STORIES TO THE SOUTH OF THE WORLD 2

TAPA nea inglés.pdf

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Head of State Dr. Cristina Fernández de Kirchner Minister for Education

Foreign Office, Trade and Cult

Prof. Alberto Sileoni

Foreign Secretary Héctor Marcos Timerman

Consultants´ Chief of Staff Mr. Jaime Perczyk

Chief of Staff Ambassador Antonio Gustavo Trombetta

Secretary of State for Education Prof. María Inés Abrile de Vollmer

Frankfurt 2010 Organizing Commitee President

Secretary for the Federal Council

Ambassador Magdalena Faillace

for Education Prof. Domingo De Cara Director for the National Reading Program Margarita Eggers Lan

Selection, editing and design

Graphic Design

National Reading Program

Juan Salvador de Tullio Mariana Monteserin

Selection

Elizabeth Sánchez

Graciela Bialet, Ángela Pradelli,

Natalia Volpe

Silvia Contín and Margarita Eggers Lan

Ramiro Reyes Paula Salvatierra

The texts included in this book have been selected by the corresponding Region coordinator Natalia Porta Contact: planlectura@me.gov.ar plecturamarga@gmail.com

Spanish to English translation by Jessica Waizbrot: She attended Film School, studied Theater Writing with renowned author Mauricio Kartún, and took Irene Ickowicz´s screenwriting program. Acted as Head of Translation and Subtitling Department for both BAFICI (Buenos Aires Festival Internacional de Cine Independiente), and Mar Del Plata International Film Festival, for seven consecutive years.

She currently works as a translator and screenwriter for television, advertising and film.

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FOREWORD Stories to the South of the World is an anthology that intends to “read” our Argentina from head to toe. In a country of widely diverse cultural identities -as diverse as each region and province containing them- this small selection aims to offer a sample of the valuable productions comprising Argentina’s Cardinal Narrative.

The National Reading Program reaches out beyond its natural limits in order to show the world the richness of our words, and to make those having the chance to go through these pages, feel passionate for a good reading, which keeps growing day after day, in every corner of the nation.

We hope for these stories, selected for each one of the Program’s coordinators, to meet new eyes and to continue astonishing the world.

National Reading Program Ministry of Education of Argentina

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CONTENTS

CHACO NEA

CORRIENTES NEA

FORMOSA NEA

The rice

To say friend

From the well

Gustavo Roldán

Norberto Lischinsky

Orlando Van Bredam

Pág. 7

Pág. 15

NEA

NEA

Pág. 25 NEA

Van Gogh’s moccasins

Grandpa

Mempo Giardinelli

Pág. 9

Martín Alvarenga

Pág. 28

Kilometer 11

Pág. 19

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Boiled Water Darwy Berti

Pág. 22

Hugo del Rosso

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ENTRE RÍOS NEA

SANTA FE NEA

MISIONES NEA

Aarón and the goat

The Cat

The wedding

Patricia Suárez

Olga Zamboni

Perla Suez

Pág. 47

Pág. 35 NEA

The gaucho train Juan José Manauta

Pág. 38 NEA

The service María Inés Krimer

Pág. 40

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Pág. 56 NEA

Stones like Stars

The Cow

Angélica Gorodischer

Rosita Escalada Salvo

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Pág. 61

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CHACO

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The rise Gustavo Roldán

T

he over-rising river thundered and roared like ten thousand lions. At the bank, the ant bear and the armadillo looked at the logs and trees that were being dragged and span around and around.

The frog arrived and looked at the water indifferently.

–Mr. Frog, the river drags whole trees along –said the armadillo–.

Have you noticed what a big rise this is?

–Big? Please. Big were the river-rises back in the days.

–Is that so, Mr. Frog? Did they drag trees along?

–No, my son, not trees. They didn´t pay attention to small things.

They would take the whole scrubland away.

–And where would they take it?

–There was always some space with no trees, so they would leave the scrubland there. And they’d leave the trees with birds and everything.

–And did you actually see those rises? –asked the ant bear.

–If I saw them? Let me tell you, one night I was caught by one, and you can´t imagine how far away it dragged me. It made me travel half way around the world.

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–Half way around the world, Mr. Frog? And how did you manage to come back?

–Come back? That was impossible. Didn´t I just tell you I was on the other side of the world?

–But you are here now.

–Yes. But I didn´t come back. You know the world is round, right?

Alright, So I stayed there, and waited and waited.

–What were you waiting for, Mr. Frog? –asked the armadillo.

–For another rise, son. I waited for a whole year. I was already getting used to living there when I saw one coming.

–What did you do, Mr. Frog?

–I plunged into the middle of the rising water, and I kept going, traveling around the other half of the world. When the rise was coming past here, I got off it.

–What about the scrubland, Mr. Frog?

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–I brought it along. Can´t you see it’s here? I left some trees as a souvenir and brought along some palm trees from Africa. Where do you think those palm trees came from?

The river was still roaring like ten thousand lions. The frog jumped away, biting the stick of an Mburucuyá flower.

As he was going, he looked over his shoulder towards the river and said: –Ha, this frog sure knows about rising waters.

GUSTAVO ROLDÁN Was born in Sáenz Peña, Chaco, in 1935. He went to school in Córdoba and he currently lives in Buenos Aires city. He´s been involved in journalism, teaching and publishing, and became an outstanding youth and children literature writer.

He was honored with important awards and acknowledgements, and his rich work became prestigious among the young public. Some of his many books are: Cada cual se divierte como puede, Como si el ruido pudiera molestar, Un largo roce de alas, Dragón and El carnaval de los sapos (Colección Pan Flauta, Ed. Sudamericana, 2004) from where this short story is originally from.

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Kilometer 11 Mempo Giardinelli For Miguel Angel Molfino

I

bet it’s Segovia –says Aquiles, blinking, nervous, as he elbows Negro López–. The one with black shades, I swear on my mother’s life, he´s corporal Segovia.

Negro cautiously watches the guy playing the big accordion, frowning, and it feels like a bunch of old movies were projecting into his eyes, impossible to forget.

The scene, during a party in some house in España Neighborhood.

A group of friends have gathered to celebrate Aquiles´ birthday. They are all ex prisoners that were at the U–7 during dictatorship. A few years have gone by, and they keep the tradition of getting together with their families to celebrate their birthdays. This one time they decided to do it big time, with a special asado1, a roasted piglet as a starter, and all the wine and beer available in the area. Moncho did well at the bingo hall last week so the celebration includes an orchestra.

Under the bower, the quartet spills chamames2 and polkas, tangos and pasodobles 3. Right when Aquiles stares at the accordionist in sunglasses, they are playing "Kilometer 11".

–Yes, that´s him –says Negro López, and gestures to Jacinto.

Jacinto nods as if saying I recognized him too.

Silently, only through looking at each other, one by one they recognize Corporal Segovia.

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Dark and with big lips and slanting eyes, he used to play "Kilometer 11", always, as they were being tortured. The soldiers would make him play and sing so the prisoners´ screaming could not be heard.

Some make remarks about the discovery with their female companions, and they all start to surround the accordion player. When the song is over, nobody is no dancing anymore. And right before the quartet starts another song, Luis asks the man in sunglasses to repeat "Kilometer 11".

The party is over and the afternoon trembles, as if sunset slowing down or couldn’t decide to become dark. The air feels rhythmically tight, as if the hearts of all the people in the room were marching in unison, and all it could be heard was one huge heart.

When the repetition of the chamame is over, nobody applauds. All the guests, some holding a glass, others with their hands in pockets, or holding their ladies, stand around the quartet, and the bower now looks like a sort of Roman circus in which the roles of beast and victims have been traded.

At the last chord, Moncho says: NEA

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–Again –and he is not addressing to the four musicians but only to the accordionist–. Play it again.

–But we’ve already played it twice –he answers with a suddenly nervous fake smile on his face, like he who´s just realized he´s come into the wrong place.

–Right, but you are playing it again.

And it seems the guy is about to respond, but Moncho´s firm and menacing tone of voice has evidently made him recognize who this people around him are.

–One time for each of us, Segovia –Skinny Martínez intervenes.

The accordion, with a faltering and faded respiration, that seems to be a metaphor of its performer, starts to timidly play the same chamamé. After a few beats, the guitar joins in and shortly after does the double bass and the Bayan accordion.

But Aquiles raises his hand and calls for silence.

–Let him play solo –he says.

And after a beat that seems as long as a love pain, the accordion plays a da capo and the notes starts to produce a sharp and steel, yet legitimate "Kilometer 11".

They all look at the guy, even his fellow musicians. And the guy

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sweats: two fat drops roll around his temples flirting over his cheekbones like slow and tiny rivers in search of a course. The fingers key, mechanical, flatly, one would say they are clueless. And the accordion opens and closes above the guy’s left knee, gasping as if the windbag was a damaged lung from which hangs an Argentinean ribbon.

When he finishes, the man pulls his hands apar t from the keyboards. He bends his fingers, like kneading the air, and cannot decide to do anything. He does not know what to do. Or what to say.

–Take off your sunglasses –Miguel commands–. Take them off and keep on playing.

The guy, using his right hand, slowly takes the sunglasses off and drops them on the floor, next to his chair. His eyes are set on the upper part of the windbag. He does not look at the crowd, he can´t. He looks down or avoids the lights, like when the sunlight is too strong.

–"Kilometer 11", again –Cholo´s wife commands.

The guy keeps on looking down.

–Come on, play. Play, son of a bitch–Luis and Miguel say, and some women too.

Aquiles gestures to them like saying no, no cursing, there is no need.

And the guy plays: "Kilometer 11".

A minute later, when by the time of the chorus arpeggios, the crying of Tito´s wife is heard, who´s holding Tito, and they are both holding the kid they had when he was inside. The three of them, cry. Tito sobs.

Aquiles walks to him and hugs him.

Then it’s Moncho´s turn.

"Kilometer 11" brings, each of them, different memories. Because emotions always burst out of time.

And as the guy reaches the eight or ninth “Kilometer 11", Miguel is the one crying. And Red Aguirre explains to his wife, in a low voice, that Miguel was the one that started out with that thing about buying one wrapped candy ball a day from Leiva Longhi. Each one of them would go and purchase one candy ball, looking him right into the eyes. And that was all. And they would pay him, of course. The guy did not want to charge them. He’d say: no, take it, but they would pay for the candy.

Always one single candy ball. Nothing else, no smokes. One candy ball.

Just any flavor, but just one and looking Leiva Longhi into the eyes. It was a parade of ex prisoners that every afternoon would stand in front

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of the store, for three years and such, from 83´ to 87´, not skipping one single day, none of them, and only to say: "One candy ball, give me one candy ball ", and every afternoon it was like that until Leiva Longhi died from cancer.

All of a sudden, the guy seems to start getting cramps. Over those last times, he blew on several notes. He is playing with his eyes shut, but he fluffs because he is tired.

Nobody has moved away from his side. The circle around him is almost perfect, of a well-considered tacit equidistance. He could not escape. And the other musicians are petrified. Each of them went rigid, like children when they play statue. The afternoon air feels full of resentment and has sculpted them in granite.

