The Book of Fantasy

by Jorge Luis Borges

  Macario, the village woodchopper, had one overwhelming desire which he had nourished for fifteen years.

  It was not riches he wanted, nor a well-built house instead of that ramshackle old hut in which he lived with his wife and his eleven children who wore rags and were always hungry. What he craved more than anything in this world—what he might have traded his very soul for—was to have a roast turkey all for himself combined with the opportunity to eat it in peace, deep in the woods unseen by his ever-hungry children, and entirely alone.

  His stomach never fully satisfied, he would leave home before sunrise every morning in the year, weekday and Sunday alike, rain or shine. He would disappear into the woods and by nightfall bring back a load of chopped wood carried on his back.

  That load, meaning a full day’s job, would sell for one bit, sometimes even less than that. During the rainy season, though, when competition was slow, he would get as much as two bits now and then for his load of fuel.

  Two bits meant a fortune to his wife, who looked even more starved than her husband, and who was known in the village as the Woman with the Sad Eyes.

  Arriving home after sunset, Macario would throw off his pack with a heavy groan, stagger into his hut and drop with an audible bump upon a low crudely made chair brought to the equally crude table by one of the children.

  There he would spread both his arms upon the table and say with a tired voice: ‘Oh, Mother, I am tired and hungry, what have we for supper?’

  ‘Black beans, green chilli, tortillas, salt and lemon tea,’ his wife would answer.

  It was always the same menu with no variation whatever. Knowing the answer long before he was home, he merely asked so as to say something and, by so doing, prevent his children from believing him merely a dumb animal.

  When supper was set before him in earthen vessels, he would be profoundly asleep. His wife would shake him: ‘Father, supper’s on the table.’

  ‘We thank our good Lord for what he allows us poor sinners,’ he would pray, and immediately start eating.

  Yet hardly would he swallow a few mouthfuls of beans when he would note the eyes of his children resting on his face and hands, watching him that he might not eat too much so that they might get a little second helping since the first had been so very small. He would cease eating and drink only the tea, brewed of zacate de limon, sweetened with a little chunk of piloncillo.

  Having emptied the earthen pot he would, with the back of his hand, wipe his mouth, moan pitifully, and in a prayerful voice say: ‘Oh, dear Lord in heaven, if only once in all my dreary life I could have a roast turkey all for myself, I would then die happily and rest in peace until called for the final reckoning. Amen.’

  Frequently he would not say that much, yet he would never fail to say at least: ‘Oh, good Lord, if only once I could have a roast turkey all for myself.’

  His children had heard that lamentation so often that none of them paid attention to it any longer, considering it their father’s particular way of saying grace after supper.

  He might just as well have prayed that he would like to be given one thousand doubloons, for there was not the faintest likelihood that he would ever come into the possession of roast chicken, let alone a heavy roast turkey whose meat no child of his had ever tasted.

  His wife, the most faithful and the most abnegating companion a man would wish for, had every reason to consider him a very good man. He never beat her; he worked as hard as any man could. On Saturday nights only he would take a three-centavo’s worth nip of mezcal, and no matter how little money she had, she would never fail to buy him that squeeze of a drink. She would buy it at the general store because he would get less than half the size for the same money if he bought the drink in the village tavern.

  Realizing how good a husband he was, how hard he worked to keep the family going, how much he, in his own way, loved her and the children, the wife began saving up any penny she could spare of the little money she earned doing odd jobs for other villagers who were slightly better off than she was.

  Having thus saved penny by penny for three long years, which had seemed to her an eternity, she at last could lay her hands on the heaviest turkey brought to the market.

  Almost exploding with joy and happiness, she took it home while the children were not in. She hid the fowl so that none would see it. Not a word she said when her husband came home that night, tired, worn out and hungry as always, and as usual praying to heaven for his roast turkey.

  The children were sent to bed early. She feared not that her husband might see what she was about, for he had already fallen asleep at the table and, as always, half an hour later he would drowsily rise and drag himself to his cot upon which he would drop as if clubbed down.

  If there ever was prepared a carefully selected turkey with a true feeling of happiness and profound joy guiding the hands and the taste of a cook, this one certainly was. The wife worked all through the night to get the turkey ready before sunrise.

  Macario got up for his day’s work and sat down at the table for his lean breakfast. He never bothered saying good morning and was not used to hearing it said by his wife or anybody in the house.

  If something was amiss on the table or if he could not find his machete or the ropes which he needed for tying up the chopped wood, he would just mumble something, hardly opening his lips. As his utterings were few and these few always limited to what was absolutely necessary, his wife would understand him without ever making a mistake.

  Now he rose, ready to leave.

  He came out, and while standing for a few seconds by the door of his shack looking at the misty gray of the coming day, his wife placed herself before him as though in his way. For a brief moment he gazed at her, slightly bewildered because of that strange attitude of hers. And there she handed him an old basket in which was the roast turkey, trimmed, stuffed and garnished, all prettily wrapped up in fresh green banana leaves.

  ‘There now, there, dear husband, there’s the roast turkey you’ve been praying for during so many long years. Take it along with you to the deepest and densest part of the woods where nobody will disturb you and where you can eat it all alone. Hurry now before the children smell it and get aware of that precious meal, for then you could not resist giving it to them. Hurry along.’

