STORIES TO THE SOUTH OF THE WORLD 1

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These texts were originally published as a part of the collection

Leer la Argentina 2005, Ministry of National Education, Science and Technology

NOA, Northwestern Argentina. Contact: [email protected]

[email protected]

Minister for Education

Prof. Alberto Sileoni

Consultants´ Chief of Staff

Mr. Jaime Perczyk

Secretary of State for Education

Prof. María Inés Abrile de Vollmer

Secretary for the Federal Council

for Education

Prof. Domingo De Cara

Director for the National

Reading Program

Margarita Eggers Lan

Head of State

Dr. Cristina Fernández de Kirchner

Selection, editing and design

National Reading Program

Selection

Graciela Bialet, Ángela Pradelli,

Silvia Contín and Margarita Eggers Lan

Foreign Office, Trade and Cult

Foreign Secretary

Héctor Marcos Timerman

Chief of Staff

Ambassador Antonio Gustavo Trombetta

Frankfurt 2010 Organizing Commitee

President

Ambassador Magdalena Faillace

Graphic Design

Juan Salvador de Tullio

Mariana Monteserin

Elizabeth Sánchez

Natalia Volpe

Ramiro Reyes

Paula Salvatierra

Spanish to English translation by Jessica Waizbrot:

She attended Film School, studied Theater Writing with renowned author Mauricio Kartún,and took Irene Ickowicz´s screenwriting program. Acted as Head of Translation andSubtitling Department for both BAFICI (Buenos Aires Festival Internacional de CineIndependiente), and Mar Del Plata International Film Festival, for seven consecutive years.She currently works as a translator and screenwriter for television, advertising and film.


FOREWORD

Stories to the South of the World is an anthology that intends to“read” our Argentina from head to toe. In a country of widely diversecultural identities -as diverse as each region and province containingthem- this small selection aims to offer a sample of the valuableproductions comprising Argentina’s Cardinal Narrative.

The National Reading Program reaches out beyond its natural limits inorder to show the world the richness of our words, and to make thosehaving the chance to go through these pages, feel passionate for a goodreading, which keeps growing day after day, in every corner of the nation.

We hope for these stories, selected for each one of the Program’scoordinators, to meet new eyes and to continue astonishing the world.

National Reading ProgramMinistry of Education of Argentina


CONTENTS

The ChallengeJuan Bautista Zalazar

Partnersin SowingLuis Franco

PrivetsCésar Noriega

Brief love storyfor a full moonnightCelia Sarquí s

Pág. 7

Out of LineFRAGMENT

Elvira Orphée

Past PerfectFRAGMENT

Hugo Foguet

The ShotgunJulio Ardiles Gray

The Green SnakeJorge W. Ábalos

Silly SillyFRAGMENT

Clementina Quenel

RepentanceJulio Carreras (Jr)

Pág. 9

Pág. 11

Pág. 27Pág. 15

Pág. 13

Pág. 19

Pág. 23

Pág. 30

Pág. 33

CATAMARCA TUCUMÁN SANTIAGO DEL ESTERO


The CircusLiliana Bellone

Bunchi Bunchi GirlCésar Antonio Alurralde

The Rising TideJuan Carlos Dávalos

The Ankuto PilaJorge Accame

Dreams of motherCarlos Hugo Aparicio

The circusHéctor Tizón

Pág. 36 Pág. 44

Pág. 38 Pág. 48

Pág. 41 Pág. 53

SALTA JUJUY


CATAMARCA


he YOUNG MAN had gone down through the daybreaktowards the Hillock of the Souls. At a steady pace he hadtraveled the four kilometers from town.

He scanned the cactuses, the avocados and the barbadetigres1

in search of the most isolated spot, and there he unfolded histwenty years of age over the ground, as if he wanted to be swallowed by itand disappear from sight.

In that position he now awaits for the old Agenor to come.

The harsh argument of the previous night at Venancio’s bar had endedup with shouted words.

“Tomorrow we shall meet at the Hillock. Then we’ll see”

From his position he could look over the whole ground. It wasimpossible for the old man to arrive without being seen. He could nothesitate even for an instant. The old Agenor Campos had taken the lives ofthree men already. He thrusts his look into the air, he sniffs, digs it with hisears. The whistling of a partridge spreads over the countryside. Hebelieves to hear a gallop. He seeks; he scans the landscape with his eyes.But it is his heartbeat. He is hearing his own blood. The last stars slowlyfade away in the sky.

The countryside gradually rejoices to see God’s light coming down. Thefinger resting on the trigger of his gun begins to hurt. It´s getting more andmore tense. His life is at stake. A gentle breeze tries to rise up through the

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The ChallengeJuan Bautista Zalazar

T


cactuses. Every rumor is the menace of a man. The gun absorbs thetrembling movement of his hands. He can’t miss the shot. The OLDMAN is taking too long to show up.

But he is not scared. He will kill him for sure. He is young and strong.

“What are you doing, boy?”, the voice of old Agenor Campos at hisback is heard as the trumpet of doom day. “Forget this nonsense. Let’s gohome and have some mate2 .”

JUAN BAUTISTA ZALAZAR

Was born in 1922 in San Blas de los Sauces, a small town in Catamarcathat had previously belonged to the nearby province of La Rioja. He is the mostpopular writer from Catamarca. Since 1947 he has published poetry books aswell as some short stories volumes such as Cuentos a dos voces andCuentos del Valle Vicioso. “The Challenge” was included in the book La tierracontada. (Colección Ciudad de los Naranjos, Editorial Canguro, La Rioja, 2000.)08

1. A type of South American tree.

2. Traditional South American infused drink.


he fox was one of those that come to this world with avocation for retirement and who would go out of their wayjust to avoid working. He would spend most of the timelying down somewhere around, on his back, collecting sunfor the evening, or he would hang around the local stores

and the ranch houses gathering news and wetting more his own throatthan his own lands, relying on his wife who saved his money, the poorwoman with her queue of little squirts clinging on to her waistband.

Being fonder of prattle than he was of wit, he would look for friendsmost of the time, so as to have someone to criticize his enemies with.He had a small farm, which he worked only when he found itimpossible to avoid; one day he suggested the armadillo that theyshould sow it together. He did not seek a partner at random. Very littleinclined to leave his house, the armadillo was a true farmhand, anindividual who would spend entire days, sometimes even entire nights,weeding the earth. He was a devoted Christian, although he wouldrather conceal it, and, as far as his conscience is concerned, it wasclean as the wheat in the ear. He did know that the fox was alwayscarrying a burden of malice on his back, but it was the fox who did notknow him. That was not a minor advantage.

“This year, mate”, said the fox, “whichever part of the plant shouldgrow under the earth will be yours, and mine will be whichever mighthave grown above it. Is it OK with you?”

09

Partners in SowingLuis Leopoldo Franco

T


“As you please”, condescended the armadillo, and he resolved tosow potatoes.

The harvest was better than regular, but the fox only received a heapof shoddy leaves.

Come the next season, the Fox changed the playing card.

“In this new sowing season, it would be fair that I should getwhatever may grow under the earth and you whatever above it,wouldn’t it, mate?”

“As you say”, replied the armadillo, agreeing as always to everythinghis partner suggested.

This time he sowed wheat, and by the end of the year he had filledhis granary with good grains, while the long-tailed did not know what todo with such a waste of roots. But he did not give in. The third timewould be lucky for him.

“See, mate”, he told his partner, “this year, if it’s OK with you, you willget whatever may grow in the middle of the plants, and I will be contentwith whatever may grow under and above the soil.”

And he looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Sure, mate”, answered the thick-shelled, shrinking his eyes as hesmiled, always pretending not to suspect the concealed intentions ofhis sharecropper. This time he sowed pumpkins. The treacherous foxdid not know what to do with the roots and flowers he was given.

LUIS LEOPOLDO FRANCO

(Catamarca, 1898-1988) carried out many different jobs: lumberjack,mason, and farmhand. He studied Law at the Universidad de Buenos Aires; hecollaborated with the newspapers La Nación, La Capital, La Prensa. His literarywork is vast: Coplas del pueblo, La flauta de caña, El corazón de la guitarra,among others. His compilation of popular poems is very interesting. Partners inSowing was included in his book El zorro y su vecindario, author’s edition,Buenos Aires, 1987.

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was at peace with life, finally overcoming its neglect. I used tospend hours reading and pruning the plants. Nothing wouldhave foretold any other hitch in my life, nothing... Until I receivedthat phone call.

