by Drago Jancar
Over the following weeks he ceased to be the butt of jokes or a topic of amused conversation. No one noticed him anymore. Zurbin Raimondi was now treated like everyone else bogged down in the petty mire of life. As loud as he may have coughed or slapped his hand down on a table in the café, no one paid him the slightest attention.
So he made haste to let his sorcerous red beard grow out, so that fate could again reward him with some sort of humiliation. But nothing happened. Indifference had attached itself to him, and never let him go.
THE LIFE AND ALMOST DEATH OF ARQUIMEDES TRISMEGISTO
In a few moments, three or four lines at most, someone will be murdered in this story. There are still a few seconds of reading left. Till then, we’ll kill a little time. As is well known, the best way to kill time is to stab it with a ballpoint pen in the left shin.
“Ouch, hey, ugh, my heavens!” says time as I stab it in the right shin, which, I’ll say in passing, is a beautiful shin.
“Not the right shin, you idiot, the left!” complains time with a loud howl.
Thanks for the help, I think, as I correct the error and stab my ballpoint in the proper shin.
I’ll never understand why this is the only way to kill time. Why not use a pencil, a felt-tip pen, or a barbecue skewer? All right then, just for the sake of experiment and to contribute to further illumination on this subject, I decide to kill time by boxing its ears with a dictionary. But meanwhile I notice that time is already dead.
At this point, unfortunately, the number of lines has already surpassed the amount needed to pick up the story at the point where someone is murdered. And as one could expect from a second-class character, our victim, Arquimedes Trismegisto—or perhaps he went by another name altogether—snuck out through the back gate like a coward while we were busy killing time.
You can’t trust anyone these days.
A LAMENTABLE EPISODE
Mardrus had lost a leg in the war. What a terrible thing! In its place he used a prosthetic leg. Now this leg had a very peculiar habit: At night, while Mardrus slept, it left the house and ran to the nearest bar to drink. One glass after another. It didn’t stop until it was good and drunk, only returning home in the wee hours of the morning. Mardrus, for his part, had always favored a structured life. He was a serious and steadfast man, and nature had graced him with the noblest of sentiments. In short, virtue personified, a gentleman like no other. It’s not surprising, then, that he had never suspected the despicable proclivities of his leg.
For a long time everything ran smoothly: The leg only headed out after its owner was already asleep and was always back before he awoke. But one night a horrible incident took place that shattered this tranquility and turned everything on its head, revealing the true character of that reckless prosthetic.
A violent conflagration broke out in the building where they lived* and spread rapidly throughout it, forcing Mardrus—that poor thing!—to hobble down the first flights of stairs and tumble** down the rest, stumbling amid the flames, his face a crimson red, his hair deplorably disheveled. A lamentable episode, doing irreparable damage to his reputation.
All told, this is further proof, as if any were needed, that the wolf often presents itself in sheep’s clothing, and that one can find the origin of the greatest tragedies in the least significant things (a prosthetic leg, for example).
GIOVANNI DEL GOBBO
On that morning, something in Giovanni del Gobbo’s disposition changed. To be honest, I can’t guarantee that this was his name, precisely. But I like Giovanni del Gobbo and I want to believe that this was his name. But let’s get back to the story. Up to this point Giovanni had lived a quiet life in his little corner. He had long since given up any sort of ambition and had resigned himself to the most placid, simple, bucolic, and humble of existences, immersing himself in a pleasant and ineffable solitude: year after year, removed from all passion, desire, turmoil.
But on that morning, Giovanni del Gobbo awoke with an unusual desire to take some decisive actions. And, as a matter of fact, he undertook the most surprising of initiatives. He raised his head up about twenty centimeters, blew his nose thunderingly, positioned two pens behind his ear, caught a fly that had landed on the desk to gossip, poetically scratched the top of his head, let loose a fair number of “humphs,” unleashed a piercing burst of laughter, which contained—it must be said—a note of malevolence quite unpleasant to the ear, and began to write: “On that morning, something in Giovanni del Gobbo’s disposition changed . . .”