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–We don´t take revenge– says Deaf Pérez, as Segovia plays "Kilometer 11" for the tenth time. And he starts to tell a story out loud, over the music, about the day he went to Camilo Evans’s office, the urologist, three months after he was out of jail, in the summer of ´84.

Camilo was one of the doctors in jail during the dictatorship. And this one time, The Deaf was tortured so hardly that he started to pee blood, Camilo told him, laughing, that it was nothing, and said “that´s from jerking off so much”. So when he was out, the first thing Deaf did was going to see him to his office, but under a different name. At first, Camilo didn´t recognize him. And when Deaf told him who he was, Camilo went pale and pulled back in his chair and started to tell him he was only following orders, that he’d please forgive him and wouldn’t hurt him. The Deaf said no, I´m not here to hurt you, don´t be scared, I just want you to look at me in the eye as I tell you how a piece of shit and coward you are.

–The same happens with this motherfucker that won´t look at us –says Aquiles–. What number is this?

–Including this one time it’s fourteen –Negro answered– Right?

–Yes, I am counting –says Pitín–. And it’s fourteen of us.

–So cut it out, Segovia –says Aquiles.

And the accordion fades. The agonizing breathing of the windbag keeps floating in the air for a few seconds.

The guy drops his hands on the sides. They look longer now; they almost reach the floor.

–Now look up, to us and leave –Miguel orders him.

But the guy does not look up. He sighs, deeply, almost panting, asthmatic, like the accordion.

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A long silence, heavy, barely interrupted by the whining of Margozas´s baby, who seems to have lost his pacifier but it’s immediately placed black.

The guy shuts the instrument and pushes the buttons for locking the accordion. Then he holds it with both hands, as if he was making an offering, and he slowly gets on his feet. He keeps looking down to the tip of his shoes. But once he is standing, everybody can see that he is not only sweating but sobbing as well. He pouts, just like a little boy, and it’s like if all of a sudden, verticality changed the course of the waters in him: because he fist sobs and then cries, but muted.

Right then, Aquiles, once again elbowing Negro López, says: –Believe it or not, he is human, it seems, this son of a bitch. Look at him crying.

–Go away –says one of the girls.

And the guy, Corporal Segovia, goes away.

1

Traditional Argentinean barbeque technique.

2

Accordion-based Argentinean music genre.

3

Typical Spanish march-like musical style.

© Mempo Giardinelli, in Cuentos completos, Seix Barral

MEMPO GIARDINELLI Was born and lives in Chaco. Storyteller, essayist and journalist, his work has been translated to several languages and he was honored with very important awards, including the Rómulo Gallegos Award 1993. He lived in exile in Mexico between 1976 and 1984, and was the founder and director of the Puro Cuento magazine. In 1999 he donated his personal library to the foundation named after him, which develops fundamental cultural, educational and social work, and since 1996 he has been sponsoring the International Forum for Book and Reading promotion.

Some of his books are: La revolución en bicicleta, Luna caliente, Santo Oficio de la memoria, Imposible equilibris, Visitas después de hora and Estación Coghlan y otros cuentos. www.mempogiardinelli.com

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TES CORRIEN

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To say friend Norberto Lischinsky

C

acho Bruno was stubborn and rude, but always a good friend. It was maybe his stubbornness and some thinking laziness that encouraged him to organize his life around that superabundance. “I´m my friends´ best friend”, he started to say when his beard first appeared. He would pull out a pack of cigarettes and offer.

School allowed him to practice his ways as he showed off, but it was at the café’s poisoned air where he would become a night lecturer, after attending promptly to his mother’s schnitzels. Tirso, struggling with the troubles of effeminacy, was the center of his issues. “Let´s go talk to that broad, you moron”, he would say to calm him down, “she won´t flunk you, don´t worry”. Two squirrel eyes brightened up the bony face of Tirso, poverty-stricken, long and with restless knees. They were neighbors, game partners since they first went out to the streets.

The thing with Manzano came up just because, because nights were starting to feel way too similar and loose. It was annoying, maybe, to make an inventory of the flyers of Libertad Street, and the different options for their middle line. But, even worse than annoyance, the deserted streets and their vulnerability would invite to take revenge for those daytime orders received with no appeal and grinding their teeth. Mornings were offered as well as denied, to form a line, shut up or I´ll give you a sanction.

Old Manzano had a grocery store in the corner, with a grey counter and strings of salami dripping viscosities onto the brick floor. His

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daughters were ugly looking, of obstinate moustaches and sunken eyes into red sockets. They were used as victims since the guys had to shorten the nights and the guys were tame as well. Living in the corner got them lost: if Manzano would have opened the store in the middle of the block, it would have been a completely different story.

Tirso and Cacho would arrive deep into the night. The campaign consisted of a ritual, which repetition and fear polished with time.

Stealth was deliberate, carried out with whispers and basketball shoes.

They had to make sure nobody was coming from any of the two streets; if they would come across a neighbor, they would go back into the house, not getting into action. It was a frank night for Manzano.

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Cacho Bruno’s habits of General had set the tactic. “Never ever”, so his cigarette hand pontificated up in the air, “must the angle of attack be repeated”. They could access from the opposite street, a large blind wall, and suddenly go across to the window. Or go around the corner with Cacho leading the way, determined, and swinging his arms. Or arrive along the same block of the house, stand there by the window and (that´s when action imitated itself), sticking a hand through the grille, knock on the glass with the open hand: “Manzano, your daughters are whores!” A strong shake in the windows with no shutter, the voices unwinding into a falsetto driven by rush and adolescence, the trembling crystals were their only trace as they retreated at a gallop and, towards the opposite direction from their arrival, they stood by Cacho´s house gate, panting and laughing out loud.

It was Manzano because they could access his window almost unannounced, because he had daughters, because they knew his last name. But any other Manzano would have been good enough for them to gauge courage, get a few meters from his house with fluttering cheeks, put off the cigarette, accumulate the necessary air and flee after banging on the windows: “Manzano, your daughters are whores!” Nobody at the café knew of those escapades. It was evident this wasn’t a story to brag about, even though they felt crazy about it so much that they would get anxious as they waited for the moment to head Manzano´s. The group of sports analysts would not understand the liturgy of the night, the joy of running under the street lamps and bang on some old man’s window.

Nevertheless, those appearances together ended up building them a reputation of reserved Romeos. When it was time to leave, Cacho would stand up and recall “Tirso, we have to go see the girls”. They were never willing to go further on the subject, but their very discretion finally convinced the group of their being into some kind of skirt muddle, probably with married women.

Out in the street Cacho would put one arm around his shoulders.

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“Tirso, my friend, you are no fool when it comes to choosing friends. I make up this whole Manzano´s prank for us laugh together and, on top of that, you look like a king in front of the guys”, he pushed him against his chest. “No, boy, Cacho Bruno will never leave you hanging”.

Every night they would go back to Manzano´s gate. The hours could vary but every night for sure. One day, a Saturday (they had gone to the movies and skipped the café), Tirso sensed someone would be hidden, waiting for them behind the wall across old man’s house. Between the trembling of a heavy digestion and the uncertainties of the screen, Tirso figured it was a guard holding a gun past the wall. His teeth chattered and he announced that not that night, that he’d better leave. Street wisely, going from manhood callings to pushing, Cacho held him back one step before Manzano´s house. “What are friends are for, asshole”, he repeated a couple of times as he climbed up the wall. He went from one side to the other of the wall, bending his chest over the garbage dump swarming with mice, striking matches against the wind to clear up his pal ´s suspicions.

Tirso followed him from the sidewalk, terror-shaken and embarrassed by that demonstration of friendship. They came back in silence, not having visited Manzano and Cacho´s hand on Tirso´s shoulder.

Winter didn´t change their habit. Sprawled out at the café, they slid passionately along the surface of life. Definitive statements, hopelessly and saying goodbye at midnight, heading for the girls. Later, window boarding, the banging on the glass, the screaming drilling in the night: “Manzano, your daughters are whores!” All the same: the school, the parents, the friendship with Cacho, the café, the escapades in the corner across the wall.

This one time, the paving stone looked gleaming after the afternoon rain, with sparkles of mica under the wet patina. But some cold gusts of wind cleaned the sky and the night opened up transparent. Cacho felt his head was bloating from the flu. He spread a handkerchief and filled it with watery mucus, not relieving the pressure on his temples. This made him anxious, the burning imposed on his nose by the insistent handkerchief and a tense argument between the waiter and two Uruguayans about two sandwiches mistakenly added to the bill. So they preferred the freshness of the sidewalk; the distraction of the conversation took them to Manzano´s block.

For that night, Cacho chose a trivial strategy: to walk along the cobbled street to which Manzano did not have any access. To go around the corner, aware of some midnight walker’s arrival and, if the path was clear, falling down onto the window. Maybe in attention to his congested friend, Cacho chose a more direct runaway option: loping slightly for less than one block and then walk, away, already out of the old man’s sight.

Lied down on the wall, they waited until Tirso finished his smoke. He

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puffed as hid the cigarette in the gap of his hand as Cacho stared patiently, between a father and a big brother. He sniffed the mucus that rebelliously rolled down and gave him a pat on the back of his neck: “Motherfucker, you are clueless when it comes to choosing friends”, and attempted another punch.

They strode around the corner, taking long steps. Only the lamps shaking to the wind interrupted the rest. With the known gesture picked up by insisting that many nights, they leaned on the grille and banged on the window glass twice. Tap, tap. “Manzano, your daughters are whores!” The scream hadn’t faded yet in the darkness when habit turned their bodies, put them elbow to elbow and up the street, Tirso next to the wall. The mechanical repetition of the rite, the piston into the cylinder, sliding endlessly.

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The amazed glow on Manzano´s eyes must have been the outbreak.

The glow, or the feeling of powerlessness that flowed husky in his yell, “I got you, now, you shitheads!”, the twisted expression and the pajamas of his wait, Manzano cut out under the lights´ oscillation, the husky booming voice of Manzano destroying the liturgy of their nights on the sidewalk, the crazed eyes of Manzano that refused to see a boys´ prank, Manzano standing in their way to the corner and the gate and the rest spring of the pillow, Manzano risen like a reef when their course threw them into a vast chip of time and terror, to Manzano and his pajamas and his scream and the mouth of the gun he was holding.

Cacho Bruno, almost calm, as if he’d had lived that exact same situation before, rebuilt the déjà vu neatly, between a father and a big brother. He step aside and pushed Tirso towards the old man.

Manzano, finger on trigger, had way earlier decided to get even for the all the worry of his nights.

NORBERTO LISCHINSKY Was born in Buenos Aires in 1953 and lived most of his childhood and youth in Concordia, Entre Ríos. He settled in Corrientes with his family in the early 80´s. He translated various works (novels and short stories) from Hebrew into Spanish. In 1990 he was honored with SADE´s Honor Belt. At present, he holds office as a Sub-Secretary of Culture of the province of Corrientes. Some of his works are: Blues del hombre solo (poems, 1979), Antimocitos (short stories, 1986) and La señorita Clara (Marymar Ediciones, Buenos Aires, 1990) from where this story is originally from.

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Van Gogh’s moccasins Martín Alvarenga

I

had come back at late night, with too many drinks on me.