At first I was moved profoundly. Once again I felt the intenseemotion of knowing that she was alive. It had been long since I lastsaw her and it was indeed a big surprise to be given the exact dateand hour of her arrival, to be told that she would need to see me.

It took longer than usual for the train to come. She must have felt asoutraged as me, both thinking about the minutes standing in betweenus. Finally, she arrived two hours late.

While waiting for her to come, I had settled myself on a bench infront of platform 23. It had been a good decision to have brought athermos loaded with mate water, some hard biscuits and a couple ofcigarettes with me, to ease the damned anxiety. There were peoplecoming and leaving, some of them were seen off, some other werewelcomed, all of them were hugged. That scene stirred in myimagination the different forms in which we shall hug each other assoon as she should set foot on the platform.

She arrived at last. I left everything strewn across the bench and runalong the coaches until the train finally stopped. I caught sight of herbeautiful, elegant figure, which was about to come down from a first

11

PrivetsCésar Noriega

I


class coach; she was wearing a turquoise suit and she had her hairwas tied up. I raised my hand over the crowd but she did not see me.The stir caused by the arrival of the train coming from Buenos Airesmade it impossible for me to approach.

I thought I had lost her when she set foot on firm land. After her, anelegant man in a suit and hat came down. She waited at the foot of thestaircase for a few seconds, and then she took him by the arm and theyswiftly left on a cab.

I stood in the middle of the dark platform that was starting to getdeserted. There, trying to get my ideas straight.

I went back to the bench; I put away all the stuff into my backpack,seeking the impossible calm.

“Damn bastards!”, I shouted but nobody turned around.

I went out to the street and took a bus back to my place. Her place.

I went to the hut at the end of the house, and I grasped tightly thepruning scissors. I entered the kitchen, turned on the radio at full blast,put the kettle on the burner, the hosepipe in the plants and resumedthe pruning of the privets.

CÉSAR NORIEGA

Was born in La Merced, Catamarca, in 1960. He taught at elementary andsecondary schools, and he currently works as a bookseller and trainer at theProvincial Centre for the Promotion of Reading and Writing at the Ministry ofEducation of his province. Some of his works were included in the anthologyLapacho Florido y otros cuentos (2000). His book Caricatura del tiempo waspublished by the UNCa. The unpublished short story Privets was provided bythe author to be included in the present compilation.

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he door had been left ajar. By entering so late at night, hewas risking to be mistaken for a burglar.

He took the risk and, tiptoeing, he got to the bedroomwhere she was sleeping.

After some soft strokes, he talked to her as if he was trying to wakeup a child:

“It’s me; I’ve come to steal your heart.”

Young pigeon’s heart, full moon’s heart, that night... from that nightI´ve felt my heartbeat distant and I´ve had the dream of a burglar.

CELIA SARQUÍS

Was born in Catamarca in 1966. She teaches Music and Literature, andshe is currently the Head of Catamarca’s Historical Documentary HeritageManagement Department. Poet and storyteller, she coordinates creative writingworkshops. She has published some books of poetry such as La voz del río(1989) and Y le tira la lengua a la memoria (1994).

This unpublished text was provided by the author to be included in thepresent compilation.

13

Brief love story fora full moon nightCelia Sarquis

T


TUCUMÁN


t never rains in our village. During Eastern, the Stations of theCross are made out of flowers, and the figures of Christ andthe saints look like drawings, with faces and everything. Andthey stay that way, nice and new the whole year roundbecause the air dries the flowers with their colors and figures

exactly the way they were when they were made. But when the raingets moody, it takes everything along with it, visible and invisible,be it above or below ground.

Five days ago, before my father-in-law came back; I was walkingaround the square and more exactly, along Mr. Arimayo’s sidewalk. Hecomes from Bolivia to his beautiful house here; it has an iron lamp inthe front that not even the ones in postcards can compare to.

I’d gone there to sell him some Nativity figures my husbandmade, and though the women who came to the door tried to tellme he wasn’t in I told them: Not so fast ladies. When he finds outthat not even in Bolivia will he find statuettes like these – and I’llsend the priest to tell him so – you’ll never earn such an ill-gottensalary again in your lives. The women looked me up and down, furious,but they let me in.

Of course Mr. Arimayo loved the statuettes. But he acted like hedidn’t care. So I said I washed my hands of it, that saints this realisticpractically look back at you, and it was in my interest to keep theminstead of letting them go make rain in Bolivia. Mr. Arimayo was still

15

Out of LineFRAGMENTElvira Orphée

I


laughing when we heard a peal of thunder that must have split themountain down the middle. I’m leaving before it rains I said runningout with the saints, Mr. Arimayo at my heels. We’d barely crossed thestreet when it came down on us like swords. We ran into the churchhall, although Mr. Arimayo could have gone back into his house, butwhatever! By then he was so in love with the saints he couldn’t livewithout them.

The storm was huge. I was more interested in watching it than inhaving a sales talk with Mr. Arimayo. Our mountain has a cleft with apermanent rainbow in it, and I was sure a stroke of lightning wasabout to give it a twin, splitting the mountain like a cake with lilac, yellow,purple, pink and even black layers. I was waiting for the gash toappear, and I was in no rush to appease Mr. Arimayo, the unrequitedlover of my saints. But he was so stubborn he wouldn’t leave mealone; he kept grabbing my arms to reach the saints, and just then itoccurred to the priest to come out to the porch. He saw what he saw,he crossed himself, he raised his hand and spoke of the divine,deserved anger at tireless sinners who even take advantage of sacredplaces and moments such as these to satisfy their lust. And he pointed afinger at the cake of the mountain, which was shrinking under thedownpour, while with another finger he pointed at the square, wherethe water was carrying off all the plants in their pots. And suddenly hisfinger found itself pointing at what looked like a wheel-less carriagerolling by on this sea. We couldn’t tell what it was until more of thembegan floating by, with no lid on them.

The water pushed us inside, so we climbed the stairs to watch froma little window at the top. The carriages were running about the squarewithout a lid, and everything inside them had come loose: a little skullhere, a little skeleton there, came sailing from the cemetery, which isuphill from the village. The coffins were taking the dead out for a spin.

At the other end of the square –from the window- we saw the policewaving like madmen. I said they must be looking for culprits to blame forthe commotion, and that reminded the priest of me and Mr. Arimayo. Heaccused us of breaking the sky open and mixing the skeletons so that thevillage families would have to mourn bastard dead. And so on until he wasalmost in tears, regretting that he recommended me as daughter-in-law toa decent man. If he wasn’t going to let me put a word in edgewise, whatwas I going to say? Mr. Arimayo had been pining over the saints and mes-merized by the beauty of the floating dead, but he suddenly snapped outof it. He told the priest he wanted the saints, not my arms, but that I was atouchy, stubborn woman, that he didn’t even have time to ask the pricewhen I ran out. Let’s see these saints, said the priest. I had to show themto him and, you know, priests are selfish. The minute they set eyes on what

16


doesn’t belong to them they lust after it; they promise you heaven if you’rerich and hell if you’re poor so you’ll hand it over. But he didn’t know whatto promise me when I said:

–No. These I’m keeping, so I can charge to make rain come.

He called me a witch and a usurer, but I wouldn’t back down:

–Thanks to me, no one in my house goes hungry.

Finally we made a deal. I sold one saint to Mr. Arimayo for the priceof four, just for acting like he didn’t care. I told the priest I’d have to askmy husband for permission to give him one, pending of course freeaccess to his vegetable garden; but that no one would make me partwith the other two, because they’d proven how miraculous they were (ofcourse, I didn’t mention they were kind of bungler in their miracle-making)since it’s better to live with some miracles than without any at all. Hehimself must see how much we poor human beings need them inorder not to fall into temptation; and, who knows, had they not madethe rain miracle, Mr. Arimayo might have ended up falling in love withmy arms from touching them so much. The priest got a little irritatedand read me the riot act: What’s this lack of respect for lack of pedigree?Mr. Arimayo was looking daggers at me; but he wanted that saint sobadly and maybe others in the future, that he would have agreed toanything. And in this way, by taking my little saints out of the basket, Isatisfied them both. Afterwards I got to wondering if I was the reasonthat the “mister” went home dragged by the current on an open casket.Our village carpenter works just so we won’t stick our noses into hisreal business; no one can say his coffins are made to last forever.

But my little saints must have been waiting for someone to believein them because as soon as I said they made miracles, they set thedead free.

