Ríos Verticales

Drago And Krisztina

I must love what I destroy
and destroy the thing I love.
—Sting: “Moon Over Bourbon Street”.

Over the course of his long and solitary existence, his only interactions with others were limited to the brief moments shared with the girls he methodically murdered. He was unable to resist. He felt compelled to respond to the wild scream coming from deep within and give in to the primal instincts driving his actions. He found himself trapped in this way of life much like an innocent lamb. He learned to accept his circumstances and the grotesque reality to which he had descended. From then on, killing became an effortless task for him.

Everything changed when he crossed paths with Krisztina. When he was stalking her, he couldn’t unleash the beasts within him, resigning himself to follow her home, walking behind her. Once she was inside, he would hide in the alley behind her building. From there, in the darkness, he watched over her as she slept, gazing at her window as if instead of wanting to kill her, he were trying to protect her. Drago didn’t understand why this was happening. Perhaps it was because she stirred memories of the man he once was. In any case, he couldn’t have anticipated that on that night he would commit an act he never thought himself capable of.

Crouched in an alleyway, listening to his breath and unconcerned by the foul odor of decaying garbage that filled the air, Drago kept the collar of his trench coat turned up and his hat pulled down in such a way as to hide his beastly eyes and partially conceal his face—pale as the moonlight illuminating it. He watched intently the lamplight that lit up the cobblestone corner of Carfax Avenue and Bourbon Street. He grew impatient. Why was she taking so long? Hadn't she gone to work that day? Had she changed jobs? Had she moved to another neighborhood?

He recalled the first time he saw her. Through the smoke and dim light of the bar where she worked, he watched her ascend the stairs to the stage. A saxophone belched out mundane notes that echoed against the grimy walls and clung to the skin of those present. She was young, but not as much as some of the underage prostitutes who roamed the area, some of whom had been his victims. Once she reached the top, the room erupted into cheers and shouts, followed by an abrupt silence. All eyes were on her. Gradually, she began to remove her clothes, eventually exposing herself to the audience. The drunken, lonely patrons gazed at her as if she were the embodiment of their fantasies, the full realization of their deepest desires, perhaps the last remnant of innocence left in the world. She feigned a smile and pretended to pay them attention. Yet, as she performed her routine, her thoughts drifted to distant places and times, shielded within a protective armor that kept her madness at bay.

That night, Drago waited for her outside the bar and boarded the Carfax Avenue streetcar right after her. He took a seat at the back of the vehicle and got off when she did at Bourbon Street. Keeping a cautious distance, he trailed her to the rundown apartment building in Targumures where she lived. From the alley behind the building, he kept an eye on her window. He imagined her naked, envisioning his hands gliding over her body as he explored her mouth, her breasts, and her most intimate areas. He longed to go up to her room and experience the intense thrill of a predator overpowering its helpless and frightened prey and ultimately put an end to her life. However, he chose to remain outside, guarding her home, until the first rays of dawn forced him to vanish. This ritual went on for weeks.

After midnight, the Carfax Avenue streetcar made its final stop of the day at Bourbon Street, right at the point where the avenue ended and the tracks turned back. Once the only passenger got off, the streetcar reversed direction in a haste, causing the tracks to screech and the street to tremble—as if it wanted to leave that intersection behind as quickly as possible, almost as if it preferred not to head in that direction at all. In reality it couldn’t have gone any further even if it wanted to. Carfax Avenue concluded at Bourbon Street, and beyond that lay the Bathory Cemetery, blocking its way. Yet, more than just that barrier, it was likely its mechanical instincts that warned the streetcar against venturing any further into that forbidden territory.

When Krisztina stepped off the tram, she glanced around warily, crossed the street, and quickened her pace down Borgo Lane. Like an extension of Carfax Avenue, Borgo Lane was a shadowy path flanked by tall trees with lush canopies, slicing the cemetery into two halves and leading to some abandoned railway tracks. Several dilapidated, motionless, and enigmatic carriages were parked on the tracks, with holes in their walls that looked like eyes peering out from the inside. On the other side of the tracks lay the neighborhood of Targumures, called that way because nearly all its residents hailed from a place of the same name in the Carpathian Mountains.

Unlike the streetcar, the residents of Targumures, driven by irrational instincts, dared to traverse Borgo Lane to avoid a long detour around the cemetery's edge. This shortcut was quite convenient, leading them directly to the intersection of Bourbon Street and Carfax Avenue, where they could board the streetcar. They made this risky journey twice daily: through the morning fog on their way to work and again under the cover of night when they returned home.

Such behavior was difficult to rationalize. The area was shrouded in darkness, as light never fully reached it, even during the daytime, due to the tall trees with dense canopies that were scattered all around. Numerous broken tombstones lay on the damp, foul-smelling grass, while much of the stonework meant to secure the crypts’ entrances was crumbling, leaving the entryways wide open. The wind whistled as it bounced off the trees and gravestones, at times sounding like voices, screams, and moans. And as if that weren't enough to deter anyone from wandering through those grounds, there were rumors about the mysterious disappearances of some individuals who had crossed the cemetery via Borgo Lane.

In fact, it wasn't just mere hearsay. Several murdered individuals had been found in the morning with their bodies completely drained of blood, lying beside some of the graves located on the edge of the alley. The residents of Targumures, who were inclined to superstition, attributed the deaths to the work of the Devil. Nevertheless, the locals chose to pass through that dreadful area to get to their jobs and homes, rather than taking a long detour. The convenience of the shortcut outweighed their common sense.

As she had in the past, Krisztina felt the unsettling sensation of being watched. The first time occurred late one night as she walked home from work along Borgo Lane, as usual. Hearing footsteps behind her, she quickened her pace, only to realize that the footsteps were accelerating as well. Overcome by panic, she broke into a run. Gasping for breath, she finally reached her building, raced up the stairs, and entered her apartment. Before drawing the curtains, she cautiously peeked out the window that overlooked the alley. For a moment she believed she spotted a shadow lurking outside. In reality, she only glimpsed the moonlight reflecting off a set of white teeth. As time passed, the anxiety sparked by that unseen presence began to diminish, and since nothing serious had happened to her thereafter, she became accustomed to it. Still, as she rushed home, she pondered why she persisted in taking that risky path back to her place in Targumures. Perhaps it was her pressing desire to shower and wash away any lingering remnant of smoke, alcohol, foul words, and men from her body and mind.

Every day, right after finishing her shower, she would immediately crawl into bed, and thankfully, she would sleep soundly through the night and into the morning. She would rise after noon, prepare a meal for herself, and eat alone at the table. Then she would get ready for work. Before heading out, she would open a trunk, pull out a doll she had kept since childhood, and hug it tightly. She would also kiss a photograph of herself with her mother, the only person she remembered having loved, who had risked her life to shield her from her father's abuse. Once her mother passed away, her father's sexual advances forced her to flee their home. It wasn’t long before others came along who tried to exploit her, and they might have succeeded if not for help from an unexpected and unreliable source.

Krisztina used to ask for money outside the bar where she would later work. The owner of the place noticed her due to her striking beauty and offered her a job as a stripper. Finding herself in a precarious situation, she reluctantly agreed, only after he assured her that all she had to do was to undress on the stage. Surprisingly, the man kept his promise, even going so far as to instruct the bouncers to protect her and ensure that no one forced her into anything against her will. This was how she made her living. The price of this financial gain, however, was a life devoid of love. Disillusioned by men who only wanted her for a physical relationship, she struggled to build any meaningful romantic connections. As she often said, after spending most of her day and night surrounded by a pack of predators, the last thing she wanted was for another man to lay a hand on her.

