The night sky hid its darkness beyond the burning splendor of Buenos Aires. That evening Retiro station seemed more engulfed in the traffic noise and flashing lights than usual.
The North Star train was about to leave. The old man on the window seat appeared completely absorbed in the squares of light coming from the car fluorescent extended on to the pit black stony ground beneath. His eyelids revealed the weight of long years of toil and endurance, yet there was an odd mixture of warmth and quiet detachment in his look. As in a dream, he had the feeling he had been exactly in the same situation before. And he wondered about the shadows of the past that dreams protract, distort or just replace. He had been trying to write the story that would show the outcome of his pondering, but whenever he approached the task, somehow words escaped him.
The ground began to move outside; after so long he was finally starting his trip back to Simoca, the small country town where he was born at the turn of the century and hadn’t visited for several decades now. Simoca. He thought of the name several times, and repeated it over and over until it became a meaningless utterance of strange sounds. He remembered the busy clanking sound of sulkys on the new pavement of the main street, and smell of soil, sweat, and empanadas on Saturday morning ferias. And he smiled at the thought that only simoqueños had probably not sentenced its rundown walls and quiet life to indolent oblivion. From that place he had once started a journey, so far with no apparent destination.
The car lights went out. An ad of the Pacha Mama festivities hanging on a compartment wall oscillated slightly in the shadows. The swaying box made him sleepy, and soon he dozed off, relaxed in the rocking seat of a train in motion.
He found he could still see when he was able to sit and then stand on the bed. The door was there, and, behind it, the thin lines of tenuous moonshine loaded the air with a smell of threatening quietness. Soon his bawling turned to moaning and sobbing, while beyond the diffused edges of the bed the evil monster from hell hadn’t yet shown its gigantic tweezers. It was always there, his sister had told him, waiting for him to step down on the floor so that it would cut his legs and swallow him up. But, suddenly, when he felt a hot stream of liquid begin to run between his thighs, he jumped out of bed as far as he could, only to tumble, fall down, roll and jump again toward the door, and start, in a frantic motion, a desperate struggle against the cold doorknob in front, and the approaching tweezers behind.
Once outside the bedroom, while the wetness reached his feet, he thought, or perhaps wished that the flooding radiance in the rear veranda came from the sun, not the moonshine. His instinct led him to the locked main front door. There he sat down, leaned his head on his right shoulder and lay still until his closed eyes projected him somewhere other than his immediate circumstance.
Outside the house, he contemplated every corner of the façade with its old brownstones, so old now that the new owners had decided to paint them. That picture reminded him of the purpose that had brought him back to Simoca and this made him feel somewhat uncomfortable. Still a bit troubled, he went in and faced the dark, middle-aged woman behind the reception counter. He noticed she was wearing a trinket with the profile of a gaucho carved in burnt wood.
After receiving unnecessary instructions on how to get to his room, slowly the old man started his way through the hall toward the rear veranda. He walked up to the room and turned the cold loose doorknob. Slowly he opened the unlocked door. He was then struck by an odd sense of finality when the morning light behind him cleared the vision of a child sitting on the floor next to the door, who fixedly and dazedly stared at him with the warm and distant expression of his own eyes.
The North Star train was about to leave. The old man on the window seat appeared completely absorbed in the squares of light coming from the car fluorescent extended on to the pit black stony ground beneath. His eyelids revealed the weight of long years of toil and endurance, yet there was an odd mixture of warmth and quiet detachment in his look. As in a dream, he had the feeling he had been exactly in the same situation before. And he wondered about the shadows of the past that dreams protract, distort or just replace. He had been trying to write the story that would show the outcome of his pondering, but whenever he approached the task, somehow words escaped him.
The ground began to move outside; after so long he was finally starting his trip back to Simoca, the small country town where he was born at the turn of the century and hadn’t visited for several decades now. Simoca. He thought of the name several times, and repeated it over and over until it became a meaningless utterance of strange sounds. He remembered the busy clanking sound of sulkys on the new pavement of the main street, and smell of soil, sweat, and empanadas on Saturday morning ferias. And he smiled at the thought that only simoqueños had probably not sentenced its rundown walls and quiet life to indolent oblivion. From that place he had once started a journey, so far with no apparent destination.
The car lights went out. An ad of the Pacha Mama festivities hanging on a compartment wall oscillated slightly in the shadows. The swaying box made him sleepy, and soon he dozed off, relaxed in the rocking seat of a train in motion.
* * *
The sheets felt itchy and the musty pillow seemed to shudder underneath. The toddler –or perhaps he was older- opened his eyes and called his mum in his mind, but she did not respond. Then he saw his loud cry didn’t bring him the comforting presence of a familiar face. For a moment he was trapped, unable to move in a bubble of echoing darkness.He found he could still see when he was able to sit and then stand on the bed. The door was there, and, behind it, the thin lines of tenuous moonshine loaded the air with a smell of threatening quietness. Soon his bawling turned to moaning and sobbing, while beyond the diffused edges of the bed the evil monster from hell hadn’t yet shown its gigantic tweezers. It was always there, his sister had told him, waiting for him to step down on the floor so that it would cut his legs and swallow him up. But, suddenly, when he felt a hot stream of liquid begin to run between his thighs, he jumped out of bed as far as he could, only to tumble, fall down, roll and jump again toward the door, and start, in a frantic motion, a desperate struggle against the cold doorknob in front, and the approaching tweezers behind.
Once outside the bedroom, while the wetness reached his feet, he thought, or perhaps wished that the flooding radiance in the rear veranda came from the sun, not the moonshine. His instinct led him to the locked main front door. There he sat down, leaned his head on his right shoulder and lay still until his closed eyes projected him somewhere other than his immediate circumstance.
* * *
When the old man arrived in town –it was shortly after eight in the morning- he found out, with some degree of pleasure that the house where he used to live had been rehabilitated into a humble but pleasant bed-and-breakfast. He was going to be a temporary dweller again in the place that had always exercised a magnetic, puzzling kind of attraction on him.Outside the house, he contemplated every corner of the façade with its old brownstones, so old now that the new owners had decided to paint them. That picture reminded him of the purpose that had brought him back to Simoca and this made him feel somewhat uncomfortable. Still a bit troubled, he went in and faced the dark, middle-aged woman behind the reception counter. He noticed she was wearing a trinket with the profile of a gaucho carved in burnt wood.
After receiving unnecessary instructions on how to get to his room, slowly the old man started his way through the hall toward the rear veranda. He walked up to the room and turned the cold loose doorknob. Slowly he opened the unlocked door. He was then struck by an odd sense of finality when the morning light behind him cleared the vision of a child sitting on the floor next to the door, who fixedly and dazedly stared at him with the warm and distant expression of his own eyes.
Note: This is perhaps my first short story! I wrote it when I was still a student in college. (Sigh!) I was so young then! :)
2 comments:
So here it is. I’ve just read probably your first short story. And that’s what made it feel so strange…
Mientras leía te veía detrás de esas líneas, veía el Charlie que yo conozco, te imaginaba escribiendo… pero por ratos la cabeza me daba un salto y me decía que lo escribiste hace un par de décadas… entonces imaginaba un muchacho de unos veinte años escribiendo esas mismas líneas, y trataba de imaginar tu rostro con dos décadas menos. Fue divertido.
Y debo decir que se nota cómo dos décadas atrás, ya manejabas una gran facilidad para escribir. Lo leo y no parece haber sido escrito hace tanto.
I liked it!
Vale!
Repasando el blog llegué a este hermoso comentario tuyo que nunca contesté. Gracias por el cariño que transmiten tus líneas. Estuve pensando estos días en vos y me gustaría verte en algún momento si tenés algún tiempito.
Le estoy enseñando al personaje de tu hermano! Bueno, sólo un par de clases y esta semana no lo veo por exámenes en UNT. Decime por mail o msj cuándo nos podemos ver! :)
Cariños!
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