  He looked at her with his tired eyes and nodded. Please and thanks were words he never used. It did not even occur to him to let his wife have just one little bite of that turkey because his mind, not fit to handle more than one thought at a time, was at this instant exclusively occupied with his wife’s urging to hurry and run away with his turkey lest the children get up before he could leave.

  He took his time finding himself a well-hidden place deep in the woods and as he, because of so much wandering about, had become sufficiently hungry by now, he was ready to eat his turkey with genuine gusto. He made his seat on the ground very comfortable, washed his hands in a brook near-by, and everything was as perfect as it should be at such a solemn occasion—that is, the fulfillment of a man’s prayer said daily for an almost uncountable number of years.

  With a sigh of utter happiness, he leaned his back against the hollow trunk of a heavy tree, took the turkey out of the basket, spread the huge banana leaves before him on the ground and laid the bird upon them with a gesture as if he were offering it to the gods. He had in mind to lie down after the meal and sleep the whole day through and so turn this day, his saint’s day, into a real holiday—the first in his life since he could think for himself.

  On looking at the turkey so well prepared and taking in that sweet aroma of a carefully and skillfully roasted turkey, he muttered in sheer admiration: ‘I must say this much of her, she’s a great and wonderful cook. It is sad that she never has the chance to show her skill.’

  That was the most profound praise and the highest expression of thanks he could think of. His wife would have burst with pride and she would have been happy beyond words had he only once in his life said th
at in her presence. This, though, he would never have been able to do, for in her presence such words would simply refuse to ‘pass his lips.

  Holding the bird’s breast down with his left hand, he firmly grabbed with his right one of the turkey’s thick legs to tear it off.

  And while he was trying to do so, he suddenly noted two feet standing right before him, hardly two yards away.

  He raised his eyes up along the black, tightly fitting pants which covered low riding boots as far down as the ankles and found, to his surprise, a Charro in full dress, watching him tear off the turkey’s leg.

  The Charro wore a sombrero of immense size, richly trimmed with gold laces. His short leather coat was adorned with the richest gold, silver and multicolored silk embroidery one could imagine. To the outside seams of the Charro’s black trousers, and reaching from the belt down to where they came to rest upon the heavy spurs of pure silver, a row of gold coins was sewn. A slight move the Charro would make now and then while he was speaking to Macario caused these gold coins to send forth a low, sweet-sounding tinkle. He had a black moustachio, the Charro had, and a beard like a goat’s. His eyes were pitch black, very narrow and piercing, so that one might virtually believe them needles.

  When Macario’s eyes reached his face, the stranger smiled, thin-lipped and somewhat malicious. He evidently thought his smile a most charming one, by which any human, man or woman, would be enticed beyond help.

  ‘What do you say, friend, about a fair bite of your tasty turkey for a hungry horseman,’ he said in a metallic voice. ‘See, friend, I’ve had a long ride all through the night and now I’m nearly starved and so, please, for hell’s sake, invite me to partake of your lunch.’

  ‘It’s not lunch in the first place,’ Macario corrected, holding onto his turkey as if he thought that bird might fly away at any moment. ‘And in the second place, it’s my holiday dinner and I won’t part with it for anybody, whoever he may be. Do you understand?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Look here, friend, I’ll give you my heavy silver spurs just for

  that thick leg you’ve grabbed,’ the Charro bargained, moistening his lips with a thin dark red tongue which, had it been forked, might have been that of a snake.

  ‘I have no use for spurs whether they are of iron, brass, silver or gold trimmed with diamonds all over, because I have no horse to ride on.’ Macario judged the value of his roast turkey as only a man would who had waited for that meal for many years.

  ‘Well then, friend, if it is worth that much to you, I’ll cut off all these gold coins which you see dangling from my trousers and I’ll give them to you for a half breast of that turkey of yours. What about that?’

  ‘That money would do me no good. If I spent only one single coin they’d clap me in jail right away and there torture me until I’d tell them where I stole it, and after that they’d chop off one hand of mine for being a thief. What could I, a woodchopper, do with one hand less when, in fact, I could use four if only the Lord had been kind enough to let me have that many.’

  Macario, utterly unconcerned over the Charro’s insistence, once more tried to tear off the leg and start eating when the visitor interrupted him again: ‘See here, friend, I own these woods, the whole woods, and all the woods around here, and I’ll give you these woods in exchange for just one wing of your turkey and a fistful of the fillings. All these woods, think of it.’

  ‘Now you’re lying, stranger. These woods are not yours, they’re the Lord’s, or I couldn’t chop in here and provide the villagers with fuel. And if they were your woods and you’d give them to me for a gift or in payment for a part of my turkey, I wouldn’t be any richer anyhow because I’d have to chop them just as I do now.’

  Said the Charro: ‘Now listen, my good friend—’

  ‘Now you listen,’ Macario broke in impatiently. ‘You aren’t my good friend and I’m not your good friend and I hope I never will be your good friend as long as God saves my soul. Understand that. And now go back to hell where you came from and let me eat my holiday dinner in peace.’