At times, she vented her frustrations, cursing, lamenting, and blaming life itself for all the hardships she had endured and the turmoil her life had turned into. In those moments, she found solace in memories of her mother, who had bravely stood up to her father's aggression. She had learned to disdain men, feeling nothing toward them but disgust. She could not foresee that an extraordinary event was about to take place that night—one that would completely transform her feelings.

As Krisztina approached the railroad tracks, a figure suddenly emerged from behind one of the train cars. Before she had a chance to respond, a powerful grip clutched her neck while another hand muffled her mouth. Observing the paleness of his face and hands, along with his bloodshot eyes and enormous teeth, Krisztina felt she grasped the situation entirely. With a terrified look and her body shaking, trying to scream, she seemed to plead for mercy. In Dragos’s grip, her tears felt like scalding water.

For the first time Drago had her within his reach. The girl’s racing heart, her strained breathing, and her heaving chest stirred the demons within him. The overpowering desire to rip her dress, possess her, and bring her life to an end was utterly irresistible. Gripping her neck firmly and gazing intently with his cold, glassy eyes into hers, Drago hesitated. In that fleeting moment, he felt as though he were seeing his entire centuries-long existence reflected in Krisztina’s eyes. Memories of the girls he had raped and murdered without a shred of remorse—like any wild beast that kills simply to survive—flashed through his mind. Confused and enraged, he wondered why fate had put him at this crossroads, why he had to love what he ought to destroy and destroy what he loved. Just as Krisztina began to faint, he snapped out of his trance. Panicking at the thought that he might have killed her, he suddenly released her, and she fell hard against the rails.

When she regained consciousness, he was still standing next to her, gazing at her with bewildered eyes. Overcome with fear, she slowly managed to get on her feet and stumbled across the tracks and the street toward her home. Rushing up the stairs and gasping for breath, she entered her apartment, secured the door with three bolts, and drew the curtains shut. Then, exhausted, she collapsed onto her bed and cried for a long time before finally drifting off to sleep.

In the early hours of the day, she woke up, sat up, and peered out the window that overlooked the train tracks. Drago remained there, standing still, his gaze locked on her window. Through her sobs and with considerable effort, Krisztina managed to voice a desperate plea and shouted: "Don't just stay there. The sun will rise soon. You have to leave."

Drago remained motionless and unresponsive. As the first rays of light touched him, he felt his skin start to burn. As the sun climbed higher, an intense heat consumed his insides, and soon, his body burst into flames like a blazing torch. The darkness that pursued him, while incinerating his existence, also provided a strange tranquility, alleviating the torment he had endured for ages. Amid the flames, he still caught sight of Krisztina, staring at him in terror from the window. That was the final image he could hold on to.

As dawn broke in all its splendor, Krisztina rushed out of her apartment and, as if driven by madness, ran towards the rail tracks. Where Drago had stood only moments earlier, there was now nothing but a pile of dust. She sank to her knees in front of the remnants of the monster, gathering the ashes of the beast in her hands and sobbing uncontrollably. Glancing up at the sky, she suddenly let out a horrifying scream that echoed through the deserted streets of Targumures. After a brief pause, still shaken, she let the last traces of her protector slip through her fingers and began to make her way home. Disoriented and feeling as though she had lost something invaluable, overwhelmed by despair and lonelier than ever, she struggled to understand why a murderer had chosen to die instead of killing her.

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© Translated from the Spanish by William Almonte Jiménez, 2026.
© Spanish title: “Drago y Krisztina”.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2014.
© Inspired by the song: “Moon Over Bourbon Street”, by Sting.
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Colegio San Francisco

El calor vespertino me recuerda situaciones del pasado, especialmente de mi niñez en el trópico, una época en la que muchas posibilidades, sencillas e inofensivas, me quedaban por delante.

Unos minutos antes de las dos de la tarde, me dirigía al Colegio San Francisco de Asís, como llevado por una ensoñación, a través del túnel de árboles que formaba la Avenida Hermanas Mirabal. El árbol bajo el cual jugábamos, en el centro del patio, lo recuerdo inmenso, proyectando una sombra gigantesca, como queriendo defendernos de la maldad y preservar inalterado el bienestar que nos envolvía.

Todas mis maestras eran muy chéveres. No me acuerdo de una sola que me cayera mal.

Lucía era una morena chulísima, de pelo negro y lacio, y ojos que centelleaban igual que los astros. La fortuna quiso que fuera mi maestra de primer grado. Cada vez que estallaba el temporal y el patio se inundaba, ella interrumpía las clases. Entonces, nos poníamos a hacer barquitos de papel, los montábamos sobre el lomo de una onda y los veíamos perderse en algún abismo que los llevaría a mundos incógnitos y remotos.

Marta tenía una tez que se asemejaba a la miel o al caramelo. Siempre llevaba los cabellos recogidos en un moño. Tenía cara de malhumorada, siempre frunciendo el ceño, pero en realidad era muy tierna. La vida me premió con la dicha de que fuera mi maestra de segundo grado. Fue ella quien consideró que yo era muy aplicado y estaba lo bastante preparado para pasar al cuarto año. Así se lo propuso y consiguió convencer al director del colegio, un cura franciscano venido de España, igual que muchos de los sacerdotes de esa época en mi pueblo natal. De esa manera me libré de hacer el tercero y me adelanté a los demás muchachos de mi edad.

Consuelo era madre de tres, esposa de uno, y mi profesora de cuarto curso, a quien quería mucho. Su cara manifestaba la desdicha de un matrimonio malogrado. ¿Que cómo podía un niño de nueve años enterarse de esos asuntos? Lo sé, porque impresa en algún escondrijo de mi memoria está la estampa de Consuelo conversando con otra maestra sobre las penosas circunstancias por las que estaba pasando. El nombre le servía de poco.

Camila era una gordita, chiquita y muy sensual, que el azar puso en mi camino para que fuera mi maestra de quinto grado. Digo que era sensual porque así me enseñó a verla Miguel. Y lo digo en retrospectiva; en esa época mi vocabulario no daba para tanto. Miguel se pasaba todo el tiempo escudriñándole el busto a Camila y secreteándome a mí. Una vez me dijo que parecía que la profesora quería coger, porque tenía los senos paraditos, y que si una mujer tenía los pechos así, era señal de que tenía ganas de sexo con un hombre. ¡Parece increíble! Apenas teníamos diez años y ya le deseábamos las tetas a la maestra.

Como si soñar con los pezones de Camila no hubiera sido suficiente para mantenernos distraídos, a mediados del quinto curso llegó Clara. El Colegio San Francisco de Asís era exclusivamente para varones. Al otro lado de la calle se encontraba el Colegio San José, únicamente para niñas. La familia de Clara se había mudado a Santiago de otra de las provincias del interior en medio del año escolar. Resultó que no había espacio para ella en el Colegio San José, de manera que le permitieron terminar el año escolar en el nuestro. ¡Qué suerte tienen algunos! En todo el colegio había una muchacha y sólo una, y a nuestro quinto curso le tocó la ventura de tenerla. Podría pensarse que debió haber sido sobrecogedor para una muchacha ser la única alondra entre una bandada de cuervos. Sin embargo, no fue así. En esa época aún no habíamos perdido por completo la inocencia. A Clara la tratábamos igual que a una reina, nos desvivíamos por complacerla y competíamos por su atención. Su nombre fue premonitorio, porque Clara se llamaba la única compañera de clase de la que me enamoré al cursar la secundaria.

