El cojo bueno

El cojo bueno (Alfaguara, 1996)
por Rodrigo Rey Rosa
Guatemala, 1996

Aunque preferí su novela más reciente El material humano por varias razones, ya recomendaría esta novela corta (124 páginas) por Rodrigo Rey Rosa a aquellos lectores que buscan un buen puñetazo en la boca.  La trama es sencilla pero arriesgada.  Juan Luis Luna, hijo de un hombre de negocios adinerado, es secuestrado por una pandilla de rufianes violentos con apodos extraños como La Coneja, Carlomagno, El Sefardí, y El Horrible.  Cuando su padre no paga el rescate dentro del plazo convenido, Juan Luis pierde primero el dedito del pie izquierdo y, después, el pie entero como un mensaje.  Rescatado a última hora, el rehén hace frente a una nueva relación con su padre y una vida llena de recuerdos amargos en cuanto a lo que pasó en la gasolinera abandonada.  Años después, por pura casualidad el "cojo" titular se encuentra con uno de sus secuestradores en un restaurante en Marruecos.  Desconcertado por el encuentro sorprendente y también cansado de su vida de vagabundo en el extranjero, Juan Luis regresa a Guatemala para enfrentarse con la violencia en su pasado.  ¿Va a tomar venganza en los secuestradores que escaparon sin castigo?  A pesar del hecho de que el encuentro de Juan Luis con el secuestrador en Marruecos me pareció un poco increíble, me gustó el relato.  Aunque estoy tentado de llamarlo un Reservoir Dogs guatemalteco, eso sólo explicaría la mitad de la historia y no diría nada sobre el lado psicológico de la obra.  En resumen, un libro muy fuerte que se reune escenas horripilantes con la prosa sin adorno de Rey Rosa de manera incómodamente creíble.  (http://www.alfaguara.com/)

The Good Cripple [El cojo bueno] (New Directions, 2004)
by Rodrigo Rey Rosa [translated from the Spanish by Esther Allen]
Guatemala, 1996

Although I preferred his more recent novel El material humano for at least a couple of reasons, I'd still recommend this 116-page novella by Rodrigo Rey Rosa to anyone looking for a good punch in the mouth.  The plot is simple but daring.  Juan Luis Luna, the son of a wealthy Guatemalan businessman, is kidnapped by a gang of violent thugs with odd nicknames like Bunny, Charlemagne, the Sephardi, and El Horrible.  When his father doesn't cough up the ransom soon enough, Juan Luis first loses the little toe off his left foot and then has the entire foot amputated by the kidnappers as a warning that they mean business.  Ransomed at the last minute, the kidnapping victim faces up to a new relationship with his father and a life full of bitter memories regarding what went wrong in the abandoned gas station.  Years later, the title "cripple" runs into one of his kidnappers by sheer chance in a restaurant in Morocco.  Rattled by the surprise encounter and also tired of his life as a boho drifter abroad, Juan Luis returns to Guatemala to confront the violence in his past.  Will he now wreak vengeance on the kidnappers who went unpunished?  In spite of the fact that Juan Luis' initial run-in with his ex-kidnapper seemed a little farfetched, I really liked this book.  While I'm tempted to call it a Guatemalan Reservoir Dogs, that would only explain half the story and wouldn't say anything at all about its psychological aspects.  All in all, a very visceral read and one in which Rey Rosa's spare, unadorned prose makes the more lurid aspects of the tale uncomfortably believable.  (http://www.ndpublishing.com/)

Rodrigo Rey Rosa

Don Quijote de la Mancha #6

El Caballero de la Triste Figura

Leí los capítulos XXVI a XXX del Quijote en inglés para comparar la experiena de leer la novela en castellano con la de leerla en traducción.  Aunque ningún traductor jamás pudiera ser igual a Cervantes, estoy satisfecho con la traducción de Edith Grossman.  A continuación se puede ver el primer párrafo del capítulo XXVIII. [I read Chapters XXVI to XXX of the Quixote in English to compare the experience of reading the novel in Spanish with that of reading it in translation.  Although no translator could ever be the equal of Cervantes, I'm basically satisfied with Edith Grossman's translation.  The first paragraph of chapter XXVIII can be found below.]

