“Herna or Love as a Case of the Hives” by Mauricio Koch

Download pdf: Herna or Love as a Case of the Hives

I met her at a birthday party for Martina, a friend from work. I arrived late and didn’t have a chance to make out where the sandwiches were or to spot a familiar face because as soon as I walked in, the first thing I saw was Herna. Or better put, not Herna, because I didn’t know her name then, and it wasn’t that I simply saw her, but rather that a light enveloped me and from the center of that blinding light, she appeared like Aphrodite emerging from the foam, white and immaculate. I am not exaggerating. She wore a colorful Hindu tunic, the kind that only a select few look good in, and on her it looked so natural that I thought this is how she must have come into the world: perfect, in that very instant and solely to stand before me, give me her blessing and vanish. But what actually happened is that she walked by, looked at me, smiled and said Hello. I don’t know how long it took me to react, only that when I recovered from the shock, I tripped all over myself to return the greeting, give her a smile, offer up my insignificance on a tray and so much else, but she had already made her way to the bathroom.

Sandro Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus”

My taste in women has always coincided, if not with that of the majority of men, with at least enough of them so that the girls I like also attract the interest of others. Or at least one other, and that tends to be sufficient. And the night of Martina’s birthday was evidently no exception: no doubt I had seen the most beautiful woman at the party, and, obviously, there must have been some forty guys at that moment with the same inguinal fever and intentions as mine. At least forty. Of course they would all be more interesting and attractive than me. Super cool guys, hippie chic, blond and square chinned, a loosened tie, hands in their pockets, with titles like project manager or positif planifier for companies with names like Meeting Point or Network Trust, dark and handsome students of intelligent marketing or behavioral finance with four MBAs from Harvard and impeccable two-day beards, emerald eyes and a slight white-toothed grin welded onto their faces, boys with a rebel lock of hair over their tanned foreheads, toned but not excessively muscular, sensitive souls with a two-stitch scar over one eyebrow, a souvenir from their rugby-playing days, and, when you get up close enough to notice, impeccable fingernails; the type of man chicks say they can never find but that I see everywhere. Although it would be unjust of me if I did not acknowledge that it is mainly my fault, not theirs, for being passive, self-pitying and basically an idiot. But this time I wasn’t going to allow it. This time I was radiant. I was sparkling and exultant. And I promised myself that that woman would be mine, mine, mine, and no one else’s.

That said, I went to get a drink to work up the courage.

I’ve always figured that the only way to be sure of yourself when you make your move is to have a good strategy. Not the typical cassette, the pre-devised speech, but rather a plan for every situation. As methodical as ever, the first thing I established was the lay of the land: at the moment, she was with her girlfriends, which numbered several, too many. I counted seven or eight, and more kept joining them, all of them hysterical, intolerably stupid. They wouldn’t make it easy for me. I took up a position behind a column, which I felt was the ideal place: not too far so that I could make my move if some square-chin tried to beat me to it, but also not too close for her or one of her friends to notice me, which wouldn’t be good. One possibility was to wait for her to go to the bathroom, which women tend to do in smaller groups of two or three, and then wait by the door. But I discarded it immediately as too obvious, almost treacherous. Besides, she had gone just five minutes ago and there was no time to lose. I determined that the best thing would be to ignore her friends, pretend they didn’t exist and just head over there, with the naturalness that characterizes me. After all, I said to myself, what was she here for if not to meet guys? To be seen as part of the in-crowd with a frozen strawberry daiquiri (light) in her hand? To act all hysterical with her friends, like they always do? Deep down they are all looking for the same thing: the man of their lives. And in her case, that man is you. Good, very good, I said to myself, with that very attitude you are now going over there to say hi. Without making yourself out to be a ladies’ man, you spontaneously, simply say Hello. And she? She’ll surely return the greeting. She looks like a well-mannered girl. But wait! What do I do if right when I’m standing in front of her and about to say it she turns her head and starts talking with a friend? That’s not going to happen. But, what if it does? What do I do? Do I tap her on the shoulder? Do I take her hand? Do I stand there waiting for her to finish the conversation? Say Hello anyway? Or do I turn around and go home? And if she sees that I got that far and then turned around? Or if one of her girlfriends points it out and they all laugh? If that happens, I’ll have to quit my job the next day. Oh, come off it! It’s because of that kind of thinking that you are where you are now; the key is to observe, pay attention and seize that moment when she’s not talking, that second when she disengages from her friends and looks around expectantly, as if waiting for a miracle, and that’s when you come in, friendly and confident, and say Hello.

I examined my clothes to make sure everything was in order, fixed my hair with my fingers, cleared my throat and, when I took the first step, saw that a guy was standing before her and talking into her ear. I wanted to chew up the glass I was holding and bleed out right there. She smiled, he gestured and offered her a light-blue colored drink. Right then I saw a waiter go by and I asked him for a glass of wine, something genuine. I was the only genuine guy at the party and she, because of her haste, was never going to find out. I leaned against the column and reproached myself for even being there because I’m not one for these kinds of parties, I don’t like the type of people who go to them, I don’t like the music they play, I almost don’t like any of the food they serve. I didn’t want to look in her direction, but I couldn’t help it. The guy was still there. I took a better look at him. He had short hair in the style of David Beckham and a tight-fitting black t-shirt, the kind that accentuates the chest, and I said to myself that after I finished my wine I’d go over there and beat the hell out of him, what did I care, let them arrest me, let them take me out on a stretcher. That’s when I saw him turn and walk away, maybe headed for the bathroom, or perhaps to get another post-modern cocktail, whatever, and I felt at that moment that Providence had given me a wink, a now-or-never chance in the law of the jungle, and I took it, totally determined, feeling with each step that after all it was worth it to die for a cause like this.

