I thought of heading for El Paquito’s and had got halfway there when a posse of youths caught me in a waste ground in an oak wood. The pack pursued me, armed to the teeth with clubs, sticks, and iron bars, and little Santomás was the leader, you could see that by the way he stared at me. Little Santomás was one of those bastards who wholeheartedly believe in their own strength, but he came to a bad end. His gums attracted flies, which he chewed with the limp squish of the toothless, and that’s why he was endlessly spitting. “Grab him by the scruff of the neck, don’t let him get away,” he whelped, enjoying giving out orders. Running had exhausted me, and I couldn’t have cared a fig about my fate. They held up me by my hair, and little Santomás, without saying a word, aimed a gob of spit my way and blinded me in one eye. They tied my hands to the trunk of an oak tree and ripped my shirt off so my back was bared to their lashes. They pulled the rope tight around my wrists, reducing the circulation of blood to a dribble, and then twice kicked me hard against the tree. The moon splashed its silver over my torso, and the metallic singsong of crickets seemed to be applauding the show. Little Santomás took his belt off and, before he started hitting, ran the leather over my skin, perhaps investigating the sinews of my anatomy. Then the lashes began, and my flesh oozed the bloody liquid of pain. Amused by their cruel extension of the fair, my captors laughed whenever I shuddered and joked at every new turn. “His skin is in tatters, he looks like a skinned goat.” I felt my consciousness fading, I sensed death edging nearer with every lash, but Providence intervened, not willing my days to be over so soon. They say it’s the archangel Saint Michael who at the final, supreme moment takes newly lost souls to their destinies in eternity. It was his feast night. The air smelled of grapes, and perhaps it was the archangel who prevented my soul from becoming painfully detached. It’s a fact that I saw him appear on a hill, silhouetted against fleeting shadows. Suddenly the lashes stopped hurting, and a feeling of well-being flooded my consciousness. “Hit him harder, he looks as if he’s recovering, hit him so he learns that dogs don’t lick women — crack, crack, crack.” My blood painted the night with rubies. The substance of my life crystallized into precious stone. Angels don’t exist. Angels don’t exercise their wings any less than archangels, let alone rush in with flaming swords of vengeance. That night, Algimiro Calatrava, Scarface from the Chorrero mill, was the one who saved my life. Walking back from the mill and pissed as a newt, he’d slumped down by the crags of Salobral, just at the top where the road slopes around. Scarface lived by himself, with fifteen lame dogs he fed on green vegetables to curb their wild habits. So many vegetables inside so many dogs led to flatulence, and the stink in his mill was renowned, and nobody went near for fear of fainting. The mollusks had caught Scarface in the middle of wasteland that day when they hailed down, and they shattered his face. He couldn’t protect himself and was left disfigured for life. Solitude helped him become resigned to his misfortune, and the dogs sufficed for the little warmth he had left to give. He expertly ground the wheat he brought to the mill, was a skilled miller, and the flour he produced was as fine as the ash of a cremated corpse. “What do you think you’re doing to the dwarf?” asked the apparition from the top of the mound. “Let him go, or I’ll bash your heads in.” His eyes flashed with their own light on his ugly face, like carbuncles from hell. He was a fearsome sight to behold. The youths were terrified and shut up until they smelled who he was. “They’re whipping my skin off in strips,” I moaned faintly. “He squeezed the breasts of the sergeant’s daughter; we’re giving him his just desserts,” retorted little Santomás, trying to justify the punishment he was inflicting, but rather than doing that, he fanned the scent of justice driving Scarface and unleashed a torrent of rage. “You gang of wankers, you always pick on the weak; I’m going to give you hyenas what you deserve.” The corners of his lips were foaming as he advanced on the cowering youths, and trying to create the suitable ambience to stoke their fear, I began to moan faintly for no justifiable reason. Annoyed by that interruption, little Santomás brought down one last lash with all the might in his muscles and then was the first to beat it in order to dodge the rocks that Scarface started hurling. The rest of the youths followed him and vanished into the crevices of the night, on their way to the village, like animals terrified by flames.
Poetry doesn’t fantasize. Poetry puts the seal on man’s tragedy, his impossible struggle against the fate that awaits him. The specter of Faith Oxen was quick to reveal the fate Providence had reserved for me, but she stammered, and it was difficult to follow the threads of her thoughts. I failed to understand the vague meaning of her words, but over time I’ve come to realize what was happening; consequently, when I saw her, I didn’t doubt for a single moment that her presence signaled my destruction. Fools, dogs, and poets are the best at divining other worlds; some bay at the moon, others slaver, and the last rhyme non sequiturs nobody heeds or cares about.
Sometimes poetry turns into a balsam, at others into a sting that sends the venom of the species deeper into the wound until it is infested and putrefies. Showered by a snowstorm of flour, the body’s wounds quickly close. The fine dust of flour mingles with the blood, making a thick balsam that immediately sets over the skin. Sores heal swiftly, and within seconds not a trace of the hurt remains. However, if the flour is made from chaff or has been poorly sieved, the result changes, and the ointment, rather than being a cure, hastens death. This is what Algimiro Calatrava, Scarface from the Chorrero mill, told me as he healed my back from the lashes. When the pack of youngsters had fled, he came over, untied me, and carried me in his arms to the mill. On the way, my head cleared uneasily. When we arrived, he ripped off the tattered remains of my shirt and lay me on my back on a mound of pure, white flour that was like a mixture of grated angel wing and cloud dust. For a moment the flour heightened the pain in my wounds, but then its soft touch quickly relieved my suffering, and I felt as if I were levitating on a real cushion of well-being. My every muscle exquisitely relaxed. Calm pervaded my thoughts, and the most benign of smiles whirled and curled from my mouth. “Squeezing a woman’s breasts when she’s not in heat is a bad business and brings only trouble. You must catch them on the right day,” Scarface advised me as he pretended to test the air with his nostrils. “You know, if you feel like it, and you can’t hold off, you should rub yourself off,” he continued. “Listen to me. You just rub yourself off and don’t tell a soul. I’ve lived here by myself for the last thirty-three years. Thirty-three, Christ’s age. Thirty-three years rubbing off, and I’m still in one piece. Women’s breasts rot in a flash, and it’s no fun fondling rot. Boy, get this straight, don’t be misled by females’ bosoms. Female flesh is unhealthy, and a bad session can leave a bad taste in the mouth for the duration. I’ve not touched one in thirty-three years, and look how well I’ve stood the test of time just rubbing myself off. Crikey, they’ve skinned you alive, kid. Your back’s a real mess. This is what comes from wanting to taste the flesh of another. Do as I do, and keep clear of women. Rub yourself off, it’s healthier, and you won’t catch any of those VDs that’re going around. You’re old enough to rub yourself off. Has anybody taught you how?” and there and then, the Scarface of the mill unbuttoned his fly to reveal the huge mushroom of his scrotum then started masturbating slowly right in front of my eyes, and pleasured longingly with each stroke, accelerating faster and stronger, his mind misted by a joyful throb until sperm snow-stormed the mound of flour where I was lain.