DIOPTRICS
There was once a man—let’s call him Anke—who was extremely nearsighted. So nearsighted that if he stretched out his arms he could no longer see his hands. He had only a foggy memory of his feet. It had been quite a long time since he’d seen them. They had quite recently turned into two monstrous fish, and the man was completely unaware of this fact. The fish flailed their fins as he walked—plop, plop, plop—swinging to the right and to the left, trudging along with great difficulty. It was a spectacle quite difficult to describe.
Lacking any knowledge of his extraordinary “feet,” Anke was a happy man. He lead as peaceful and comfortable an existence as his bulky lenses allowed. One fine day, however, his nearsightedness disappeared in the blink of an eye (that’s how things go). And our man, full of hope, prepared to rediscover the bountiful shapes and forms of the world.
Just then, the infernal fish emerged out of the shadowy depths in all their splendorous horror. Anke didn’t take a single step, didn’t make a single gesture, didn’t even move a muscle. The shock of it had frozen his voice and muscles. Oh, what a terrible sight! There they were, where they had always been, nervously flailing their tails—plop, plop, plop. It was difficult to imagine something that could be more offensive to good taste and decency.
He felt overcome by a very, very profound sense of despondence. His sadness and pallor were pitiable. He even thought more than once that he was going to die of sorrow. But he didn’t.
STORY OF A MAN WHO LOST HIS SOUL IN A CAFÉ
As is his habit, José Augusto goes to the café after leaving work. He drinks a beer or two. What the hell, maybe three. So far, so good. He leafs through the newspaper and stares at the plump women as they pass by. Nothing particularly important. Afterward, he gets up, hands in his pockets, and whistles on his way home.
At home, he realizes that he left his soul at the café. José Augusto gets annoyed because he’s already put on his slippers, and because his wife is giving him grief. His wife is convinced that the forgotten soul is nothing more than a pretext for him to spend the night out drinking beer and even, who knows, getting involved in something else entirely.
At any rate, José Augusto returns to the café. He looks for his soul on the table where he had been drinking. But both the table and chairs are empty. The employees say that if a soul had been left behind there, they would have noticed it. After all, it isn’t easy for a soul to go unnoticed. Be that as it may, they don’t fail to remind him that these days you can’t trust anyone, and that it’s possible that another customer made off with it to do who knows what. José Augusto is resigned to his bad luck and, with an abundance of sighs and groans, he heads back home without his soul.
All this took place some time ago. But even today José Augusto feels an extremely acute sort of pain in the spot where his soul ought to be. Especially during pheasant-hunting season. Or is it partridge? No, it’s pheasant.
MIRRORS
There was once a man who had a very personal problem with mirrors.
Why?
Because every time he saw a mirror he discovered a new and unknown face on his body. In the morning the mirror would reproduce one face, at night another, and the following morning yet another, and so on, successively. Well, this made quite an impression on him (put yourself in his position). Furthermore, and as a result of this odd phenomenon, the man didn’t even know what his true face looked like.
“This is absurd, absurd, absurd
!” he exclaimed, stomping his feet on the ground. The man had traveled widely and peered into innumerable mirrors, in hope of finding one that would reveal his true nose, his true mouth, his true eyes, his true ears, to speak only of the nose, mouth, eyes, and ears. He had also tried many other things, devising schemes both exceptional and bold, visiting seers and saints. But with no success.
“Ah, what luck I have!” he wept.
The man spent his days downcast, pale, and desolate, dreaming of the day when he would be able to see his true face, if only for a second. Just thinking of this possibility made his heart pound vigorously and gave him shivers.
Finally, already a very old man, a brilliant idea flashed in his head. Hope was reborn in him. Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Life is full of wonders like this: after so many years, he had found a solution.