***

I said Hello and she returned the greeting and smiled at me again. I saw then that she had dark eyes. Like “jet black mirrors” I said aloud.1 What she asked. I’m Alexis I said. She said I’m Herna. I said Ah and fell silent, I couldn’t think of anything to associate with that name and I also couldn’t think of why I should, until — don’t ask me why — the movie “Good Bye, Lenin!” popped into my head. I had seen it a few days earlier and found it interesting, and so I began to talk about it. She listened attentively, and when I finished she responded that she hadn’t seen it and had no interest in doing so: “Politics are the refuge of senseless men who have strayed from the spiritual path and carry a very high karmatic load.” She said it with all seriousness. I waited for her to laugh, so that I could join in on the joke, but that didn’t happen. I thought then that there were two possibilities here: one, that she had shot me down Olympically in a weird but effective way – maybe she had made a bet with her girlfriends and was waiting anxiously for me to leave to tell them what she had told me and to have a good laugh at my expense – or two, much less likely, that she was in effect being serious. Since I had come this far already and I didn’t see any sign to confirm the first hypothesis, I decided to stay. I changed the subject to music. I told her that lately I was listening only to English rock from the ’70s — The Who, Small Faces, The Kinks, bands like that — and that American rock didn’t compare, that the only good thing it had going for it was Hendrix, who we know about precisely because he moved to London and … that’s when she interrupted me to say that we grow old when we no longer feel the vibe of new things and remain attached to the past, and that is what I was doing, but that it was up to me to change because the fountain of youth was in my hands, and there is no getting old when we grow spiritually. The shock was so immense that my memory registered every word.

This second blow left me reeling on the verge of a knockout. I hadn’t prepared for something like that. Left with neither a plan nor a safety net and driven on more by inertia than any kind of hope, I told her that I worked in a cosmetics factory, but what I really liked was the cinema, especially writing screenplays. “We are what we believe ourselves to be. The world is a reflection of ourselves,” she said in a monotone voice, like a first-grade teacher repeating the alphabet to children who didn’t want to learn it. “We deserve love and respect simply because we are what we are. Yogi Ramacharaka tells us that the human species is like one great body: every human being is a cell, all division is disintegration, and disintegration is death.” As if more needed to be said, she added that at that moment my aura reflected a nervous state in crisis, and that the shape of my cranium and my earlobes were inherited from an inferior race called lemuridae that had inhabited the Earth ten thousand years ago.

That’s when I had had enough and became angry. This chick was a real bitch, I said to myself, a princess bored of it all, sick and tired of guys hitting on her because she is so pretty, and so she gets a laugh out of feeding them this stupidity, surely one of her girlfriends is filming it all on her cellphone so she can post it on YouTube later. But she wasn’t going to toy with me that way. A part of me in the form of a fireball rose up from my lungs to my throat and demanded that I tell her off, but at the same time, another part of me, no less powerful and perhaps more urgently, gave me a tingle lower down and made me take notice of how stunning Herna was while she went on about invisible chains of luminous energy that bound us to the essence of some incorporeal angel, and I imagined the tips of my fingertips frolicking in some hidden fold, gently blowing the fuzz in her bellybutton, thinking at the same time that if she didn’t stop talking about Osho, Chopra and the ancestral wisdom of the incarbulated flow, I would never be able to bed her. I, who for some time now had ceased to believe, sensed that God was mocking me.

As if hypnotized, I couldn’t help but lose myself in her voice and had become completely abstracted from my surroundings. When I finally looked around, her friends had moved away and left us alone. Herna kept talking, and in the middle of all that blather that I could no longer absorb, I sensed that in some way she was interested in me, that Herna really felt a connection with me, and having found in me an attentive and intelligent interlocutor, she felt at ease and said all she was saying without restraint, and that surely to some degree she too was surprised by her conduct, and when she had a moment to herself, she would no doubt blame herself for having behaved so awkwardly. I thought all this while she spoke, I think, about some harmonization exercises based on the sacred geometry of Taoist mandalas.

At some point that night, Herna paused. I was exhausted and in need of some fresh air, and she told me she was going to leave for a little while to find her friends, that surely they were waiting for her to give Martina the surprise they had all prepared for her. I’m also going to say hi to some friends, I lied. We’ll see each other later.She smiled and said, Yes, of course.

I went to get a drink and then walked to a far-off corner because I know how I am and I felt odd. I didn’t understand what was happening to me and I started to itch allover. My head, arms, belly. I couldn’t stop scratching myself. It was as if ants were crawling all over me. I confirmed on other occasions that, for me, love begins as a case of the hives. And I can’t help but scratch myself, which only intensifies the itch, and the love, I feel. It was Herna. Herna who had penetrated my defenses and was spreading. Suddenly, I heard her voice: “My love, would you like to grow old with me?” I didn’t answer because I was on my back under our car, a light blue Renault 12 that we had bought with our savings, trying to repair something. We were alone on a dirt road deep in the countryside, far from any sign of civilization. The sun was setting and it was getting cold. She insisted:

“My love, will you stay by my side forever?”

“My love, do you believe in a love that lasts a lifetime?”

“My love … my love … ”

I grunted from underneath the car, but she went on:

“My love, will you ever get tired of me?”

I finally poked my head out and looked at her. The beam from the flashlight she was holding shone into my eyes:

“Why don’t you point that where I tell you? Bend down a bit and give me some light over here, love of my life,” I said; my forehead shimmered with sweat and lubricating grease. It had gotten dark and we were in the middle of nowhere, stranded on a remote road that we had mistakenly taken. But she didn’t do as I asked. She walked away and gestured at some lights that, as night fell, began to shine on the horizon. And said:

“My love, I’m afraid.”    

“Afraid of what?” I responded, and shouted: “This axel is about to break any second now, understand!”

“Of the bugs, what else!” she said. “You know that I’m horrified of spiders, snakes, weasels. The thing is … ”

“But you aren’t listening to what I’m saying, Herna; do me a favor, get some cardboard, kneel on it and give me some light. In what language … ”

“I’m wearing a full-length dress, in case you haven’t noticed. And high heels … ”

I didn’t say anything.

“Are you almost done?” she asked.

“If you don’t give me a hand … ”

“I need to pee.”

“Hand me a 14 mm wrench; look for it in the toolbox and get the 12 or 13 mm, whatever you find and I’ll see if it fits because I can’t see a damn thing … ”

“You didn’t answer my question … ”

“What do I know? Go pee over there, who is going to see you?”

“I asked you something else … ”

“You said you were afraid, that you had to pee … ”

“I’m not going to repeat myself because I was perfectly clear.”

“Can’t you see that my mind is on something else. Did you find the wrench I asked for? Check the trunk, see if by chance there’s some wire back there. Maybe we’re lucky. I’ll tie the wire around it and see if we make it to the next town.”

She squatted down and shone the flashlight on my face: “I told you from day one that I didn’t like this car. Maybe it’s the color, I don’t know, but this color brings bad luck. I explained that to you. But you said what did I know, that this was a great car, that it would never leave you stranded. What do you have to say now about this pile of junk?”

“Pile of junk! Hand me the wrench already and see if you can find some wire! You’re blinding me with that flashlight!”

“Its always the same. Always you, you, you! Do you want me to fan you too!”