The dizziness, the unsteady step and the strong headache, as a result of a night of overdrinking that had wreaked havoc on me, cleared by a cup of coffee that my friends offered me before heading back.

Very early the next day I opened the bedroom door, that through the corridor lead to the living room, and I was surprised to find myself in the middle of a mess of furniture and papers and random books, many of them scattered on the floor.

The burglars that had broke into the house, had taken it all, even the wall clock, the chandelier and the light bulb from the lamp on the small desk in the living room. A good thing my clothes inside the bedroom closet were safe, unlike my two pairs of shoes and my only pair of sneakers that I used to leave between the kitchen and the living room that were gone.

I looked at myself in distress, my feet covered in some grey socks with geometric figures, I leant forward and I rubbed my socks by the toes, to me, it had to happen to me of all people; and in order to revive me, it’s time to go to work, barefoot or in slippers, I have no other choice.

Nobody could get me out of trouble.

The neighbors were mostly gone already, and there was no time to look for someone that would take me a pair of shoes of my size.

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I went around the coffee table like a thousand times, as if I thought time would stop to wait for me during those circles, but I was the one stopping and time was speeding up with furious irony.

When I looked at the wall to the left, on the same side where the wall clock was hanging on not until long ago, I discovered the little reproduction of one of van Gogh’s paintings that had been there for quite some time. It was about his famous blue shoes. I took them from the painting and I felt them and, immediately, I bent them from the cap to the heel, upside down and vice versa, several times. They are noble and must be comfortable and flexible. I think they are because I am wearing them already and I find them unbelievably comfortable, I love you so, little shoe, love at first sight as you can see.

Shirt, tie, pants and jacket, side-part hair using the fine-toothed comb, the whole morning ritual with the socks, putting them on lastly, and again the shoes ad see you later.

The street was packed, I´ve been attracted to crowds since I was little and I didn´t feel apprehensive about what had happened, who wasn’t robbed nowadays!

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Already on the elevator I felt my feet were settling on aerodynamic platforms.

That thing about surfing the city in moccasins, this thing about putting off the cigarette with the tip of my shoes; having in a flash, the premonition of the shoes eventually behaving beyond my will. And I kept worrying, whether the shoe was taking me and not the other way.

Easy, easy, maybe I´m overreacting by paying these shoes more attention than what they really deserve.

I had lots of fun with them. Nobody would notice I was wearing them except for me, that I felt the steps freer than ever.

Actually, wearing a pair of shoes like van Gogh’s is having a nice feeling of freedom and power. It´s like riding a motorcycle along the ungraceful avenue of dreams. It´s also like climbing up a mountain, like going down to the moon. This thing of wearing the shoes is many things, it is even to carry a flower on the mouth and receive its smell.

They noticed all that in me but they didn´t notice that I was wearing blue moccasins, but also I would learn some time later that I had a subtle and intense expression of sadness in my face, although I covered this feeling with my moccasins city tour.

It was my little brother’s birthday.

A dinner party in his home, for the whole family.

His invitation over the phone at the office. Saturday at ten, yes, don´t

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forget. It´s a good date for everybody, you know. Hey, don´t forget to report it. They are not coming back. You mean they are not coming back? How can you be so sure? Routine comments followed one another regarding his wife´s headaches and his two teenage children, him reminding me that youth is not how it used to be, and this confirmed bachelor of a brother listened to him even though he could get quite annoying, take care, hey, you got off easy considering this day and age.

We were almost getting to the final moments of the party where toasts were repeated stressing out the best wishes that were building up from good memories and shared feelings that were spontaneously updated among laughing and jokes.

I can´t tell exactly when, but a rage or an uncontrollable horror burst out from my right hand like a lightning struck or the declination of a shining after a long watch.

I was holding the knife I was cutting a slice of cake with, and headed the right hand towards the left one with the cutting edge pointing out.

In some split second my brother must have guessed my intention because he grabbed me by the wrist with his thumb and index fingers as pliers stopping the cut but not the blood coming out.

I looked at my bandaged hand and then I stared at the reproduction on the wall where my shoes were back into, abandoned to their surface, natural and imaginary.

When I realized the world was calling on me, I rushed to go out.

Outside, the cold weather was worse than ever. And I was out there, going across the pedestrian line of the intersection, in a suit and barefoot, sporting my beautiful patterned socks.

MARTÍN ALVARENGA Was born in 1946 in Corrientes, where he still lives and works in advertising and journalism. He is the author of several short story books and some novels, among which are La bolsa de los magos (1984) and País alucinógeno (1987).

This story is originally from his book Los Fantacuentos. (Ediciones del Valle, Corrientes, 1998).

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Boiled Water Darwy Berti

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he was poor like a spider. All she had left was that son of an also miserable love. Abandoned. Her face continued, in the mirror, with the cracks of the blows of life. There, at the river bank, at her ranch, she used to play with her son for long hours until the first stars would arrive. But the boy wasn’t playing today. He was sick. "It must have been the fried fish ", the mother said to herself. From far away and over the water some confused voices were approaching, maybe fishermen throwing nets from their canoes, maybe ghosts. She went out to the night to gather herbs for indigestion.

"With a little bit of paico1 and a little bit of lucera2 he will be alright ", she announced as her hands looked for those healing leaves among the shadows.

S

The strong smell of boiled herb filled the ranch. She gave the boy small sips to drink and set all her hopes on that smelly honey-colored liquid. But that was useless, the night hardened along with the boy’s whining, the dog’s howling and the distant screams from the middle of the river.

As soon as the sun was up, she went to the “Assistance Center” at the other side of the avenue, around ten blocks from her ranch. She was the first one to arrive. Minutes later the nurse appeared, opening the door. She told her to sit down. She asked her about the boy. “I´m sure it’s just an indigestion”, nodded with an almost professional attitude. More people had shown up. The pain grew bigger in the room. Whining, pity looks, fever glassy eyes. "The awakening of the poor ", thought the doctor as he

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entered the room to see that small sickness setting. He had graduated barely months ago. His youth allowed him to be sentimental. His older colleagues wouldn’t forgive this innocence of his. He saw the son of the river woman. "Give him a few boiled-water enemas ", told her as he thought this woman wouldn’t have enough to even buy Uvasal3, "it’s only a major upset stomach” ", he added, to calm her down. “The poor are sentimental as well”, he admitted to himself as he looked into the face of that woman very closely.

The wall clock was about to hit one o’clock. The doctor was smoking a cigarette and waiting for the little arrow to reach the small black line, in order to leave. The nurse was arranging the syringes, the cases, all the pieces of that game against dead, when suddenly, with a twisted expression, holding the boy in her arms, entered the woman from the river.

The boy seemed like scorched inside, with his little arms and legs crooked and his face shaken from an outrageous pain, like crystallized: "Doctor, doctor, my son is dying!” screamed the woman, desperate. The doctor held the boy in his arms and instantly realized about the whole tragedy, even more cruel for the irony of it. "What have you done to the kid ", he started to ask with a fading rage, as he understood the gravity of his profession, the misunderstanding of life, and the fact that before dead there are no small causes. She answered in tears that she had only done what the doctor had told her to.

–"I gave him boiled-water enemas ", she said.

–"No –the doctor corrected her with a sadness worth listening, instead of reading –no, you didn´t give him boiled-water enemas, but you gave him boiling-water enemas ". Outside the sun was at its zenith and it seemed like the whole life, the whole world had stopped.

1

A type of herb.

2

A type of herb

3

A brand of effervescent salts.

DARWY BERTI He is a journalist and cultural promoter born from Arzatí, Corrientes. He has published several poem books and has participated in some collective editions. He writes for the online magazine Momarandú on a weekly basis. This story was originally published in Osvaldo Pérez Chávez´ collection of works Northeastern Contemporary Storytellers, in 1970.

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A FORMOS

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From the well Orlando Van Bredam

I

always liked grandma’s house better. Especially the patio. It´s boring here at mom’s apartment. At first it wasn’t; I liked spending time out in the balcony watching the cars and the boys racing on their bicycles and I liked to throw pebbles and cellophane parachutes but I´m through with all that. On the other hand, since I first discovered those little Karaja1 Indians at my grandma’s patio, I can´t stop thinking about Saturday and Sunday the days when my mom takes me there or drops me like grandpa says as he complaints and puffs his pipe, but I know he does love me and he loves me more than uncle Horacio, who pretends to care about me and always brings me alfajores2, it seems the only thing he does is bringing alfajores from who-knows-where. But I don´t mind, I do mind about the Karaja Indians though, which I discovered one nap -while my grandparents were sleeping- at the back of the patio, past the garden, almost next to Mr. Bermúdez´ railings.

My grandma always said to me I shouldn’t go there because there used to be a well and the land was softer in that area and I could fall and all those things mommies and grandmas say because they think you are silly and always getting in trouble just because. That nap when they were sleeping and grandpa was snoring like a locomotive, I seized the moment and, gently, gently, walked almost near the railings and suddenly saw in the dry soil, parched, a hole like this. Yes, this big. So I kneeled down and looked in. At first everything was dark but it started to clear just like when grandpa opens the door to the shed, you can´t see a thing first but then all the light comes in and it gets just like outside. There was nothing there, first

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there was nothing. So I sat down and started to play around with some cans of food as if they were soldiers and I lined them up next to the well. It was a command. Their mission was to come down and investigate if there were any Nazis. I pushed them down one by one and I glued my ear down to check how it all was heard down there. Right there I jumped because I heard like a moan or a scream. I instantly saw some hands holding on to the edge, trying to come out. I didn´t panic. I was amused at how small those hands were. Like my cousin Lorena’s doll. But it was a little man and he could easily come out of the well and after him others and others and others. They kept coming out. When I saw them all together looking at me I realized it was an Indian raid like the ones in the movies. But, these didn´t have their faces covered with paint or many feathers like Cheyenne Indians did. A red headband and axes and bows and arrows. The first one to come out walked to my knees that were still on the ground and as he raised a spear he said “Kaboi” from which I figured that was his name and he was the boss. It was evident he was the boss because he was the only one talking and the others stared in silence and with their eyes like they´ve never seen someone so big before. It was hilarious. When I got on my feet they couldn’t get even reach my belly button so they stepped back in fear and pointed at me with their spears and if I had wanted I could have made a mess with only one kick. But they looked nice and friendly and that´s why I didn´t do anything and I even sat down to be closer to them. Kaboi raised one hand, just like in the movies, as a token of peace and friendship. Then he picked up a piece of rotten wood and showed it to the others.

Everybody stared as if that was extraordinary and they gestured and talked and I didn´t understand a thing. They even forgot I was there, sitting and watching them. After a little while, Kaboi tossed the rotten piece of wood, raised one hand just like before and with a sign he told them to get back into the well. It was a lot of fun to see how they flew down one after the other and they fell and fell and even if I tried I couldn’t see how far they were getting the well became darker and darker and I couldn’t see nothing anymore, nothing, nothing. The last one to go down was Kaboi but he looked at me in the face before and gave me a knowing wink. When I was left alone I thought I shouldn’t tell anyone about what I had seen. Besides, I didn´t have anyone to tell this. I didn´t have any friends, cousins, or anything at grandma’s. Grandma and grandpa would be very mad if they found out I was somewhere near Mr. Bermúdez´ railings. Mommy didn´t care, because the only thing she cared about was to wait for Saturday morning to come when uncle Horacio usually showed up with his filthy alfajores and then they would throw me on grandma’s bed. Uncle Horacio cared even less.