“Finally!” he screamed, utterly thrilled.
Unfortunately, the solution wasn’t very good and the idea, ultimately, wasn’t all that brilliant, and the man remained as he had been from the start. That is to say: same old, same old.
THE MAN WHO HAD TWO HEARTS
There was once a man to whom nature had granted two hearts. Or rather, in whose chest beat two hearts. Or rather, who came into this world with two of those marvelous organs. All well and good.
One day, however, one of the hearts stopped. Nothing too serious, given that the man had the second one to fall back on. The problem is that the story wasn’t that simple. I forgot to mention* that the two hearts bore an ancient, profound, and overwhelming passion for one another. As the saying goes, in the heart of those hearts burned the flame of pure love. So, when the first one stopped, the second dissolved into tears and stopped beating out of sorrow.
In conclusion, the man couldn’t withstand it and died. Be that as it may, the death wasn’t a result of these cardiac disturbances, as we’ll call them. The man died in Arcadia as a result of a snakebite. And while death was no picnic, remember that life wasn’t so easy for him either.
ORANGE JUICE
A lizard is stricken with a life-threatening fever. In short time he transforms into a man. The lizard ambulance takes the man to the lizard hospital.* The lizard doctors provide their unusual patient with thoughtful care. Unfortunately, they determine that there is no treatment for his condition. They feel as though the ground has given out beneath their feet. This is the great trick that life plays on everyone.
The man continues to burn with fever. He starts to transform into a cow. No one knows what to do. The specialists run away out of fear that they’ll get burned. It’s an irresolvable case. A terrible blow to the scientific pride of the lizards. Centuries and centuries of research, work, struggle, and perseverance without end, all dashed to bits by the monster of impotence.
Their rigorous ethical code notwithstanding, the lizard doctors can’t see any other option than just putting an end to it all. They give the elephant—meanwhile the cow had transformed into an elephant—a very peculiar orange juice to drink. The elephant dies in three seconds. The lizards breathe a sigh of relief, albeit with a trace of displeasure.
In conclusion, I saw all this with absolute clarity and I testify it before the world. But that’s not all. After reading this, please do verify if there are any other similar cases.
TRANSLATED FROM PORTUGUESE BY RHETT MCNEIL
* * *
* Mardrus and the prosthetic leg lived in the garret of an old building in Baixa de Cedrinka.
** Bang! Crash!
* That’s not true. I was very anxious to write this part. But I do try to be a competent narrator and, that being the case, I waited until just the right moment to make this significant revelation.
* But does such a hospital exist? Yes, such a hospital does exist, to be sure.
[RUSSIA]
NINA GABRIELYAN
Quiet Feasts
FIRST FEAST
Noiselessly he turned the key in the lock, stepped into the dark anteroom stealthily, and stopped, listening. They were already in—just as he feared! He waited a moment to let his face relax, then pretended he was Granddad and entered the dining room.
“At last!” said his wife seeing her husband’s benign face.
“At last!” said his children seeing their father’s grim face.
“Presents!” said the grandchildren, and he felt sorry for them because they had grown up and were finishing school this year, and who was to blame except his own children, especially the younger daughter, a divorcee who surely had plenty of lovers.
“Presents?” he asked and turned to the grandkids the face their parents had loved best when they were kids themselves: merry and mirthful. But he’d misjudged them. The grandkids didn’t know that face, and failed to give the right response; they said, “Presents!” and prepared to cry. Again he felt sorry for them, especially the girl, because she was a big and robust child, and he generally disliked her.
“Leave Granddad alone,” said his divorced daughter, smoothing out the blue cotton housecoat he’d bought for his wife the week before. “Hungry granddads don’t like to be bothered.”
He was about to glare, but thought better of it. What if she had no lover at the moment and was out to prey on his emotional reserves? You’ll get nothing, darling, only what I owe you according to the law! I’m not about to get all upset and give you more emotion than you’re entitled to, according to the Code. He allowed himself an angry retort, however:
“Why are you wearing your mother’s housecoat? Haven’t I told you to bring your own when you’re staying with us?”
