Three Messages and a Warning (18 page)
Read Three Messages and a Warning Online
Authors: Eduardo Jiménez Mayo,Chris. N. Brown,editors
Suppose now that there’s no afterlife. You die at six in the evening because the rain forced you to look for shelter elsewhere and beneath the welcoming awning that seemed harmless was hiding the criminal that would kill you as a result of the woman who refused to share her umbrella. The smokestack releases dirty puffs, the rain slices through the smoke, carrying it down to the ground as soot, a sodden fine powder that the water sweeps into the gutter along with your last breath. Next day your rain-washed body would be found, “A dead body!” they’d shout, but you wouldn’t hear anything, not even the sound of the rain or your killer’s footsteps, or the “No” of the woman who excluded you from her umbrella, you wouldn’t hear or see or know anything—no milk shake, no small talk with God, no caretakers in frock coats, no chairs that looked like they were made of leather. There would be nothing.
Suppose, alternatively, that you seek shelter under her umbrella and she says, “Sure, walk with me,” and you’re hesitant and surprised, since you’ve suffered the consequences of her prior refusal. You begin to tell her that the “No” she gave in another story delivered you into the hands of a killer, which led to some small talk with God and a series of bizarre scenarios, at which she laughs, just as you and she walk past the door where the killer lurks, soaking wet, fated to kill you. Since the weather is so lousy and it’s only six in the evening, she suggests that you go to a café on the next block which, of course, has blue vinyl chairs. You enter together, shaking the raindrops from your clothes. She orders a milk shake and you order coffee.
Esther M. Garcia
Translated by Chris N. Brown
A man looks at the mannequin
desires its face and its body
doesn’t matter that its mind is empty
he just wants to possess it.
He buys the mannequin
loves her entire body
covers her in flowers, in kisses
and from his mouth come vipers
that joyfully enter
the ear of the doll.
Now the mannequin wakes up hearing him,
the doll turns into a woman
to endure semen,
venom,
in her mouth;
to endure the wounds
in her synthetic skin.
The man gets fed up with her presence
treats her like a slum whore,
the mannequin cries wax tears,
the man mocks her as she leaves.
The poor mannequin rests now
in the dumpster,
her silicon heart
is disassembled inside;
those ancient kisses,
of that guy,
are now
taking apart the body.
Guillermo Samperio
Translated by Steve Vásquez Dolph
…and the locals swore that the man in the black gabardine was certainly Mr. Strogoff, resurrected after his butchers—twins who looked more alike than if Mr. Strogoff had gazed in the mirror and seen his own reflection—stabbed him for seducing one of their wives; and they swore that his butchers intentionally produced something like fifty wounds all over his body, and that blood gushed out in spurts from several spots, especially his nose and mouth; and one of the butchers swore on the Cross of San Jacinto that blood was oozing even from his eyes and that he drew his last breath in the biggest pool of purple blood he had ever seen in his entire career of slaughtering, adding that it was likely that not a single drop of plasma was left in the man’s body, which ended up yellowish, its open eyes gazing at nothing; but neither of his butchers supposed the man in the black gabardine, Mr. Strogoff, would reappear, safe and sound, as though all he had received were pricks from acupuncture needles one night at the break of dawn, and that he would suddenly hypnotize the fatter butcher with a pendulum, paralyzing him head to toe, but leaving his sight intact and seducing his redheaded wife again, having his way with her half the morning until the wife herself would cut the butcher’s throat with a long, very sharp knife that Mr. Strogoff had given her, decapitating her husband in one stroke, whose head bounced several times on the floorboards, rolled across the room and tumbled down the stairs, while the wife packed a bag with her belongings to flee with the man in the black gabardine, Mr. Strogoff, and now she is not only his lover but she assists him in the strange laboratory that he has run for decades; and so the locals spread the story of the reappearance of the man in the black gabardine and the dreadful news reached the other butcher, who swore to avenge his twin and kill Mr. Strogoff again even if it cost him his life, and that he would do it as many times as necessary, since it was obvious that Mr. Strogoff maintained sinister connections with the unfathomable forces of the underworld that resurrected him each time he died or that his mode of survival was attributable ad libitum to the spells and potions he manufactured in his laboratory where he did not permit entry to any of the butchers; furthermore, the butcher made these proclamations to the locals in a voice that shook deep down, either out of anger or fear, for that same day the butcher had heard that the man in the black gabardine, Mr. Strogoff, had lived in the neighborhood since before their great-great-great grandparent’s time, or maybe there were a multiplicity of Strogoffs, and the butcher thought of this when he glimpsed a shadow move amidst the shadows behind him, feeling suddenly and inexplicably trapped by the most intense horror he had ever felt, at which point it occurred to the butcher to frighten him off with a fire, and he started piling up chairs, a table, a chest, his mattress, anything flammable that he could find, adding even some newspapers in a strategic manner, and when he heard Mr. Strogoff’s steps, so familiar to him, trying to force their way past the door, he took out his old gas lighter, sparked it and lit the pile of objects guarding the entrance; the man in the black gabardine could still be heard for a while trying to force the lock, but when the blaze grew big enough the butcher calmed down and he heard Mr. Strogoff’s steps receding from the entryway; meanwhile, the flames reached the next room, the curtains and even the pendulum clock, that tall piece of furniture his mother bequeathed to him, and when it was no longer possible to read the time on the clock’s face because of all the smoke the butcher realized that he had no way of escaping the fire; after hesitating a long time, he hurled himself toward the core of the blaze, that is, toward the entrance to the house, hoping to break the door down with a thrust of his shoulder, but the door did not budge and as the flames reached the butcher’s body he dropped and crawled toward his bedroom, seeking refuge in the bathroom; lying on the floor next to the bedroom door, he put out the flames on his body and tried to roll under the bed, but the locals found him next to the door, charred, his arms extended as though an individual who also disappeared in the blaze had dragged him there by the shoes; after the firemen put out the fire, which had spread to neighboring houses, some of the locals claimed that next to the newsstand on the corner stood the man in the black gabardine, Mr. Strogoff, with the redheaded woman: and that, together, they suddenly disappeared . . .