Felicísimos y venturosos fueron los tiempos donde se echó al mundo el audacísimo caballero don Quijote de la Mancha, pues por haber tenido tan honrosa determinación como fue el querer resucitar y volver al mundo la ya perdida y casi muerta orden de la andante cabellería, gozamos ahora, en esta nuestra edad, necesitada de alegres entretenimientos, no sólo de la dulzura de su verdadera historia, sino de los cuentos y episodios della, que, en parte, no son menos agradables y artificiosos y verdaderos que la misma historia; la cual, prosiguiendo su rastrillado, torcido y aspado hilo, cuenta que, así como el cura comenzó a prevenirse para consolar a Cardenio, lo impidió una voz que llego a  sus oídos, que, con tristes acentos, decía de esta manera... (I, XXVIII, 275, en la edición de Martín de Riquer).

[Most happy and fortunate were the days when the bold knight Don Quixote of La Mancha sallied forth into the world, since, because of his honorable resolve to resuscitate and return to the world the lost and dying order of knight errantry, we can now enjoy in our own time, which is so in need of joyful entertainment, not only the sweetness of his true history, but also the stories and episodes that appear in it and are, in some ways, no less agreeable and artful and true than the history itself, which, following its tortuous, winding, and meandering thread, recounts that as the priest was preparing to console Cardenio, he was prevented from doing so by a voice that reached his ears and, in melancholy accents, said... (I, XXVIII, 227, in Edith Grossman's translation)]

No tengo mucho más que decir aparte de la opinión que la historia de Cardenio en el capítulo XXVII es uno de los episodios más aburridos en toda la novela.  La historia de Dorotea, la admiradora de libros de caballerías desfrazada como la hermosa princesa Micomicona en el capítulo XXX, es más chistosa, y claramente esta parte de la novela funciona como un preesteno de la novela intercalada que se verá en la próxima parte. [I don't have much to add other than the opinion that Cardenio's story in Chapter XXVII is one of the most boring episodes in the entire novel.  The story about Dorotea, the fan of chivalry books disguised as the beautiful Princess Micomicona in Chapter 30, is much funnier, and clearly this part of the novel functions as a preview of the intercalated novel that will be seen in the next part.]

The Divine Comedy II: Purgatorio #3

Quali i beati al novissimo bando

surgeran presti ognun di sua caverna,

la revestita voce alleluiando,

cotali in sua la divina basterna

si levar cento, ad vocem tanti senis,

ministri e messagier di vita etterna,

Tutti dicean: "Benedictus qui venis!"

e fior gittando e di sopra e dintorno,

"Manibus, oh date lilïa plenis!"

[As the blessèd, when the last trumpet sounds,

will rise from the tomb, eagerly each one,

"Hallelujah" in each voice put on again,

so, over the holy hooded chariot,

at the voice of so great an elder, a hundred

messengers and ministers of eternal life

were, all of them, saying, "Blessèd is He who comes,"

scattering flowers upward and around them,

saying, "Oh with full hands give lillies."]

(Purgatorio XXX, 13-21, pp. 292-293, in the bilingual original and as translated by W.S. Merwin)

Although I think almost everybody in our readalong group agreed that the Inferno made for far more scintillating reading than the Purgatorio, I'm not sure that the writing really explains the difference in the reception of the two works.  In fact, I think that the second canticle might be even better-written than the first in some ways.  In the snippet above, for example, we see a "typical" example of Dante's brilliance at work.  Setting up the moving scene where Virgil departs from the poem, Dante breaks from his Florentine Italian to boldly mix in some Latin verse.  While Dante does this sort of thing throughout the poem with astonishing regularity and fluidity, W.S. Merwin explains that line 21 ("Oh with full hands give lillies") is "a line freighted with allusions.  It is translated from a famous line of elegy and farewell from Virgil's Aeneid (book 6, 967-886 [sic]), Manibus, oh, date lilia plenis, and serves as both a welcome from the angels and a farewell to Virgil" (Purgatorio, notes to Canto XXX, 356).  In other words, this is a homage to Virgil the character written as a "cut and paste" from Virgil the poet's own words from over a thousand years before.  I find that pretty spectacular on Dante's part.