The only thing he cared about was kissing mom like that time I caught them in the living room and played dumb.

The following Saturday, at nap time, the little Karaja Indians didn´t show up. It was useless. I spent a long time, sitting by the well. I even

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put up another command like the first time and I even dropped some cans to see what happened. Nothing. I was very upset and that night I even felt like crying, but I didn´t want to because if I did grandma would have gone this boy is sick and all that nonsense grown ups say when you are sad. And they don´t know why you are sad and they don´t mind. But I was confident I was going to see them again so I waited for the next Saturday but they didn´t show up either.

And when I almost didn´t care anymore if they came out or not because what I actually liked better and better was grandma’s patio, I saw, like the first time, Kaboi´s hands coming out and then Kaboi. But on his own. He came alone and when he saw me he raised his hand as a token of peace and I did the same. He winked and I winked back.

So I plucked up courage and asked him just if he happened to understand my language even though I knew he spoke differently, I asked him about the other little Indians from his tribe. So he picked up the same piece of wood from the other time and said something to me that I perfectly understood and I will never, ever gonna forget and makes me sad because Kaboi is a friend, the best friend I have and I believe in everything he says and we may not see each other again. As he was holding the piece of wood he said: “We’re not coming back. I only came to say goodbye. Your world is quite horrible. Here, all the things go rotten, like this piece of wood. Ours is better”.

1

A tribe of South-American Indians.

A type of sweet: two round sweet biscuits joined together with dulce de leche or jam mostly coated in black or white chocolate.

2

ORLANDO VAN BREDAM Was born in Villa San Marcial (Entre Ríos, Argentina) in l952, but at present he lives in the province of Formosa. He is the Head Literature Professor for Literary Theory and Hispanic Literature at the Universidad Nacional de Formosa. He has covered short story, poetry, short novel, essay and theater play. Published works: La estética de Armando Discépolo (essay, l974), La hoguera Inefable (poem book, l981), Los cielos diferentes (poetry, Fray Mocho Prize l982), Asombros y condenas (poetry, Fernández de Peirotén Prize l986), Fabulaciones (short stories, l989), Simulacros (short stories, 1991), La vida te cambia los planes (mini-fictions, l994), Las armas que carga el diablo (mini-fictions, l996, book selected for publishing by Fundación Antorchas), De mi legajo (poetry, First National Prize José pedroni).

Winner of the EMECE award for the novel Teoría del Desamparo, he has published also the novels Ricón Bomba and Colgado de los tobillos (short novel about the myth of Antonio Gil). He has released several theater plays.

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Grandpa Hugo del Rosso

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randpa, grandpa, keep quiet, Grandpa. Get up, I finished the kite, let´s go fly it. No nap no it’s too hot day. . , Grandpa, come on, it’s cloudy and there´s a nice Northern breeze.

That kite will fly up nicely. –I added a string of bull roars to it that will make a hell of a noise. Will it work with thread number 16, Grandpa, or we should use plain string? Thread 16? Alright, done, if you say so, let´s go with thread 16.

G

Measure the mask, Grandpa, to make sure it came out even. And the tail. Grandpa, is it long enough? Get more rag if you want, Grandpa. Or should we tie a little branch? And the over-tail is fine. Good. Everything alright then.

To the lot, Grandpa, to the field, but keep quiet or we’ll get in trouble.

But you won´t be able to go like that, in your slippers, come on, put on your alpargatas1.

The breeze is nice, but I think it’s quite strong for thread 16, Watch it, Grandpa, you watch your step, don´t you see the thread gets stangled among the weeds, that´s the snag about the thread 16, it gets stangled just like that.

Okay, I hold it and you fly it. I take it far enough so you won´t need to run, please let´s not go through the same from the other day when you fell down on your bottom. But you know how this is, Grandpa: slack off slowly and pick up fast, until the wind catches it up there and it flies on its own.

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Ready, steady.... Go! Pick it up, Grandpa! Slack off, Grandpa! Hey, that´s good, nice. Very good, Grandpa, you did great, a bunch. Well done, Grandpa.

Would you give it to me so I hold it for a while? I say gosh, too tight. Will this thread 16 make it?

We can stick a telegram in, Grandpa, that´s it, come on. Oh, look at it flying, Grandpa, neat. Let´s see who´s the telegram for.

I know, for Nonna2. What’s up, Grandpa, for Nonna I said. My gosh, the wind got strong now, loosen up, Grandpa. Grandpa! Can´t you hear me. Loosen up! What’s wrong with you Grandpa that you won´t listen, what the hell are you thinking about. Slack off, slack off or it’ll come off...

My freaking gosh! It did. I told you to slack off. You bungler Grandpa, always screwing up.

Don´t go, wait here, I´ll go run for it. What a devil wind, look how far it’s taking it, and I told Grandpa to use string instead of 16. Shucks, it’s going straight towards the electricity cables. And there it got stuck. Goodbye kite, you lasted so little. You bungler Grandpa; it’s useless now, You know what, Grandpa. Tomorrow, I´ll make a five-slim-stick one and a little smaller. But we’re using string, because thread 16 is no use, no good, it’s evident now. Besides, you fooled me, Grandpa, I told you to slack off and you stood there with your mouth open. This is not about the kite anyways, what can we do now. But right when we put in the message for Nonna. What is it, Grandpa? You feel sick, what did I say, don´t pay attention to me. You screw up. It came off and it came off, what can we do? Promise, Grandpa, you don´t believe me, Grandpa. I swear... to Nonna I swear, Grandpa. *** There, there, hit the knife. Oh my gosh you are slow, Grandpa, another worm escaping. Watch the can. Alright, let´s go now. Where’s your cap, Grandpa? No, you are crazy walking away like that, with your bald head out in the open under this strong sun. No, you’re crazy, wait, let me get your cap.

I couldn’t find the cap, Grandpa, but I got you this straw hat that you used to wear, when you worked at the orchard. Oh, that´s funny, you look like a drunken wheelwright. No, that´s not true, Grandpa, it looks great on you, neat.

Good Heavens, Grandpa, you rummaged through the bag and look how the strings got tangled.

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It bites. Clink; one more to eat. I´m really beating you here, Grandpa, me three catfish and you, not even half.

How is it possible that mine bite all the time and you get nothing. Let´s see, pull back, let´s take a look at the hooks. I told you; empty. How could they bite like this. But you fall asleep, it’s not fair. You are not fishing, you are just drowning worms, pay more attention, Grandpa. Leave it, give it to me for a moment, I´ll stick the worms better.

Five catfish for me and a frog for you. Five to zero, how embarrassing, Grandpa.

Oh, sleepy Grandpa, it’s biting, look at this, it feels like a Patí fish. Wait, don´t let it drag you, let it go. Let, let... Now it’s good, it’s stuck. Bravo for Grandpa, a champion fisherman. Drag it over, easy, don´t rush. Is it pulling hard? Let me see.

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Gee, it is pulling nicely, a Patí to say the least, as I said. Watch it, Grandpa, be careful ´cause the Patí is tricky and soft-mouthed. Like that, easy boy. There you can see the back of it, be careful now, it’s gonna start jumping, let it lead again. Let it, let it lead, don´t pull or you’ll hurt its mouth.

Be careful, Grandpa. Don´t! Not like that, don´t be so hard. Gee, now it got scared, let me help you. No, not so fast, watch that pull, watch it, watch it, nooooo.

I told you, it’s gone now. And it was, at least, a Patí this big.

You bungler Grandpa, you are good for nothing. You are lucky Nonna is not here, she’d have mocked you big time. You remember that one time when you went down the slope and into the streamlet water.

Nonna laughed so hard; nobody laughed like her, she sounded like a hand bell when she laughed. What a contagious laugh she had, remember Grandpa.

What is it, Grandpa, don´t get sad now for losing a stupid Patí, it can happen even to the best fisherman. Don´t pay attention to me for calling you bungler Grandpa, you know that´s not true. Be grateful Nonna wasn’t around. She would have teased you for sure, she would have burst out laughing. Cheer up, Grandpa, be thankful she is not around... *** Be quiet, Grandpa, watch your step. Watch that branch. Look at all that mud over there. Gee, I told you and you still stuck your foot in.

Look, your clean alpargatas are a mess now. Oh, look at that nice wood pigeon, on that branch over there. It´s mine, oh boy, I´ll get you in no time. Be quiet please Grandpa I´ll get closer to secure it. Don´t move I

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say, wait there. My goodness, you had to cough now of all times. Right when it was ready you had to scare it off.

By the way, Grandpa, there´s a lot of cracked blocks, the ones you made. You know why they cracked, because you mixed red mud with black dirt. You know why. Because you always want to know things better.

And not only because of that, they cracked. You forgot them sitting there, as usual, and they got sunlight. And you know damn well that when they are sun-dried, they crack. But you are stubborn, Grandpa and you always want to be right, you can´t even make decent blocks any more. Oh, look over there, another wood pigeon. We can´t miss this one, so please Grandpa, don´t start coughing.

Whaaat are you saying, Grandpa, that you want to hit it. No, you’re nuts, you went mad, fellow. You’ll crack your fingers with that block and the wood pigeon will die of laughter.

Alright, indulge yourself, take the sling. And use a good piece of block to do it, not like those cracked ones you made.

Alright, I´ll stay still and you go over there quietly. Poor Grandpa, he will miss big time.

Right there, Grandpa, come on do it already, don´t get too close, it’s the same anyways.

Alright, Grandpa, it’s now or never, come on do it. Maybe on the nose.

Come on, Grandpa, shake it or it’ll fly away. Go! Nooo, I can´t believe it, you hit it. Bravo, for champion Grandpa. Grandpa everyone, the wood pigeon got screwed.

Grandpa... You fancy yourself now, huh? You hit the wood pigeon..

Don´t play Mr. Big Guy now, what are you thinking about, pay attention to me, Grandpa. Come on, it’s not such a big deal; you’ll make people think you’d never caught a wood pigeon before.

Be grateful Nonna is not around. You remember how she didn´t want you to kill her wood pigeons. If Nonna was around and learnt you killed a wood pigeon, she would have hit you with an alpargata, like she did to me once, with my pants down and on my ass.

What is it Grandpa. No, don´t toss the pigeon, hand it to me I´ll take it home. We can´t be scared now that Nonna is no longer around. *** I dreamt about Nonna. She looked so good, as if she was alive. I dreamt a bunch. When Nonna went to the market with her reed cane and

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tote bag and she fought even for the parsley’s five cents.

I dreamt about Nonna´s dog, following everywhere. Even to church. I remember this one time the priest kicked Nonna´s dog and Nonna almost hits the priest with the cane.

I dreamt of when Nonna gave me thirty cents to buy a rubber ball. But she made me suffer to get them. She made me pray a whole rosary. I was lucky it was the Glorious Mysteries, much less boring than the others.

Besides, I cheated with the Hail Marys. But this time the dream was about Nonna cheating, winking at me.