Ana Gloria Álvarez Pedrajo
Translated by Anisia Rodríguez
In the town of San Sebastián Bernal situated in the Christian state of Querétaro, we are all very devout. From the first to the fifth of May we hold festivities in honor of the Holy Cross, which is celebrated at the peak of a rocky outcrop. Although it is a three-hundred-fifty-meter climb over steep terrain, it is well worth it. At that height, it’s as though we are close to the hand of God . . . our prayers are the ones He hears and answers because they are practically whispered in His ear. Generally, I pray for the poor souls in purgatory. Their cries during the night are not bothersome to hear, but their exile is what saddens me. Nobody should be neither alive nor dead; without a destiny, poor souls anchored to the earth by their sins.
On bended knees I move forward until they bleed.
I resort to Saint Marta, Saint Úrsula, and Saint Teresita to intercede before God the Father for the poor souls in purgatory. I know His heart is softened because I have clearly seen how many of them have been raised up to the light. Those who are left are content to follow me back into town. I cannot always guess their intentions, for at times they have saved me from dangers along the way but on other occasions they have attempted to kill me by pushing me against rocks. I don’t hold it against them because I know they act out of desperation. Their efforts are all accounted for and they will be assigned a place in Heaven or Hell, ceasing to be drifting spirits tormented by uncertainty.
Finally arriving at home, I am grieved to find their darkened cloudy eyes beyond the window pane, staring at me resentfully, as if to condemn my useless prayers. In the end, just like them, I am nothing but a sinner, just as forsaken and just as estranged from the world. Perhaps this is why each day, little by little, I distance myself from life and listen more intently to the beckoning voices of the dead.
Leo Mendoza
Translated by Armando García
A woman on the subway wore the pin. It was different from the other ones he had seen. It wasn’t inviting him to lose weight or open up a bank account. Its design wasn’t flashy or bold. The pin was plain white and so big that it almost entirely covered the lapel of the individual’s tailor-made suit; however, it bore a message so small that it was nearly impossible to read. He read it out of curiosity or mere habit, for he customarily read pocket-sized illustrated novels starring cowboys, or those designed for truck drivers, and sports newspapers, quite rudely, over the shoulders of his fellow travelers.
The message on the pin aroused his curiosity because the question it was inviting him to ask was peculiar. He had seen dozens of pins in his lifetime but had never paused to reflect much on them. Those offers to lose weight or to invest one’s money seemed to him a waste of time, especially given his station in life, always in a hurry, rushing to meetings from one edge of the city to the other.
It was the simplicity of the request that attracted his attention: “Ask me about happiness.” The pin’s bearer didn’t look particularly happy. When she sensed the man’s gaze her expression was neither warm nor welcoming, rather she turned around with a hint of fear in her eyes. Despite his best efforts, the man had fallen for the message. He had known happiness as a provincial child of humble origins, but destiny had ruined his chances at holding on to it, seizing him from that paradise and dragging him to the city where he had become what he was—a senior medical-supplies representative: successful thanks to his scores of clients from the four corners of the city, successful thanks to his selfishness, successful thanks to his capacity to crush anyone attempting to overshadow his company’s business. In fact his public-speaking skills and proud demeanor made him the logical choice when, some six months ago, the chief of staff had to be replaced. He utilized his newfound seniority to court the biggest clients in the company’s portfolio from every neighborhood in the city.
His teammates spoke ill of him. They called him a miser because at those bar parties masquerading as meetings (which he rarely attended) he never left a tip: and because, despite his success, he preferred to travel by bus or subway. His lack of generosity offended his colleagues, whom he treated as potential rivals and from whom he jealously guarded the secrets he had learned in his twenty years on the job. The rookie salesmen viewed him with admiration and envy, yet he felt even more threatened by them than the veterans.
His inner dissatisfaction hidden by his outward success prompted him to follow the woman with the pin, pressing his way through the sea of bodies crowded into the subway car, mostly lower-middle-class travelers who despised his vain appearance and the company identification card displayed ostentatiously on the upper jacket pocket of his tailored suit. When he came just within reach of her shoulder and she seemed as though she were about to turn around, the door of the orange subway car opened and its human cargo lurched onto the platform, sweeping the woman with the pin away with the tide.
That morning didn’t go well. Four appointments, none of which produced good results: only promises, vague remarks, and further appointments. He attributed his failure to the bad luck of running into the woman with the pin. He ate at the same restaurant where he had always eaten for the past five years. The food was cheap, it tasted good, and he rarely left a tip, justifying his stinginess by persuading himself that it was more of a cafeteria than a restaurant. Even so, the waiter, a pleasant elderly man with a slow pace, went out of his way to serve him and even patiently tolerated his scolding if the bread or utensils weren’t present or if the fruit juices on the menu were bland. Lunch revived him. Three appointments awaited him that afternoon, after which he would return to the comfort of his home to watch the news, always consoled by learning of the misfortunes of others, even murders, so distant from his life that they could be erased with the push of a button on the remote control and a good night’s rest.