Elsewhere, Dante highlights the ambitiously interactive nature of his poetry via his choice of other languages and the use of featured poets as "characters" within his narrative.  In Canto VI, Dante and Virgil meet Sordello, "one of the Italian poets who wrote in Provençal, continuing the tradition and conventions of the troubadours" in the words of Merwin's footnote (337).  In Canto XXI, the Roman poet Statius, born long after Virgil's death in the real world, praises the genius of the Aeneid to Virgil and Dante before realizing he's actually in the Mantuan's presence in the poetic sphere.  A discussion about poetry naturally ensues.  In Canto XXIV, a soul that Dante meets in Purgatory questions him on an early poem Dante had written and then mentions the "dolce stil novo" that he is hearing (XXIV, 57, pp. 234-235).  And finally in Canto XXVI,  the 12th-century troubadour Arnaut Daniel responds to a question posed to him in Italian with eight lines of "dialogue" rendered in the Old Occitan of his day.  While Dante never connects the dots quite so heretically himself, it's tempting to view this elevation of poets, poetry, and language as something akin to a secular religion on the poet's part.  At least, it is for me anyway.

In any event, you don't have to be a language geek or a heretic to appreciate these sorts of things--nor need you know Latin or Occitan to appreciate Dante's Italian in Merwin's English!  But the level of precision in the Purgatorio's poetry is often amazing.  To cite just one more example, let's return to Canto XXX and the specific verses that deal with Virgil's departure (XXX, 43-57, pp. 294-295, with the English translation again by W.S. Merwin):

volsimi a la sinistra col respitto

col quale il fantolin corre a la mamma

quando ha paura o quando elli è afflitto,

per dicere a Virgilio: "Men che dramma

di sangue m'è rimaso che non tremi:

conosco i segni de l'antica fiamma."

Ma Virgilio n'avea lasciatti scemi

di sé, Virgilio dolcissimo patre,

Virgilio a cui per mia salute die'mi:

né quantunque perdeo l'antica matre,

valse a le guance nette di rugiada

che, lagrimando, non tornasser atre.

"Dante, perché Virgilio se ne vada,

non pianger anco, non piangere ancora;

che pianger to conven per altra spada."

[I turned to the left with the confidence that

a little child shows, running to its mother

when something has frightened it or troubled it,

to say to Virgil, "Not even one drop

of blood is left in me that is not trembling;

I recognize the signs of the old burning."

But Virgil had left us, he was no longer there

among us, Virgil, most tender father,

Virgil to whom I gave myself to save me,

nor did all that our ancient parent

had lost have any power to prevent

my dew-washed cheeks from running dark with tears.

"Dante, because Virgil leaves you, do

not weep yet, do not weep even yet, for you

still have another sword you must weep for."]

Taken out of context like this, it may be difficult for someone who hasn't experienced the poem to understand how touching a farewell this is at this late stage in Purgatorio.  But pay attention to the shift in perspective of the speakers and the repetition of the name Virgil to see how Dante's poetic gifts enhance the emotion of the moment.  With a post on Paradiso upcoming next weekend, I'll let Merwin have the last word here because the way he explains the Canto XXX farewell is rather mindblowing to me:

"The farewell to Virgil and his disappearance is a moment of great symbolic and personal significance.  It is formalized by numerological designs: Virgil is named five times, first once, then three times in one tercet, then again once.  The echo, several commentators have pointed out, recalls in turn lines of Virgil's in Georgic IV, 525-527, where Orpheus' voice, calling the lost Eurydice, is echoed down the stream" (notes to canto XXX, 356).

