The one that lives on giant reeds, the chakokieni, is good; the one that lives on lupana is bad. The one that lives on rotten tree trunks, the shigopi, is good, and also the one that lives on cassava fibers. The one that lodges in the shells of tortoises is extremely bad. The best and the tastiest is the one that lives on the pulp left after maize or cassava go through a sieve to make masato. This worm, the kororo, sweetens the mouth, relieves hunger, and brings untroubled sleep. But the worm that lives on the corpses of caimans washed up on the shores of a lake does the body harm and brings on the same visions as a bad trance.

Tasurinchi, the one from the Kompiroshiato, made people's lives better. He had recipes for everything. Using everything. He taught me many of them. Here's one I still remember. If someone dies from snakebite, his body must be burned immediately; otherwise, it will breed reptiles and the forest all around will teem with poisonous beings. And here's another. It's not enough just to burn the house of someone who's gone; you have to do it with your back turned. Looking at the flames brings misfortune. It was frightening talking with that seripigari. You realized how much you didn't know. Ignorance has its dangers, perhaps. “How have you learned so many things?” I asked him. And I said: “It's as though you'd been living since before we started walking, and you'd seen everything and tried everything.”

“The most important thing is not to be impatient and allow what must happen to happen,” he answered. Saying: “If a man lives calmly, without getting impatient, he has time to think and to remember.” That way, he'll meet his destiny, perhaps. He'll live content, maybe. He won't forget what he's learned. If he gets impatient, rushing to outstrip time, the world gets out of order, it seems. And the soul falls into a spiderweb of mud. That is confusion. The worst thing that can happen, let's say. In this world and in the soul of the man who walks. Then he doesn't know what to do, where to go. He doesn't know how to protect himself either, saying: What shall I do? What must I do? Then the devils and the little devils creep into his life and play with it. The way, perhaps, that children play with frogs, making them jump. Mistakes are always the result of confusion, it seems.”

“What should one do so as not to lose one's serenity, Tasurinchi?” “Eat what's permitted and respect the taboos, storyteller. “ Otherwise, what happened to Tasurinchi that time could happen to anyone.

What happened to him?

This happened to him. That was before.

He was a great hunter. He knew how big the trap should be for the sajino, or the noose for the paujil. He knew how to hide a cage so that the ronsoco would walk into it. But, above all, he knew how to shoot a bow. The very first arrow he loosed always hit the mark.

One day when he'd gone out to hunt, after fasting and painting his face in the proper way, he felt the leaves moving not far from where he was. He sensed a shape and halted, saying: A big animal! He approached slowly, heedlessly. Not taking the time to make sure what it was, he boldly shot his arrow. He ran to see. There it was, lying on the ground, dead. What had fallen? A deer. He was very frightened, of course. Some evil would befall him now. What happens to someone who kills a forbidden animal? There was no seripigari close by to put that question to. Would his body be covered with blisters? Would he be racked by horrible pains? Would the kamagarinis snatch one of his souls and carry it off to the top of a tree for the buzzards to peck at? Many moons passed and nothing happened. Then Tasurinchi swelled with pride. “That story about not killing deer is all humbug,” his family heard him say. “Just coward's talk.” “How dare you say that!” they scolded him, looking about in all directions, and above and below, in fright. “I killed one and I feel quite peaceful and happy,” he answered.