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Summer

Summer afternoons have the power to snatch from my mind memories of events I have never lived. When sunlight penetrates my eyes, through the retina, it triggers electrochemical connections in my brain that induce a feeling of euphoria and make me remember.

What exactly? I don’t know. I just know that the emotions I’m experiencing seem familiar, whether from my childhood, my time in my mother’s womb, or perhaps from another existence—I can’t say for certain. The one thing I do know is that the warm summer breeze caressing my face, the rustling leaves, the sunlight reverberating on the pavement, the red and yellow wild flowers flirting with the green meadows, the freshly plowed dark soil ready for planting, the billowing clouds overhead, and the deep blue lake all combine to draw me into a state of harmony and luminosity in which I levitate.

In this elevated state, my senses and instincts sharpen, allowing me to notice, perceive, and absorb everything surrounding me. Then it becomes clear to me why ancient civilizations worshipped the sun. It feels far more meaningful than venerating an abstract, anthropomorphic God.

During summer, days are longer, and so is life. The sun shines abundantly from early in the morning until late at night. And yet, it often feels like there isn’t enough time to accomplish all that one might wish to. Some of the possible activities are cycling through Highland Creek, Leslie Spit, Mount Pleasant Cemetery, or the Brickworks; attending jazz performances at Nathan Philips Square; enjoying the International Hispanic Fiesta at Harbourfront; experiencing LatinFest in Mel Lastman Square; celebrating Caribana along the Lakeshore; watching Shakespeare plays in High Park; marveling at fireworks at Ontario Place; rocking out at concerts in Wonderland; browsing the book fair on Queen Street; picnicking on Centre Island; taking a swim in the lake at Cherry Beach; or just strolling or driving around town while admiring a multitude of scantily clad women.

Summer offers me the opportunity to experience what feels like a whole year within just three months, before the gloomy clouds roll in, and I feel guilty if I let it slip away. It's a time of festivals, rituals, and celebrating life.

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Presentación

William Almonte (williamalmonte@hotmail.com) nació en Santiago, República Dominicana, y actualmente reside en Canadá. Sus relatos exploran temas que son comunes y profundos a la vez: el poder de las palabras; la urgencia de escribir; el miedo a lo desconocido; la disyuntiva de vivir intensamente o limitarse a lo familiar; los amores contrariados; la soledad existencial y el sentimiento de desarraigo que experimenta el inmigrante en tierras lejanas; los prejuicios raciales; la realidad histórica, política, social y económica de América Latina; los horrores de la guerra; el lado oscuro de la naturaleza humana. Cuestionan ciertas verdades, convenciones y tradiciones que nos han sido impuestas por la iglesia, el estado y la sociedad en general. También tratan de la búsqueda de la salvación por medio de vínculos afectivos con nuestros semejantes, los recuerdos de la infancia y el retorno a las raíces; y finalmente, la persecución del estado de equilibrio y la reconciliación con la vida y la muerte a través del amor. En cierto sentido, se puede afirmar que son variaciones sobre un mismo tema: la naturaleza efímera de las relaciones interpersonales, el amor y, por supuesto, la vida.

Introduction

William Almonte (williamalmonte@hotmail.com) was born in Santiago, Dominican Republic, and currently resides in Canada. His stories explore themes that are both common and profound: the power of words; the urge to write; the fear of the unknown; the choice of living intensely or limiting oneself to what is familiar; unrequited love; the existential loneliness and sense of dislocation experienced by immigrants in foreign lands; racial prejudice; the historical, political, social, and economic landscape of Latin America; the atrocities of war; and the dark side of human nature. They question some truths, conventions, and traditions that have been imposed on us by the Church, the State, and society at large. They also deal with the search for salvation through emotional ties with our fellow human beings; childhood memories and a return to one's origins; and ultimately, the quest for harmony and reconciliation with life and death through love. In many ways, it can be said that they are variations on the same theme: the fleeting nature of relationships, love, and life itself.

Le Rêve d'une Ombre

La vie n'est que le rêve d'une ombre : je l'ai senti de nouveau ce soir avec intensité. Je ne m'aperçois moi-même que comme une apparence fugitive, comme l'impalpable arc-en-ciel qui flotte un instant sur la bruine, dans cette formidable cascade de l'être qui tombe sans relâche dans l'abîme des jours.

Henri-Frédéric Amiel : Journal Intime, le 29 août 1872.

Mardi dernier, alors que je rentrais de mon travail au lycée Jacques de Vaucanson où j'enseigne l'anglais, j'ai traversé le Pont Wilson sur la Loire, descendu du tramway à la Place Anatole France, puis marché vers mon domicile au 12 Rue de Constantine. C'est à ce moment-là que j'ai remarqué une voiture garée de l'autre côté de la rue, avec une personne qui me fixait. En cherchant mes clés dans mes poches, un tremblement involontaire m'a envahi en réalisant que la fille dans la voiture n'était autre que Valentine.
Nous nous sommes fixés intensément du regard pendant une minute. Elle avait l'air préoccupée, puis elle a détourné les yeux. J'avais du mal à respirer. Cela faisait déjà plusieurs mois que nous ne nous étions pas parlés. Nous avions eu une dispute à cause de son copain, que je n'apprécie pas, car je pense qu'il a une mauvaise influence sur elle. Elle s'était donc mise en colère et avait déménagé. Avant que je n'entre dans la maison, elle m'a lancé un dernier regard, comme si elle voulait dire : « Adieu papa ». Ensuite, elle a démarré sa voiture et est partie.
Bouleversé par ce que je venais de vivre, j’ai quand même fini par ouvrir la porte, et je suis entré dans la maison. Dès que j'ai franchi le seuil, j'ai remarqué Gabriel, mon fils qui regardait la télévision. À l’instant où il a perçu ma présence, il m’a appelé : « Viens papa, je veux te montrer quelque chose ». Je lui ai répondu : « Attends un moment, je dois d’abord parler avec ta mère ».
Ma femme et moi avons quitté le salon pour nous rendre dans la cuisine afin que Gabriel n'entende pas notre conversation. Nous nous sommes installés autour de la table à manger. Une profonde tristesse me serrait la gorge, mais j’ai fini par lui poser la question: « Donc, c’est vrai? ». « Oui » m’a-t-elle répondu. Et avec un mépris évident elle a ajouté : « Elle s’est mariée avec ce type-là ». À cet instant, une vague d'angoisse m'a submergé et j'ai commencé à pleurer.

Tout à coup, mes larmes m'ont réveillé et je me suis interrogé sur le sens de ce rêve. Pourquoi Valentine, vivant à des milliers de kilomètres de moi, avait-elle pénétré mon intimité? Je me mis alors à réfléchir et j'en ai conclu que le passé, très présent dans mon rêve, avait pour but sûrement de me délivrer un message. Gabriel, étant un garçon, symbolisait une époque révolue aujourd'hui. Quant à Valentine, cette fille que je n'ai jamais pu avoir, semblait vouloir me faire comprendre que le temps s’écoule très vite et qu'il est essentiel de se débarrasser de certains espoirs.
Mais pourquoi cette jeune fille avait-elle l'air si mélancolique ? Quel message voulait-elle me communiquer ? Était-ce l'impossibilité de la comprendre, de saisir le sens de la vie? Peut-être que ce rêve était également un présage du futur, un oracle dissimulé qui me faisait entrevoir que, malgré toutes les épreuves du temps qui s'échappe, et de la distance qui nous sépare, un espoir était encore possible; et que Valentine (la jeunesse, l’avenir), dans cette voiture symbolisant l’évasion, me transmettait un message codé qui voulait dire : « Ne m'abandonne pas, quoiqu'il arrive et malgré les défis que tu auras à surmonter».
Ce rêve, aussi mystérieux qu'il soit et qui me laisse perplexe, me rappelle que les rêves peuvent parfois guider nos vies. Que ce soit des rêves récurrents ou simplement des instants d'évasion, de joie ou de tristesse, ils ont leur importance. Mes paupières s'alourdissent à nouveau, la fatigue m'envahit et je pense que, s'il se reproduit, il finira, au fil du temps, par révéler progressivement tous ses secrets.