The Divine Comedy II: Purgatorio #2

And we had not gone far in that direction

when the lady turned around toward me

saying, "My brother, look and listen."

And all at once there was a shining

that raced through the great forest on all sides,

making me wonder whether it was lightning,

but whereas lightning is gone as swiftly

as it comes, this stayed, shining brighter and brighter,

and in my mind I kept saying, "What can this be?"

And running through the luminous air was

a sweet melody, so that a good zeal

led me to blame Eve for her recklessness,

that there, where the earth and Heaven were obedient,

a woman, alone, and who had just been made,

could not bear to be veiled by anything.

If only she had stayed devoutly under

hers, I could have tasted these pleasures

beyond words earlier, and for longer.

While I walked on among so many

first fruits of eternal happiness,

enraptured, and longing for still greater joys,

the air under the green boughs before us

came to be like a fire blazing

and we could hear that the sweet sound was singing.

Oh most holy virgins, if I have endured

fasting, cold, and vigils for you ever,

need drives me now to ask for the reward.

Now is the time for Helicon to brim over

and Urania to help me with her choir

to put into verse things hard to hold in thought.

(Purgatorio XXIX, 13-42, p. 283-285 [translated by W.S. Merwin])

With apologies both for the long quote and for the sudden interruption of the Don Quixote readalong, I'd like to send a shout-out to any unicorn-loving lurkers out there with this quick post on Dante and the ladies.  Whatever you make of the real life Dante's lifelong crush on Beatrice dei Portinari, his choice of her as a heavenly symbol throughout The Divine Comedy is just fascinating to me in terms of the psychology at play in the poem.  In the excerpt above, for example, you'll note that Dante trots out that old "Eve is the mother of sin" trope that was already hoary even in the poet's day and age.  It's not mean by medieval standards and it's definitely not anywhere near as weird as Bernard of Clairvaux's fetishistic obsession with the Virgin Mary's breast milk or anything along those lines, but then again it's not the kind of attitude you might expect from a man who's chosen to elevate a secular woman to the status of idealized spiritual heroine of his poem.  Not having started Paradiso until today and not having done as much secondary reading on the Commedia as a whole as I would have liked anyway, I'm not really sure what role Beatrice will play as the poet and the muse make their platonic way through the third canticle's heavens.  I'd like to think that Dante gives us a hint in the final line of the excerpt above--i.e. that Beatrice's status as an idealized woman might provide some sort of a link between the "secular" inspiration necessary for creating verse and the "religious" raptures that seem to dominate the Divine Comedy's themes--but that's only guesswork and potentially really off the mark guesswork at that.  In the meantime, more on Purgatorio later or maybe not (covering all my bases with the full knowledge that laziness sometimes interferes with my psychic predictive powers).

P.S. As much as Beatrice interests me for what she tells us about Dante's conflicted attitudes towards women, she's not actually all that happening on her own merits.  In contrast, Juan Ruiz' Trotaconventos from the Libro de buen amor and Chaucer's Wife of Bath from the Canterbury Tales are two deliciously complex female characters that would absolutely wipe the floor with Beatrice for anyone looking at approaching any of these three 14th-century classics from a gender studies perspective.  Not sure if the fact that Trotaconventos and the Wife of Bath would have been more likely to end up in Inferno than Purgatorio has anything to do with it, but you get the picture.

Don Quijote de la Mancha #5

Estoy releyendo el Quijote como parte de un readalong organizado por Stu de Winstonsdad's Blog./I'm rereading the Quixote as part of a readalong hosted by Stu of Winstonsdad's Blog.