I dreamt about the mint candy balls covered in fluff that Nonna gave me every now and then, and I think I even savored them.

I dreamt Nonna wasn’t dead, and when I woke up all excited I saw her going across her patio, with her tiny and stooped body, her long black skirt, her white robe and her also black mantilla. I got frightened big time and I covered myself completely because it was night time, it was dark and I didn´t know if Nonna was alive or she was dead, or if that was Nonna´s ghost.

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After that I was dying for a pee, but I didn´t dare to get up so I wet the bed.

I was going to tell Grandpa that I’d dreamt of Nonna, but he woke up sick that morning and they wouldn’t let me bother him.

After that, they sent me off in a trip. *** It must be fall. It´s useless, but I can´t explain how this thing is.

Nevertheless, I feel it here, in my throat. Why is it that when you are little you have no conception of time, of the past time, the current time, and the one ahead for some thing.

It´s good I will soon arrive and so again with Grandpa things are going to be different.

I miss Grandpa so much. Poor Grandpa, he scolded me so much, I won´t scold him anymore. When we went fishing, you bungler Grandpa.

When we flew kites, you bungler Grandpa. When we went sling-hunting, you bungler Grandpa. And you are good for nothing, Grandpa. And you’re good for nothing, Grandpa. Nonsense he was no good, of course he was, I just said that, but it’s not fair. I’d die without Grandpa.

The weather is so funny, I don´t like it, it scares me a bit. Those long

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clouds look like a witch’s clothes.

I don´t like when the sun is orange. Since when the sun is orange, I´ve never seen it like that before.

The threes look so strange, all naked with no leaves, they look like skeletons. Maybe because it’s fall. Right? It´s winter then. What do I know!

The wind is blowing differently; I notice that from the train’s window. It raises little whirls of dirt and dry leaves. They look like midgets the whirls, but evil midgets, laughing at me. Why midgets laugh at me, why they mock me, devil midgets.

It´s good we arrived. Passing the curve, there´s the station. It is a relief seeing that beloved and familiar landscape. Yay, Grandpa, where are you going to the opposite direction, don´t you see I´m coming.

Grandpa, at least wait for the train to stop and I´ll catch you.

Why are you running to the other side Grandpa, why are you escaping in your straw hat, the kite, the strings and the sling. Don´t go on your own.

Grandpa. Together as usual. Don´t pay attention to me if I scold you, it’s a joke, if you go I die Grandpa… I´m losing him, please, catch Grandpa.

No, it can´t be possible. And Grandpa? He´s gone? He´s gone.

Phony Grandpa, you bungler Grandpa. Be grateful Nonna is not around.

1 A type of flat shoe with a canvas or cotton fabric upper and a flexible sole made of rope or rubber material.

2

Italian word for Grandmother.

HUGO DEL ROSSO Was born in Formosa in 1926, a son of Italian Immigrants. Gym teacher, basketball coach, flight pilot and writer, he became the most important writer of his province. Author of Páginas de amor, de angustia y soledad and Cuentos cortos para el niño triste. Grandpa was taken from Sol a pique (Edición de autor, Resistencia, 1979). He died in Formosa in 2002.

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ร OS ENTRE R

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Aarón and the goat Perla Suez For Isaac Bashevis Singer

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inter had been kind that year with the villagers, with all of them but the furrier.

The furrier looked up to the sky, like asking the sky, like waiting for the snow to fall once and for all. But no clouds were seen and snow didn´t come. After hesitating for quite some time, the furrier decided to sell the goat that was old and produced little milk.

He entrusted his son Aarón to take the goat to the close burg, to the butcher’s, who would pay a good amount for her.

–You’ll deliver the goat to the butcher. You’ll sleep over at his house that night and the next day you’ll come back here with the money.

With the money the butcher would pay for the goat, they could buy oil, potatoes, and some presents for the kids since Hanukkah1 was coming.

For Aarón, giving the goat away was as painful as inexplicable but he had to obey his father. His mother and sisters cried at the farewell. The goat gave them a trusting look and seemed calm when she saw Aarón putting on his coat and a hat. It was only when the kid tied a string to her neck and took her to the road that she looked at him puzzled.

The day was luminous. In one hand Aarón was holding a cane and in the other, the goat’s string.

They walked past different lands and huts and also a stream.

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Suddenly a big blue cloud covered the sky. Aarón followed the path to the burg hoping to beat the upcoming storm. But a freezing wind started to blow, and, in a matter of seconds, thick snowflakes covered it all. Aarón could no longer tell where the burg was, where he thought he’d arrive before the snow.

He even hoped that some car could take them. But nobody drove by. The goat didn´t seem concerned. She knew the cold weather and has lived twelve years already as to fear the howling wind. The snow fell heavily and they could no longer continue. Icicles hanged from her white beard. Her horns looked like thick crystal needles. Aarón instantly knew they were going to freeze to death. He made an attempt to keep going but failed. He had snow up to his knees already and he couldn’t move his toes. The goat bleated in the middle of the storm.

Suddenly Aarón spotted the shape of a hill not far away. He heavily dragged the goat and as he came close he noticed it was a barn covered in snow. He dug a path to the straw and so they got in. Inside, they couldn’t feel the cold. The goat smelled the straw. She was hungry from the cold. She ate until she was full.

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Outside, the snow kept falling. Aarón notices the goat’s udders were swollen. He lied down next to her so he could milk her, making sure the milk would go straight into his mouth. It felt warm in the barn and even though the storm was roaring, he wasn’t alone. He curled up next to the goat.

She fed Aarón with her milk and helped him to keep warm. Aarón sweetened the goat’s life, telling her: One day the Cossacks arrived to the village; they were scouting for army boys. The military service for the Jews takes a lot, an incredibly lot of years, you knew that, right?

The goat moved her ears and licked his hands and his face as Aarón told the story.

When the Cossacks arrived at the village every kid that was old enough to go to the army flew away. Old Fridl, a fool, escaped along with them: "Grandpa, what are you doing? Why are you running away?” the boys asked him. "What do you mean why? You don´t think they need any Generals?”

Aarón laughed, hugging the goat and next to her he fell asleep. She fell asleep as well.

When Aarón opened his eyes again the snow had covered the window. Using the cane, he cleared the air entrance and they stayed there for three days and three nights until the wind finally ceased. When the sun shined again Aarón gestured the goat to follow him, and he

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lead her not to the burg where the butcher lived, but back to the village.

His parents, sisters and the neighbors had gone out looking for the boy and the goat but they couldn’t find any traces and they had already given up on finding them alive.

Someone rushed to the furrier’s house with the news that Aarón and the goat were coming along the path.

There was great joy among family and friends. Aarón told in detail how the goat had warmed him and fed him with her milk. His sisters, his father and her mother kissed the goat and gave her a special plate of chopped carrots.

The furrier no longer thought of selling her and now that the villagers needed his services again, Aaron’s mother could make omelets every night.

The goat would bang on the kitchen door with her horns and there would always be a portion of for her.

Every now and then, Aarón looked into her eyes and asked her: "Do you remember our days in the barn?"

And the goat scratched the fleas off and shook her white beard.

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Hanukkah means "inauguration". The Bible tells that when the people from Israel regained the temple of Jerusalem, which had been under the Greek power, they went in to clean the idols away, and found a small jar of oil that was barely enough to light up the menorah (candelabra) only for a day. It was a miracle because the oil was enough for eight days, which were enshrined as holiday.

1

PERLA SUEZ Was born in Córdoba in 1947 and raised in Basavilbaso, Entre Ríos. She currently lives and works in Córdoba. She is a Professor and a graduate in Modern Literature. She was granted by the French Government with a scholarship between 1977 and 1978. During that time, Professor Marc Soriano led her Literature investigation at the University of París VII (Jussieu). In 1998 she was granted with a scholarship by the Canada government. In 1997 she was honored with the Special Mention of the Jose Martí World Award in Youth Literature José Martí for her entire work. Among her books, the following can be listed: Dimitri en la tormenta (a novel for children) and El árbol de los flecos (1995) from where this short story was originally from, which received the Second best Award at the Literary Contest "Tales for children" organized by CAMI (Argentina’s Board of Jewish Women), in 1993. Her latest work is a trilogy of short novels: Letargo, El arresto and Complot.

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The gaucho train FRAGMENT Juan José Manauta

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amilo, a very well-read man, explained, that was the “First Entrerriano” 1 , the railroad that used to travel from Gualeguay to Puerto Ruiz, and the people at the box applauded. Anyhow, they started to sing: “Viva Perón!

How great you are!” The following night we still went out, but Camilo hanged a sing on the locomotive that read: “First Entrerriano”, and below that: “Gaucho Train”. So the people at the box now applauded for real, and Camilo, who is no fool, offered the president a sip of my mate 2 . And the other one accepted and everything. The other one was no fool either and knew what he was doing, because people started to applaud him. The boys, behind him, were singing and dancing, playing a drum, hitting on some cans and screaming “Perón, Perón!” Between the creaming, the singing, the clapping, the drum noise and the cans noise, that was a real fuss. For the third night, Mariana painted my face, and everything looked better.

Camilo arranged the ornaments on the float and Mariana changed some of the silver pieces of paper of my dress that had torn among the crowd. The president of the carnival parade (or whatever that was) again accepted the mate sip Camilo was offering him and old Cayayán took a picture of us. For Saturday and Sunday, we put up the picture on the front of float, and everything went better. On the last night, the people at the box honored us with an award. When Camilo went up to offer him mate, the president took out an envelope and handed it to him. Camilo looked at me and closed one eye. That was fifty thousand

C

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Pesos. He gave me twenty thousand, ten thousand to the troupe boys and he kept the other twenty thousand, minus what he had to give filthy old Ortega for the rental of the float. I´m sure that, for the upcoming carnivals, Camilo will come up with more ideas for us to dress up and to get another award at the parade.

1

From the province of Entre Ríos.

2

Traditional South American infused drink.

JUAN JOSÉ MANAUTA Was born in Gualeguay, province of Entre Ríos, in 1919. Storyteller and poet, he is one of the most important social realism writers of the Río de la Plata (River Plate) area. Graduate professor from Escuela Normal de Gualeguay in 1937, and Literature Professor graduated at Universidad Nacional de La Plata in 1942, he is the author of a fundamental novel: Las tierras blancas (1956), that was later adapted for the screen by the very same Manauta. He was the director of the magazine Hoy en la Cultura and received many and very important awards. Some of his books: La mujer de silencio, Papá José, Cuentos para la Dueña Dolorida, Los degolladores. This fagment was taken from Antología 100 de Antologías. Editor: Mario José Grabivker (Ediciones Desde la gente, IMFC, Buenos Aires, 2000).

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The service María Inés Krimer

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hat time is it? –asks Dora.

–Seven –says the receptionist.

Dora sweeps the hairs on the floor towards the back of the salon. She yawns. They should be closing by now, she thinks. Not let anyone in. Susi´s extensions ruined her afternoon.

The hair salon’s walls are covered with mirrors, white lights, bright, a TV set on the ceiling. In the back there´s the beauty booth and the cabinet where they keep the capes and the towels. When she is done sweeping, Dora sits on a stool. She opens her wallet. She smiles. She looks at her children’s photos: a boy standing by the school entrance and a uniformed girl.