“Herna, my love, this isn’t the time … ”

“You don’t love me, you never loved me, the world begins and ends with you … ”

“But of course I love you … it’s just that … ”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Come on, really?”

“It’s not that hard, but because you are so proud … ”

“Look, here’s a loose cable. Where is this supposed to go? You can’t trust mechanics, they do a half-assed job and charge you an arm and a leg … Are you listening to me? Herna … did you move the car? Check the tire stopper, will you … Where are you?”

Herna’s voice came to me faintly, from far away:

“I’m peeing,” she said. “I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Don’t look … I’m afraid, my love … You didn’t answer me when I asked you if you wanted to grow old with me … ”

And then I saw her standing in front of me:

“I was worried,” she said. “I thought you had left.”

“Why would that worry you?”

“Remember a little while ago I was telling you about my yogi?”

“Not really.”

“I told you I have a spiritual guide, an illuminated being named Norberto, a direct reincarnation of the Yogi Ramacharaka, and he spoke to me about you.”

I laughed.

“Don’t laugh. I talk with him over the phone every day, and last week he told me that he had recurring dreams and visions of a person – a young man – that, based on what he could perceive, had some sort of connection or relationship with me. And he described this man he’s been dreaming of: dark, he said, tall, with long hair down to his shoulders and with eyeglasses. And I felt despair because I didn’t know anyone who fit the description. But now I can see it clearly: he described you to a tee, from head to toe. At first I didn’t recognize you – its that sometimes my mind wanders – but there is no doubt about it: the master spoke of a name starting with A and of thick lips like Sandro’s.2 I’ve known Norberto for six years and whenever he’s had a vision or a premonition, it comes to pass. He never fails. And for me its all very exciting, because I’ve been waiting for you for so long! The time is right for the arrival of a special incarnation with an important mission. And we are going to undertake it together!” said Herna joyfully and it seemed to me as if she were about to start jumping up and down.

And that’s when I, who, while I heard her out, had only thought of hugging her and kissing her on the mouth to shut her up, said with a coldness and certainty that were unlike me, that I also had premonitions, that they were my own, and that they did not coincide with those of her master Norberto.

She clamed up immediately. Now it was she who looked disconcerted. Now surely it was her who was waiting for me to laugh so that she could see it was a joke. But that’s not what happened. I told her I was very sorry but she would have to keep searching for her Sandro somewhere else:

“Maybe you’ll find him this very night,” I said. And I left, sensing her sad eyes fixed on my predestined back, on the luminous sway of my hips.

Outside it was very cold and there was no one out on the street. But I didn’t feel like going home, so I walked a few blocks and ducked inside a bar. I ordered gin and a while later, when the sadness that alcohol fills me with began to wear off, I grew certain that yes, I did believe in love for life, and that I would like nothing more than to buy a sky blue Renault 12 with a woman who, peeing in the middle of the countryside, asks me if I’d like to grow old with her.  

Notes

1 The phrase “espejos de azabache” from Nobel Prize winning author Juan Ramón Jiménez’s “Platero y Yo”.

2 Sandro is an Argentine rock icon who rose to fame in the 1960s. He was dubbed the Argentine Elvis.

Translated by Dario Bard from “Herna o el amor como urticaria” as printed in El lugar de las despedidas, published by La Parte Maldita, 2014, available from Ediciones La Parte Maldita. The Spanish version of this story was also published in the newspaper Pagina 12.

Mauricio Koch was born in Villa Ballester, a suburb of the City of Buenos Aires, and grew up in the Province of Entre Ríos. El lugar de las despedidas was his debut work. Since then he has published Cuadernos de crianza (2016), a diary of his relationship with his daughter, and the novels Los silencios (2017) and Baltasar contra el olvido (2020).

In this interview (in Spanish) with the department of the humanities, arts and social sciences, University of Entre Ríos, Mauricio Koch discusses his novel Baltasar contra el olvido:

“Rice” by Alejandra Kamiya

Download pdf: Rice

Today is Thursday and on Thursdays we have lunch.

We talk a lot, or rather what passes for a lot for us. Neither one of us is what you would call a talker. 

Sometimes we even eat in silence. A comfortable, light silence, like the air it is made of, in which the flavors of our food can better express themselves.

Other times, when we talk, the words form small mounds that slowly transform into mountains. Between them, there are long silences, valleys of thought in which we wander.

We choose a restaurant in an old house in San Telmo. It has a patio in the middle, a square of sky all its own, with constantly changing clouds.

The conversation with my father progresses at a leisurely pace.

Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he says “… cleaning rice …” and joins his hands together, forming a circle with his fingers and moving them as if he were beating something against the edge of the table.

What is sudden is not that he said these words, but that I suddenly realized that I do not know how rice is cleaned. What happens all of a sudden is the realization that I know many things about him in just this way, without really knowing, just barely intuiting them.

I know that in his hands, my father must be holding a bundle of something that I do not see. I search my memory for the rice paddies I saw in Japan and imagine that the bundle must be those sort of green stalks.

I deduce, clumsily, that the rice must still be clinging to the plants, and that by shaking the bundle they fall loose. Like tiny fruit or seeds.

Seeing my father’s gestures, I can return to the past, to Japan or my father’s story, which is mine as well. Like the impressionists, not seeking out details but rather the light, like the way I know the trees by the sidewalk in front of my house, without knowing what kind of trees they are, but also without being able to imagine my house without them. 

This is how I converse with my father: confidently but also feeling my way.

He says, for instance, that this country has barely 200 years of history, “a child of a country”, he says, and next to the child I see an old Japan, hands with skin that covers and uncovers the shape of the bones.

If he holds his head in his hands when he speaks of running through tea fields, I know that in the sky there are planes that I don’t see and that they drop their bombs.

We look over the menu and order the dishes that we are going to share. My father never got used to eating just one dish. It was my mother who got accustomed to preparing various foods at every meal.

Then we talk about books. He is reading Mozart by Kolb, and he takes it with him wherever he goes. My father always has a book and a dictionary with him.

As for me, born and raised in Argentina, I’m too lazy to look up words in the dictionary. But not him. My Japanese father’s Spanish is richer and more correct than mine.

He tells me he had some tests done on his doctor’s orders and while he waited, he read a good number of pages.

“What tests?” I ask. “A biopsy,” he replies.