El capítulo XXI de Don Quijote empieza con una suerte de "identidad equivocada": don Quijote se confunde la bacía de un barbero andante con el famoso "yelmo de Mambrino", y la obtiene del barbero como botín de guerra.  El capítulo XXV termina con una escena que hace hincapié en otro tipo de desorientación de identidad: obsesionado con su amor por Dulcinea, don Quijote finge estar loco en imitación de las enfermedades del amor sufridas por Amadís de Gaula.  En medio, hay otra equivocación clásica: la "aventura de los galeotes", donde el  llamado Caballero de la Triste Figura (el apodo de don Quijote recién inventado por Sancho) da la libertad a unos presos vigilados por los soldados del rey.  Dadas todas estas imágenes de "desorden", hagamos un alto de unos minutos para mirar como Cervantes despliegue todos sus recursos en cuanto al retrato del narrador.  Primero, hay la broma que sigue funcionando acerca de la creencia de DQ que el escritor de su historia tendría que ser un "sabio" (I, XXI, 200).  Una broma obvia tal vez, pero de tono amistoso.  Más interesantemente, hay aquello de los narradores multiples de nuevo.  Como leemos en algún momento:

Cuenta Cide Hamete Benengeli, autor arábigo y manchego, en esta gravísima, altisonante, mínima, dulce e imaginada historia, que, después que entre el famoso don Quijote de la Mancha y Sancho Panza, su escudero, pasaron aquellas razones que en el fin del capítulo veinte y uno quedan referidas, que don Quijote alzó los ojos y vio que por el camino que llevaba venían hasta doce hombres a pie, ensartados como cuentas en una gran cadena de hierros, por los cuellos, y todos con esposas a las manos" (I, XXII, 202).

Aunque no es la primera vez que "Cervantes", o el segundo narrador, ha sido culpable de hacer el vivito en cuanto a Cide Hamete Benengeli, o el primer narrador, véase como describe la historia como una cosa imaginada.  ¡Qué descarado este tipo!  Por supuesto, lo mejor del caso acerca del todo esto que tiene que ver con el narrador ficticio es que también se extiende a otros "narradores" dentro del narrativo.  De hecho, uno de mis personajes favoritos dentro de toda la novela es el preso Ginés de Pasamonte, que pasa su tiempo libro escribiendo una autobiografía minuciosa que él dice es tan bueno "que mal año para Lazarillo de Tormes y para todos cuantos de aquel género se han escrito o escribiere".  ¿Por qué es tan bueno el libro?  "Lo que le sé decir a voacé es que trata verdades, y que son verdades tan lindas y tan donosas, que no pueden haber mentiras que se le igualen" (I, XXII, 208). Como si los enlaces entre la autobiografía de este personaje ficticio, la novela picaresca de Lazarillo de Tormes y otros de ese jaez, y la propia historia imaginada de don Quijote no fuesen tan ricos en si mismos, Cervantes hace un golazo al fin de este ensayo sobre la verdad y las mentiras: don Quijote le pregunta a Ginés si su La vida de Ginés de Pasamonte está acabado.  "¿Cómo puede estar acabado", responde Ginés, "si aún no está acabada mi vida?"  ¡Una pregunta acertada!

*

Chapter 21 of Don Quixote begins with a sort of "mistaken identity": Don Quixote confuses the shaving basin of a traveling barber for the famous "helmet of Mambrino," and seizes it from the barber as war booty.  Chapter 25 ends with a scene that emphasizes another type of identity confusion:  Don Quixote claims to be so madly in love with Dulcinea that he actually feigns madness in conscious imitation of Amadís of Gaul's own lovesick ways! In between, there's another classic blunder on display: the "adventure of the galley slaves," where the so-called Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance (the newish nickname for DQ that Sancho came up with) frees a bunch of prisoners being marched across Spain by the king's soldiers.  Given all these images of "disorder," let's stop here for a moment to take a look at how craftily Cervantes unveils a full bag of tricks regarding the portrayal of the narrator.  First of all, there's the running joke having to do with Don Quixote's belief that the author of his history would have to be a "wise man" or sage (I, XXI, 161).  A little obvious perhaps but all in good fun.  More interestingly, there's that whole bit about the multiple narrators again.  As we read at one point:

It is recounted by Cide Hamete Benengeli, the Arabic and Manchegan author, in this most serious, high-sounding, detailed, sweet, and inventive history, that following the conversation between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha and Sancho Panza, his squire, which is referred to at the end of chapter XXI, Don Quixote looked up and saw coming toward him on the same road he was traveling approximately twelve men on foot, strung together by their necks, like beads on a great iron chain, and all of them wearing manacles (I, XXII, 163 [translated by Edith Grossman]).