Outside there is the ocean. The window hitting from the wind. The Coca Cola sign is just lighting up. She´s never got used to living in Mar del Plata, Dora thinks. The ones arriving to this town are escaping. She looks for La Capital. The level of crime is rising. She knows bank robbers and street cowboys have an arrangement with the police. She knows how protection is distributed among cabarets, cafés and drugstores: sixty percent for the police captain and forty among the service providers. Dora shuts the newspaper. She walks to the back of the salon. Susi is watching a Madonna music video as she waits for the dye minutes to pass. On the counter, the extensions are laid down neatly, as in an operating room.

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–Susi, do you like Madonna? –asks Dora.

The woman lowers her head.

–She looks flawless –she says.

Dora folds a cape.

–She doesn´t look fifty years old –Susi continues.

–She got divorced.

–She did?

–It is said her husband does not work.

Susi rubs her hair roots with her finger. She wipes off on the cape.

–And that face?–. She asks.

–It´s late –says Dora–. I´ve got to go pick up my boy.

–I need the service–. Susi winks. –I met someone.

–You did?

–I´m waiting for him.

Dora looks at the clock.

–Please do this for me –Susi insists.

Dora’s eyes stop on the lined up extensions on the counter. When hair grows back, a service is needed to stick them back on. Dora opens her hands. Closes them. Looks up. It´s Ricky Martin on the screen now.

Dora pumps up the volume. She walks to the front desk. The receptionist is eating a sandwich. She gestures to her with her chin.

–Is something the matter? –asks Dora.

–There´s a girl outside to see you.

–Did she say who she was?

–Tell her on Nati´s behalf, she said– The receptionist gathers the crumbs. –She might want an appointment.

Dora walks to the door. Goes out to the street. The freezing breeze hits her face. Despite the cold weather, days are already starting to stretch. She stops. She looks towards the salon. The receptionist is new and she knows nothing about her daughter’s job. Dora always avoids talking about Nati. Coca, written on the sign, silver over red. Cola, written on the sign, silver over red. The pupil grows bigger, red circle after red circle. The traffic on Colón Avenue is barely heard. There´s a Monza parked in the corner. It has the low beam lights on, and only when she is next to it she can hear the engine roaring.

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A tall girl with a pony tail comes out of the car. She walks to her closing her jacket trying o hide the butt of the gun.

They stand facing each other.

–Hey, Mom. –How are you, Nati– says Dora.

–You got your hair cut –The girl makes a move in order to remove her hand from the gun butt, stops and puts her hand back where it was.

–A little bit.

–It looks good.

They remain silent for a moment.

–How’s work? –says the girl.

–People are walking in just now.

Nati bends down as to fix her boot zipper.

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–Listen– she says –We’re waiting for a snitch that took some cash.

She pulls her pony tail back. –The woman inside there– Nati points towards the salon’s window. –He’ll come to pick her up, understand? It could get ugly.

Dora looks towards the avenue. She frowns. Since last year, when she was promoted to sergeant, Nati´s been the mistress of Captain Gallina, from Narcotics. That relationship had caused several arguments over the family dinners. After a month her daughter was no longer living in the house. A taxi driver drives along slowly, and throws a burning cigarette that describes a curve until it hits the curb. Dora looks at it, sparkling on the concrete. She hears the screeching of brakes.

–I understand.

–Make her come out –Nati heads towards the Monza. She stops.

–How’s daddy doing?

–Fine.

–And Cesar junior?

–At his karate class.

–Give them a kiss from me.

Nati gets on the Monza. The car makes a U–turn. The plastic around the headlights is burnt. Dora gets back into the salon. There´s no one inside. She arranges the line of extensions, the longest at the center, the shorter ones on the sides. She raises her head and stares at the screen. She goes to the cabinet and asks for Susi.

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–She is getting waxed –says the receptionist.

Dora knocks on the booth door.

–Occupied.

She goes abound the sinks and removes the cap from a conditioner bottle. She moves it close to her nose and smells. She twirls the bottle among her fingers and puts the cap back on. She wonders if Susi has any clue about what’s going on out there. If she´s an accomplice of the gang. She hears an ouch. The receptionist arrives, wrapped around in some perfume. Dora takes her by the arm and corners her.

–Why did you give her an appointment?

The girl sticks her hand into her pocket and produces a five-peso bill.

–She needed the service –she says.

Dora eases off.

She remains still until the girl goes into the cabinet. She then walks to the front desk, stands in front of the counter looking at the files, the computer screen. The figure of the man is cut out under the red light.

She opens and shuts the door. The man is tall, black haired, white and angular face. His jaw contorts and eases as if he was chewing gum but he is not. Through his furrowed eyelids with blue veins Dora notices how the pupils move and dilate.

–We’re closing –says Dora.

The man walks with contained electricity. He sits on a stool. Looks at the tip of the index finger, delimitates it with his thumb nail and raises it.

Through the jacket, half open, Dora spots the armhole and the gun. The man stretches back on the stool. Then he bends forwards, hands on knees.

–I need a haircut –he says.

Words do not sound like words. Silence heavily invades the salon.

The man sits up. Dora arranges the scissors and the combs next to the extensions. She stands behind him, spreads out a cape on his shoulders and tightens the strips behind his neck. She makes him turn his head towards the door right when the lights of the Monza scan the street. She feels the voltage of his back, the stiffness of his neck.

–Is there another exit? –asks the man.

Dora points towards the back of the room.

The man throws the cape onto the extensions. The rubber carpet cushions the noise of his steps. He walks past the sinks and vanishes through the back door. Dora enters the beauty booth. Susi is lying

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down on the stretcher, wearing a leopard thong. Next to her, on an auxiliary table, there´s a wax boiler with melted wax.

–Is he here yet?– asks Susi.

Dora shakes her head. She exits. She can´t tell if the man has escaped, the silver shining looks for him, the pupil. She takes a deep breath. The salon smells like cologne, conditioner, ammonia. She sits on the warm stool left by the man. She pays attention. Not to the television sounds but to distant things, beverages. The whistle of a train.

A stifled scream. The sound of a motorcycle.

–My little girl –she says.

She gets up and walks across the room. Restless, she paces up and down. She arranges some calendar with some photos of models. She reaches out to straighten up some diplomas hanging high up on the wall. She goes back to the front desk and stays at the counter with her arms crossed for a few seconds, listening to the sound of an ambulance. The receptionist has fallen asleep. Dora does not blink, as if she was hypnotized.

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The phone rings. The receptionist snaps out as she reaches out.

She listens. Hands the receiver out to Dora.

–For you –she says.

The voice sounds metallic.

–Dora? Dora Maure?

–Yes. Dora gestures to the receptionist.

The girl smiles and gets up.

–Yes– repeats Dora.

–We had a little problem. We caught the snitch when he was busting out. Nati saw this coming so we waited for him on the other side. He went crazy.

–What happened?

–Nati asked me to tell you…

Dora leans on the counter.

–If you know what I mean? –The voice hesitates for a moment –It´s a lot of paychecks and a post-mortem promotion.

Dora holds the receiver tight.

–At your service.

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The click sounds like a rock.

Dora hangs up. She wipes her forehead off with a towel. The receptionist goes back to the front desk.

–Is Monday your day off?

Dora nods. She folds the towel and pats on the spongy area. She turns around and walks to the center of the room. She falls on the stool.

She arranges the line of extensions, the longest on the center, the shorter ones on the sides.

MARÍA INÉS KRIMER Was born in Paraná, Entre Ríos, in 1951. She is an attorney, but she has devoted herself exclusively to writing for the past twelve years. She was trained at the workshops of Guillermo Saccomanno. She published the following titles: Veterana (1998, short stories), La hija de Singer (2002, novel, First Prize, Fondo Nacional de las Artes), El cuerpo de las chicas (2006, novel) and Lo que nosotras sabíamos (2009, novel, Premio Emecé). Sangre kosher (Aquilina, 2006). She keeps an unpublished novel, finalist of Clarín Awards 2008. She is currently living in Buenos Aires.

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E SANTA F

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The Cat Patricia Suárez

nterrupting the movie with the Mexican film was not enough, nor her getting up and pushing the TV switcher, with a click that sounded almost like a moan. It was not enough either, looking at her in a complete scornful way, blaming her for all of his tribulation, making her feel that what she thought of as beautiful about the contact of their bodies, what she called “the thunder and the lightning bolt” didn´t mean anything to him, nothing but the loose thread of Matilde´s tackiness. It wasn’t enough either her changing of expression, slowly, from deep flatness to distressful expectation, concerned about maybe something could have happened to him, something severe that couldn’t be yet read on his skin, but it could be read on his expression: a pain he could not take anymore. She raised her voice, that wasn’t a thread, and went throughout the living room across the heaviness of each object in there and vibrated on the Mexican actor who now could be seen on the screen. "Well, what is it?", she asked. And he looked at her in fear, as if she was the boogieman and was threatening him to get him into the rough sacking bag and throw him down to the rocky abyss in some mountain top none of them knew. "The cat is missing ", he answered. Her expression enraged, and it was not necessary to contain her because she vaporized alone herself, silently before the terrible anguish that seemed to press him.

Matilde thought: "So what? So what if the cat is missing? It was a filthy cat: it was only good for collecting fleas "; but she only said: "It must be around. It’ll come back". But he didn´t calm down. He stood still in the

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middle of the living room, his eyes set on the little pots they’d brought from Bolivia, up to a point where Matilde thought he’d fly up in the air, into pieces, only from the power of his look. "No. It won´t come back.

And I bet you know where it is", so Matilde stayed still. She made an attempt to defend herself: "Me! Me?", and since he didn´t bother to accuse her or to offer any explanations, she remained silent, definitely, under his severe surveillance, and the fatal desire her brains would blow off by his hateful look. And she thought of jumping on him and screamed the truth al him: "The cat? Of course I know where the cat is.

It´s gone and it’s not coming back! No. Because he was terribly afraid of you. That´s why it left", nevertheless, she desisted; screaming the truth at him never worked for her, because he wouldn’t listen or he would break what was on his sight –in this case it would be her head– and then he wouldn’t talk to her, and it wasn’t worth fighting for such petty issues, like the cat. So she made up her mind and –with a small amount of will– went into the bedroom and rummaged through the curtains –because sometimes the cat hid there–, under the bed, behind the door, and he followed her everywhere, as if she would have hidden the cat somewhere in the house and was now playing dumb.