I’m afraid. I sense what is lurking around the corner and feel a certainty as concrete as night follows day, a sort of vertigo. All that I never asked over the years comes back to me. Every question comes back and brings others. I want to know why my father chose this country, this child of a country. I want to know what it was like that day he learned the war had begun, what all the days that followed were like till the day he arrived in this land. I want to know what his toys and clothes were like, what it was like to go to school during the war, what the port of Buenos Aires was like in the sixties, and, if he wrote letters to my grandmother, what did they say. I want to know the colors, the words, the aroma of the food, the houses in which he lived. He once told me that when he first arrived, he didn’t bathe in the tub, but washed himself first and only submerged himself in the water when he was clean, because that is the way it is done in Japan. I want him to tell me more things like that. Many more. All of them. I want him to tell me about every day, so that it isn’t blown away by time. Maybe to write it all down, to capture it in ink on paper forever. Where to begin? Where do the questions begin? Which is first?

I search within, as if I were lost and running in that valley of silence that suddenly opened up between the words. To lose oneself in such a vast place is like being in a prison.

When I stop looking for it, I see the question before me, as if it had been waiting for me. I look at my father and I ask it.

He smiles, takes a sheet of paper from between the pages of his book and pulls a black pencil out from his coat pocket. He draws lines very close together, some parallel and others crossing each other. Then another, perpendicular and undulating, that cuts them all near the bottom end. These are the rice plants in the water. Then he draws very small circles on the tips: the grains. He tells me the grains fill over time and he traces over the lines, but instead of straight lines, he draws lines that curve at the ends: the plants when the rice grains mature. “The more one fills out, the more educated one is, the more humble,” he says. “One bends like the rice plant from the weight of the grain.” Then he extends his hands and arms and moves them parallel to the floor. “Large clothes are laid out in the fields,” he says. I imagine them to be white and undulating slightly, like the movement of calm water.

He again joins his hands as if he is holding a small bundle and he shakes it like before, against the edge of the table. Now I see clearly, I can almost touch, the grains of rice as they drop loose.

Translated by Dario Bard from “Arroz” as printed in Los árboles caídos también son el bosque, published by Bajo La Luna, 2015, available from Bajo La Luna.

Alejandra Kamiya is an award-winning writer from the City of Buenos Aires. In addition to Los árboles caídos también son el bosque, she has published Los restos del secreto y otros cuentos (2013) and El sol mueve la sombra de las cosas quietas (2019). Her stories have also appeared in various anthologies.

In the video below, Alejandra Kamiya is interviewed by one of her mentors, author Inés Fernández Moreno, about her development as a writer.

“Divine Treasure” by Inés Garland

Download pdf: Divine Treasure

I like his face. I’d like to touch it. With the tips of my fingers at first, and then with my palms, molding my hands to its shape. Slowly. There is such craving there in my hands that my body feels fragmented. I watch him leaning over his desk, absorbed in his work, and in my heart something happens.

“Fabian.” I like saying his name. “Do you like Antonio Gades?”

I don’t know why I ask. Last night I decided I wouldn’t. When I saw the promo on TV, I thought about how much I wanted to ask him out on a theater date, but then decided I wouldn’t. I always feel naked whenever he is around, naked and with a hollow pang between my legs.

But there is another woman inside me who is apparently of a different mindset and she has just contradicted me.

gades-turquino

Renowned flamenco star Antonio Gades.

“I think he’s brilliant,” he says, lifting his gaze up from his illustration and looking at me with those clean eyes. How much longer does he have left in his life to look through eyes like those? “He’s going to be at the Ópera.”

Exactly. I’m not going to say it.

“Why don’t we go see him?”

I just did. I just used the first person plural, placing him and me in the same sentence and asking him out despite having decided I wouldn’t, and he is saying yes and looking at me with a smile. Fabian has the most absolute smile I have seen in my life. With his eyes, and even with his body, he is making a proclamation of intense joy, a joy that should be considered a cardinal sin. I feel stupid.

He goes back to his drawing and I turn my back to him to make some phone calls. I look out the window. I see his reflection in the glass. He gets up and walks over to the reception desk—to say something to Sandra, the receptionist, no doubt. Sandra is his age, with never-ending legs and full lips that look like a red jellyfish on her wrinkle-free face, and a somewhat dumb expression, with this surprised look that she especially puts on when she is making eyes at Fabian. Playing the innocent lamb. When he isn’t looking, nothing seems to surprise her much.

On the other side of the glass partition, they are laughing and I feel a chill on my back, as if Fabian’s absence lowered the temperature in the office. I can’t work like this. I turn the chair to look at him through the door. His silhouette lifts up its arms, crosses its wrists and pirouettes. Olé, says the lamb.

I press the button on the intercom.

“Sandra, can you order me sashimi from the sushi place?” I say, and it comes out in that German guard’s voice that I hate. “You two order yourselves lunch, too,” I add, trying to soften things.

“I’m like Woody Allen,” says Fabian as he enters the office. “I want my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. Dead.”

“Sashimi isn’t alive.”

“But it looks it.”

“You never tried it.”

“Give me milanesa and french fries. Sandra!” he runs over to the door again and walks over to reception, his back to me. I check out his butt while he asks Sandra to order him a burger from McDonald’s. He turns around. He smiles.

“You’re blushing.”

“Hamburger,” I say and wave my hand disparagingly and feel I’m blushing even more.

“What an attitude. Is a burger that bad?”

“No, it’s not that bad. But you caught me checking out your butt,” I don’t say.

Fabian’s butt is just like Romeo’s in the Zeffirelli movie, in the scene following their first night, when Romeo gets up at dawn and opens the window and sunlight floods the room, illuminating Juliette’s sleeping face—so young, Juliette—and Romeo, his back to the camera, has the firmest and most perfect butt in cinematic history. Romeo’s butt. Romeo and Juliette, so young that they think they can’t live without each other and that their love will last forever. But I imagine them, had they not had the good sense to die for love, sitting at an immensely long table, Juliette fatter and wrinkled, and Romeo with a belly and a shriveled butt, in a silence that is occasionally broken by short phrases that lead to a banal, mean-spirited fight in which Romeo makes some matrimonial remark. It always amuses me to imagine him saying, “Just like a Capulet!” with that habit married people have of blaming everything on their in-laws. That’s why I remain single. I despise mean-spirited arguments and oversimplifications.

Fabian half-closes his eyes, lowers his chin, raises an arm behind his head and lets out a poor imitation of a cante jondo as he stamps his way to his desk.

“Cut it out, Gades. The people from the agency are here.” Sandra’s blonde head pops in, with her hair carefully undone and her red jellyfish.

They both laugh. I hate it that he smiles at her with those eyes I so want to kiss.