Although this isn't the first time that "Cervantes," or the second narrator, has been guilty of being a smart aleck regarding Cide Hamete Benengeli, or the first narrator, take note of how he refers to the history as an "inventive" one here.  Not to beat up on Grossman again but in the original Spanish, Cervantes actually refers to this as an imaginada historia: an imagined or an invented history or story.  What a cheeky guy!  Of course, the best thing of all about all this fictitious narrator stuff is that it extends to other "narrators" within the script.  In fact, one of my favorite characters in the entire novel is the prisoner Ginés de Pasamonte, who spends his free time writing an extremely detailed autobiography that he says is so good "that it's too bad for Lazarillo de Tormes and all the other books of that genre that have been or will be written."  Why is it so good?  "What I can tell your grace is that it deals with truths, and they are truths so appealing and entertaining that no lies can equal them" (I, XXII, 169).  As if the links between the autobiography of this fictional character, the picaresque literature of Lazarillo de Tormes and its ilk, and Don Quixote's own imagined history weren't rich enough in themselves, Cervantes brings about a stellar conclusion to this workout on truth and lies by having Don Quixote ask Ginés if his The Life of Ginés de Pasamonte is finished yet.  "How can it be finished," Ginés replies, "if my life isn't finished yet?"  Good question!

La vida de Lazarillo de Tormes, y de sus fortunas y adversidades (1554)

Don Quijote de la Mancha #4

Un postal sobre el manteamiento de Sancho

Sin querer generalizar demasiado acerca del cambio de énfasis, digamos que los capítulos XVI a XX en Don Quijote se caracterizan más por su atención al arte de narrar y menos por su atención a la importancia de los discursos.  ¿Qué importa?  Para mí, una respuesta tiene que ver con la sumamente interesante manera en cuál el sentido de humor de Cervantes está vinculado con su propios esfuerzos narrativos.  De las muchas desgracias que sufren don Quijote y Sancho Panza en estos capítulos, por ejemplo, se nota que la "aventura de los batanes" en el capítulo XX es original por ser una aventura dónde lo escuchado y no lo visual predomina.  Al descubrir que el ruido infernal que provocaba tanto miedo en él durante la noche era de origen natural, Sancho está movido a burlarse del heroismo de su amo y don Quijote está provocado a enojarse con su escudero.  De hecho, DQ es tan desconcertado que añade: "No niego yo...que lo que nos ha sucedido no sea cosa digna de risa; pero no es digna de contarse; que no son todas las personas tan discretas que sepan poner en su punto las cosas" (I, XX, 189).  Aunque la reacción de los personajes es suficientemente "fidedigna" para mis gustos, me encanta cómo el narrador llama la atención a la ironía del chiste con la descripción al principio del capítulo: "De la jamás vista ni oída aventura que con más poco peligro fue acabada de famoso caballero en el mundo, como la que acabó el valeroso don Quijote de la Mancha" (I, XX, 178).  Al pertenecer a una puñada de capítulos que provocan carcajadas con relatos tan visuales como lo del manteamiento de Sancho (véase el postal arriba), lo de don Quijote como el narrador de una batalla imaginaria sólo vista por él, y--el último pero no el menos importante--lo del episodio del vómito recíproco entre el caballero andante y su escudero, este resumen, anticipando lo que don Quijote dice sobre una aventura que "no es digna de contar", es espectacular, ¿que no?  Próximamente: DQ, capítulos XXI-XXV, con más pensamientos sobre el narrador de la novela.