Because her feeling “that”, like the barrel of a cold gun pointing to her kidneys wasn’t enough, even though there wasn’t such a gun, only disgust clung to her waist, penetrating like a sharp blade. Matilde tried the kitchen: the cabinets, under the refrigerator; she made a bad move and the blue fruit container fell, and the glass chopped the Prisco peaches and some bloody pulp dripped and left her thinking. He looked and hesitated, and this wasn’t enough for him, he wanted to punish her; last year she ruined a brand new radio transmitter when she forgot it out in the patio on a rainy day, and this other time she spilled the latte over his only pair of corduroy pants; when the drycleaner saw it, he desperately tried to bring back its original color using all of his tints and natural extracts´ tricks; a desperate drycleaner, a desperate him, but Matilde remained calm, with a “heavy weight on my heart”, but, who knew her heart? Who could assure there was a heavy weight caused by the distress of the stained pants?– He would tell her "there, there", and she would fly there like an arrow, twirling and bending before his directions just like a reed, like those at the banks of the Nile river, back in Moses´ times. Finally, from the endless patience of her love, she suggested: "Maybe we find it on the rooftop" and he nodded. She climbed up the ladder and it was strange to see those hands, used to peeling potatoes, grating carrots peeling zucchinis and grinding meat, now holding on so strongly to the eaves, to the tiles, to the television antenna. She put a hand as a cap peak and tried to spy over on the nearby roofs. Freshly hang out clothes waved onto the other terraces: that he could see. Her hair –with her “solferino” dye color– was up on the back of her neck, and made her look like cozy nest, like

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those nests on Walt Disney’s cartoons. "I can´t see the cat ", said Matilde.

"Get closer to the cornice, mom", he told her.

And Matilde thought: "Why? Why don´t you go? What do I care about the cat and your being sad for that lousy cat?", but she moved closer to the cornice, the sacrifice of her love was evident –and that horrible cat that wasn’t coming– but that wasn’t enough either. On the edge of the rooftop, Matilde was a weathercock, even better than a weathercock, a bird, with her hair now loose and her clothes waving to the wind, lighter than any other garment you could see waving in any of the neighborhood’s line of clothes.

He was about to say –maybe he said it in a low voice– "Come down, mom", but she only heard, "The cat is dead". Matilde got back, tripped, held on to a tile –the only one well-placed by the bricklayer– and she started to get back on her feet; this time she was positive, very positive that he’d killed it, that his son had killed the cat; because for him, nothing was enough.

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PATRICIA SUÁREZ Was born in the city of Rosario, Argentina, in 1969. Her literary work, for which she received many awards, covers various genres and has circulated around Argentina, Spain and Venezuela. He was honored with the Clarín Award for Novels with her work Perdida en el momento. She´s written for children and several plays as well.

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Stones like Stars Angélica Gorodischer

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alls didn´t exist, roof was pointless, she discovered all this as very a very young girl.

–What is it with this girl?

–Nothing, don´t you see? That´s just how babies are.

–How? –Like that, they put those faces.

Didn´t know. She didn´t know what that was about, but she felt it, and you may agree with me on the idea that feeling and knowing are two very different things.

She grew up with that, and soon it became a delight. She could do it and sometimes that was enough. At other times she had to get out of there as soon as possible and get in, leave, run away, set sail, there was no verb, she didn´t know which one to use, she didn´t know them, she only did things she had learnt as she learnt other things on the way.

She would simply go out when she felt like it.

Growing up is quite worrying and she did it just like that, but nobody noticed because we all grow up just like that. One day she could read and write and that was it, she had completed her learning.

Words, we all know, have their secrets but as soon as you can say I want out of this place, there are -literally- several light-years from the baby up to that moment: I want out of this place, and there are no

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secrets anymore. Only that, oh, yes, only things shouldn’t be left undone (between you and me let me clear up that mothers and aunts used to repeat that as they raised a finger and with a face like you’ll be like us one day, and she thought Vade retro). There are some weird people. I mean, among the whole world´s population there´s a big portion of weird people. She wasn’t precisely weird: we don´t know how many women, or even men are capable maybe not to run a company or to sell crack or to present writings to the judge or to cure tuberculosis, but to get out of that place and nobody ever knows about it. She was different; that, different.

When she could put it up in words she didn´t know whether to be happy or cry. I can was to be happy but I´m unique was to cry or at least to writhe here inside as if a spoon was stirring the guts, the heart and the epiploons.

She could fly, come on, let´s say it already. But watch out, let´s say it just like it was, just as she felt it, spoon or not, crying or maybe yes.

She could float in the black space, she could come out to the silent universe vacuum and go through stones like stars and stars like lakes and see the sand ships and hear the squawking of the sidereal birds.

She could come and go and nobody would notice, so that, apart from pleasure and surprise, that taught her something else about time: that time is a wonderful invention. That it actually does not exist but he who invented it was probably like her and probably had more hair too and used to lie down on the moor to look up and thought if that was permitted, now, calling thinking, that something was missing around, that something had to bore through the thickness of what went from his stomach to the giant fern besides water, something was missing. So that way, presumably but almost certainly, that´s how time was invented. She, then, was making use of it. She would go, walls didn´t exist, roofs were pointless; she was going and when she came back she did it right away but in that very same moment several lives traveled through under the palms of her hands.

–What is it with this girl?

–Nothing, she´s just distracted; she´s in that awkward age, that´s how it is.

She learnt, some time later, that floating up in the black space of the universe was pointless as well, it had no meaning and in that aspect it was like Orography or Europe’s hydrography that the old Geography broad would make them study, but at the same time she’d teach things that were pointless as well and were like jewelry on a store window she will never be able to reach out. It was precisely that: she would never reach out. And the following year (Physics, Chemistry and Spanish Literature) and she said to herself: So what.

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It was not about reaching out, listen to me carefully: it wasn’t about reaching out. It wasn’t about that distressful thing, either, of looking for someone like me, oh, I don´t want to be unique. No. It was about doing what she knew, going away, moving along the dry ocean that was the air; no, not even the air. The emptiness. Neither that, gee, it was hard for her to name things. Maybe if there weren’t any names. Maybe Adam, poor guy, he said some shallow things and somebody believed him and, so they say, he suggested building the Tower of Babel. Well done.

Why names. She went out, she knew. Therefore before-Columbus civilizations were barely taken into account, almost not at all.

Suddenly, because that´s how it was, suddenly she was happy. She stopped worrying about the blood going away every twenty eight days; she stopped worrying about prohibitions, books, silk socks, school sanctions and the future. She realized of an amazing thing: I can do what others can´t and I don´t need words for that.

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Let´s continue to say it as clear as possible: only by wishing it she could go out to the vast universe and move around among the music of the comets, the scream of the supernovas, the murmur of the rings and satellites, the silence of the creation of worlds, the roar of the dust storms, the abyss like a womb, the lungs sated of space, the colors of blackness, the symphonies of what hasn´t been yet born.

Oh, yes, because there is no silence there in what surrounds us and requests us. It´s all voice and thunder; it’s all allegro vivace and rock; it’s all anthem and lullaby; it’s all thunder and friction; it’s all whistling and boiling; it’s all noise and sarabande; it’s all din and seaquake. It all speaks out.

By day, by night, whenever, it suited her anyways. And it’s not like the turbulent space always remains the same. Quite the opposite.

Maybe you don´t believe me but it changes second after second, microsecond segment after microsecond segment and she would swing in there, she would lock herself into a bubble that lasted for half a minute in which she breathed colors and talked like the crash of the gas rings surrounding the kings of space, and she would come out in one movement, barely, of her heels, to dive into that unmentionable something that would reach the giant lenses one day or at least that what’s called day here, another bubble yet harder and foreign.

So like that she lived and I tell you that living is called in many ways and she didn´t try them all and some interested her and most didn´t.

She fell in love and stopped thinking about the black space out there.

But wait a minute: when she had to decide what to do with that man, that handsome and sweet man, she went away and away and circled around among lights and vertiginous moon rocky screeching until she said to herself, this time determined and slightly proud, that she would

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be to the eyes, to his eyes, much more desirable when he found out what she was capable of. What if I take him along?, she thought.

Thus, she told him so and he laughed very hardly. He loved, he said, her crazy dreams. Give me your hand she said and she took him along I can´t even try to tell you how far; you can´t imagine how far.

The next second, here in this world, he asked her: –Wonderful. How do you do it? I know: you’ve hypnotized me.

After another second she realized she knew, once again; that she had learnt, once again; just like that, once again, she had gone one step up and had stared for real to that beautiful man, that sweet man.

So, despite her aunts´ disappointment, she didn´t marry him.

She befriended with space, with the rocks like stars, with the pointless roofs, with the whistling of the space wind and enjoyed carefully and almost placidly, her five senses set where many couldn’t even begin to understand a color, a voice, a light.

She married a charming, honest and successful attorney, with whom the aunts agreed on almost everything, and they had four children. She took the first one up to space only a few days after he was born. You are doing what nobody does, froggie, she told him almost like singing, you’re drinking the milk of the stars. And the little boy sucked, sweettoothed, and the white honey rolled down the round breast like lights do, the ones you ask for three whishes at night.

The second one, a girl, wasn’t taken to space. Neither was the third one, a boy. But the fourth one, a girl, was. I won´t have any more kids, she told her, so you come with me. The little chubby girl smiled in her crib. Let´s go, she said. And they floated for a while, and time, which had been invented by that furry father lost in the lost millenniums, surrounded them until they went back, wiser, happier, more hugged one to the other like entwined plants in golden bars.

She lived for many years. She traveled to space plenty of times, from her kitchen, from the terrace, from a boring party, from a class, from a transatlantic, from a movie theater, from the street and the park and the supermarket and the car.

She died at a very old age, calm, with a smile on her lips. No, her smile didn´t remain on space like Cheshire’s cat, but if you try hard you may see the shadow of those eyes, her eyes, in the light of a low golden lightning bolt on summer afternoons. Pay good attention, but remain unseen, be careful because she is shy and she vanishes right away.

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ANGÉLICA GORODISCHER Was born in Buenos Aires, on July, 28th of 1928 but lives in the city of Rosario, province of Santa Fe. She is one of the most important living female writers. Even though she has published a variety of books, she is better known for her science fiction work. Her short stories as well as her novels, among which is Kalpa Imperial (a series whose first part was published in 1983, and whose two volumes were published together in 1984) have made her earn the affection of readers. In 2003, Kalpa Imperia´s English version was published, translated by Ursula K. Le Guin. The story of the legendary empire had made her earn the recognition of the Spanish-speaking readers, also gave her recognition among the English-speaking readers and experts. She has received the following awards: Platinum Konex Award, the Dignity Award by the Permanent Assembly for Human Rights, SADE´s Bullrich Award to the best novel by a female author and the Esteban Echeverría Narrative Award. She is the author or a number of novels, including: Kalpa Imperial, Floreros de alabastro, alfombras de bokhara, La noche del inocente, Tumba de jaguares and Querido Amigo. She also wrote unforgettable short stories compilations such as Bajo las jubeas en flor, Trafalgar, Como triunfar en la vida and Menta.

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S MISIONE

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The wedding Olga Zamboni

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N

ot Little Red Riding Hood. I´m talking about chubby Lucy.

Nobody in the village would have guessed that chubby Lucy’s real name was Lausana and not Lucía, as one would guess from her nickname. Lausana was a good match to her foreign last name, which I don´t recall at the moment, from a traditional distinguished protestant family from down there at that remote canton which one day her grandfather abandoned, who would know why. Despite being an only heir, he didn´t hesitate about coming down to America and quit all that: family, Switzerland, Europe.

Once here, well, in Argentina, he got married at a Catholic church, following all rites, with a local country woman. My mother used to tell me all this; she learnt about their genealogy at a women´s gathering the same night of the wedding. Lausana, well, Lucy, somehow represented, with her name, his father’s home land. Her great grandfather, and I add this myself, must have felt moved inside his remote coffin, the day that birth took place. But, of course Switzerland Lucy only had the name. Lausana must have been some famous woman back in those days, in her great grandfather times I guess.