  The Charro made a horribly obscene grimace, swore at Macario and limped off, cursing the world and all mankind.

  Macario looked after him, shook his head and said to himself: ‘Who’d expect to meet such funny jesters in these woods? Well, I suppose it takes all kinds of people and creatures to make it truly our Lord’s world.’

  He sighed and laid his left hand on the turkey’s breast as he had done before and with his right grasped one of the fowl’s legs.

  And again he noted two feet standing right before him at the same spot where, only a half minute earlier, the Charro had been standing.

  Ordinary huaraches, well-worn as though by a man who has wandered a long and difficult road, covered these two feet. Their owner was quite obviously very tired and weary, for his feet seemed to sag at the arches.

  Macario looked up and met a very kind face, thinly bearded. The wanderer was dressed in very old, but well-washed, white cotton pants and a shirt of the same stuff, and he looked not very different from the ordinary Indian peasant of the country.

  The wanderer’s eyes held Macario’s as though by a charm and Macario became aware that in this pilgrim’s heart were combined all the goodness and kindnesses of earth and heaven, and in each of the wanderer’s eyes he saw a little golden sun, and each little golden sun seemed to be but a little golden hole through which one might crawl right into heaven and see Godfather Himself in all His glory.

  With a voice that sounded like a huge organ playing from a distance far away, the wanderer said: ‘Give unto me, my good neighbor, as I shall give unto you. I am hungry, very hungry indeed. For see, my beloved brother, I have come a long way. Pray, let me have that leg which you are holding and I shall truly and verily bless you for it. Just that leg, nothing else. It will satisfy my hunger and it will give me new strength, for very long still is my way before reaching my father’s house.’

  ‘You’re a very kind man, wanderer, the kindest of men that ever were, that are today, and that are to come,’ Macario said, as though he was praying before the image of the Holy Virgin.

  ‘So I beg of you, my good neighbor, give me just one half of the bird’s breast, you certainly will not miss it much.’

  ‘Oh, my beloved pilgrim,’ Macario explained as if he were speaking to the archbishop whom he had never seen and did not know but whom he believed the highest of the highest on earth. ‘If you, my Lord, really mean to say that I won’t miss it much, I shall answer that I feel terribly hurt in my soul because I can’t say anything better to you, kind man, but that you are very much mistaken. I know I should never say such a thing to you for it comes close to blasphemy, yet I can’t help it, I must say it even should that cost me my right to enter heaven, because your eyes and your voice make me tell the truth.

  ‘For you see, your Lordship, I must not miss even the tiniest little morsel of this turkey. This turkey, please, oh please, do understand, my Lord, was given me as a whole and was meant to be eaten as a whole. It would no longer be a whole turkey were I to give away just a little bit not even the size of a fingernail. A whole turkey—it was what I have yearned for all my life, and not to have it now after a lifetime of praying for it would destroy all the happiness of my good and faithful wife who has sacrificed herself beyond words to make me that great gift. So, please, my Lord and Master, understand a poor sinner’s mind. Please, I pray you, understand.’

  And the wanderer looked at Macario and said unto him: ‘I do understand you, Macario, my noble brother and good neighbor, I verily do understand you. Be blessed for ever and ever and eat your turkey in peace. I shall go now, and passing through your village I shall go near your hut where I shall bless your good wife and all your children. Be with the Lord. Good-bye.’

  Not once while he had made these speeches to the Charro and to the wanderer had it occurred to Macario, who rarely spoke more than fifty words a day, to stop to think what had made him so eloquent—why it is was that
he, in the depths of the woods, could speak as freely and easily as the minister in church and use words and expressions which he had never known before. It all came to him without his realizing what was happening.

  He followed the pilgrim with his eyes until he could see him no longer.

  He shook his head sadly.

  ‘I most surely feel sorry about him. He was so very tired and hungry. But I simply could do nothing else. I would have insulted my dear wife. Besides, I cannot spare a leg or part of the breast, come what may, for it would no longer be a whole turkey then.’

  And again he seized the turkey’s leg to tear it off and start his dinner when, again he noted two feet standing before him and at the same spot the others had stood a while ago.

  These two feet were standing in old-fashioned sandals, and Macario thought that the man must be a foreigner from far-off lands, for he had never seen sandals like these before.

  He looked up and stared at the hungriest face he had ever believed possible. That face had no flesh. It was all bone. And all bone were the hands and the legs of the visitor. His eyes seemed to be but two very black holes hidden deep in the fleshless face. The mouth consisted of two rows of strong teeth, bared of lips.

  He was dressed in a faded bluish-white flowing mantle which, as Macario noted, was neither cotton nor silk nor wool nor any fabric he know. He held a long staff in one hand for support.

  From the stranger’s belt, which was rather carelessly wound around his waist, a mahogany box, scratched all over, with a clock ticking audibly inside, was dangling on a bit of a string.

  It was that box hanging there instead of the hourglass which Macario had expected that confused him at first as to what the new visitor’s social standing in the world might be.

  The newcomer now spoke. He spoke with a voice that sounded like two sticks clattering one against the other.