The divorcee’s hypothetical lover sank back into his chair and heaved a sigh of relief somewhere at the other end of the city.
“Want some soup, Dad?” his elder, married girl, whom he loved best, came to his rescue.
“Presents!” the grandchildren said again.
Alas, they had a point, and they knew it, especially the boy. Tiny and skinny—his girl cousin was a foot taller—he was to take up law after school, and knew the Code inside out. Now, he yelled, his voice trembling:
“Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten it’s the twenty-fifth Sunday of the year!”
Two crystal tears dropped into the soup from the abused idealist’s eyes, and he cried out again:
“Article 14, paragraph 3, item 16!”
Alas, they were right—if not entirely so, however.
“Item what?” he asked in an encouraging tone.
“16,” the boy repeated in a faltering voice that seemed to have wilted, its assurance draining away.
“16. Fine. Let me see . . .”
A pregnant silence fell. He waited a full minute before delivering his blow:
“Do you mean . . . 16a? ‘Grandchildren staying with the parents of any of their parents are entitled to gifts from host grandparents every fifth and twenty-fifth Sunday of the year to stimulate psychological development.’ Hope I have that right.”
“I think so.” Hope was still ringing in the boy’s voice.
“That doesn’t apply to you, boy. You aren’t staying with us. You live here.”
But the child was still pressing his point:
“I’m registered at Mom’s place, not yours. Right, Mom?”
“Granddad’s joking,” said the divorced daughter.
She’d do better to keep quiet: It was her fault he hadn’t bought anything for the kids. Three days ago, she told him over the phone she’d take the boy in for the holidays, and next Sunday her married sister’s husband would take them all, both sisters and both kids, to the Psychotron for the ceremonial punishment of psychic energy vampires. As every schoolboy knew, the Code (Art. 14, par. 3, item 16 B) prohibited giving presents to children if they visited the Psychotron on the fifth or twenty-fifth Sunday of the year, and quite right too. The country had a limited amount of psychological energy and no one was allowed to get double stimulation. And here they were, the kids were left with no stimulation at all!
“Granddad’s joking,” the divorced daug
hter repeated, knowing she’d get away with it: Article 9, par. 7, item 5 prohibited anyone from accusing parents of pedagogical errors in the presence of children below a certain age. She knew her rights and now was calmly contemplating her father’s angry face.
“You shouldn’t make jokes like that, Daddy,” the elder, married daughter cut in, addressing her father’s kind face, which was turned to her. “You know item 16a allows for numerous interpretations; the grandparents may do as they see best, really. If the boy isn’t registered as resident at your place, he may be regarded as guest.”
“He may, and he may not.”
“You want to spoil our holiday?” his wife chipped in looking incredulously at the face that was still in love with her. “Surely you know that next year they’ll no longer be entitled to any gifts.”
“Really?” With a tremendous effort of will, he forced himself to look astonished. All five of his family members now saw him wearing the expression of a forgetful geriatric patient, desperately embarrassed.
The boy was the first to get white as chalk, the divorced daughter next. Paleness spread around the room, and soon all were pale. At the sight of them he lost his self-control and was no longer a grandfather, father, and husband. He was a lop-eared primary school boy lost at the blackboard trying to recollect article 18 of the Code, paragraph 7, item 2. Again he was taking the silent oath never to play Lice-Hunt with the other kids before he did his homework. Again he stared with horror at the teacher’s well-groomed hand as it put a bad mark by his name in the class register. He wept.
“O Lord!” his wife gasped. “What’s all this?”
And then he ran.
He ran, waving his bony arms, and grew smaller and smaller as he fled from their startled faces, from the pain he was causing them. Tears streamed down his childish cheeks and fell into his soup. “Mummy, Mummy,” he sobbed.