The man from the modeling agency walks in engulfed in a cloud of tart perfume, kisses me on the cheek, lays books out all around me and sits on my desk with a cold-eyed smile.

For an hour, he and Fabian discuss the models for the ad. They baptize them with names like The Dyed Blondie, Tiny Butt and Legs; Fabian wants to make a collage using the face of one, the legs of another, and the eyes and lips of a third, and I see him standing atop a pile of women’s torsos, arms and lips, a small impassioned, fierce Napoleon. And the entire time he is standing next to me and his jeans brush up against my arm and I, all of me, is reduced to that little bit of arm that he touches.

When we are alone, he looks at me with an expression I can’t decipher and very softly brushes something off my face. He shows me a small paper circle.

“You’re very quiet,” he says.

“I’m thinking about the ad,” I lie.

Before we say our goodbyes for the day, I confirm our theater date. It is a week away. The longest week of my life.

The day finally arrives and as I lean out over my balcony, my heart stops with every car that parks on my block. I see men and women get out. From above, their legs seem long and their torsos short; ants in a hurry, and not one of them is Fabian. I retreat back inside the apartment and look at myself in the wardrobe mirror. If I keep walking back and forth from the mirror to the balcony, I’ll wear out the carpet. I don’t dare even think about what I’ll do after the show. I won’t let myself think beyond my yearning to touch his face.

The doorbell rings and I jump. In the elevator I look fixedly at my own reflection. I’m more asymmetrical than ever. Can it be that asymmetries become more pronounced with age? Fabian is leaning up against the car, waiting for me. He’s wearing jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he gives a brief and somewhat self-conscious foot-stomping performance before opening the door for me. I pretend not to look at him as he drives. He smells as if he just bathed and the hair on his nape is still wet. I’d like to sit sideways and look at him unabashedly. I bite my lips because I feel I’m about to lick them. In an unfortunate association, Romulo and Remo’s she-wolf comes to mind. I cross my legs and my arms.

“Isn’t it a little late for that?” says the German in my head.

We arrive early. We take our seats and he slumps down a bit into his and reads the program.

“Sandra was green with envy,” he says.

“Poor thing,” I say. “If I’d only known.”

What a lie. I don’t even finish the sentence. Fabian looks over at me and I could swear he has this conceited expression on his face.

Later, when the lights dim and we ready ourselves for the show, I feel his arm against the length of mine. Music erupts and a red wave of dancers floods the stage, stomping their feet with their arms raised high. Voices are raised and lowered and the dancers face each other, provoke one another, hate the other. Fabian doesn’t take his eyes off them. In the half-light, his eyes shine and from time to time he moves his head to the rhythm and his hands dance without his realizing it. I want to straddle him.

Afterwards, we search for the car in the parking garage, dancing among the columns. We dance the entire length of the second sublevel and back again. I’m stomping like mad. When we make it to the car, I think for a moment that he is going to take me in his arms, but he just opens the door for me, and as I climb inside, I just barely feel his warm hand brush my bare arm.

At the restaurant, I order wine. Fabian says he’s not used to drinking and sits there looking at me as I down a glass in a single shot.

“Bottoms up,” I say, thinking that I’m going to get drunk and then stop mentally wandering all over his body and release the she-wolf prowling inside me.

We talk about Gades. Then comes silence. He asks me about my life and I realize that we barely know anything about each other. My life seems very long to me. I don’t want to talk about my childhood or my school or my exes. I can’t think of anything to talk about at all.

Drink. Drink a man under the table. An English expression that means to drink with a man until he ends up under the table. It’s not in the dictionary. Taken literally in Spanish, it means to drink a man up from under a table. I imagine us down there, and me drinking him up, drinking Fabian up in big gulps. I order another bottle. He protests, and his speech slurs slightly. Everything seems to spin around. The conversation, the food, my desire to touch his face, so persistent. Have I become obsessed with his face? I look at him with an intensity that must be making him uncomfortable. I can see that, but I can’t take my eyes off him. I don’t know what we are talking about. I´m making a huge effort to keep from touching his face, and at the same time I know that’s what I’ve set out to do, that I’m going to invite him up to my place and that I don’t know what will happen because my imagination is running wild, but he isn’t doing anything. I can’t read his body language and I also can’t really hear what he is saying when he sprouts a second head and I can’t tell if he is smiling at me or if I just saw his pointy tongue part his lips. He insists on paying. He takes out a wad of ten peso bills from his back pocket, counts them, blushes slightly, and says he added it up wrong, his head’s no good. His heads, I think, and I’m suddenly laughing all by myself. He looks at me, puzzled.

At the entrance to my building, I invite him up to my apartment.

“Do you want to come up for a nightcap?” I ask, and I almost burst out laughing again. “A nightcap.” Who would say such a ridiculous thing at a time like this.

“Do you want to come up and see if we stop beating around the bush and have sex already?” I don’t say.

“Pervert,” the German calls me. “Perrrvert.”

Fabian holds the door open for me and follows me in without touching me.

I impeccably play the part of the sober one in charge of the situation. We are sitting on the floor. My back is leaning up against the edge of my bed. He’s leaning up against my closet door. Our legs form an L. He just asked me for a whisky. He doesn’t think mixing drinks will mess him up. I serve him one.

“What messes you up is the amount,” he says, and throws his hands open in a helpless gesture.

I open another bottle of wine for myself. My body feels flush all over, my feet are heavy and my head is light. My eyes and skin are burning. I want to be nude before him, very close to him, with my legs spread. I’m going to kneel before him and kiss his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, and I’m going to sniff him as if he were my pup and kiss him on the mouth until I’m drenched, and avenge all the wounds he inflicted on me. I’m going to run my fingers through his hair and make him rove all over my body, smell me, touch every inch of my bare flesh. He will return my body to me, piece by piece, until I feel whole again. He stirs his whisky with a finger and takes a sip.

“I’d die to travel like that,” he says, slurring his words. He drags out his vowels as if vowels were more comfortable for him than consonants.

“Like how?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Like a backpacker.”

I hear myself say that those adventures are worthless.

“I had that same dream,” my voice is telling him. I have no desire to speak about what happened twenty years ago and no desire to speak about anything else.

He stares at me blankly. I’m going to stand up and undress. That’s what I’m going to do. In the candlelight, the color of his eyes seems darker.

“Please,” I’d beg him.

But I look at him and see two blurry Fabians. I stretch out my legs and my ankle ends up against his shoe. The rough sole against my skin. If he took off his shoes, he could caress me with his feet, he could mold the sole of his foot around my ankle and maybe then kneel where my feet are and begin to touch me. My four feet. My two feet. With great effort, I join the two Fabian’s into one.

