The Dream
It was years after Patricia Arancibia’s death that I began to dream about the dark city… A kid, seventeen, walked the empty streets, flanked by tall buildings… His strides were long, almost feline… I can’t say why, but I’m sure he was seventeen… I’m also sure of his bravery… He was wearing a white shirt and loose black pants that flapped in the wind like a flag… He was wearing sneakers that had once been white but in the dream were an indeterminate color… He had long hair and though his face remained in shadow I glimpsed dark wolf or coyote eyes… The streets were vast, some paved, some cobbled, but vast and empty… The kid loped along, happy to be alive, happy that the warm wind was rippling his clothes… Then four or five people appeared… They all knew one another and they walked together for a while… Next the kid and his companions stopped at an overlook… Beneath them was a ravine, and, in the distance, the silhouettes of other buildings… Among the buildings rose the movie theater, imposing as four cathedrals and four soccer fields… The Diorama… The kid and his companions admired the dark landscape and produced bottles of beer and drugs from somewhere… Little by little their gestures became more disturbing… They gesticulated, argued… One of the guys, fat and wearing tight pants, grabbed the kid by the neck and hurled him into the middle of the street… The others laughed… Then a knife appeared in the kid’s hand and he stepped toward the fat guy… No one saw anything, but the laughter froze… The fat guy took the blow in the stomach… He could feel the tension in the kid’s arm… The kid’s determination, edged with disgust… Disgust conquered by the driving force of his arm… Then the storm began…
A Drink on the Road
Cherniakovski? Juan Cherniakovski? Iván Cherniakovski? Cherniakovski, the poet. I remember him, said the algebra teacher, nobody who saw him even once could forget Cherniakovski. He was as handsome as they come. Back then, in ’71 or ’72, the ladies were always chasing him, you know? I’m no faggot, one look at me and it’s obvious I don’t give a shit about fashion, but I had eyes or at least I could see things more clearly back then, vision’s going, you know? Though ideologically everything is as dark as ever, if that makes sense, I guess confusion is just our natural state, the natural state of history, I don’t know, Slim, sometimes I think it would make the most sense for all of us to kill ourselves, but luckily I’ve got my old lady and the goats and I’m still down in the trenches. What was I saying? Cherniakovski, Juanito Cherniakovski, a great poet, though I’m no judge, it’s been years since I read a poem and to think there was a time when I wrote them. I haven’t even read Zurita, which says it all. Not Zurita, not Millán, not Maquieira, though none of them are dead yet. What can I tell you about the ones who went into exile? It’s like they never existed. But where was I? Juanito Cherniakovski. Nice guy. Son of the Dead Sea, that was what the Fascists in Econ called him, it’s hard to explain how scared people were of him, how much they respected him. Even the nickname, which was supposed to be insulting, is a giveaway. See, they didn’t call him a Jew bastard, there’s the difference. Honestly, I don’t know what it was about Cherniakovski, but people respected him. Don’t think for a minute that he was some leftist thug, the kind who were all over the place, unfortunately, or that he ever raised his voice, threatened anybody. I think Cherniakovski won people over with his looks. Go on, laugh. Have you seen any paintings by Dürer, Slim? And do you remember the one called
Oswolt Krel? You never saw it in your life? It’s oil on wood, with two side panels that close over the portrait of Oswolt Krel, and on each of the side panels, along with the family coats of arms, there’s a scary-looking wild man with blond hair. But the important thing is the portrait of Oswolt. The spitting image of Cherniakovski! Pure energy! Pure tragic energy, if you know what I mean, Slim. That was Cherniakovski, he had the most tragic, soulful eyes I’ve ever seen, though I could be exaggerating. I’ve seen lots of eyes since then, or at least it seems like a lot to me. I’ve even seen eyes in my soup, Slim! You too? Let’s drink to that! Oswolt Krel, God damn it. Juanito Cherniakovski in the flesh… Respected, admired, beloved, but a touch of the odd bird, like Oswolt, frankly. A touch of something strange in the eyes. A touch? No, man, I take that back, a shitload. You should see the painting, Slim! Oswolt Krel gets a glimpse of something terrible, yes? And it’s obvious that he has, but he restrains himself, he pulls himself together, it’s just his eyes, which are the mirror of the soul, that reveal the horror that the spectator can’t see. Is he afraid? Maybe, but he holds it in, and that’s the incredible thing about him… That’s what Cherniakovski was like… He held it in. Overall, he was a good guy, a down to earth guy… He was in exile for a while, I think… It was too bad he had to give up his poetry workshop, we had fun, but what else could he do? How long was I in the workshop? My whole youth, pal! And I got to know the Pons sisters, absolutely. Two pretty girls, good poetesses. Especially Edna Pons. I’m forgetting the other one’s name. Lisa, that’s right. Lisa and Edna Pons. Cherniakovski’s pride and joy. Of the rest of the workshop, well, I remember two journalism kids, two or three other literature kids, the actor Javier Oyarzún, he struck it lucky, the bastard, and you, of course… What did you say your name was? Belano? The talker! Rules Boy Belano. Of course I remember. It might not seem like it, but I do. The speechmaker, right? Don’t be embarrassed, Slim! Those were good times! Did I notice some stranger at the workshop before the coup? Exactly how long are we talking? Two or three months before? Man, strangers plural, in those days it was like a three-ring circus, there were all kinds of strangers, people who came in just to read a manifesto or to spend the afternoon: we were all fired up and partying twenty-four seven, don’t you remember? And the workshop was always open… Not like Fernández’s, which was stricter and more elitist. A poet? Slim, man, in those days we were all poets. Let me tell you something: Cherniakovski was the only one who seemed to know everyone, he’s the one who could shed some light for you, but who knows where Cherniakovski is at this point in the game. That’s all I can tell you, sorry. Rules Boy Belano! It’s been a pleasure talking to you, man, but I have to go. Duty calls and I can still ring a few bells. It’s hard to sell appliances door to door, but it’s a steady job and with sales on the installment plan, all the better. Keep in mind that we’re virtually the only business in the trade. I can’t handle competition, Slim… No, let me get this… I have cash and One Eye here gives me a discount…