*

Without wanting to generalize too much about the shift in emphasis, let's say that chapters 16-20 in Don Quixote are characterized more by their focus on storytelling and less by the earlier attention to speechmaking.  What does it all matter?  For me, one answer has to do with the extraordinarily interesting way in which Cervantes' humor is intricately connected with his own storytelling efforts here.  Of the many mishaps that Don Quixote and Sancho Panza suffer in these chapters, for example, the "adventure of the fulling hammers" in chapter 20 is unique for its status as an adventure where the aural and not the visual predominates.  Relieved to learn that the hellish noise that sparked such fear in him overnight was only of natural origin, Sancho is moved to make fun of his master's heroism--which causes Don Quixote to be overcome with anger at his squire.  In fact, DQ is so angry that he adds the following: "I do not deny...that what happened to us is deserving of laughter, but it does not deserve to be told, for not all persons are wise enough to put things in their proper place" (I, 20, 151 [trans. by Edith Grossman]).  Although the characters' reactions are sufficiently "lifelike" for my tastes, I love how the narrator foreshadows the irony of the joke with the little description at the beginning of the chapter: "On the never heard nor seen adventure which was ever brought to an end with less danger by any famous knight in the world as that brought to an end by the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha" [note: this is my admittedly awkward but more or less literal translation containing Cervantes' fine play on words; Grossman's infinitely smoother translation, which to my mind unforgivably omits the pun, reads: "Regarding the most incomparable and singular adventure ever concluded with less danger by a famous knight, and which was concluded by the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha" (I, 20, 141)].  Smack in the middle of a handful of chapters that provoke laugh out loud moments galore with stories as visual as Sancho being unwillingly tossed up and down on a blanket for sport (see the postcard above), Don Quixote as storyteller of an imaginary battle only he can see, and--last but not least--a reciprocal vomit fest between knight errant and squire, this chapter summary, foreshadowing what DQ will call an adventure that "does not deserve to be told," is just kind of awesome, is it not?  Next: DQ, chapters 21-25, with more thoughts on the narrator of the novel.

El desbarrancadero

El desbarrancadero (Alfaguara, 2004)
por Fernando Vallejo
México, 2001

Pasé.  Descargué la maleta en el piso y entonces vi a la Muerte en la escalera, instalada allí la puta perra con su sonrisita inefable, en el primer escalón.  Había vuelto.  Si por lo menos fuera por mí...  ¡Qué va!  A este su servidor (suyo de usted, no de ella) le tiene respeto.  Me ve y se aparta, como cuando se tropezaban los haitianos en la calle con Duvalier.

--No voy a subir, señora, no vine a verla.  Como la Loca, trato de no subir ni bajar escaleras y andar siempre en plano.  Y mientras vuelvo cuídese y me cuida de paso la maleta, que en este país de ladrones en un descuido le roban a uno los calzoncillos y a la Muerte la hoz.

(El desbarrancadero, 12-13)

No pienso que podría leer más que uno o dos libros al año escritos por Fernando Vallejo.  El autor, nacido en Colombia y radicado en México, es demasiado cínico, amargo, e hiperbólico para leerlo con frecuencia.  Al mismo tiempo, ¡guau!, qué prosista.  Es tan cínico, amargo, e hiperbólico que me hace reírme abiertamente con frecuencia.  Como un hijo ilegítimo de Lautréamont o algo por el estilo.  En todo caso, decidí de leer El desbarrancadero después de disfrutar de La Virgen de los Sicarios (1994) en el año pasado.  Tengo entendido que la obra más reciente, ganadora del Premio Rómulo Gallegos 2003, es una suerte de novela autiobiográfica.  Aunque yo no sé si la frontera entre la realidad y la ficción esté trazada con toda claridad, la "novela" tiene que ver con la muerte del hermano de Vallejo, Darío, de SIDA hace unos años (se ven los niños Darío, a la izquierda, y Fernando en la foto de la tapa arriba).  También se trata de la muerte en términos más generales.  Además, nos ofrece un retrato de la vida de una familia colombiana que podría ser campeones del mundo en cuanto a la disfunción.  A pesar de la materia deprimente, me gustó.  Mientras que Vallejo sigue siendo un crack en cuanto a la injuria y un grosso en cuanto a la diatriba, pienso que la obra me impactó menos por el sarcasmo y más porque la rabia del narrador (Fernando como sí mismo) y el cariño que tenía por su hermano me parecieron auténticos.  Además de este sabor de autenticidad, también me impresionó el atrevimiento del novelista en eligir a la Muerte como un personaje.  Aunque sospecho que Vallejo sea demasiado vitriólico para la mayoría de los lectores de este blog, yo diría que este memento mori suyo ya merece su atención.  Por cierto, recomendado.  (http://www.alfaguara.com.ar/)