Whether “the mister” was muddy or not when he appeared in thepatio no one could or would tell me. Dirty or clean, no one can deny itwas out line of him to show up where he wasn’t wanted.

ELVIRA ORPHÉE

Was born in 1934 in Tucumán and currently lives in Buenos Aires. She haspublished, among others: Uno (1961), Dos Veranos (1965), Aire tan dulce(1967), En el fondo (1972) and La última conquista del Ángel (1983). Thisstory, whose final fragment is excerpted here, was published in Puro Cuento

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magazine and in the collection The Other Reality: Stories from all over theCountry, Colección Desde la Gente, IMFC, Buenos Aires, 1994.

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m talking to you about Solanita but not to make you jealous.Solanita is another side of my heart... her sharp profile, heraquiline nose, her eyes, a little big for her face, dark andTucumanos1 , her straight silky hair like a cascade of flax seedsand also her madness, her hot-bloodedness, her accelerated

metabolism, her nervousness when she throws back her hair, lights acigarette, smokes, laughs, crosses her legs. A pure-breed; the final productof an almost extinct species. Solanita at 2am between philodendron leavesand big pots of ferns and with the moon over the patio at ProfessorSantillán’s; the rectangle of the sky high up between ivy-upholstered walls,the tiled well and Solanita dropping the bucket while complaining aboutuncomprehending husbands and limpet-like children.

–It’s crystal clear, Max –she tells me as I help her draw the chain–the basket is the uterus, the dangerous draw of the void. You want to letyourself go, Maximiliano, to sink into the sea, into the uniform and thedefinitive.

–Nonsense –retorts her husband, who is drinking whisky withSantillán.

–Nonsense –repeats Solanita and touches my hands and drawingme under the light of a lamp half-hidden between the plants she startsto read the lines and who knew, she says, it looks like I have incrediblepotential and she looks at me pityingly making me feel like a completefail, condemned to wasting away in an accounting office. She asks and

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Past PerfectFRAGMENT

Hugo Foguet

I’

1. From the province of Tucumán.


in a low voice I tell her Sagittarius and it’s the moment, between twoshots of whisky, for the centaur to come skipping out between theplants, extending his bow.

–No way –says Solanita– a fire sign for you a wet bag like you.

I tell her I’m still waters and I kiss her and Solanita hugs me andlaughs.

–Nonsense –says the husband– . Let me introduce you. Womendrool over him... athletic, blond like a male valkyrie; he has a universitytesticle, excuse me, title, which he doesn’t use, or rather he uses it foreverything except designing mills or trains, but the husband is worththree and a half million maybe four depending on whether he doespublic relations or determines the curve of incidence of massagetherapy on conjugal happiness. —More nonsense, but without looking ateach other and when I’m betraying Solanita in my thoughts, which iswhat she deserves for being so visceral and subversive she tells me“Look, I believe in astrology and even botanics if need be, but this oneis impossible to classify.” And it’s true. And I make love to her again, thistime with the window open and the scent of magnolia on the pillow. Itell her and Solanita laughs, wants a cigarette, smokes in great puffsand drinks whisky and doesn’t stop talking.

–So you were born on the same day as Rilke. How funny you haven’tbeen able to forget it.

–That’s not true. I don’t care about Rilke and what I do know Iknow through Cienfuegos, now that’s someone who had someRilkean upheavals, round about ‘48. All I remember is some versesJuan Bautista used to repeat and I dare recite them now that I’mloaded on whisky and Solanita’s long teeth as she laughs with hermouth wide open.

You who never cease to accompany me,

I salute you, old sarcophagi…

which don’t tell Solanita a thing. She prefers the North Americans,Whitman and Pound.

–I don’t like the kind of man who’s always surrounded by cluckywomen, living in borrowed castles. –and she adds between drinks–: Hehad sad eyes and his lips were suspiciously thick. Also he was apremature baby.

–Definitive –says the husband from the other side of the patio.

–Poor thing –murmurs Solanita–, he’s taking culture baths with thesecretary, a traditional stew for national executives…. an appetizer so

20


he’ll have something to say about things like the top ten books etc.Getting back to our subject (I have her thighs within reach becauseshe’s sitting on the edge swinging a leg as she leans back, right overthe mouth of the well, which scares me, drunk Solanita), Miguel in thebasket from the bakery.

–Was it from a bakery?

–That’s what you said. One of those baskets you put on top of a fox.

–Granted. It was a bakery basket.

–And you wanted one just like it?

–I already told you; at first I liked the Spyker.

–So tell me: Where the hell do you find these museum cars?

–From Yuffa’s Match Box collection.

–So you made the dream up.

–No. I dreamed the dream.

–It’s very complicated. We’d better ask Ezequiel.

Ezequiel Etchepare Cifuentes is the psychoanalyst... a self-confidenttype of guy… balanced... the kind who thinks he’s got the world by theballs… the kind of person I rarely have anything to do with but inSolanita’s case he hit the nail on the head, although I know of somereactionaries who miss the mystical, God-fearing Solanita (so beautiful,it’s true), who would come back from the Santo Domingo altar asthough walking on air, with down-cast eyes and hands clutching herbreast, an angel-woman, supremely humble, giving off a scent of nardsand lilies like a consecrated virgin... and they say she derailed, went tothe opposite extreme, became libertarian and shrill, vital, contradictory,dirty-mouthed, flesh and blood, desirable, a woman at last, way betterand so what if she sometimes suffers. You know how it goes: suddenlythe iceberg stops being the tiny tip you believed it to be and the restappears, everything that was underwater, hidden by layers of culture,education, socially-imposed repression. You’ll get to know her bettersoon. I’ll show her to you little by little, a bit how she is now and a bitfrom a few years back, like that montage we once came up with for SanMiguel, the city no one will have heard of in a few years, luckily, andwhich I won’t miss and now that I think of it, isn’t that why I dreamed itso cold and impersonal and about to be abandoned in those littlefloating little cars? The unconscious is a fucked-up thing but it rarelymisses. That’s the secret.

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HUGO FOGUET

(1923-1985) was born and died in San Miguel de Tucumán. A graduate ofthe National Nautical School, he traveled the world as a sailor. A poet and astory-teller, he was critically acclaimed, receiving several important prizes.Among his original, vertiginous prose, which combined the colloquial with theerudite, are the following titles: Hay una isla para usted (1962); Advenimientode la bomba (1965); Frente al mar de Timor (1976); Pretérito perfecto (1983),the novel from which this excerpt has been taken); and Convergencias (1985).His poetry books include: Lecturas (1976), Los límites de la tierra: en el canal(1980) and Naufragios (1985).

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e moved forward among the orange trees. The sun fell withsuch intensity he had to screw up his eyes. The dovehopped from one branch to the next, and the next, anddisappeared into the highest foliage. Pointing the shotgun,Matías reached the tree trunk. He searched it leaf by leaf,

but couldn’t find the dove. Strange, he thought, scratching his neck.

Suddenly he heard a sound above his head. He peered up again.Hidden in the branches was a bird. Not his dove; it was something else,between bluish and ashen. Carefully, Matías rested the gun against hisshoulder and cocked the trigger.

“Since the dove is nowhere to be found –he said to himself– I’m notgoing home empty-handed.”

Just then the bird hopped to a fork in the branch and shook itswings out; it swelled its throat out and started singing.

Matías, who had got to the first landing, slacked off the pressure onthe trigger and listened.

“How strange –he said to himself–. I’ve never heard this kind of birdsing before.”

In the circle of the nap its warbling rose like a noisy golden tree. Itseemed to Matías that more than song, what was being distilled wasthe soporific scales of the nap itself. A kind of sweet torpor began toinvade him, the desire to abandon himself to happy memories of

23

The ShotgunJulio Ardiles Gray

H


bygone times and to do nothing else but listen to the song of the bird; itcontinued to rise, this time like a bittersweet green perfume.

The better to l isten, he dropped the shotgun to one side.Dragging his feet, he moved to the trunk and leaned on it. The birdhad disappeared, but its song still floated on the air. Unable to resistthe temptation of looking up to the sky, he lifted his eyes.

Among indolent clouds spinning off gigantic thistle flowers, twolarge black birds flew in gigantic, languid circles. Matías could notdistinguish whether the sweetness he felt was coming from the songof the bird or from the clouds, now drunkenly fading in the distance.

Just then the song stopped. The birds and the clouds disappeared,and he came back to himself.