That's what Tasurinchi kept saying, and finally all the saying led to doing. He started hunting deer. He followed their trail to the collpa where they went to lick the salty earth. He followed them to the pool where they gathered to drink. He sought out the caves where the females went to give birth. He lay in wait in a hiding place, and when he saw the deer he shot his arrows at them. They lay there dying, looking at him with their big eyes. Sorrowful, as though asking: What have you done to me? He slung them across his back. He was pleased, perhaps. He didn't mind being stained with the blood of what he had hunted. Nothing mattered to him now. He wasn't afraid of anything, it seems. He brought the kill to his hut. “Cook it. Like sachavaca, the very same way,” he ordered his wife. She obeyed, trembling with fear. Sometimes she tried to warn him. “This food is going to bring evil upon us,” she whimpered. “Upon you and me and everybody, perhaps. It's as though you ate your children or your mothers, Tasurinchi. We're not Chonchoites, are we? When have Machiguengas ever eaten human flesh?” Chewing and choking on great mouthfuls of meat, he would say: “If deer are people who have turned into something else, the Chonchoites are quite right. It's food, and it's delicious. Look what a feast I'm having; look how I'm enjoying this food.” And he farted and farted. In the forest Kientibakori drank masato, dancing and feasting. His farts were like thunder; his belches like the jaguar's roar.

And it was true; despite the deer he shot and ate, nothing happened to Tasurinchi. Some families took fright; others, persuaded by his example, started eating forbidden flesh. The world was thrown into confusion, then.

One day, Tasurinchi found tracks in the forest. That made him very happy. The trail was wide and easy to follow and his experience told him it was a herd of deer. He followed it for many moons, full of hope, his heart pounding. How many shall I kill? he dreamed. If I'm lucky, as many as I have arrows. I'll drag them home one at a time, cut them up, salt them, and we'll have food for a long time.

The trail came to an end in the dark waters of a small lake; in one corner was a waterfall, half hidden by the branches and leaves of the trees. The vegetation muffled the sound of the water and the place did not seem to be this world but Inkite. Just as peaceful, perhaps. Here the herd came to drink. Here the deer gathered to chew the cud. Here they slept, keeping each other warm. Excited by his discovery, Tasurinchi looked all around. There it was; that was the best tree. He would have a clear view from there; from there he could shoot off his arrows. He climbed up, made his hiding place with branches and leaves. Quietly, quietly, as though his souls had leaked away and his body were an empty skin, he waited.

Not for long. Soon his sharp hunter's ears caught the sound, troc, troc, far away, the drumbeat of deer hoofs in the forest: troc, troc, troc. Suddenly he saw it: a stag, tall and proud, with the sad look of one who has been a man. Tasurinchi's eyes shone. His mouth watered perhaps. Thinking: How tender, how tasty! He aimed and shot. But the arrow whistled past the stag, as though curving so as to miss it, and flew on, lost in the depths of the forest. How many times can a man die? Many times, it seems. This stag did not die. Nor was it frightened. What was happening? Instead of fleeing, it began drinking. Stretching its neck from the shore of the lake, plunging its muzzle into the water, lifting it out, clacking its tongue, it drank, shh, shh. Shh, shh, content. As though unaware of danger. Calm. Could it be deaf? Could it be a deer with no sense of smell? Tasurinchi now had a second arrow ready. Troc, troc. Then he saw another stag arriving, pushing through the branches, making the leaves rustle. It took its place next to the first one and began drinking. They seemed content, both of them, drinking water. Shh, shh, shh. Tasurinchi loosed his arrow. It missed this time, too. What was happening? The two stags went on drinking, not taking fright, not fleeing. What's happening to you, Tasurinchi? Is your hand trembling? Have you lost your eyesight? Can you no longer judge distance? What was he going to do? He was utterly bewildered; he couldn't believe it. His world had gone dark. And there he was, shooting. He shot all his arrows. Troc, troc. Troc, troc. The deer kept on coming. More and more, so many, so very many. The drumbeat of their hoofs echoed and reechoed in Tasurinchi's ears. Troc, troc. They didn't seem to be coming from this world, but from the one below or above. Troc, troc. He understood then. Perhaps. Was it you or they who'd fallen into the trap, Tasurinchi?