He takes another sip of whisky. The glass hits his teeth. The images and sensations of a dream I had two nights ago come back to me. I was talking with Fabian when suddenly I felt a tooth come loose. I was certain that if I kept talking, I would spit it out. I pulled it out discretely and looked at it, white and small, hidden in the palm of my hand. I pressed my lips together to conceal the gap in my mouth. In the dream, Fabian kept talking to me and I became aware that more of my teeth had come loose. I touched them lightly with my tongue. One by one. All of them were loose. I discovered in horror that I was about to lose them all. I turned my back on Fabian without excusing myself and rushed out into a corridor between two columns, where I pulled them out one tooth at a time. All of them. They came out easily, with a slight sound, a soft snap, a light sensation in my gums. I looked at the teeth in the palm of my hand. My teeth. I awoke and ran my tongue across them, confirming with relief that they were still there, that I wasn’t feeling soft, empty gums. I feel the angst of that dream once again.

I stand up. Fabian looks up at me. His expression is earnest. I think to myself that, before it’s too late, I’m going to unzip my skirt and let it fall to the floor.

“Well, I’m going to go,” he says.

“Where?”

“I’m going to start in Spain.”

He says Spain and turns deathly pale and looks at me with his dark eyes wide open, and in a single, quick movement, he bends over and vomits, a warm, yellow vomit that spreads to my feet. Instinctively, I step back.

He doesn’t look at me. I see him crouched at my feet and I feel he is very far away. If I stretch out my hand I won’t be able to touch him. It lasts only for a moment. Then I say it doesn’t matter. My voice just aged twenty years.

I get a bucket and a rag and clean it all up.

“What a mess,” he says. He tries to take the rag from me. Not looking at me. He is very pale and a tuft of hair is stuck to his forehead. “I’m such an ass.”

Now I do touch his face. I feel his cold sweat on the tips of my fingers. I brush his hair back.

“It doesn’t matter at all,” I say again. I’m not lying.

When he leaves, I lie down in bed with my arms and legs spread out. There’s a bitter smell. In the building across the street there’s a party going on and people are out on the balcony. A girl with her back to me is hugging a boy. They kiss. They must think they can’t live without each other.

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Translated by Dario Bard from “Divino tesoro” as printed in La arquitectura del océano, published by Alfaguara, 2014, available from Amazon.

Inés Garland is a writer from the City of Buenos Aires. Her published novels include El rey de los centauros (2006), Piedra, papel o tijera (2009), which received the Deutscher Jugendliteraturpreis (German Youth Literature Prize), El jefe de la manada(2014) and Los ojos de la noche (2016).She has also published the short story collections Una reina perfecta(2008) and La arquitectura del océano (2014). Additionally, her stories have appeared in various anthologies. Garland is also a translator and has written scripts for art documentaries in the past.

In this Spanish-language interview with the public television program Los 7 locos, Garland discusses her literary work, particularly La arquitectura del océano.

 

Lastly, I leave readers with this clip of an Antonio Gades performance:

“Horse” by Hernán Ronsino

Download pdf: Horse

That anxious horse
of summer
Haroldo Conti

1. Peaches

Polo and Cachila receive the order. Almada, leaning against the door to the shack, says, “You’ll have to go fetch the horse and bring him back before nightfall.” The horse grazes by the river. They left him there on Sunday, after the harness races. He’s a brown bay. His name is Chúcaro Trelpón. And, in a stunning upset, he won the long-distance race. Now a certain Samudio, it seems, wants to buy him.

Martin Davey

“Brown Horse Drinking from Stream” by Martin Davey. Image courtesy of the artist.

The river is on the other side of town. So it’s nearly thirty kilometers there and back. Cachila soaks his head by the side of the shack, spreading his legs wide under a leaky faucet surrounded by mud puddles full of flies. Two or three of Almada’s children, their cheeks streaked with dry snot, watch Cachila soak his hair and shiver from the sensation of cold water running down his nape. Polo, shirtless, a sling hanging from his neck, waits for him in the street, mounted on the bicycle. Cachila then climbs up on the crossbar. And Almada’s children push the bicycle to help them get underway. Then it is Almada’s skinny, famished dogs that escort them about as far as the abandoned ceramics factory. And from that point they will ride on alone and hear, the two of them, Polo and Cachila, nothing more than the murmuring of the pigeons and a few of the birds of the afternoon siesta.

Polo strains to pedal on. With each turn of the pedals, he just barely brushes Cachila’s scrawny thighs and, also, touches, with the tip of his chin, his straw-like wet hair. What does Cachila smell of? Smoke? Burnt, wet wood? Just before crossing the paved road—the main street, as they call it—he begins to sweat, to feel the weight of Cachila on the crossbar, even though Cachila is as light as a feather. Then they stop on the paved road because two trucks loaded with cargo are coming the other way. Cachila jumps off and Polo, more relaxed, rests with a leg on the ground. Polo thinks of ants. Whenever he has a moment to himself, he thinks of ants; he has been told that the queen ant is as big as a toad. An ant like a toad. The loaded trucks grumble and as they pass they let loose a shower of cereals that leap off from underneath the blue tarpaulins; the tarpaulins flap from the heavy speed of the Bedfords. Now Polo and Cachila don’t have the help of the Almada children to push them off, they must manage to resume the journey on their own. And this is how they do it: Polo pedals and Cachila runs alongside and then hops on the crossbar. When they do this, after having crossed the paved road and hearing the grumbling of the trucks fade away, the bicycle wobbles a bit. But then, after a brusque struggle, Polo reins it in and regains control. And they go on.

Now they know that behind the sewage treatment canal is the Schultz farm. They also know that they haven’t been by there since that late Sunday afternoon when Polo got snagged in the barbed wire and saw Schultz’s face behind a tightly held carbine: one eye closed and dried out words coming furiously out the mouth. He learned then, Polo, what fear really was. Cachila managed to run away. He ran so far and blindly that he fell into one of the ditches next to the canal. It was a miracle he didn’t break a leg. But now they know, both of them, that when they cross the sewage treatment canal they’ll have to, for the first time since that late Sunday afternoon, contend with the Schultz farm. And this is why they feel, both at the same time, that urge for revenge.

Schultz is actually the farm’s caretaker. The owner is a man from Mercedes that is never there. It is Schultz who lives and works there. That is why the farm is known as the Schultz farm. The property has a peach orchard. On late Friday afternoons, during the summer, some trucks enter and, two or three hours later, when it’s almost night, they leave with their cargo and then, on weekends, the peaches are sold on those roadside stands that also sell cheese and salami.