“I’m becoming really absent-minded” –he said to himself, shakinghis head.

He looked for the shotgun but it was no longer where he thoughthe’d left it. He walked further, retraced his steps: it was no use, theweapon was gone.

–And that’s for being a fool! –he yelled out loud.

He kept searching, in vain. After an hour, tired, he said to himself:

“I better go home and get my boy. Two sets of eyes are better thanone...I can’t lose such a beautiful gun.”

And he cut across the fields to the lane.

It was when he entered the village that strangeness came over him.He felt disoriented: some buildings seemed to be missing, while othershe’d never seen before in his life. The more he advanced the more thesensation intensified. And when he reached his house, a wave of fearblew a vague, terrible premonition into his face.

He entered the hall. In the patio, four kids were playing and singing.They scattered upon seeing him, yelling:

–The Old Man…! The Old Man…!

A woman came out of one of the rooms, shaking lint out of her skirt.Matías mumbled in a small voice:

–Who are you…? I’m looking for Leandro…

The woman stared at him, frowning.

–What do you mean, my good man? –she said.

–I’m looking for Leandro –Matías stammered–. My son Leandro…This is my house.

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–Your house? –said the woman.

–Yes, my house! –Matías yelled–. The home of Matías Fernández.

The woman made a bewildered gesture.

–It was… –she said, smiling sadly–. We bought it twenty years ago,when Mr. Matías disappeared and all his children left the village.

–What! –shouted Matías, raising his arms as though in self-defense.

–Yes… –the woman asserted fearfully.

And that’s when Matías noticed that his hands were wrinkled, verywrinkled, and shaking like those of a very old man. Overcome with terrorhe ran, screaming away.

JULIO ARDILES GRAY

Was born in Monteros, in Tucumán province, en 1922. A teacher and ajournalist, he has written poetry and drama but stands out as a narrator. His poetrycollections include Tiempo deseado (1944) and Cánticos terrenales, (1950).Among his plays are Égloga, farsa y misterio (1963); Vecinos y parientes (1970)and Fantasmas y pesadillas (1983), while his prose texts include Los amigoslejanos (1956); Los médanos ciegos (1957); El inocente (1964); Las puertas deEl Paraíso (1968); Historias de taximetreros (1976); Como una sombra cadatarde (1979); La noche de cristal (1987) and Cuentos amables, nobles ymemorables (San Miguel de Tucumán, Ediciones del Cardón, 1964), from whichthis story has been reproduced. It was also published in 35 Argentinian ShortStories (Siglo XX Editorial Plus Ultra, Buenos Aires, 1999).

25


SANTIAGO DEL ESTERO


ir!… Sir!… There’s a snake in the jujube tree. It’s green!

This last detail reached me as the house boy was tryingto catch up with me, as I had broken into a run as soonas I registered his first words.

The place he mentioned was nearby: it only took me a couple ofminutes to reach the foot of the tree.

—It was on that branch just now! —panted my informant.

—Where?… —I couldn’t located the snake in the great jujube.

—There!… There!…

I managed to see her as she slid suavely in the highest branches.

It was a beautiful specimen of Chlorosoma baroni more than sixfeet long. The snake’s light green color merged noticeably with that ofthe branches and the leaves. With its elegant slide, it looked as thoughit was swimming in the foliage. Just then she was stretching her slenderneck, and her fine head and snout, which prolonged itself into a littleturned-up trunk, were etched against the sky.

This is a very aggressive snake, and difficult to capture because ofthe speed of her movement among the branches.

I observed the terrain: clear ground, no nearby trees giving her achance to go for a stroll. I told the boy and the laborers who had gathered

27

The Green SnakeJorge W. Ábalos

S—


not to lose sight of her, and to direct me to her once I was high up.

One of the laborers suggested, timidly:

—Be careful, sir; those green snakes can whip you really hard withtheir tail. We wouldn’t want her to toss you out of the tree…

—What I would like to know is where you all get this nonsense from.

—Well, sir, it’s what they say…

I climbed up the thick trunk of the jujube, which forked into thickbranches about ten feet off the ground, and began my hunt armed witha long, slender stick.

The snake slipped through the leaves, the men below guiding mypursuit. I want to force her or knock her downwards with a blow frommy stick, because they’re less agile on the ground. I approached her;she slid deftly from one branch to another in the top of the tree.

The chase was lasting a while and though I had her within rangeseveral times, she was faster, and managed to avoid my attack. Islipped two or three times, which forced me to slow down. I began tograsp the value of having a tail for my zoological ancestors.

Sometimes the snake remained motionless and observed as I camecloser, looking at me out of her little round pupils; I would aim a blowand just when I was sure I’d hit her, she’d appear, tauntingly, on somefurther branch.

My failed attempts got me impatient. It seemed that the snake wasactually mocking me, and scattered giggles from the peanut galleryonly increased my irritation. It was hot and I was sweating profusely. Itook off my shirt and my bandana and threw them to the ground.

This whole thing was taking too long. After a series of fruitless attacksfollowed by elegant reptilian avoidance moves, with a magnificent aerialstretch in which she seemed to be flying, the snake leaped to the nextbranch over. I was stuck. I had to climb back down, grumbling, to wherethe trunk branched off in order to reach the sector the snake was nowslipping and sliding in.

I lost sight of her from below. I was just beginning to scale thesecond branch when the snake, in a lightning raid from her hidingplace among the leaves, bit my hand furiously. I couldn’t help gesturingsharply in surprise, and fell out of the tree.

Sore and swearing, I ripped out the snake teeth that were incrustedin my hand. No one said anything, but everyone “knew” that the snakehad knocked me out of the tree with its tail; because of this, over thenext few months, all the parts of my body that the tail had touchedwould slowly dry up.

28


Myself, I couldn’t forgive the men for witnessing my defeat. Grabbinga thick club I found nearby, I climbed the tree again.

What began then was no hunt, but rather a vicious persecution. Iwas no longer a naturalist in search of a collection piece, but anenraged man trying to annihilate his antagonist. The “slender snake,”the “beautiful specimen”, “the magnificent snake”, had become “thesnake,” the “cheating, filthy, disgusting reptile.”

I climbed wildly, careless of thorns and twigs; I got scratched, myclothes tore, but I kept going up aiming random, furious blows any timeI thought she was within range. It had become a struggle betweenintelligence and brute force. The branches creaked ominously under myweight as I -heedless of all danger- continued the chase.

Finally my moment came: the snake was trying to cross from onebranch to another, when her body was outlined against the sky. I threwthe club; it hit her in the middle, dragging her to the ground. It was onlythrough extreme effort that I did not accompany her in her fall.

I went home sweaty, scratched, my clothes destroyed: but satisfied.Brute force had triumphed once more.

JORGE WASHINGTON ÁBALOS

Was born in 1915 in La Plata, in Buenos Aires province, and spent his entirelife, until his death in 1979, in Northern Argentina. He was a country schoolteacherin Santiago del Estero and a university professor in the national universities ofTucumán and Córdoba. He received grants to study in Brazil and the UnitedStates. Following the death of a student from snake bite he studied medicalzoology, focusing on poisonous and disease-transmitting animals, and becamedirector of the snake laboratory (in Córdoba) which produces antidotes tosnakebite poisons. This experience fed his entire literary production: Shunko, Nortepencoso, Animales, leyendas y coplas, Coplero popular, Shalacos andTerciopelo, la cazadora negra (Editorial Losada, Buenos Aires, 1981) from whichthe story The Green Snake was excerpted from.

29


n event upset the boy’s secret preoccupations.

It was on one of those mornings that smell like fresh dawnand taste like tender grass, while El Taruca was handinghim the mate1, that Mr. Delivano sent him to the counter to

measure out some sugar. Maybe the boy dropped one spoonful toomany on purpose, or maybe his head was in the clouds, but theshopkeeper’s eagle eye appreciated the generosity of the swollenpackage.

–You dumb coward… you clumsy, no-good fool … –Mr. Delivanosaid, and slapped his face twice, with relish. El Taruca, who knew aboutboss’ anger fits, stared at the man without blinking, as though a wholefish were stuck in his throat.

But suddenly, as though coming out of his own body, with a singlewhiplash he snapped the family tero2 bird’s legs in two. He’d neverknown he was capable of such an impulse.

From that day on he was in tears; straying far from home, gazing atthe lilacs and gold flowers of the fading afternoons, his slingshothanging idle.