You think it’s a name of city? Alright, same thing.

But they knew her real name once the envelopes arrived. Each of them with its invitation. The whole town was invited. Request the pleasure of your company and your family’s after the religious ceremony at the bride’s house. It was the highest promising party of the

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area. The Company collaborated, throwing cement on a good area of terrain around the house, rented from the moment the family settled down in town a few years back.

Truth must be told: a cute threesome. The three of them were chubby and, probably because of that, always joyful. The house was in the back of the Post Office premises. So the relationship between Lucy and the new office boss was not difficult. I don´t recall his name.

Whenever a Post Office boss was replaced, the girls at marriable age were expectant, because the men were usually single and they would pair off immediately. To get married, of course, not like nowadays.

That was before the arrival of the Company, because after that, men were plenty.

I was told, and I don´t know if this was true, you know, in a small town news fly and get twisted, that her parents started to spoil the little boss with special meals. Him, far from his mom’s food, would take whatever they’d give him. The Torres´ lunch boxes –that since the Company was founded were running a major business– was surely inedible. And at Lucy’s, food was delicious. Just notice how the town’s grocery stores increased their sales since the family arrived. And little by little, or maybe not so little, they started to bring, on their demand, edibles that were not common among us until then, like artichokes and champignons, blue cheese, turkey pâté and not even to mention the caviar and the stuffed olives. Yes, don´t laugh, it used to be like that. And regarding beverages it was almost the same thing. Mr. Zito started to pull out elixirs from his wine cellar, which he used to keep for his exclusive personal drinking. The cooks that worked in that house told big stories about how the three only guests in that house would make pigs of themselves, and that it was four of them including the groom later on. The three of them fat. Plus the little boss, that didn´t take long to acquire the resulting belly. But Lucy, I mean Lausana, has always been of those well-shaped chubby girls, with a marked waistline and ballerina hips, see what I mean?

Pochi, the dressmaker, worked enormously for the wedding.

Unlike now, even from Paraguay, they weren’t any rental dresses in those days, bridal suits or evening dresses. And the ladies wanted to look their sharpest. The richest had brought in fabrics from Posadas.

The others would be content what they could get in town. The result was a parade of elegance that puzzled them all, specially the husbands, who fell back in love with their own wives, or with others, depending on the case.

No, it’s not a joke. They showed off styles nobody remembered seeing ever before. The baggy style and the balloon skirts, the tulle and the Plumeti nylon. Unrecognizable were the ladies. The local women

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were trying to compete with the Company’s, who would bring in, surely, the latest trends from Buenos Aires. But this was more about reputation than anything, since many of them were from Chaco or from some little town in Corrientes. For styles, each of them would buy Season at Sandoval’s drugstore, who was invited as well but didn´t want to go because his crutches bothered him.

The problem was the weather. Who would think, only someone who´s not from around, well, from Misiones, of organizing such a huge party in January and in those times. That one was one of the hottest summers ever recalled; because January sometimes, you can see it now, right? Sometimes it comes along with rain and it’s quite chilly. But that one January, on the week of the wedding, temperature wouldn’t go below 39°C degrees in the shadow. Not even breeze moved the leaves, I remember that so well, I felt like having a girlfriend by then… Those fans so common nowadays didn´t exist back then, and air-conditioners even less. We had a basement at home to freshen up food and beverages and period. Oh, and the well. Notice that nowadays, it seems that if you don´t drink almost-frozen beer, and even use an iced glass, it’s no good, these are modern times indeed. I like it them modern times, of course I do, why not.

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The hot weather was, as I say, the worst catastrophe.

At church, the saddest thing, or the funniest, it depends, were men.

Each of them with his elegant suit, well, formal suits we used to call those; more than one, a flannel suit, how dreadful. Transpiration soaked benches and kneelers, soaking through sleeves and crutches. Women, sticky from their make up, would fan themselves endlessly. Even the priest was sweating, his cassock completely wet by the time of the marriage oath. Of course he was, after how he emphasized her violent preach to those who only went to church on wedding days. He was furious and he had his reasons; and as he talked about Hell his sweating grew.

The couple, oh, the couple. Like a love miracle, they looked, apart from thrilled, almost fresh. Their joy remained intact despite the temperature. The bride in her low, gathered tulle loose-fitting dress that -as a result of the tight moiré chest- made her look skinnier. Or maybe she had been on a diet. In white, yes sir. Fully-white Lucy. They came out beautiful in the pictures. Them, radiant; but let´s better not talk about the flushed faces of the godfathers.

The main issue was dinner. A huge cold-cut and cheese table with various ingredients. Specially, grilled pork and mayonnaise potato salad.

Tables and very long benches neatly placed on the cement floor which couldn’t be chilled not even with buckets and buckets of water …

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Alright, I know, you want the ending, but don´t rush me if you want the best out of me. The thing was the heat, as I´m telling you. Anyone knows that in those conditions pork is what needs the highest maintenance. With no refrigerators, of course. Just some little bars of ice from Posadas, stuck between the sawdust, to chill beverages. They had been preparing the food on trays since the previous day. Delicious, well spiced, their own style-like, as I told you, they had a good sense of taste and an even better mouth.

Nobody noticed anything even though the first symptoms must have appeared individually and they would have had to contain themselves out of good manners; they probably thought it was temporary, as a consequence of the amount and variety of food. At like three in the morning, some were dancing, but most of them kept eating and drinking in great amounts. It was cake time, cream and sugar and white chocolate and the ribbons, all that. It was then when some absences were obvious and the evident rushes, like the judicial officer, who had to rush straight to the back of the room. Up to a certain point this could have alarmed no one, but discomfort increased, to say the least. Around four, the eighty percent of the guests was feeling the symptoms of a violent upset stomach, impossible to disguise. The one feeling the worst was doctor Tomis.

Mom said he’d eaten like a beast and vomited as he staggered around. The same thing with almost every man. And women, don´t get me started. Everybody in all directions, looking for relief. My goodness how those dresses ended up, curtains, floors, tables, yuck.

Now it sounds amusing but it was not on the skin of the guests and hosts. A gastronomic tragedy, in the most literal sense of the term.

The couple? Th ey had to be rushed to Posadas to be immediately hospitalized. They liked to eat, and they’d been eating since noon and the civil ceremony. After fifteen days in hospital they might have lost weight, I guess, I never saw them, but it all became a well-known incident and they didn´t come back, out of embarrassment. Lausana´s parents were left responsible for the collective poisoning demands.

Me? Not me. Thank God, sons, I didn´t get intoxicated. Grandpa neither, well, my boyfriend at that time. You are grown ups now and I can tell you about this, I´m a modern old lady. That night, in the midst of the general racket, nobody was going to notice our absence, so we slipped away. We went to look at the moon over the Paraná River that was beautiful. We were eating love, what else? Just like youngsters these days, don´t look away. That night we arranged it and I knew that man I was going to marry was your grandfather. So that is how we skipped the indigestion that ruined the life and stomach of more than

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one. Us, alive and kicking, to say the least. Ha, Ha, grandma was young too and we knew all the tricks. We got married some years after that but, of course, in high winter.

OLGA ZAMBONI Was born in 1938 in Posadas, Misiones, and she has lived there since. A teacher of all levels and also at Universidad Nacional de Misiones, and an active cultural promoter at her province, she published several poetry and short story books. Some titles: Latitudes, Poemas de las Islas y de Tierrafirme, El Eterno Masculino, Mitominas, Tintacuentos, 20 cuentos en busca de un paraguas. She has edited anthologies for middle level, among which were: A la Deriva y otros cuentos by H. Quiroga and Cuentistas del Litoral. In 2002, she was named Member of the Argentinean Academy of Literature. This short story was originally published in the book Veinte cuentos en busca de un paraguas (Editorial Vinciguerra, Buenos Aires, 1997).

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The Cow Rosita Escalada Salvo

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risanta went through the cassava plantation, greenish and silky. With her dark arms she pulled the corn leaves apart and followed the trite path that went downwards into the stream.

The cow. To tie the rope around the cow’s neck, before the old man returned. Before the gringo got back. Before that burning sun came down…

The dry-udder cow recognized her owner. A long mooing cut the hills. After that, docile, she followed her.

The cow and the woman, along the path. Not even one time Crisanta turned back to see her house, that dark shed, there, on the side. With some speckle hens around the patio. And even a pig.

With summertime on her back, and her cow, she took the road’s shoulder and started to walk the eleven kilometers, something…

That was the second time she did that route. The first one, with her kids. A truck driver took pity on her withered figure, under the sun, and picked her up. Her and the five; the oldest, a nine year-old.

There was another one –she remembers– , but he was born dead.

Rain. Alcohol. Fate. From that moment on, she rejected the gringo.

And as she walks pulling the cow, she evokes things as if they never happened to her.

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But, above all things, she sees her children. None of them attended school. Because from daybreak, even the littlest one, there they were, at the farm.

We saw Crisanta into the hoe, on the burning field. No Sundays or naps. Preparing the land for soy. Opening furrows for corn, for pumpkin.

And we saw her children -wild hares- hiding as cars passed by; angry eyes, hands in mouth, yellowing the hair of the two albinos.

Her children are with her sister now. The farm is small, but enough.

And the soil is good for cultivation. She will again bend down on the hoe, grip the machete, stick the shovel on a hot afternoon. That fate, she can´t change it. But her children, at least one, will have school. And no more screams or blows…

And she knows her twenty four years won´t take long to find another man.

The gringo arrives at the house. The house that was built with his hands, when he brought Crisanta. He kicks a bony dog that comes to him. He flatly looks at one sneaker that was left there by Nania, so blonde she can´t stare at the sun.

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There is a deep silence throughout the patio. Even the hens go silent.

He goes into the kitchen –only a shelf on one corner, a crooked table and an ashy fire over the flat-rolled dust–, looks for a glass among the dirty dishes and leftovers. He fills it with caña 1 and sits by the veranda, his eyes lost on the pine tree, on the orange groves.

The reddened sun hides slowly. A road-runner scares the cow off.

Crisanta speeds up, to try and beat the night. It´s no long to go…

The gringo looks at the sun being swallowed by a limpid horizon.

And thinks: –We need to sell this farm…

ROSITA ESCALADA SALVO Was born in San Javier, Misiones, in 1942. Professor of Literature, writer and journalist; she´s published several didactic and literature books for children and youth. Among her titles: La caza del yasí yateré, Las naranjas como globos que flotaban, La mágica hora de la siesta, Paíto. She co-founded, along with Héctor Di Mauro, the Escuela Taller Provincial de Títeres of Puerto Rico, Misiones. She was the editor of Teachers´ Section of Primera Edición newspaper from 1. Typical Argentinean distilled alcoholic beverage.

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Posadas. This short story was originally published in the book of short stories Los lunes lentejas (Editorial Universitaria de Misiones. Posadas, 2002).

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This book was printed on September, 2010 in Cooperativa Grรกfica el Sol Limitada 2190, Av. Amancio Alcorta Parque Patricios, City of Buenos Aires.

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TAPA nea inglés.pdf

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