That place is a challenge. When they first tried it, it went badly. That’s why it’s a challenge. For example: it was easier to trespass on the Laviña farm. They would always sneak onto old man Laviña’s property, with its plums and blackberries. But old man Laviña never said a word to them. One time he caught them hanging off of a plum tree. And Mrs. Laviña invited them into the house and took out a tray from the refrigerator and they ate some very fresh plums. And afterwards they drank water and slept under the vines in the patio. But the Schultz farm is a challenge. Because it is guarded. And also because they already tried it once and got caught.

After crossing the sewage treatment canal, a wide curve opens up and as they round it, off to the sides, the fruit-bearing trees of the Schultz farm appear, together with the soft, warm aroma of ripe peaches. So Cachila hops off the bicycle. Polo is not so sure. Polo wants to dig a hole and see the true size of the queen. Cachila, however, wants to go in and break something. That’s what he says. Polo leaves the bicycle in the ditch by the road, under the shade of the trees, and makes it clear that if they go in, it’s to steal peaches and nothing more. Cachila, excited, insists on breaking something. And this time Polo doesn’t say anything. He looks at the ground, sitting in the ditch: if he had a bit more time, he’d dig a hole right then and there. “Have it your way,” says Cachila, resigned, “but we have to see where Yul is.” Polo is skilled at that sort of thing: he climbs up the nearest eucalyptus tree. There isn’t a tree that is harder to climb than a eucalyptus. But Polo is like a cat. He climbs the tree with unbelievable ease. There he is: scraping up his hands and knees, ascending. As he climbs, the world changes. Its features and his perception of it begin to mutate. And so he reaches the first branch. Stuck to his skin are those dried up bits of bark that are found on eucalyptus trees. And he is smeared with their smell. It gets in his skin. Now Cachila, for Polo, is a tiny body trapped in the shadow drawn on the ground by the eucalyptus tree. He’s at a good height. Five or six meters. Cachila signals from below. Says things. Polo can now view the full expanse of the Schultz farm, the sun violently hitting the land. And behind the railway bridge, toward the area of the hospital, a dark storm front approaches. Then Cachila shouts: “You see him?” Polo nods. Schultz is lying in the grass, under the shade of a willow tree, next to the house. The dogs he doesn’t see. But Schultz is resting, with a straw hat covering his face, so the dogs must be near him. “You stay there. I’m going in,” orders Cachila. And to Polo it seems like a good plan. He rests on a branch, watching Cachila crawl under the barbed wire and also keeping tabs on Schultz’s siesta. And so things stand. Polo’s gaze now contemplates some columns of white smoke rising up behind the sewage treatment sheds. Cachila moves into Schultz’s territory. Polo doesn’t know what Cachila is up to, but if Cachila keeps going in that direction, in a few minutes Polo won’t be able to see him. That possibility begins to worry him. One of Schultz’s dogs appears under the shade of the willow tree and then lies down next to his master. Polo has lost sight of Cachila: he tracks his path by the slight movement of peach tree branches. And those movements confirm his fears. Cachila advances toward the danger zone. Polo concludes that it’s too late for him to do anything about it. If he shouts, he’ll wake Schultz up and alarm the dogs. He must trust Cachila. The birds, at this hour, do not sing. The only sound that can be perceived is the somewhat muted murmur of distant motors. Then, when Polo begins to think, once more, about the size of the queen ant, a scream breaks out.

Following the scream, Polo sees Schultz stir, jump up and rush into the house. The dogs run among the trees, barking. Something shoves through under the branches. Polo makes out the path of Cachila’s return. Then Schultz reappears holding a carbine. He exits the house and looks out into the distance. Polo senses he’s been spotted, that Schultz has seen him up in the eucalyptus tree while strident barking is heard in the background and Cachila’s skinny body moves among the peach trees. Schultz aims at him. Polo, terrified, drops from the eucalyptus, hugging its trunk. He falls, scraping his entire body. Fear, at that very moment, overpowers pain. He gets on the bicycle. Cachila is about to emerge from the orchard. The dogs are also nearing the road. Polo begins to pedal. Cachila appears a few meters ahead. He yells at him to hurry. “Come on!” Cachila shouts. “Come on!” Polo exerts himself. He pedals faster. The dogs will appear at any moment. Cachila runs towards the bicycle. His shirt, stuffed and folded over, looks like a kangaroo’s pouch. The dogs are at the property line but can’t get through the barbed wire. They become frenzied but can’t pass. That, for the two boys, comes as a bit of a relief. Cachila climbs up on the crossbar. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, “Go!” Polo pedals. He thinks of unimportant things, like, for instance: that Cachila’s hair is now dry. He thinks of meaningless things while Cachila keeps shouting; they know, both of them, that once they turn the curve leading to the railway bridge they’ll be safe. What does Cachila smell of? Smoke? Burnt, wet wood? What does he smell of? Polo thinks these meaningless things as they take the curve that will save them at full speed. A victory cry ripens in their throats. The cry rises, twisting, like the columns of white smoke behind the sewage treatment sheds that neither of them can see at the moment: but Schultz’s face, next to a post, aiming at them, appears meaninglessly, like Polo’s thoughts. “Don’t stop!” Cachila yells out. “Don’t stop!” And he half closes his eyes. Polo hides his face behind Cachila’s back. “Don’t stop!” he insists as they wait for the shot. Polo thinks: What is it like to get shot? And now, suddenly, he feels his body on fire. The bicycle swerves at full speed. Then they hear Schultz’s voice, as they pass by, simulating two shots: “Bang! Bang!” he shouts. They feel nothing more than a brief moment of disorientation before they lose control on the curve’s loose, sandy dirt. Polo ends up by the ditch; Cachila hangs on a bit longer, tottering, but he also finally falls, and ends up on top of the bicycle. A few peaches roll in the street. And those victory cries that climbed so hurriedly up their throats, now come out softly in the pitiful form of a lament.

2. The River

The summer storm—that dark front that was spotted over the area of the hospital—strikes just before Polo and Cachila make it to the railway bridge. For that reason they have to run, because the rains are accompanied by powerful gusts of wind. But their running doesn’t keep them from arriving at the bridge soaking wet. Cachila throws down the bicycle, all twisted, against the iron pillars. The handlebars are bent off-center and the wheels are broken. Polo, dripping wet, looks at the remains of Almada’s bicycle. And tries to think of how to fix it. But he soon gives up. He whistles, folding his tongue up in his mouth, as a call to Cachila, who has been looking out in the distance in the direction of the area of the hospital. And he throws him two green peaches. “Eat,” he says. After a while, the sky begins to clear up. A soft light appears over the sewage treatment area. The raindrops begin to fall as if wrung out. And, gradually, it stops raining. From the bridge, the smell of wet dirt invades the air they breathe.