He almost wept over the tero bird; and lashed at his own legs, overand over, in a cruel approximation. A bitter grief tore at his mute,stubborn nature; a few times he even hid in a grove of mistols3, seekingrelief in his solitude habit and his harmonic sister…

30

Silly SillyFRAGMENTClementina Quenel

A


31

One night in anguish he said:

–Mother, I’m leaving… I have to go! I need to find worksomewhere… Come and cook for me …

The mother turned around and began to sob, speaking slowly:

–Is that really what you’re thinking…

Later, Taruca had to lay slices of potato over Casia’s temples to easethe headache that was afflicting her, forcing her to bed. In this way,silently, Taruca made a pact with his mother; and remained bound insurliness to the life of the shop. In exchange for his assiduity heinherited from Mr. Delivano clothes that barely fit him. So year in yearout, with silent or unsociable intervals and an intimate consolation tidinghim over his darkest moments, the boy went unspooling worlds andinklings of manhood on the tip of his adolescent chimeras. A hardshow-off began to erase the childlike lights that stretched in his eyes.His hair, spiky like meadow grass feathers, spilled over his freckled facewith an uncouth expression. The soft, serious mouth flushed anddarkened, grimacing when it reluctantly uttered a few words. He hadalready begun to beat the drum at the dances and to wander longhours looking for odd jobs, which kept him away from home on manyan afternoon. Until one day, unexpectedly, the draft opened up for himcertain vistas laced with secret hopes and bitter sorrows: he wasalready a man…

He left at the end of a December, on a clear, polished, calmly bluemorning; the scents of the night still spread on his poncho andknapsack, both of which had spent the night in the field, awaiting theirmaster. Neither did he forget the harmonica: that sweet sister whoalways approached him, times when his soul stiffened into a log-likeposture. Twin tears weighed his eyes down, as from afar he still sawCasia, standing as though rooted at the aguaribay4 gate.

Juan de Dios had become a man.

1. Traditional South American infused drink.

2. South American bird.

3. South American tree.

4. Tree used by the Jesuits for medicinal purposes.


CLEMENTINA ROSA QUENEL

(Santiago del Estero, 1908-1981) wrote short stories, poetry and novels.She won numerous prizes, and her body of work has been recognized by thepeople of Santiago del Estero. Among her books are: El bosque tumbado,Poemas con árboles, Elegías para tu nombre campesino. She also publishedthe plays La Telesita and El retablo de la Gobernadora. The story Silly Silly wasexcerpted from the book La luna negra (Cervantes Publishers, Tucumán,1952). It also appeared in Anthology: Regional Argentine Stories fromCatamarca, Córdoba, Jujuy, Salta, Santiago del Estero and Tucumán, ColihuePublishers, Buenos Aires, 1999.

32


33orgive me Father, for I have sinned! —I exclaimed in a suddenfit of compunction.

The priest was motionless inside the confessional booth.

—Have mercy on this miserable worm… but don’t deny meabsolution! —I implored.

The priest’s cold eyes were fixed on my face; and yet nothinganswered me.

—Oh!… I’ve been so clumsy, so perverse, like a fragile larch leaf, adefenseless toy in the whirlwind of my ignoble passions! Cruel andviolent, impulsive, rashly defying the wrath of God!…

The priest didn’t move.

—I curse the hour in which I allowed my hand to return to the sword!Cursed be my Spanish blood, inherited from old-century monsters!Cursed be my gift for the thrust!…

He did not reply.

—Father… Isn’t it your job to forgive me? Will you force me to bear thiscross on my conscience forever? Was my sin that terrible?

Such was to be my destiny, apparently, since the priest did notchange his cold expression by one iota. I left in distress, crying.Unfortunately my thrust had been too accurate: his heart, pierced throughand through, left him no life-breath with which to answer me.

RepentanceJulio Carreras, Jr.

F—


JULIO CARRERAS (h)

Was born in Guasayán, Santiago del Estero, Argentina, in 1949. A musician,writer, journalist and painter, he taken was prisoner and tortured along with hiswife during the last military dictatorship. Upon the return of democracy heedited the magazine Quipu; subsequently he directed the Culture andEducation supplement of El Liberal newspaper. He is the author of essays andpoetry collections. The short story Repentance appeared in Puro Cuentomagazine, issue #19, November 1989.

34


SALTA


went up to the terrace that sun-warmed October afternoon. Icould see the entire village, and the train tracks entering the plainin the light blue distance.

My father sat on the stone seat he’d had carved when he boughtthe house: the biggest in the village, with ten bedrooms, a living

room, porches, a basement, and an attic with a pointed roof. I sat nextto him on one of the stone benches in front of a table, which was alsomade of stone.

I noticed that the ferns, which Helena usually took care of, wereparched by the sun. I was about to go downstairs to get some water forthem when my father stopped me and pointed towards the main street,where the newly arrived circus had begun to parade. I still remember itscolorful clowns and acrobats, the dogs with their bonnets and especially atrio of masked ladies, who were staring insistently in our direction.

Helena, with her eternal hospitality and goodwill must have invitedthem in, because they appeared on the terrace. Sitting on the stonebenches, they pulled out their knitting, muttering among themselvesand ignoring us. Upset, I was about to confront them and ask them toleave when a flock of vivid balloons invaded the sky, announcing thecircus. The balloons rose, paddled a while, disappeared. My fathermade his usual comment about his wisdom of buying this house, inthis village that was far from the big city but connected to it by therailway that ran just below our house; rising on a kind of embankment

36

The CircusLiliana Bellone

I


37

or hill, so it could be seen from a radius of various blocks. In a village oflow, conventional houses, a two-story stone residence with a towerattracts some attention.

Perhaps this had been the intention of its builders: elderly, enigmaticFinns who never spoke to their neighbors, and one fine day decided toreturn to their homeland.

From our privileged spot we watched the circus caravan moving away.We saw the last floats and the children running after them. Then we watchedas the dust they left behind slowly dissipated in the spring afternoon.

Living here is lovely, said my father gazing into the distance. Once againI noticed the strange women. They were still cutting and winding their woolbut they no longer irritated me: they must have run away from the circus, Ithought, and were hiding among us.

Far away we saw the plume of smoke from an approaching train. Myfather insisted once more that this was the best place to live in the wholeworld. I looked at the sky, saw the clouds suspended in the serenity of theafternoon. I felt the silence and as always, in my innermost self, with thedeepest part of my consciousness, I agreed with him.

Suddenly I looked at him and I was overcome as I remembered thathe’d died six years ago. I remembered that my father was dead and Iwas astonished, and yet a strange relief invaded me as I knew that thiswas death.

And we remained contemplating the afternoon silently, from the terrace.

LILIANA BELLONE

Was born in the capital city of Salta in 1954. A poet and a novelist, shegraduated as Professor of Literature from National Salta University in 1977. Shehas published the following collections of poems: Retorno (1979),Convergencia (1986), Elegía en primavera (1988), El Cazador (1991), Latravesía del cuerpo (1992) and Voluntad y otros poemas (1993). She hasobtained various distinctions, among them the Fondo Nacional de Las Artesprize in 1978. This text is from the book Cuentos, Salta, (1992).


tell my mom that my school is way stuffy and old and we’d liketo go to a new one, like the one a whole bunch of boys fromthe neighborhood goes to and also my cousin who makes funof me by sticking out his tongue and folding his ears like flaps.I don’t react because if I catch him at it god forbids I sock him

one right then and have to run and hide under my bed there andthen. I won’t let him get away with it! And if he keeps bugging me I’llsmear snot all over his face like last time even though he runs cryingwolf to my aunt. She calls me Judas Skin but I don’t know who thatis; and all because she doesn’t know the truth about her goody two-shoesson, who steals money behind her back and buys loads of cakesand stuffs his face without sharing ever, he’s such a coward. I hopehe gets constipated!

Today our Music and Singing Teacher made us line up and sing,one by one, next to her as she banged on the piano. Afterwards shetells me my voice is really nice and I’m in the school anniversarypageant. There are twelve of us and they take us out of last periodevery day so we can practice. I’m so happy I show off like crazy; theonly bummer is that every afternoon we also have to go to theTeacher’s house for more practice. We have to sing and dance andmake these really weird steps. And she says we’re about as graceful asa bunch of yams and we better get our act together because there’sonly a few days left before the school pageant. And we go over andover it until it’s decent. The record is scratched from playing it so much

38

BunchiBunchi GirlCésar Antonio Alurralde

I


39

on the Victrola and I bet she wasted a whole box of needles. We knowthe lyrics because they’re way easy, they go like this: “Come dance mygirl, bunchi girl, come sing my girl, bunchi girl, a, a, a, e, e, e”, and so onlike a million times until the teacher makes signs for us to stop, and wewave and exit to the sides.

