* This is a short story I wrote for my first book. I tried to translated it to English. Here it is.
The Fortune
at the bottom of the coffee cups
Jumping,
running, pretending and climbing. The adult males were all together, pretending
to be serious after the Sunday meal, digesting and discussing serious subjects comfortably
seated in chairs around the porch, while the adult females served coffee and
desserts. Joanna killed two big chickens for the supper. The chickens were
alive and noisy just before their necks were broken. Right after that,
inanimate objects, almost as if they were pillows. Large, quiet feather pillows
resting in the morning sun. Having witnessed the occurrence of death, felt me with
disgust. I couldn´t eat the roasted
chicken. I feared I would swallow death, or that I would end up the killing,
tearing up the meat fibers with my milk teeth. I had mashed potatoes with those
round and green things… peas! And there
were also roasted pork, huge, its skin turned into a crispy surface, its open
mouth holding an apple, its eyes turned into hard pieces of charcoal. And then,
the desserts. My mother´s delicious pudding, creams, cakes and fruits in syrup:
peaches, plums and sanguine oranges. The garden´s lawn was deep green; the sun was
always there, over our heads. Don´t stay in the sun after eating, my mother
yelled at me, I can see her by the porch, her hands around her mouth. It was
winter, my uncle took a nap at the hammock, my grandfather smoked his old pipe,
I do remember. Women served desserts and coffee. My grandfather looked so old!
He read the future in the coffee powder that rested in the bottom of coffee
cups. “Where is he, my grandpa?” Dead; I can see him inside his casket, old and
wasted, but, no, he is alive, reading people´s fortune in the coffee powder
that rested at the bottom of coffee cups. Once, he told me: you going to live many, many
years. “How many years, grandpa?”
“Many, many years. Many more than I would live”. So I asked if live many years
was a good or a bad thing. He laughed, showing his ugly teeth. It´s so bright today, isn´t it? It´s the
sun, always there, over our heads. Grandma Henrietta was older than grandpa. She
had a mouth with no teeth in it, her tongue danced around as it could sense
something her eyes couldn´t as lizards do. The difference was she had legs she
couldn´t use, and a blanket covering their uselessness. And there was Cousin
Joachim, such an evil creature. He used to kill birds with a slingshot,
targeting the most beautiful ones because he was so ugly and he hated being
condemned to a live standing in his both feet, unable to fly. He knew, he knew
that even though he could climb the tallest trees and pretend to be a bird, he
would end up as all the other humans; we belong to earth, to the soil we have
under our feet. Life is made of some ups and some downs, most downs, mainly
once we reach the old age, and then there is the moment we end up under the
soil we once have under our feet. He would kill the birds in revenge. But, this
Sunday sunny afternoon, there was no trace of death and the old ones were my
grandpa and grandma Henrietta with her legs covered with a sad blanket.
Cousin
Joachim, I hated him, but I also admired his ability to never miss one single
shot. I would beg him not to, beg him to spare the little sparrow, but he
wouldn´t listen, he never listened, and the result was I had a dying bird in
the palm of my hand and wanted to cry and wanted to kill my cousin for having
killed. My hand would tremble, my body would crumble, as it does tremble and
crumbles today. He also killed ants and snails with the help of a magnifier.
The sun light and the sun heat would be magnified by the lens and the ants and
snails would burst in flames, what an awful death.
He
challenged me saying I would never climb the old guava tree. I said I would, so
we made a deal. If I didn´t, he would have my collection of stamps. If I did, I
would have his collection of butterfly wings.
I was
scared, but would never have him have my collection of stamps, a present from
my daddy. I thought about my dad and a
dull pain pierced my chest. My dad, where is he? A salesman making a living
from selling things around the country far, far away from us, from everything.
When he returns, it´s like he had never left. He always brings us presents. For
me, stamps and adventures books, for Lao, a knife or a magnifier, the one that
Joachim later used to kill the ants, for Leah, a nice ribbon for her light
brown hair, for my mother, a nice piece of cloth, a perfume. My mother, where
is she? I do remember a ceremony at the church, a closed casket with someone
inside. I was so scared.
“Cut it
now, stop crying. Don´t you see? It was meant for him to die”. I recall my father´s voice and the image of
his long legs in front of me. Why, I asked. “That´s life. He gave his life so
we could have what to eat, that´s why we raise animals. Tomorrow is Easter”. A
bunny or a lamb? A lamb. So tiny, so fragile… I was responsible for caring and
giving him food. But now, the lamb is dead, my father killed my lamb. “No, dad,
no!” I yelled at him, I hated him. He killed my lamb, and I yelled at him, I
called him murder, and then I run away from him, away from the sight of the
butchered lamb. I climbed the highest tree of my aunt´s garden and I stayed
there, I would have stayed there forever, but I came down because she begged me
to, or because I was tired and needed to go home. When I got home, my mother
wanted me to tell me father I was sorry, but I wasn´t, so I wouldn´t. She hit
me hard, five times. But I didn´t say I was sorry because I wasn´t. I remember my father´s eyes at me. He was
sad, I was furious. The next day, it was Easter. I was grounded and didn´t have
lunch. And then, my father travelled. I didn’t say goodbye, I couldn´t forgive
him. After he left, I almost felt happy with his absence, but time passed and
passed, and he wouldn´t come back. I
started to wish he would come back.
“It´s about
time to get inside, dad”.
Dad? The
sun light is so bright I can´t hardly see.
Daddy ´s back! But my legs hurt, I can´t move them. Joachim and I, we
were there, high up there at the highest branches of the guava tree . And I
fell. My legs hurt so badly, I couldn´t move. My dad came to rescue me, took me
in his arms and then to the doctor who lived nearby. Don´t you worry, son,
everything´s going to be all right, he said to me, looking into my eyes with
his good old eyes. His hair has grown gray, so gray. Dad, I am sorry, I didn´t
know, I was mad at you, I am sorry, can you forgive me, daddy? My legs hurt, I cannot move. The lamb, the
roasted pork, the snails and the ants. You going to live many, many years, the
coffee powder at the bottom of the coffee cups.
No, I don´t want to! I want my dad, my dad is
with me right now, taking care of my broken legs. I feel the pain, I feel I
cannot control my legs, my life. Where is my life? Where are my brother and
sister, my cousin, and grandfather, my mother and my father?
Father?
“Ok, daddy, that´s enough. Relax now. Let´s go
inside. You´ve got to rest a little”.
My grandfather
used to read people´s fortune by looking at the coffee powder at the bottom of
coffee cups. Once he told me: you´re going to live many, many years.
“How many,
grandpa?”
“Many more than I would live”.
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