*

El desbarrancadero (Alfaguara, 2004)

by Fernando Vallejo

Mexico, 2001

I went in.  I set my suitcase on the ground and then I saw Death, the bitch with her ineffable little smile, settled down on the first step of the staircase.  She had returned.  If it were only for me...  Come on!  She respects me, your humble servant.  She sees me and she moves aside, like when the Haitians used to bump into Duvalier on the streets.

"I'm not going upstairs, señora, I didn't come to see her.  And like the Loca, I try not to go up or down staircases and to keep my feet on level ground.  So until I come back, take care of yourself, and by the way, keep an eye on my suitcase because in this country of thieves they'll steal the shorts off a guy and the sickle from Death when least expected."

(El desbarrancadero, 12-13, my translation)

I don't think that I could read more than one or two books a year by Fernando Vallejo.  The author, born in Colombia and now living in Mexico, is too cynical, too bitter, and too hyperbolic to read with any frequency.  That being said, wow, what a master of prose!  He's so cynical, so bitter, and so hyperbolic that he makes me laugh out loud extremely frequently.  Like a bastard child of Lautréamont or something like that.  In any event, I decided to read El desbarrancadero [The Precipice, not yet available in an English translation) after 1994's La Virgen de los Sicarios [Our Lady of the Assassins] turned out to be one of my favorite books read last year.  I understand that this more recent work, winner of the 2003 Rómulo Gallegos Prize, is an autobiographical novel of sorts.  Although I don't know if the boundary between the fiction and the reality is marked out all that clearly, the "novel" has to do with the death of Vallejo's brother Darío from AIDS some years back (note: Darío, on the left, and Fernando are the two kids on the cover photo above).  It's also about death in much more general terms.  In addition, it offers up a family portrait of a Colombian household that could have been the world champions of dysfunctional families.  In spite of the depressing subject matter, I liked this book quite a lot.  While Vallejo (writing in first person as the narrator) continues to stand out as an all-star of insults and diatribes, I think I was moved less by the sarcasm and more by the fact that his affection for his brother and his rage at his helplessness seemed genuine here.  In addition to this feeling of authenticity, I was also impressed by the novelist's daring in his choice of  Death as a character.  Although I suspect that Vallejo's way too vitriolic to appeal to most readers of this blog, I'd still say that this memento mori of his deserves your full consideration should it ever be translated.  Without a doubt, recommended.  (http://www.alfaguara.com.ar/)

Fernando Vallejo

Entonces volví de golpe a mi cuarto de esa lejana casa o manicomio del barrio de Laureles y una vez más vi a mi señora la Muerte, observándome con curiosidad lujuriosa desde el cielorraso manchado por las filtraciones de la lluvia.

--I love you --me dijo.

--¿De veras, mamita? --le pregunté.

Asintió con la cabeza y no dijo más....
*
Then I unexpectedly returned to my room in that faraway house or insane asylum in the barrio of Laureles and saw my Lady Death one more time, observing me with lewd curiosity from the ceiling stained by the leakage from the rain.
"I love you," she told me.
"Really, mamita?" I asked her.
She nodded yes and didn't say anything more...

(El desbarrancadero, 194 [plus my translation])