©William Almonte Jiménez, 2017
©M.E.C, 2017

Eternal Life

The living room was spacious and dimly lit, partially illuminated by a lamp in one corner. Ice had begun to form along the edges of the windows. Through the thick frost covering the windowpanes, one could only imagine the harshness of the winter night outside.

His younger brother was asleep while their mother was working the night shift. We were sitting on the sofa, watching one of his favorite shows on TV, side by side, closely together, as if to ease the feeling of loneliness. The large living room always made me aware of that solitude, which, somehow, seemed more intense when his mother was absent.

“How come kids have fun all day long?” he suddenly asked.

“That’s just what kids do; they have fun all the time,” I replied, somewhat surprised by the question, not knowing exactly what he meant. “When you’re young, there’s no need to worry because your parents take care of you. But once you grow up, you’ll need to work, get married, and have your own kids,” I added in a casual way, keeping my focus on the television set.

“How come?” he inquired in a serious tone, as if demanding my full attention.

“Well, all children eventually grow up and get married, just as you will one day,” I answered, knowing that my words didn’t make complete sense.

“How come?” he insisted.

I didn’t know exactly how to reply, but I knew that I had to come up with a better justification. “Sooner or later everybody gets married. You will meet a girl, you will like her, she will like you back, and then you will get married,” I added, still uncertain about that response.

“What if she already has a husband?” He fired relentlessly, making me uneasy.

It suddenly became obvious to me that the time I was afraid of had come; the time when my children would start asking serious questions about life’s big issues. I realized I was trying to avoid the pitfalls of giving the wrong answers or giving too much information. “You never marry a girl that already has a husband,” I said, knowing that it was perfectly possible to fall in love with a girl that was already married to another man. But, of course, I wasn’t going to start rationalizing that predicament with him.

“I will never get married,” he said indifferently.

“Why?” I inquired, feeling more at ease and seizing the chance to pose the questions.

“Because I want to stay with you,” he replied as if the answer was obvious.

I wanted to respond logically to that, but nothing came to my mind. Before I could formulate a thought, he continued with his interrogation.

“How will you look when I am a grown-up?”

“I will be older; I will probably have gray hair,” I stated, rather relieved because, in some way, he had changed the subject. The instant I said those words, however, I knew I had taken a turn I shouldn’t have. The respite didn’t last.

“How come people get old and die?” he promptly inquired, just as I had feared he would.

We had arrived at the point in the conversation that I was trying to avoid. “I’m not sure, but that’s the way it is,” I replied, lacking conviction.

Without letting up, there came another query: “If you die, who will take care of me?”

“When you grow up, you won’t need me; you’ll take care of yourself. Just look at me: my parents live back home, and I live here. I manage on my own now without needing them to fix my problems. You’ll be able to do the same,” I asserted in a more confident tone, feeling as if I had finally found the right way to navigate this challenging dialogue.

“What if you die while I am still a child?”

“You have your mother.”

“What if Mommy dies?”

“There are always your grandparents.”

“True, but they are so far away. How would I get there?”

“You would go to the airport and buy a plane ticket.”

“And if the grandparents die, who will look after me?”

He wouldn’t yield, set on obtaining every answer immediately. Feeling troubled and unsure of how to respond or react, with the intention of putting an end to the questioning, I repeated rather impatiently, “I’ve already told you, you will look after yourself.”

He began to sob and then moved in closer to hug me. “I don’t want you to die,” he firmly said. It sounded like he was commanding me, “Don’t you dare die on me.” He appeared to be invoking the powers that govern the universe, delivering his ultimate decree: “I prohibit you from claiming my father’s life; that’s my definitive statement.”

I was feeling cornered and agitated. The conversation I had been dreading unfolded just as I had feared. A wave of anxiety churned in my stomach. I fought to keep the tears from spilling over my eyes. In a moment of desperation, as if I were offering a lifeline to either him or myself, I held him close and softly whispered, “Everything will turn out alright. You don’t need to worry about that. It won't happen anytime soon. In fact, I’ll never die.”

It was getting late, and he had to get up early in the morning to go to school. I thought it was the ideal reason to wrap up our conversation. I told him that it was time to go to bed. He kissed me goodnight and went to sleep. Then it was my turn to go to bed. While I was in the washroom brushing my teeth and reflecting on our conversation, I noticed him standing by the door.

“I want to be with you,” he said.

After I finished brushing my teeth, I took him to bed and pulled the blanket over him. As I sat next to him, I gently stroked his hair until he dozed off. I stayed there a while after he fell asleep, feeling guilty and pondering how I might explain the complexities of life to a six-year-old without lying. How could I provide an answer when I didn’t have a reasonable explanation myself? How could I do it when I felt that despite all my experiences, I still didn’t understand things any better than he did?

Los Hombres No Lloran

Lo más lejos que puedo estirar mi memoria es hasta el día en que murió Noel. No tengo recuerdos de nada que haya ocurrido antes de esa fecha. Aún tengo presente la imagen de mi hermano menor durmiendo en una cama extraña; en ese entonces yo no tenía ni idea de lo que era un ataúd. Se veía tan adorable con ese atuendo. No sabría decir cómo me sentí al respecto, ya que probablemente no entendía la situación. Tal vez me sentía indiferente o incluso un poco entretenido al verlo dormir en esa cama peculiar, con dos hojas de laurel cubriéndole los ojos. Creo que me sentía confundido porque los vecinos seguían entrando a la casa y conversando con mis padres. Seguramente me asusté cuando unos hombres pusieron una tapa sobre el ataúd que contenía a mi hermano, y cuando iban a levantarlo para llevárselo, vi a mamá correr hacia ellos, como una fiera. Entonces abrazó el ataúd, se aferró a él y comenzó a gritar como una loca. Debí sentir mucho miedo al darme cuenta de que algo terrible estaba sucediendo cuando noté que papá también estaba llorando. Siempre había pensado que los hombres no lloran. Muchos años después vería a mi padre llorar una vez más. Al final, cuando mamá logró calmarse, aquellos hombres levantaron el ataúd de mi hermano y lo colocaron dentro de un carruaje tirado por caballos que aguardaba afuera. Luego se lo llevaron.

Noel murió a causa del cólera, y hasta el último día de su vida, papá lamentó con cierta amargura el hecho de que en ese entonces fuéramos pobres. Estaba convencido de que si hubiéramos tenido dinero para llevarlo a un hospital privado, lo habríamos salvado. Aunque sé que nunca volví a verlo, no estoy seguro de si alguna vez le pregunté a mamá dónde estaba mi hermanito o cuándo regresaría. A veces me pregunto si sólo lo estoy imaginando. ¿Cómo puedo recordarlo? Eso sucedió en 1958. Yo tenía sólo tres años y Noel apenas dos. Es posible que mis recuerdos hayan sido moldeados a partir de los frecuentes relatos de mi madre de esa ocasión. Lo que pudo haber grabado ese evento en mi memoria fue ver llorar a mi padre, una escena que probablemente nunca antes había presenciado. Como dije, ese día sigue siendo mi primer recuerdo de la infancia.