All the mothers got together to buy the same fabric because it’scheaper that way. They measured us and each mom is making acostume following the pattern the teacher gave them. I don’t even wantto talk about this because it makes me so mad, but even though I’m soembarrassed I’ll tell you anyway… I don’t know if you know my schoolis boys only and in the number we’re practicing, six of us play boys andsix play girl dancers, and it turns out I have to play a girl. No way am Iever falling for that one again! I don’t know who the hell told myclassmates, who tease me all day long by walking with their legs stucktogether like faggots; I’m sure some hot shot took on the job ofspreading it all over the school since it’s no skin off his back. Day aftertomorrow is the pageant and today we have dress rehearsal. God! Ilook so pathetic in this little pink skirt with this stupid bow on my head.Even worse, they put blush on my face and lipstick on my mouth, andthey even smeared my eyelashes and eyebrows with this really greasyreally thick black pencil.

It seems like this pageant is way important because the CouncilPresident, the members, the Principal with her face all powdered upand her starchy uniform stiff as cardboard, the entire school board andthe parents are all sitting up front, and all the grades with their teachersstand in rows at the back. Some extra fussy mothers have someonesave their seats while they run to the room next to the stage, which iswhere we’re hiding, to smear more paint on our faces, fix up our frillsand give us advice which of course we don’t listen to. There are alsosome speeches and verses, which we barely hear. Our number is thelast one, the “grand finale” as I heard someone say I can’t rememberwho. We’re so excited we’re all shaking and talking at the same timeuntil someone yells at us to shut up because we’re about to go on anyminute. One of the mothers who’s being the lookout on the stairs sticksher head in to tell us it’s our turn and runs like hell back to her seat. OurMusic and Singing Teacher puts the record on the Victrola, which sitson a chair stage left with a big green horn to make it louder, and windsit way up. Then she runs across the stage and pulls on some ropes sothe curtain will go up.

She raises it and we appear in a single file, singing and dancing tothis crazy fox-trot, which is really popular right now. Everything is turningout great and we’re so happy; the Council President is drumming thebeat on his knee without realizing it while a little smile escapes from his


usually stony face above his neck, which is squeezed by a black tie thesame color as his suit. The Principal sheds a little tear and secretlylooks around to spy everyone’s reactions. We keep dancing andspreading the love as they clap to the beat like mad. So far so good.We’re beginning to taste victory.

But suddenly we start to fall out of step with the record. We each dowhat we can; we look for clues stage right at our Singing and DancingTeacher: her face is green and she’s gesturing madly for us to keepgoing, so we try to cover up with these really idiotic smiles as we keepscrewing up. The music goes slower and slower: “Giiiiiiiiirrrrllll,giiiiiiiiirrrrllll, buuuunchiiiiiii, giiiiiiiiirrrrllllllll.” All hell breaks loose as we startbumping into each other and falling on our asses while belting thesong out any way we can. People double over laughing, holding theirbellies. The Council President giggles discreetly into a neatly foldedhandkerchief, tears streaming from his eyes. The Principal’s glassesslide off, she coughs, swallows, gets up and sits down with little snappymovements like a puppet. The boys yell all kinds of things from theback; it doesn’t look like we’re making it to our graceful side exit. OurSinging and Dancing Teacher tears her hair out but doesn’t have theguts to cross the stage to go wind the Victrola, which is slowly grindingto a halt: “Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrllllllll, giiiiiii...”

CÉSAR ANTONIO ALURRALDE

Was born in Salta in 1940 and is a renowned poet and story-tellerspecializing in short and very short stories. He published both his remarkablecollections, Cuentos Breves and Los Nadies, in 1984. This text was taken fromthe latter, published by the Salta Canal 11 Foundation in 1986.

40


41r. Ventura Perdigones was a Spanish vegetable-sellerwho lived in Salta. From Vaqueros, where he had his plotof land, he would bring a basket of fresh vegetables tosell on the village streets every morning.

Vaqueros is two leagues from the city, on the left bank of the river bythe same name.

And I say river because that’s what in my land, despite the strictdefinition of the word, we call what in winter is little more than apeaceful stream, and which summer rains turn into formidableavalanches of mud and stones.

One morning Vaquero was coming along way too uppity, as peoplein the provinces say. A storm had hit the mountains the night before,and, with a huge racket, its muddy waters were dragging thick trunksand heavy rocks downstream.

All along the bank, several farmers on horseback waited for theworst of the tide to pass before fording.

Perdigones was there on his donkey, which was loaded with basketsof cabbages and lettuce. He wanted to cross as soon as possible,ignoring the advice of those who pointed to the danger; and stubbornlyspurring his animal, he stood up in his stirrups the better to decidewhere to jump from.

The Rising TideJuan Carlos Dávalos

M


Perdigones saying yes and the donkey saying no, beast and maneach fought to do his own bidding, much to the enjoyment andmockery of the onlookers.

–Don’t go in there Mr. Ventura. The tide will get you –said one.

–No point trying to convince him. That Spaniard is hard-headed as amule –yelled another.

–Hold on tight, you might lose your baskets - vociferated a third.

–Come on, man! - Perdigones answered- What’s all the fuss?And this one here ain´t beating me –he said of the donkey,whipping him hard.

Perdigones won in the end, though it would have been better forhim not to; because spurring the donkey, losing the baskets, and manand beast, ropes and vegetables tumbling to perdition, was all onething. The current was dragging them down fast.

The gauchos were quick to tie their lassoes and throw them to anunhappy Mr. Ventura. But thrashing and diving and flipping in themiddle of the water, he couldn’t reach the helping hands.

And it would have ended badly had he not, with the last of hisstrength, grabbed the roots of a willow tree.

Once back on dry land and over the scare, a farmer said to theSpaniard:

–Hey there Mr. Ventura, now that you’re safe you should give thanksto God; because this was truly a miracle.

And the Spaniard, surly and shivering, answered him:

-Man, why don’t you thank the willow; because what God wantedwas to drown me.

JUAN CARLOS DÁVALOS

Was born in San Lorenzo, Salta, in 1887, and died in 1959. A poet andstoryteller, he was a renowned and popular figure in his province andthroughout Northeastern Argentina, from where his influence spread to the restof the country. He was also the author of many popular songs, and today hisname is synonymous with the culture of his region. He was a universityprofessor and a member of the Argentine Academy of Literature. Some of hispublished works include: El Viento Blanco and Cuentos y relatos Del NorteArgentino (1946), of which this text is an excerpt from.

42


JUJUY


44 n almost every jungle of Northern Argentina, there is an animalwhich is rarely seen by human eyes. It is elusive and has a strangegift for concealing itself. People call it ankuto pila. It is a kind of athin hairless bear (in Quechua1, pila precisely means “bald” or“naked”), not bigger than a German shepherd, with donkey ears, a

flabby body (but, paradoxically, possessing a colossal strength) and aspare loose hide that splits into two below the abdomen as waves of astream. It is somehow similar to the Madagascar’s Aye-Aye, though of abright and shining dun color and with no protruding eyes. So far nobodyhas been able to study its features in depth; however, it is thought tobelong to the same family of the coati.

The few peasants to have hunted an ankuto (mostly cubs that had losttheir mother) and have kept it in captivity, were able to observe its trackingskills. This animal can be used to track down anything, but its instinctseems to have one main obsession: it is an infallible bloodhound when itcomes to finding dead or lacerated victims to big felines.

Long time ago, in the province of Jujuy, an event occurred near theRamal area that is known only to a few.

It was told it in San Pedro by one of its main protagonists, DanielNaser.

In the sixties, Daniel was a young man with a Don Juanreputation. The families of half a dozen girls were on his lookout to

The Ankuto PilaJorge Accame

I


45

claim unredeemed promises of love, but he always managed toextend the deadline.

That warm, damp night, he and Clara Singh had gone to take awalk. The constant black snow of cinders fell over them. BetweenMarch and October, sugar cane stubbles are burned at the Ramalfields and long and fine ringlets of soot rise up to the sky and thengently go down and blacken everything they touch.

The couple reached the border of the plantation and lay down onthe grass.

Naser kissed Clara and then, pulling apart from her he caught sight,over her shoulder, of the head of a tiger down in the sugar-caneplantation. Trying to keep calm, he warned his friend, and they both stoodup slowly. They headed for the pond that formed the nearby irrigationditch. The skin of their back standing on end, they took a few steps as thejaguar shuffled behind them and made the sugar cane leaves sizzle verygently. Daniel Naser never knew what happened to Clara. When hereached the pond, he saw a boy submerged up to the neck, and thatdistracted him for a second. When he finally turned back, the girl wasgone. He dived into the water and there, standing next to the boy,unwillingly awaited the roaring and the cries of terror. However, he did nothear a thing. During the long minutes that he stayed in the pond, he couldnot perceive anything but the purring of the irrigation ditch and the shortswell hitting the shore. Or his own breathless panting when the tip of somegrass stroked the hairs of his head. Or the breathing of the boy, who kepton staring at him from the dark, and whom only then did he recognize asMarcos Singh, Clara’s younger brother. Daniel guessed that he had beensent by his father to follow them.

Although that stillness disturbed them, all of a sudden, and withoututtering a single word, they decided to leave the shelter and run backto the houses.

Soon later they were back on the spot with relatives and dogsboring through the night.

They found no trace of Clara.

The father of the girl was the only person in the village who ownedan ankuto pila, and at dawn he took it out of its cage. A party of men,including Daniel who had been accepted by the old Singh, headed forthe scrubland. Naser describes Clara’s father as a peasant of fewwords, of an intense look, who was feared because of his unexpectedanger fits. Already elderly, during a fight he had cut off, with a cleanblow of his machete, the arm of a teasing lad who kept on speakingbadly of his mule.


46

The men walked for hours along the scrubland, carrying the ankutotied to a leash and a collar. The animal walked in all fours, its bodytrembling like jelly because of the trotting; all of a sudden, it rose in frontof a huge grove in an open field. There it stood on its hind legs, openedits mouth wide and screamed. It is odd, but the screaming of theseanimals when they have found what they were looking for hassomething of a desperate mother, as if they knew the victims´conditions before anyone could have seen them. The animal broke freeand started to run. At first it ran on two feet, like a donkey, swinging sideto side, making it possible for the men to follow it from a short distance.But after a few yards it resumed its natural position and sprang at fullspeed, disappearing within the incredibly high tuft.

It was found half an hour later, among the quebrachos2. It was sittingon the ground, covered in blood, and it looked dejected; it barelymoved when the men came closer. A few meters further ahead therewas a family of jaguars; that is to say, what was left of them. The cubswere dismembered; there were pieces spread all over the ground, tornapart by an unearthly force. The mother of the tiny tigers hung softlyfrom the branch of a tree, its bones broken as a rag doll.

Never did the men fully convince themselves that the ankuto hadbeen capable of such a slaughter. However, there were no traces ofany other animal, and the jaguars´ bodies were still warm.

In vain they searched every single plot of land for miles around. Thegirl did not appear. But they knew the ankuto was never wrong. Clarahad been devoured by the jaguars, even though they would never beable to find any evidence. On the following day, they went back to thehouses with the ankuto, which meekly allowed itself to be lead back.

A last piece of information: Daniel Naser was accepted by the oldSingh as a member of his family. The name of Clara was nevermentioned again between them.

Some years later, Daniel married another one of his daughters.

2. South American hardwood tree.

1. Quechua is a Native American language family spoken primarily in the Andes ofSouth America.


47

JORGE ACCAME

Was born in Buenos Aires in 1956 and moved to Jujuy in 1982. He hastaught Literature in secondary schools and at the University. Some of his worksare: Días de pesca, ¿Quién pidió un vaso de agua?, Cuarteto en el monte, ElJaguar, Diario de un explorador, El puente del diablo; and some plays such asPajaritos en la calle and Casa de piedra. This short story has been originallypublished in Cumbia (Edit. Sudamerica, Buenos Aires, 2003.)


y little sister was sent to my grandmother’s house for aweek against her will, where else? see if by getting heraway from that lousy mechanic my mother gets them tosplit up, or her to forget about him

she deserves better, not such a vulgar scruff, oh today’s girls, andyou go out of your way dreaming of a good marriage for her, not with anobody, the least with such a common man as that, anyway, may Godand the Blessed Virgin wish that up there her rapture wears off, or what

and it’s been already two months since she’s gone, she doesn’teven reply to the letters why is it always me the one that has to write;and my old man in vest

besides the post is terrible and I’m sure there’s not a single postmanin the middle of those mountains, I don’t know how my mother canstand living there

the hoarse voice, picking his teeth with a broom straw, afterwards hedoesn’t hear or so he pretends

what better, this way she doesn’t bug around with her evil spellsanymore, devil bitch

my mother’s mutter while she swills out the bucket to later fetchsome water from the pipe on the other side of the road when it’ll getcooler, and actually she stares at my brother with an irritated look, ringsunder her eyes, and he now pulling his stubble

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Dreams of motherCarlos Hugo Aparicio

M


hey, you are the one that will have to go and bring her back as soonas I can afford the ticket, got it?

my old lady stops staring at the blue mountains in the distance

while you’re there go see whether that filthy bastard is hangingaround, it’s been a while since I last saw him on the corner, go figure ifthey were together, and moreover if that sorceress was protecting them,you don’t know what to think anymore

and she sits back to keep on crushing with a stone the nail of theshoe that hurts her; my old man doesn’t look away from the cloudedrain water in the puddles along the street under the sun that bites evenmore in its glare and if I go out it makes my eyes water inevitably; andmy brother must be choking on his own saliva because he’s missingthe Championship and Saturday’s ball at the basketball club.

But he did go to bring her back. Another month has just passedsince then, and they don’t reply to the telegram either we didn’t eat twodays to send it urgently

what the hell is the matter with those ones, besides how come mymother let them stay, you don’t think mom is screwed, do you?

the one that does show up at noon getting off from the cab snortinga bag in one hand and a packet in the other is precisely mygrandmother, white scarf on her head, her round face sweating,shinbone length blue house coat and black moccasins; my old manstumbling on the dry tracks of the street, still finishing to put on his shirt,hastily buttoning it up goes out to catch up with her

but mother, see, what a miracle, what are you doing here, where arethe kids, mother?

behind me my old lady clears her throat, coughs and after spittingon the floor she walks away limping and murmuring again and againsurely to tidy up her grey hair a little bit, to straighten her blouse overher flat chest. My grandmother leaves two bags on the floor

son, sonny, nice to see you, what?, the kids?, but son, look, how onearth will they want to come back, look at them son, look at themcarefully, sonny

and still panting she takes a photo out of her pocket; I approachthem as well, I poke about as I tiptoe, and yes it’s true, it’s in colors, andthere they are the two of them, unrecognizable they are, taller I think,they have put on weight, and even my little sister is wearing a miniskirt,and I can almost hear them laugh, and I swallow sharp saliva, and mystomach pulls, and I belch, and my feet are burning inside my rubbertrainers with its soles about to get holed

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and you are skinny instead, look at you, already tubercular, why not?don’t you feel terrible? and what can I do? And what about that nigger?

my olive-skinned rather white woman shows up again straighteningher blouse inside her skirt which gets baggier and baggier

hi, hi, what a nice surprise, look who’s here, how are you, how doyou madam, we weren’t expecting you here, how nice, and the kids?,oh? my grandmother doesn’t bother to utter a single word and won´t letmy father help her carry the bags either, she just grumbles to him, lookat her, see my mother stepping aside to let her into the room first as ifshe were the owner crossing herself time and again

you people are worst than ever, still living in this slum?, oh my God,son, the kids have told me such horrible things, my poor son, if only youhad paid attention to me

why, mother, there are no jobs, only odd ones and not every day,what can we do?

my old lady brings the least worst of the two chairs, and - withoutcleaning the dust on it- she leaves it there; now she rushes to pick upfrom the floor the chipped washbasin and one of the tins placed tocollect the leaking water; I don’t dare to look at her face, her eyes; andtrying to walk normally she leaves the room

and what have you eaten today, son

why, mother, a spaghetti stew— it’s true, mother, I swear

I belch the flavor of the bland mate cocido1 , barely tepid and withno bread, and I covertly clean my eyes with my hand

have some stew, will you?

No, son, no, no, thanks, you don´t worry, what time is it?

it must be around one o’clock, mother, perhaps it’s earlier

aha, so there’s still time, son, let’s see, quickly, quickly, clean up thetable good, everybody come here, tell her also to come, but hurry up,come on, let´s go

and my grandmother with her growing shrill voice rushes tocarelessly place her bag and the packet in the first drawer that shefinds, she tightens the scarf on her head, puts a silver crucifix aroundher neck, with both hands removes the sweat from her face as if shewas washing it and then grabs the chair, shakes it and places it almoston the threshold

go take your seats at the table, come on, swiftly, swiftly

so that she could sit with her back to us and facing the bluish

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mountains in the West and receive the sunlight of a sun that hasalready began to filter; and she sits down and up several times,changes the position of the chair until she finally feels satisfied with itand leaves it there and turns around to give us a look; my old man hasalready fetched the other chair, my old lady kept on rubbing the woodof the table until restoring its shine, and I drew the stool up to the tablefor her and a couple of concrete blocks for me, and the tree of us sitdown without removing our eyes from my grandmother to see how shenods with a frowning, congested face, she draws a cross in the air asthe priest does at mass in the chapel and stares at us first at my fatherthen at me

aha, listen carefully, no questions at all, pay attention to me, listen tome, think strongly about what you like to get, close your eyes and think,now, now, now, that’s it, go on, go on, think, think, and don’t you dareopen your eyes, do not open them until you hear me snore, and helpyourself quickly ‘cause there’s no much time left

and she goes quiet and has to turn around to sit on the creakingchair and she must be changing position because the chair creaksmore and more, and it sounds as if she were praying, and I squeeze myeyelids shut and being in the dark makes my bitter mouth water and Ibecome so drowsy that I can’t help falling asleep and I nod off and Idon’t know how long has passed and only after hearing clearly thesnores do I open my wet eyes still half asleep and the mouth I open ittoo that it drips the few saliva that’s left, and I have been given a dishfilled with one schnitzel, two fried eggs and chips better than what I hadexpected with all my hopes, there are even slices of lemon that remindme of “Los dos chinos”, that tearoom downtown, and a hugeorangeade, and the cutlery and the transparent glass glisten over thepink tablecloth, and my father at the head of the table, such big eyes,he licks his lips once and again at the sight of his enormous dish filledwith steaming locro2, the little dish with spring onions, the one withsalsa criolla and the bottle of red wine and the soda siphon, and my oldlady doesn’t give a single look at her little dish of watercress salad,meat and minced potatoes, but stares without blinking, squeezing somuch her mouth shut that her lips get even thinner, her cheeks moredrawn than ever before, her fists on the table, she looks again andagain daggers at the blonde girl behind my old man, a smiling younglady wearing a strong red lipstick, and such a low-cut blouse that youcan peer both her white breasts all the more when she stoops to givehim a hug, to stroke his stubble with her hand where rings and agolden little watch bracelet glisten, to keep on smothering his hair withkisses, to try to kiss him in the mouth, my father not taking a blind bit ofnotice starts to eat the boiling food, so do I, with this belly pulling asnever before under the increasing snores of my grandmother.

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CARLOS HUGO APARICIO

Was born in La Quiaca, Jujuy, in 1935, but he has lived in the nearbyprovince of Salta since he was 12. He is the author of several poetry books,including Pedro Orillas, El grillo ciudadano and Andamios, as well as shortstories compilations such as Los bultos, Sombra del fondo, La familia tipo andTrenes del sur. He has been the Head of the Victorino de la Plaza ProvincialLibrary in Salta and he has lived for a while in the United States of America,where he was granted a Scholarship. This short story was published–preserving the original orthography and grammar of the manuscript sent bythe author– in the 19th issue of Puro Cuento, in November 1989.

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1.Traditional South American infused drink.

2. Hearty thick stew popular along the Andes mountain range


t was an adobe house, with thick, old walls, long ago peeled awaybut still showing that once they had been painted in white. At theend of house, an ivy plant tried, every spring, to reach the roof,but it always fell short, its long innumerable thin fingers clung tothe edge of a cavity as a window —open ventilation for the fruits

stored in the hut—, and there she began to die away, letting the yellowand cold death sneak inside her, through the tips of the guides thatthen started to dry away, until someone cut them off, chopping them offwith a blow of machete.

Inside the house my cousin José lied in bed, numb with cold,thin, with sunken eyes, always asking for some water. And mymother, aunt Machaca, Manuela and some other people I did notknow were around José, sitting down or walking on tiptoes near thebed, looking into his eyes, uttering faltering words in a low voice,coughing softly, or just being quiet. I had paced up and down myboredom a hundred times already. I wanted to go back home, getclose to the river to see my father give the “green light” in wickerrings to the engine drivers who passed by, making their locomotivesblow, rather than being at my cousin José’s house. But my mothersaid no; that I should leave her alone.

Days and days were passing by; and, from the roof, lying on thickmoldy tiles I watched, with such open eyes that they’d hurt me, thehours slowly go by over the back of the clouds, towards the horizon.

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The circusHector Tizón

I


Only during the siestas did I indulge myself to be close to José;during the heavy siestas, when everybody fell overcome by sleep andby the sweet red wine of the large earthenware jars taken from the backof the house. José did not sleep. I told him about the circus.

The circus had come to town before us, settling down beneath itsenormous patched tent, just a few blocks away from the house.

José did not know what a circus was.

The first time I paid for the ticket, but on the second time Idiscovered I could sneak in beneath the tent through some holesclose to the ground, so then I would use that money to buy thoseapples-on-a-stick that an old man sold inside.

José did not know what an apple-on-a-stick was, so I tried to explainall those things to him during the siestas. José looked at me with big,dry, funny eyes. The giraffes, the cycling monkey, the dancing dogs.And then all of them together on the arena, when they came outholding that big sign lifted by the elephant with its trunk, towards theend of the show, when everybody clapped their hands.

When the doctor stopped coming back, an old, toothless womanwith black and dirty hair entered the house; she came for the next threeconsecutive nights and I could see how she wrapped José in an oldponcho1 and after lighting a fire on a corner of the room with the treebarks that she brought wrapped in newspaper, in the middle of smokeshe called him: “Joseée… come back… Joséee...”

Sometimes I also would go to the river, wander along the edge ofthe thick walls of the borders, watch how women beat their clothes onthe rocks. Then I would go back to the house and referred all that to mycousin.

Some sunrises made me cry; an inconsolable, monotone, drown outweeping escaped from my window only to fade away swallowed by silence.

“Help me”, said José. Once again the siesta had settled down overthe sleepless, defeated will of the grown-ups. I went to tell him how Ihad seen on the beach a cat be hung to death from a wire. “Help me”,he said, “I’m getting up”. My cousin rose and sat up in bed. He hadshining, beautiful eyes; his long, straight hair fell over the neck of hisfaded Franciscan habit. Then he said: “We’re going to the circus”; andhe added: “You hear that? Is that the music from the circus?” I hadalready told him that in the circus there was a group of men who playedmusic by blowing their cornets; some lively, stentorian music that madeyou stand up, shout and burst to dance and run after the dwarf horses.

He asked me to help him and when I held him I could feel his thin,fragile, soft chest, his skinny, prominent ribs beating underneath the faded

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Franciscan habit. He held me back and I felt his warm, damp face againstmine, until I finally managed to place him on the nearby chair. “Do you feelthe music?”, he said once again; but I could not hear it. He looked up tothe ceiling and added: “the donkey riding on the giraffe”.

Then he remained very still; lying against the back of the chair; insilence, his eyes shut. A long, unrestrained howl made me finallyremove my eyes from the little, thin feet of my cousin José which hadlong ago ceased to swing.

HECTOR TIZÓN

Was born in Yala, Jujuy, in 1929. Apart from being a writer -the mostrenowned novelist from Northwestern Argentina- he is also an attorney and ajudge. He lives in Yavi, Jujuy. Sceneries play a fundamental role in his works,together with the grief of his characters. His works have been translated intoseveral languages and he has been given many awards. Some of his worksare: El traidor venerado, La casa del viento, El hombre que llegó a un pueblo,El gallo blanco, Luz de las crueles provincias. This short story has been takenfrom Cuentos de Jujuy, a Youth Collection compiled and commented by JorgeAccame. Univ. Nac. Jujuy,1998.

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1. Outer garment designed to keep the body warm.


This book was printed on September, 2010 in Cooperativa Gráfica el Sol Limitada

2190, Av. Amancio AlcortaParque Patricios, City of Buenos Aires.

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