There were the deer, calm, not angry. Drinking, eating, moving about, mating. Twining their necks together, butting each other. As though nothing had happened, as though nothing were going to happen. But Tasurinchi knew that they knew that he was there. Could they be avenging their dead in this way? By making him endure this painfully long wait? No, this was only the beginning. What had to happen would not happen while the sun was in Inkite, but later, when Kashiri rose. Kashiri the resentful, the stained one. Darkness fell. The sky filled with stars. Kashiri sent his pale light. Tasurinchi could see the eyes of the deer, glistening with regret at no longer being men, with sadness at not walking. Then suddenly, as though at a command, the animals started moving. All at the same time, it seems. They all came to Tasurinchi's tree. There they were, at his feet. A great many of them. A forest of deer, you might say. One after another, in an orderly way, not hurrying, not getting in each other's way, they butted the tree. Playfully at first, then harder. Harder still. He was sad. Saying: “I'm going to fall.” He never would have believed that before going he'd be like a shimbillo monkey, clinging to a branch, trying not to drown in that dark mass of deer. But he held out the whole night. Sweating and moaning, he resisted, hoping his arms and legs would not give out. At dawn, his strength gone, he let himself fall. Saying: “I must accept my fate.”

Now he, too, is a deer, like the others. There he is, I hear, wandering up and down the forest, troc, troc. Fleeing the jaguar, frightened of the snake. Troc, troc. Hiding from the puma and from the arrows of the hunter who, through ignorance or wickedness, kills and eats his brothers.

When I come upon a deer, I remember the story the seripigari of the Kompiroshiato told me. What if this one were Tasurinchi the hunter? Who can tell? I for my part have no way of telling whether a deer was or wasn't a man who walks, before. I just step back a little way and look at it. Perhaps it recognizes me; perhaps when it sees me it thinks: I was like him. Who knows?

In a bad trance a machikanari of the rainbow river, the Yoguieto, turned into a jaguar. How did he know? Because of the terrible urge he felt to kill deer and eat them. “I grew blind with rage,” he said. And roaring with hunger, he began running through the forest, tracking them. Until he came upon one and killed it. When he changed back into a machikanari, he had shreds of flesh between his teeth and his nails were bloody from all the ripping and tearing he'd done. “Kientibakori must have been pleased,” he said. He may well have been.

That, anyway, is what I have learned.

Like the deer, every animal in the forest has its story. Whether little, middle-sized, or big. The one that flies, like the hummingbird. The one that swims, like the boquichico. The one that lives in a herd, like the huangana. Before, they were all something different from what they are now. Something happened to all of them that you could tell a story about. Would you like to know their stories? So would I. Many of the ones I know I heard from the seripigari of the Kompiroshiato. If I'd had my way, I'd still be there listening to him, the Way all of you are listening, here, now. But, one day, he threw me out of his hut. “How long are you going to stay here, Tasurinchi?” he scolded me. “You have to be on your way. You're a storyteller, I'm a seripigari, and now, with all your questions and your making me talk so much, you're turning me into what you are. Would you like to become a seripigari? If so, you'd have to be born again. Pass all the tests. Purify yourself. Have many trances, bad ones and good ones, and, above all, suffer. Attaining wisdom is difficult. You're already old; I don't think you'll get that far. And besides, who knows whether that's your destiny? Be off with you; start walking. Talk; keep talking. Don't disturb the order of the world, storyteller.”

It's true; I was always asking him questions. He knew everything, and that made me all the more curious. “Why do the men who walk paint their bodies with annatto?” I once asked him. “Because of the moritoni,” he replied. “You mean that little bird?” “The very same.” And with that, he started me thinking. Why do you suppose the Machiguengas avoid killing the moritoni? Why do they make a point of not stepping on it when they come upon it in the tall grass? Why do you feel grateful when you see it perching on a branch and notice its little white legs and its black breast? It's thanks to the achiote bush that gives us annatto and to the moritoni bird that we're walking, Tasurinchi. Without the two of them, the men who walk would have disappeared. They'd have boiled to death, burning with blisters till they burst like bubbles.