Un años más tarde, en 1959, la nación aún se encontraba bajo el yugo de la despiadada dictadura de Rafael Trujillo, que había comenzado en 1930. Vivíamos en un estado de miedo constante mientras el régimen perseguía, torturaba y asesinaba sistemáticamente a los disidentes. Había que tener cuidado con lo que se decía y con quién se socializaba, ya que un vecino, un amigo cercano o incluso un familiar podían fácilmente denunciarte ante las autoridades por tener opiniones contrarias al gobierno. Y entonces, una noche, la policía secreta podía irrumpir en tu casa y llevarte a La Cuarenta, un centro de tortura ubicado en la calle 40 de Santo Domingo. Allí se sometía a los prisioneros a métodos brutales de tortura, como quemaduras con cigarrillos, descargas eléctricas, palizas con martillos o bates de béisbol e incluso la extracción de las uñas, todo en un esfuerzo por obligarte a traicionar a tus colaboradores, si es que los tenías. Si lograbas sobrevivir a tan horrendas torturas, finalmente te mataban y arrojaban tu cuerpo al Mar Caribe, dejando a tu familia sin ninguna esperanza de volver a verte.

En enero de 1959, los revolucionarios cubanos consiguieron derrocar al dictador Fulgencio Batista. El 14 de junio, exiliados dominicanos, con el apoyo de Fidel Castro, lanzaron una invasión a la República Dominicana desde tres frentes diferentes, con el objetivo de derrocar al dictador Rafael Trujillo. Los rebeldes se dirigieron a Estero Hondo y Maimón remando desde barcos anclados en alta mar, mientras que un contingente más pequeño aterrizó un avión de transporte C-46 en Constanza. Sin embargo, las fuerzas armadas dominicanas, alertadas por sus propios espías, frustraron el asalto marítimo. En Constanza, la mayoría de los rebeldes fueron capturados o asesinados. La fallida invasión intensificó la represión del régimen contra el pueblo. Cualquier persona sospechosa de tener vínculos con los barbudos (los invasores) se enfrentaba a la amenaza de ser capturado, torturado y ejecutado.

Mi padre era un campesino que, en 1947, a los catorce años, abandonó la granja familiar para forjarse una vida mejor en la ciudad. En 1959, tenía esposa y cuatro hijos (en realidad tres; Noel ya había fallecido), y vivía en la extrema pobreza. No se involucraba en ninguna actividad política; simplemente trabajaba vendiendo billetes de lotería para sacar adelante a su familia. Era simplemente una hombre común tratando de subsistir. Sin embargo, por razones que en ese momento ignoraba, el SIM (Servicio de Inteligencia Militar), la policía secreta, conocida por el público como calieses (matones), comenzó a acosarlo. Lo detenían en las calles, le hacían preguntas extrañas, lo vigilaban y lo seguían en sus Volkswagen negros, llamados cepillos. Papá, asustado y ansioso, decidió hablar con uno de nuestros vecinos, el sargento Collie, que era miembro de la policía regular, para expresarle sus preocupaciones. Ese acto puede haber sido ingenuo e imprudente, pero papá realmente creía que el sargento Collie era un buen hombre. El sargento Collie corroboró que la policía secreta tenía algo en su contra, aunque no sabía exactamente qué. Le aconsejó que tuviera cuidado, que vigilara su propia sombra y que se mantuviera alejado de los extraños. Esta situación se prolongó durante varios meses, hasta que papá averiguó la razón por la cual lo tenían bajo vigilancia.

Rivas era un prominente y respetado abogado en la ciudad de Santiago, conocido por su abierta oposición al gobierno. El régimen no lo había asesinado debido a su avanzada edad y al hecho de que no representaba una amenaza seria. También existía la probabilidad de que su muerte provocara un escándalo público considerable y críticas a nivel internacional. Mi padre lo visitaba a menudo tanto en su oficina como en su casa para venderle billetes de lotería. Durante esas visitas entablaban diversas conversaciones y, con el tiempo, forjaron una amistad. Mi padre le contó de sus encuentros con la policía secreta, y Rivas, que era enemigo declarado de Trujillo, le advirtió que podría estar bajo vigilancia porque eran amigos. Le aconsejó encarecidamente que dejara de visitarlo, que se abstuviera de volver a hablar con él y que lo ignorara si se cruzaban en la calle. Mi padre siguió su consejo, y, a partir de entonces, la policía secreta lo dejó en paz. Su experiencia con el SIM terminó sin mayores consecuencias, pero fácilmente papá pudo haber corrido una suerte similar a la de tantos otros. Pudo haber desaparecido una noche sin dejar rastro, y nunca habríamos averiguado su paradero. En 1961, el dictador Rafael Trujillo fue ejecutado por un grupo de disidentes que emboscaron su carro en una carretera en las afueras de la capital Santo Domingo. Eso desencadenó un levantamiento popular que llevó a la caída total del régimen. Luego de este suceso, mi padre y Rivas reanudaron su amistad.

En la época y el lugar en que crecí me enseñaron que los hombres no debían llorar. Papá no lloró en 1959 cuando estaba siendo perseguido por la policía secreta de Trujillo, o cuando lo metieron preso en 1964. Sin embargo, yo no estuve a la altura de esa norma el día que fui a visitarlo en la cárcel. Un vecino, a quien mi padre alquilaba una vivienda, albergaba resentimiento contra él y lo acusó falsamente de esconder armas de fuego ilegales en nuestra casa. A pesar de que no se presentaron cargos formales y nuestra casa nunca fue allanada ni se encontraron armas, mi padre pasó una semana tras las rejas. Los llamados derechos humanos no aplicaban a nosotros. Estar bien conectado con las autoridades otorgaba a algunos el poder de perjudicar a otros. Cuando mi madre y yo entramos en la habitación donde él esperaba, inmediatamente corrí hacia él y empecé a llorar. Ojalá hubiera podido ser más fuerte, ya que supongo que él necesitaba apoyo emocional. Pero no pude. Sólo tenía nueve años.

Mi padre no derramó ni una lágrima aquel día, estoy seguro de ello porque, a diferencia de la primera vez, que sólo recuerdo vagamente, la segunda y última vez que lo vi llorar está grabada indeleblemente en mi memoria. Era el verano de 1969. Mi hermano menor, Hugo, estaba gravemente enfermo y llevaba meses padeciendo. Se lastimó mientras jugaba en el banco del carpintero que estaba reparando nuestra casa. Tropezó y cayó, aterrizando con fuerza en el banco y se lesionó el páncreas. Le operaron tres veces, pero los médicos finalmente perdieron la esperanza y decidieron enviarlo a morir en su casa . Una vecina, que trabajaba de enfermera, acudía varias veces al día para inyectarle analgésicos por vía intravenosa. No obstante, una vez que el efecto del medicamento pasaba, el dolor volvía de manera insoportable. Su cuerpo se había deteriorado tanto que, en determinado momento, literalmente no era más que piel y huesos.

Un domingo por la mañana que recuerdo nítidamente, encontré a mi padre junto a la cama de mi hermano, tratando de consolarlo, mientras yo me mantenía de pie cerca. De repente, mi padre perdió los estribos y salió furioso de la habitación, dirigiéndose hacia el patio trasero, gritando como un loco que ya no podía soportar ver a su hijo sufrir, deseando incluso que muriera para que la agonía terminara. Me quedé boquiabierto. Lo seguí afuera, donde él estaba sollozando de desesperación. Y de nuevo me sentí incapaz de ayudarlo. Simplemente me quedé allí a su lado, haciéndole compañía. No sabía qué más hacer. Sólo tenía catorce años. La dura verdad era que todos en nuestra familia, incluida mi madre, compartíamos ese mismo sentimiento. Sin embargo, las cosas no resultaron de esa manera. Mi hermano perdió el año escolar, pero logró sobrevivir y ocupa un lugar único en nuestros corazones porque, como mi madre solía expresar con su lenguaje tan poético: “Ese niño se lo arrancamos de los brazos a la muerte”. La muerte se había llevado a Noel, pero no pudo llevarse a Hugo.