Almada’s bicycle is no longer of any use on this journey. They leave it under the bridge. The sun’s reappearance imposes, gradually, a heavy, humid air. Weariness and thirst take hold of them both. Cachila is the mastermind. He’s the one who always gives the orders. He now tells Polo, who sits down under the shade of a bead tree, to call at the Barrante house for water. Polo refuses. Although he’s thirsty, he refuses. He says no, shaking his head. Cachila looks at him fixedly. It bothers him when his orders aren’t obeyed. But his thirst is stronger than any anger. Standing before the gate of polished wood, Cachila can hear the assorted voices of the children on the other side: splashing, laughing, in short, abundance. What does Cachila imagine, there, standing under a fierce sun, before a gate of polished wood? That is what Polo wonders, crossing his legs in the shade of the bead tree. Cachila works up his courage and gives a heavy knock, with his knuckles, on the polished wood. The gate shakes. The laughing and splashing stops. He hears footsteps running on the warm, soft lawn. Everything is suspended in the silence of the afternoon. Everything is devoured by the distant sounds of cicadas  and motors. But there is no response. And so Cachila insists. He raps his knuckles against the polished wood. “Please,” he says, “can you give us some water?” On the other side, there is some brief restlessness. And then again the muted murmuring, the apparent calm, the quiet roar of a faraway motor. Polo, under the shade, senses something is wrong. So he gets up and heads towards the gate. But before he gets there, he sees how a sheet of water falls, violently, against Cachila’s skinny body. No doubt, thinks Cachila thoroughly soaked, their polished cars are parked under the shade of the willow trees and the grown men, relaxing on recliners and drinking fresh lemonade, are egging the kids on. That’s what Cachila thinks. And looking at Polo, he takes the sling from around his neck. And he climbs, not saying anything, puffing with rage, on Polo’s body. What does Cachila smell of? He waits for calm to more or less reign once again on the other side. And, when no one expects it, perched on Polo’s shoulders, he leans his body over the white wall. He takes aim, threateningly, with a panoramic sweep. He sees almost everything he had imagined. The kids having fun like hyenas, the polished cars under the shade and, finally, his eyes come to rest on the house with its large window. Everything happens so quickly. The glass explodes together with screams of panic from the Barrantes.

They run. Cachila can’t stop thinking of how much water he saw in that blue swimming pool. They run, while in the distance a soft rumbling clambers closer, taking possession of the afternoon air, growing louder as they approach the gravel road. They run agitatedly, their temples throbbing from the effort: Cachila thinks of broken glass, Polo only feels the small stones he steps on through his wet rope-soled sandals. The road appears suddenly and then, neatly silhouetted, the shape of a truck loaded with grease and picked-clean bones, moving, roaring. Cachila orders, “Come on!” And he keeps running with the intention of climbing up on the running board. Polo looks on from behind, tired. Polo wants to dig up the ground, to see the size of the queen. The truck, every time it accelerates, spews black smoke. Cachila climbs on, but on the rear bumper. He says, looking back, “Come on!” He stretches out his hand. Polo puts all he’s got into it. He stretches out his hand, brushes Cachila’s fingers. “Come on,” he hears. The back smoke envelopes them. Polo, breathing in the gas oil emitted by the truck as he struggles onto the rear bumper, thinks of meaningless things, of the oil processing plant, of the smell, for example, of heaps of dried sunflowers behind the oil processing plant.

The driver is Aceituno. He’s transporting the grease and bones to the meat processing plant. Polo, clinging to the back, recognizes him. And he knows the truck has to turn before the small hill, at the intersection with La Salada, and that’s where they ought to hop off and then follow the path that will finally lead them to the river. Polo looks at Aceituno’s head, framed by a small window, in the cabin of the Ford. He sees him as if he were a wax figure or an image on a stained glass window. An army of flies hovers over the cargo of grease. “Now,” Polo shouts as the Ford shifts into low gear to turn onto La Salada. And that’s when they hop off. The truck staggers to one side as it makes the tight turn. Then it shifts gears again and clambers along thunderously, releasing a puff of black smoke, towards the meat processing plant. As its rumbling fades, Polo and Cachila find the path they were looking for.

They both now know that with a sign, with a slight movement of a leg, with a simple juke even, by either one of them, the race is on. And that fills them with excitement. It’s Polo who takes off without warning. Cachila, then, tries to catch him. But Polo has already bolted. And despite the weariness he feels in his body, despite the falls and the downpour, he advances down the gravel path, stepping forcefully with his black sandals. There are two hundred meters to the river. On the sides of the path grow leafy trees and plants that spread a humid shadow. They run. The water awaits. Polo thinks that the dirt underground, like where the queen ant lives, for example, is fresh like this place. They run. The dense, brown water awaits. Now a hand reaches out towards Polo. Cachila tries to push him out of the way. What does Cachila smell of? But they struggle. As they run, they struggle. And they laugh. Now there is nothing before their eyes but the river, dazzling under the blue sky. On one side mounds of dirt. And on the other, standing very still, its head buried in the dry grass, Almada’s horse, startled. They run. The river, warm and brown, like glass encrusted in the earth, finally, belongs to them.

Argentine Short Story Anthology

Translated by Dario Bard from a manuscript of “Caballo” provided by Sylvia Iparraguirre. This story was printed in the newspaper Pagina 12 (January 7, 2014) and later appeared, together with this translation, in the bilingual Antología del cuento argentino/Argentine Short Story Anthology. The Anthology was edited and selected by Sylvia Iparraguirre and published by the Cultural Affairs Office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Worship on the occasion of the 2014 Guadalajara International Book Fair.  

Hernán Ronsino is a writer, university professor and sociologist born in Chivilcoy, Province of Buenos Aires. He currently resides in the City of Buenos Aires. Ronsino’s literary works include the short story collection Te vomitaré de mi boca (2003) and the novels La descomposición (2007), Glaxo (2009) and Lumbre (2013), collectively known as the Pampa Trilogy. His personal blog is Silabas Negras.

In this interview, aired by Radio Sur TV, Hernán Ronsino discusses his second novel, Glaxo: