Date: Fri, 13 Feb 2004 06:37:48 -0600 (CST) From: Horacio Quiroga Subject: Mexican History/chapter 0 Disclaimer/introduction: This story is supposed to be an introduction for a series of short tales located in Mexico during the first quarter of the 20th century (pretty much Juan Rulfo's style, but with my own vision) . The places and people are named in Spanish, but I don't think it'll cause confusion, you don't even have to pronounce them, so don't complain about it. Of course, the original stories were written in Spanish, and not being my native language, hope you'll forgive my mistakes in English, or at least tolerate them enough how to find a different reason not to read my story. I'm just a young amateur writer (20 years old) and this is not a typical Nifty story, so read it with an open mind and if u like it ask for more at horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com. As any other story in this large archive collection u shouldn't read it unless you're open minded and over 18 years old (being the first more important than the second). The story depicts some kind (some) of sexual contact between adults and minors, and if you're offended by it, or its illegal where you are, or whatever, use your common sense and get out of here. Thanks for taking the time to read the disclaimer and go ahead reading if you're up to it. ___________________________________________________ "Around those days Don Cristobal Salazar would send me to San Juan to frighten people. Many years had happened since the Vibora last showed up, and he was dead for sure, but I would always look for him around the valley, because that's where he used to be when he was alive, and he had his woman in San Juan, in the middle of the valley. I would look for him for days, from town to town, from ranch to ranch, but the Vibora wasn't brutish enough to sleep around people, so I would look for him in the woodlands, closer to the mountains, traveling by horse until my back hurt, smelling the air looking for burned wood, looking for horse steps and broken branches. And he never showed up." "The rivers joined near San Juan, the one coming from the Cross mountain, and the one coming from the sierra, and the river is wider than the town and runs slowly, bright from the moment one comes down the mountain during dawn, and its red from soil, and its black from mourn. Before, when I arrived I would listen it going down slowly and dragging stones with a rumor of old time fear, I would listen it grieve , but not anymore. When I arrive its silent, and crossing the bridge by horse the floorboards also become silent. The river is old, and I saw it as it grow old. It becomes silent but doesn't listen, and doesn't see me coming. How I remember when the river used to fear me, and how I remember the storm the year of the fever, the one that turned the river black and grow poisonous the weed on the woodlands. I remember a lot, and I remember now that the river is dry, and that I am dry as well, because it defeated me, and died after I." "When I started to work for Don Cristobal I wasn't a boy anymore, but I was close. -Take care of my people, he said the first day he left me alone in the edges of La Pena, and when I was finished killing the town's people only his friend the Vibora was left alive, who then was as old as he is now and was smart as the devil. When I killed his troops he didn't say anything, despite I had killed his son. -Good thing you're here, he said as a friend, and I stared at him until I find out why did they call him Vibora. The troop I killed because they were idiots: when saw me, the shot me. From the distance I noticed them aiming at me and got closer so they could see me better. I killed them because they hit me in the face whit a bullet the size of a finger that cracked my cheekbone and my temple and so they exposed themselves. The People from La Pena heard them and arrived by horse shouting and in a cloud of dust. -Idiots, I thought to my self, and killed them all, the people from La Pena and them too. Only the Vibora and I were left, staring at each other, smelling like lead and blood, burning in the sun because we didn't move in long time, waiting for Don Cristobal to bring the horses" "-If u leave you're dead, Ángel said to me, Don Cristobal's nephew , and so I stayed. To Leave I would have had to kill him first, and I cared about him more than anything. He would come at night and stay with me a few days before his uncle called him to do what ever he had to do.--¿When do we go hunting?, he would ask at dawn of the night he arrived, and I would pretend to be asleep, because he would try to wake me up moving my stomach, asking me with his begging voice of child, and if I pretended to be asleep he would lay on my chest and say -I brought my rifle. He would keep rubbing my lower abdomen until getting hungry and get up of bed. -We're leaving at five, or six, I used to say when it was possible to leave that day. He had a colt for him in the stable, blacker than my horse of those days Apache. I bought it from Julian when Ángel grew too heavy to ride in my lap across the sierra, or more like too big to share a horse with anyone, because we would use to get out crossing the town, where people would look at us. The first night he stayed with me he didn't say anything, he was nine years old and had vivacity as no other child in the world, not even I when I was his age, and I had lived a lot by then. -Come in, I said and the small room that was my hose shone from the light bouncing in his face and hair. My house of wood and mud, the smallest I ever had, the one I liked the most and that I burned the day Don Cristobal died" "In the sierra there are still black bears now that almost everything is gone, back then one could go hunting because they would gather at the river. It was only matter of waiting two or three days and they would show up in the distance, smelling the air to come down confident with their offspring, or come down alone if they were black huge males like those Don Cristobal and I would look for. And he brought his nephew the week he arrived -Come hunting, he said one night I had dinner at his house as I drank what was left of sotol in my vase, and he shouted the name of his nephew.-He's my nephew, son of the deceased Don Cruz.-Good afternoon sir, he said to me as approaching looking down with his hand extended. And my heart was beating in my throat because I knew right then that I would never find anything more beautiful than him in this dry ranch, in this dark life I tolerated through drunkenness and nostalgia. I took his hand slowly, looking at his soft face, like a woman's. -The face of my mother, I whispered in a long exhalation and my alcohol breath hit him as an insult, as a judgment being there and then: --Drunk, he thought to himself loudly, frowning. I let go his hand and looked down to my other hand still holding the jar, tightening it strongly. -Come with us hunting, I said facing elsewhere and he turned to look his uncle.-We're leaving the day after tomorrow, have u ever gone hunting?, and the kid shook his head -Then you're coming with us. I felt him warm, felt his warmness trough his shirt, coming from his chest, from his small shoulders, from his white and soft skin and his tightened fists, nervous not knowing whether to sit or stay there standing until his uncle told him to leave. -Go to sleep now, he said and as Angel crossed the room I let myself fall in the chair and with eyes closed holding my breath, I touched his shoulder as he was in the hallway, very softly so he wouldn't notice the callus in my hand. He turned frightened and I opened my eyes,--Where did you go?, Don Cristobal asked not turning to look at me, drinking the black coffee he drink all day not seeming to affect his character, or losing his sleep.-Where I could never go awake" "That same night I stayed awake watching him sleep from my bed. Saw him wake up to go to the toilet, holding his child penis with two fingers, soft and slim, I felt his wetted prepuce and it was so soft I shaked between my sheets, felt the cold on his feet as he ran across the concret floor, I felt the fear he had, from me, from the night, from the cold surrounding the house of Don Cristobal that entered from the inside, from the people that lived there. That night more than ever I felt hurt as a hungry dog crying in the cold. He had a prominent tummy, with a knob as navel. He slept in cotton sheets and wool blankets. Didn't reacted when I touched him. He cried 'till dawn, not making any gesture, crying in the inside with the stomach and the heart. It wasn't until very late at night I dared to touch his hair. -Angel, I thought. Angel, with such strength my windows shake and Apache hit the stable door loudly." "I never had peace when I was a boy. Should've never killed Juan, should've let him kill me the same way I let him fuck me, but its not the same" _____________________________________________________________ Well, that's the end of what must be the prologue of a larger series of stories I have in my head. Although it didn't took me too long writing this small piece of literature(?), translating it was painful and exhausting. If think u could give me a hand, ask for the original at horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com . Or if you simply have some comments or suggestions, please write, the continuation of this stories depend almost exclusively from the response I get from the reader. Thanks and have a nice day.