©Traducido del inglés por William Almonte Jiménez, 2024

©Título original: “Men Don't Cry”

©William Almonte Jiménez, 2015

The Eye of the Storm

Our only importance is that we have the ability to make contact with other human beings.

-Ingmar Bergman

Néstor woke up to the ringing of his alarm clock, feeling startled and irritable. With a strong and spiteful slap, he silenced the damned mechanism he hated so much. After a sleepless night, or sleeping at short intervals, tormented by inexplicable dreams, the worst thing that could happen to him was to be frightened by that infernal machine that forcibly took him out of the pleasant sleep he had finally managed to drift into at daybreak. He sat up on the bed for a moment, still half asleep, with shadows and shapeless lights swirling in his eyes. Letting out a long sigh, he looked at Edith, who lay sound asleep, half naked, wrapped in the sheets, and her disheveled hair. The realization of her presence restored his composure. Gently, so as not to wake her, he leaned down and kissed her buttocks, her shoulders, and her hair.

In the shower, he floated amid the mist shrouding him and the memories coming to life in the spirals of water vapor.

"What a pain!" he grumbled. "I don't want to rehash the past; I don't like to do it, but it always shows up without an invitation."

Indeed, he despised revisiting the past, knowing it was behind him and should remain there. However, memories were constantly lurking, often assaulting him at the most inconvenient times. And there they were, haunting him in the shower, like ghosts performing a macabre dance, reproaching him for his failures, with their devilish laughter echoing from their hollow mouths as they let the shattered glass of his unfulfilled dreams slip through their skeletal hands. He reflected on the winding road he had traveled—his achievements, setbacks, the great mistakes, the dramatic divorce, the heart-wrenching separation from his children, the loneliness, unrequited loves, the disintegration of the psychic framework that defined his identity, and the descent into madness that he managed to avoid without turning to narcotics. Currently, his life resembled a ceasefire. Edith was a breakwater, the eye of the storm, the Sea of Tranquility, Sigma Octantis, Polaris, the counterweight that balanced the scale of his everyday existence. He hoped fervently that this state of peace would last as long as possible.

He sipped his coffee while seated on a chair at the kitchen table. The rich aroma and bold flavor of freshly brewed coffee—black and strong, with a slight hint of nutmeg— gave him an ineffable pleasure that helped him shake off the lingering drowsiness from a restless night. Somehow, the morning coffee softened the acrid crust stuck to his soul, and that seemed to be reborn every morning, exacerbated by the strange dreams. He fastened his scarf, buttoned up his coat, and put on his cap before heading outside.

The slow fall of the snow on the dimly lit street brought him a sense of tranquility. A group of individuals waiting at the bus stop huddled together in an effort to generate warmth and ward off the chill. The winter season compelled them to abandon their cherished personal space.

He headed for the bakery at the corner. The man who usually slept on the sidewalk by the entrance, even in winter, covered by many blankets to withstand the freezing temperature, was still fast asleep. Upon entering the shop, which was already bustling with people despite the early hour, he was greeted by a delightful fragrance of newly baked bread, cookies, cakes, pies, and other pastries that permeated the air. He ordered his regular apple Danish, with its flaky, crispy crust and warm apple pieces sprinkled with cinnamon. That’s something he enjoyed very much.

He stepped outside and immersed himself in the pale, almost ghostly mist created by the falling snow. The beggar was already awake and asked him for some change. Néstor searched his pockets and took out a loonie, which he placed in the man’s outstretched hand. After walking a short distance, he paused and returned to the homeless man, who looked at him with a puzzled expression. Once again, he searched his pockets, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to him.

The sharp sound of the crossing guard’s whistle stopped the traffic. A group of children crossed the street, bundled up in their winter clothes, carrying their backpacks as they headed for school. This scene brought back memories of his children when they were little, when he would take them to school before going to work. This reminiscence put a smile on his face and wiped off the discomfort caused by the previous sleepless night. They were good boys, now grown and living on their own. They often came to see him, and they all would talk about the old days. They got along well with Edith, even though she was not their mother. Néstor figured that as long as they were doing well, he would be fine.

The path leading to Eglinton West subway station always gave him the impression of being in a foreign land. It extended downhill alongside Allen Road, isolated from it by a noise barrier. On either side there were neatly lined trees, exhibiting their charming foliage, which changed with the seasons: bright, green, and new in spring; dark green and shiny in summer; orange, red, and yellow in autumn; and bare branches covered with snow or ice in winter. Walking under their mantle brought him joy and reminded him of the Boulevard Saint Michel, and Les Jardins du Luxembourg.

At Eglinton West, before descending into the bowels of the earth, he picked up a newspaper. Once the train arrived, he took a seat at the back of the car, from where he could observe the crowd. He liked spying on people and guessing what their lives were like based on their facial expressions or the brightness in their eyes. The crowd was typical: those who were sleeping; those who were reading; the man with the briefcase, in a suit and tie, who was obviously in a hurry, as he was constantly looking at his watch; the girl who listened to music with tiny earphones in her ears, her eyes closed, bobbing her head, and whispering a melody; the girl who chatted loudly on her cell phone; the elderly man with an empty stare, who spoke to himself, seemingly lost in his thoughts and solitude.

He unfolded the paper, pulled out the first section, and glanced at the headlines. Radioactivity in water higher than previously thought. Iraqi man kills daughter involved with Al-Qaida. Depression in men on the rise due to socioeconomic changes. 7.4 magnitude earthquake in Pakistan. Floods in the Philippines leave 51 dead and 1.6 million homeless. Suicide bomber kills 21 in Egyptian church. Philadelphia doctor accused of killing patients and newborns. Israeli soldier kills Palestinian at checkpoint. 15 headless bodies found in Mexico. Mother kills her children. American officer kills two Pakistanis in Lahore.

The second section brought more hopeful news. Hundreds work in Vietnam to save the Sacred Tortoise. India and Bangladesh settle their border disputes. Radio stations in Senegal promote peace using local languages. Nepalese rebels join government. Cuba frees political prisoners. South Korean president begins talks with North Korea. Jordan lifts ban on public gatherings. Philippine government and rebels begin peace talks in Norway. Egyptian military agrees to transfer of power. Israeli woman gives birth in Palestinian hospital. Pizza delivery man saves elderly woman. Philanthropists give more than money; they donate their time and talent to students. Woman rescued after 24 hours in New Zealand earthquake.

When he arrived at the office, Rosina, the receptionist, greeted him with her usual cheerful smile and inquired about Edith. She enjoyed sharing harmless gossip and usually inquired about Néstor’s personal and romantic life, curious about how things were going. He happily would update her, as he saw no malice in her interest in his private affairs. Her face would light up with joy when he reported that everything was fine, and she would express genuine concern if the news was less favorable. He was very fond of her. She was married and had two young daughters. Néstor liked trying to read her mind through the expressions she displayed each day: apathy, enthusiasm, sadness, melancholy, worry.

As he walked through the control center Mariela stood up and gave him a hug, as she did every morning. There was nothing romantic or sexual about it. They had been friends for a long time. From the very start, he and Mariela developed a close bond, and they came to the conclusion that the only healthy way to start the day was with a hug. When they first met, he was on his own, while Mariela was unhappily married. They both found comfort in those morning hugs. They were truly meant to be friends. Now he had Edith, just as she had her husband, but one thing had nothing to do with the other. Romantic relationships are frequently unpredictable; lovers come and go; nevertheless, the complicity between them always remained, like a safe haven in the middle of a hurricane. Their coworkers didn’t misinterpret them or spread rumors; they saw nothing inappropriate about that hug. Instead, they just watched this daily ritual, bewildered, unable to understand, and lacking the courage to step out of their own comfort zone and do the same. They stared at the couple with healthy envy, perhaps wishing they too had a safe harbor like theirs.

After a morning of toiling in the warehouse, where he worked, receiving and shipping merchandise, he put on his coat and went out to grab a bite from the food cart that parked at the corner each day, serving hamburgers, hot dogs, and soda. The temperature had increased slightly, and the snow was beginning to melt. However, there was a chilly breeze, and everyone gathered around the cart, seeking its warmth and worshiping it as if it were the sacred life-giving fire. He ordered a Polish sausage with Perrier water. While eating, he engaged in conversation with Czeslaw and the other people present about sports, politics, and, inevitably, the miserable winter they were experiencing. But really, when had Winter ever been anything but miserable?

After he finished his meal, he didn't go back to the warehouse. He was only working half a shift that day because in the afternoon he had a doctor’s appointment. For months he had been experiencing pain deep within his abdomen. He had already undergone a few tests, and that afternoon he would receive the results.

At the doctor's office, Néstor listened with some indifference to what the doctor was telling him, as if the doctor was talking about someone else, not about him, as if he did not understand, or did not want to understand, the seriousness of what the doctor was communicating. In the best case, with treatment, his life could be prolonged to about five years. In the worst case, he would live around eight months, or a year.

The subway passengers were the usual crowd: those sleeping, those reading, those looking at their watches impatiently, those talking to themselves or on their cell phones. The only difference was a girl who was shamelessly kissing the boy beside her. A few riders, including Néstor, cast sidelong glances at them, frowning in disapproval. “Get a room!” thought Néstor to himself. They were aware of the attention they were attracting. She didn’t seem to care. “What the fuck!” “What the hell!” The boy was overwhelmed with embarrassment, but he couldn’t shake her off.

Néstor was musing about what the doctor had told him, yet feeling detached and aloof, as if these events were happening to someone else rather than him, and he was merely reading about them in the newspaper or on the advertising signs pasted on the walls of the subway car. Once he exited the Eglinton West station, he thought no more about the matter; he left his potential death sentence buried in the belly of the steel snake. The temperature had risen, the snow had melted away, and rain had fallen. The tram tracks, still wet, were glowing, reflecting the orange light of the dying sun. The atmosphere was fresh. The rain had a way of cleansing everything: the air, the streets, the city, and even the souls and consciences.

He didn't head home right away. Instead, he stopped by the churrasqueira to pick up some grilled chicken, potato dumplings, and seafood rice. The vibrant ambiance, the crowd of people buying their meals before going home, the enticing smell of so many tasty dishes, and the ever-jolly voice of Mrs Martinha calling out to the staff lifted his spirits.

As he waited for his turn, he smiled, looking forward to being home in just fifteen minutes. Upon arriving, without even removing his coat, he would immediately switch on the radio tuned to 91.1 FM. Next, he would step into the shower and levitate in the steam of the hot water. After that, he would set the table with plates, food, and a bottle of wine. Finally, he would settle on the sofa to continue reading “Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” while enjoying the soothing trumpet of Miles Davis, the elegant piano of Oscar Peterson, the sensual saxophone of Stan Getz, and the lulling voice of Suzie Arioli. He would jump off the couch driven by a flash of joy as he heard the sound of Edith’s key opening the door; he would stand at the threshold, feeling her presence before she stepped inside; then they would embrace gently, their bodies pressed together, and time would stand still.

Mrs. Martinha's voice, saying "17 dollars," snapped him out of his daze. After settling the bill, he stepped out of the churrasqueira. It was almost night. He looked down the street toward the horizon, still glowing and fractured by the sun’s rays, which was reluctantly going down. The magic of the air, which absorbs the blue light and lets the red shine through, never ceased to amaze him. The twilight appeared magnificent and enchanting, like it was yesterday, and every day before yesterday, like always. Nothing had changed.

Body and Soul

Prince charming does exist. He just doesn’t look the way you think he does. Keep your eyes open.

-16 year-old American girl.

I've been watching you from behind the glass wall for some time now, even though you are unaware of my presence. I'm talking to you, knowing that you can't hear me. The problem is that fear has paralyzed me; I don't know how to proceed. Our relationship was thriving, but now everything is going to change; I don't know if for better or worse. I shouldn't have followed your advice. I didn't agree with what you suggested, yet I didn't have the courage to say no.

You're going to be disappointed. We should have left everything the way it was. I don't understand why you wanted to change things. I shouldn’t have let you persuade me. I don't like proximity very much, especially when it comes to physical intimacy, I don't enjoy being touched or touching others. I’d rather communicate over the phone, or even better, through email.

Do you understand what I mean? The human body is not exactly appealing. We urinate, we defecate, we pass gas, we get foul breath, unpleasant body odors, and eye boogers; our skin wrinkles, loses its softness, and becomes blemished; fat builds up, or bones become more visible. A naked human body can be rather repulsive. The body is nothing but a pestilent, nauseating prison from which, fortunately, the soul escapes when we die. For me sex is only a formality to satisfy a physiological urge, and once it is consummated, it lacks any transcendental meaning.

On the other hand, according to what you have told me, you are always longing for affection, a kiss, a hug, the touch of a skin, the warmth of a hand, as if they were the air that you breathe, the food that satisfies your hunger; as if your life depended on it.

We are so different in that regard. The essence of our being—whether you call it the soul, mind, or spirit—is truly unique. Why did we fall in love? Because our souls resonate in a deeply similar way. You see? That’s the explanation. The bond binding us is as strong as steel. Our romance is unfathomable. On our road there are no stumbling blocks, no retaining walls, and no dangerous curves. Our passion is not founded on physical attraction or primal instincts but, on the communicative capacity of the mind and the transforming power of the spirit. Do you see? We refuse to let outside forces control our relationship. We do not wear masks; we do not play roles, as an actor does in a theatrical farce; we do not disguise our true selves.

Listen to what I say. No human relationship is entirely pure, since various external factors influence them. No one falls in love with anyone and values them solely for their inner qualities. We (often subconsciously) take into account numerous conditions: physical appearance, race, height, age, tone of voice, gestures, manners, nervous tics, financial position, social standing; the opinion that your family, friends, and society in general have of that person; religious upbringing, educational background, intellectual abilities; even their first name. Many marriages are little more than a business transaction.

In our case, these aspects are of no importance. You might think I am weird, but I assure you that our union is stronger and more legitimate than that of those around us who live together under false pretenses. We are not simply two interacting bodies, but rather two minds whose channels of communication are wide open. Whether I like you or dislike you, whether our love grows and strengthens or weakens and disappears, solely depends on how much our ideas and feelings overlap or diverge, whether our minds are more or less tuned to the same frequency, or whether they fail to connect at all.

Look, I've mentioned this before. At some point in our lives, we have to confront the reality of existential loneliness. No one can know our most intimate thoughts or feel our most intense emotions—not even those closest to us like partners, children, parents, or friends. We live in a world full of individuals, each with their own internal universe. However, difficult as it may seem, we are all looking for a soul mate. We want to find someone with whom we can be honest, in front of whom we can think out loud, with whom we can communicate freely with the certainty that we are being understood. That's the kind of connection you and I share.

Getting too close may damage our relationship. Do you think I am crazy? That I have a twisted mind? Perhaps I do. But the thought of losing you is terrible and unbearable. I hope you understand me. After all, aren't you the one who claims that matter doesn't truly exist, that when we touch something we're not really touching anything, that all that happens is that the protons and electrons that make up our bodies are attracted and repelled by the protons and electrons of the things we touch, without there being any real contact, that the subatomic particles of our being, agitated by the proximity of the nuclear particles of other bodies, become unbalanced and transmit a disturbance, through the nerves, to the brain, where the sensation, the illusion of being in contact with something, is created?

So, in reality, the body has no existence of its own; it is merely a concept, a fallacy, a mirage, very convenient indeed, but all the same, a construct of the mind. What we call the body is a very complex entity, but it does not correspond to any objective reality. Energy, not matter, is the driving force of the universe. Therefore, the most important things are the mind, the soul, and the spirit, because they are immaterial, they are energy, and consequently (according to the first law of thermodynamics), they are eternal. Ultimately, all the power existing in the universe is mental, not physical. Keep that in mind!

I have no idea how I'm going to react when we're lying in bed, naked, hugging each other, pressed against each other, one inside the other, soaked with sweat, saliva, semen, vaginal fluids, and tears, wrapped in the mist of our own breath. You're going to regret it. Isn't what I give you enough? Why did I have to say yes to your proposition?

That's why I don't know what decision to make. Should I stay here and leave you standing there, holding the banner with my name on it, staring at the arrivals gate, waiting for someone who will never show up? Or should I run to you, hug you, and kiss you... for the first time?

Forty Degrees in the Shade

The sunrays lashed mercilessly on the house’s corrugated zinc roof, while inside, the infrared radiation pierced through us and then went into the earthen floor. The temperature was forty degrees inside the house. Mom had been pressing clothes using coal-heated iron plates. The kitchen’s wood stove, still filled with embers, intensified the heat, making it unbearable. That and the afternoon brightness coming in from outside made us doze off, dulling our senses and distorting our perception of reality. Maybe that’s what happened; perhaps nothing out of the ordinary occurred that day. We probably imagined the whole thing.

Mom was pacing back and forth while holding a baby in her arms, trying to soothe him down. The baby had disturbed her with his screams while she was working in the kitchen. He had been crying for many days. According to mom the baby tried to stand up by holding on to a chair and made such an effort that resulted in a hernia. The doctor said that due to his small size, surgery was not possible. We needed to wait until he was older. In the meantime, the pain subsided briefly before intensifying once more. During my short life I had heard him cry many times, and though his screams were muted by the time they reached my ears, I can say he had never cried in such agony as that day.

Mom moved around the house; from the bedroom to the dining room, then to the living room, and from there to the veranda. The intense sunlight forced her to come back inside. I moved with her, feeling the changes in her body, the shortage of oxygen, the accelerated heartbeat, the blood rushing to her head, the sweat, the trembling, the heat that consumed her more than me, and the anguish she felt at the baby’s desperate cries.

Mom pressed her lips together, trying hard not to scream. That, in some way, made the anguish easier to endure. She knew how to do it very well; she had grown accustomed to it. I suddenly had the feeling that she was going to pass out. I was breathing with difficulty; my heartbeats were slowing down; life was slipping away from me. She bowed her body, and she fell on her knees on the dirt floor, yielding to the weight of so much sorrow and the assault of the heat that was fiercely harassing us. I felt like I was dying alongside her. At the same time, the baby’s crying was getting louder.

Her jaws started to tremble with helplessness, resentment, and defiance as a spasm gripped her face. Tears then began to flow down her cheeks, but she did not cry, moan, weep, or even whisper a word. She had shut herself up in silence in the depths of her thoughts, and not even I could know the dark musings that haunted her in the abyss into which she had descended, where the last light had gone out.

For a brief moment she glanced by turns at the knife hanging on one of the kitchen walls, the scissors on the dining table, the bottle in the cupboards containing the kerosene needed for the lamps used at night, a rope lying on the floor, and the wooden beams supporting the ceiling.

Doom loomed over us on that fateful day. I could sense it in the form of a disturbance in the air molecules. Perhaps my condition allowed me to notice environmental changes that were imperceptible to others. It was one of those days when everything combines and conspires—circumstances, chance, and the dark side of human nature—to bring about disaster; when it seems that the forces of good and evil are engaged in a mortal battle for a person's soul, with no way of knowing which one would prevail.

However, years of hardship had made her proud and unafraid in her struggle against daily events. Mom decided that she would not give up. Summoning the only force left within her, rage, (for all other powers of any kind had deserted her), holding the infant firmly in one arm, she placed her other hand on the table and began to stand up—first one leg, then the other, then her whole body. Staggering, she managed to sit down on a chair near the dining table. She took a deep breath and gradually recovered her strength. While holding the baby in one arm, with her other hand she took a handkerchief out of her dress pocket and wiped off the sweat dripping down her face, at the same time that I felt myself coming back to life. Then she caressed the baby, laid her hand on me, felt my heartbeat, and regained her composure. Still lost in her thoughts, she looked out at the street, her eyes fixed on some point on the pavement that seemed to be boiling, until the noise of a truck passing by suddenly came through the open door and jolted her out of her reverie.

In the midst of the confusion that still controlled her, dazzled by the light coming in from outside, Mom saw a ghost appearing and disappearing, becoming solid or transparent. The premonition of something dreadful overcame her; adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream, her pulse started to race again, and sweat flowed all over her body. The agitation was so intense that I thought neither one of us would survive.

She quickly covered her eyes with one hand and took a deep breath. When she calmed down she removed her hand from her face, apprehensively, as if she were not sure she was safe, and noticed a woman standing on the veranda. Her long, ragged dress stretched down to her bare feet; a filthy fabric bag hung from one of her shoulders; her tangled hair partially covered her wrinkled face. She was staring at us, and as she did so, her eyes shone with a mysterious glow that only I could perceive.

Mom remained hesitant, as though trying to determine whether the woman was an angel or a messenger from hell. Eventually, detecting no signs of hostility, she dropped her guard, got to her feet, and, as one walking in a dream, made her way toward the veranda, still unsure that there was actually someone at the door.

“Why is the baby crying, ma'am?”, gently asked the woman, with a soft voice that brought mom back to a state of lucidity and full consciousness—a voice that dispelled all her fears. Mom then went on to tell about the injury the baby had suffered when he tried to walk too soon. “I have here with me an ointment that relieves many pains; let me apply it to the child,” added the woman. And without waiting for mom's answer, she fumbled with the bundle that hung from her shoulder and took out a bottle, which she immediately opened. Once mom had taken off the baby's diaper, the woman applied the ointment to the baby's tummy and thighs, while performing a strange ritual with her hands and murmuring some words that neither Mom nor I understood. When she was done she closed the bottle, put it back in the bundle, stepped out of the veranda, and walked away without saying a word or looking back.

Mom, thinking that maybe she was hallucinating but not finding anything else unusual about the woman, watched her leave until she was out of sight. I on the contrary, was able to feel some radiation emanating from her body as she walked away, which weakly reached my brain, muffled by the amniotic fluid that protected me in my mother’s womb.

We never heard anything else about the enigmatic visitor, whether she was from this world or from the hereafter. All we know is that as soon as she applied the ointment to the baby, the swelling vanished, and he stopped crying. He did not cry again that day. In fact, he did not cry the following day either, or ever again.

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