[{"id":47111,"date":"2026-09-20T22:11:10","date_gmt":"2026-09-21T04:11:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47111"},"modified":"2026-09-21T17:56:52","modified_gmt":"2026-09-21T23:56:52","slug":"a-selection-from-poems-of-love-1926","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/a-selection-from-poems-of-love-1926\/","title":{"rendered":"A Selection from Poems of Love (1926)"},"content":{"rendered":"

REVERIE<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

I<\/span><\/p>\n

November was almost over when I found you. The sky was blue and the trees so green. I had long been half-sleeping, tired of waiting for you, feeling you would never come. I said to everyone: look at my chest, see? My heart is livid, lifeless, rigid. And today, I say: look at my chest: my heart is red, sappy, awed.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

II<\/span><\/p>\n

Who is it whom I love? You shall never know. You will look into my eyes to discover him and see nothing but the glow of ecstasy. I will lock him that you may never imagine who he is in my heart, and there I will rock him, silently, hour after hour, day after day, year after year. I will give you my songs, but I will never give you his name. He lives within me like a dead man in his tomb, all mine, far from inquisitiveness, from indifference and wickedness.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

III<\/span><\/p>\n

Early this morning, as I rested, you came by my house. With short steps and a tight breath, lest I should wake, you slid by the edge of my balcony. I was asleep, but I saw you in dreams, silently passing by: you were pale and your eyes regarded me sadly, like the last time I saw you. When I woke up white clouds rushed in on you from behind.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

IV<\/span><\/p>\n

My enemies, if you exist, behold my surrendered heart. Come and hurt me. You will find me humble and grateful: I will kiss your fingers; I will caress the eyes that stared at me with hatred; I will speak the sweetest words you have ever heard.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

V<\/span><\/p>\n

In this twilight of spring I would fly, yes, I would fly. Were it not that my heart\u2014burdened, swollen, pained, massive\u2014filled my chest, restrained my movements, numbed my body, and kept me stuck to the soil where you live, oh Mine!\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

VI<\/span><\/p>\n

Above all things I love your soul. Through the veil of your flesh I see it shine amid darkness: it engulfs me, transforms me, suffuses me, mesmerizes me. Then I speak to feel that I exist, for otherwise my tongue would become paralysed, my heart would cease to beat, my entire self would wither in astonishment.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

PLENITUDE<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

XXIX<\/span><\/p>\n

I love! I love! … I feel like dashing across the Earth, going round in a single run and back to the starting point. I\u2019m not mad, though I seem so. My madness is divine and contagious. Stay away.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXX<\/span><\/p>\n

An icy, sharp wind engulfed me a moment ago as if to deprive me of something. Does it know, perchance, that I am suffused with love, and so it tries, eternal oblivion, to become laden with my persistence and warm with my tenderness? But I retorted: Is it not enough for you to sweep everything along, you vagrant? All my love is little for me; I am giving you nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXXI<\/span><\/p>\n

Rose, divine rose balancing on the wind, still spattered with the scanty night rain. You are blessed in your placidity, on the sappy freshness of your stem, under the sweet sky of December. But not as much as me. You cannot look at him, and I can. If his hands rested upon your fleshiness, you would not recognise them, as I do, by their mere touch. If you heard his heart beating nearby, you would not know that it is his, as I do, by its mere sound.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXXII<\/span><\/p>\n

Listen: I was like a sleeping sea. You woke me up and the tempest broke out. I shake my waves, sink my ships, climb up to the sky and punish the stars, I am ashamed and hide among my folds, I run amok and kill my fish. Do not regard me with fear. You have wished it so.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXXIII<\/span><\/p>\n

I love you because you resemble no one. Because you are proud, like me. And because you offended me before loving me.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

XXXIV<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve come down to the garden at first light in the morning. The thin dew moisture refreshes my soles, and my eyelids relax under the spring air\u2019s sweetness. I see the rose trees in bloom, the snow-covered vine, the shifting black ant-line and the lemon tree laden with golden fruit. But I think: you are gold outside and sour inside! His heart is not like that: it\u2019s sweet and beautiful inside out.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

AGONY<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

LIII<\/span><\/p>\n

A few times I suggested some absurd trips. \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d I said to you, \u201cwhere we can be alone and the climate is mild and men, good.\u201d I\u2019ll see you upon waking and we will have breakfast together. Then, we will go away barefoot, searching for quaint stones and odourless flowers. As I take a nap, lying on my hammock under the branches\u2014black and rough tree bones sweetened by the smooth mercy of the leaves\u2014I will sleep to dream you. When I wake up, even closer than in my dream, I\u2019ll find you by my side. And at night you will leave me at my bedroom door.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

LIV<\/span><\/p>\n

Sitting on a bench\u2014how long?\u2014I dared not take your hands. On my spring dress\u2019s blouse, my tears fell heavily at last. The fabric absorbed them in silence, right there, where the heart is.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

LV<\/span><\/p>\n

One afternoon, ambling under large trees, on a mattress of yellowish soil, as mellow as sifted flour, I happened to look into the sky. It was traversed by thin, immaterial white clouds, and I amused myself as I knitted, with them and on them, the lines of your face.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

LVI<\/span><\/p>\n

You were afraid of my mortal flesh and sought the immortal soul in it. To find it, your harsh words wounded me open. Then you leaned over them and breathed in, terrible, the smell of my blood.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

LVII<\/span><\/p>\n

I entrusted myself to you. I wanted to show you how depraved I was, to force you to love me depraved. I exaggerated my defects, my weaknesses, my dark actions, to joyfully tremble with the forgiveness I was forcing on you. Yet, for your noble forgiveness, listen, I would have suffered the most harrowing illness you suffered, the deepest shame that disgraced you, the longest exile you were imposed.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

NIGHT<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

LXVII<\/span><\/p>\n

You are not coming back. My entire being yearns for you, but you are not coming back. If you came back, my entire yearning being would reject you. From your mortal being I extract, now distant, the aeriform phantom that sees with your eyes and caresses with your hands, yet belongs not to you. It is mine, absolutely mine. I lock myself and him up in my room, and when no one, not even myself, hears, and when no one, not even myself, sees, and when no one, not even myself, knows, I hold the phantom in my arms, and in the ancient manner of the pendulum, long, stern and solemn, I rock the void\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Jorge Rafael Abuchedid<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Buy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Photo: Puente de la Mujer, Buenos Aires, Argentina, by Marcos Mayer, Unsplash.<\/span><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

REVERIE I November was almost over when I found you. The sky was blue and the trees so green. I had long been half-sleeping, tired of waiting for you, feeling you would never come. I said to everyone: look at my chest, see? My heart is livid, lifeless, rigid. And today, I say: look at […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":47112,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5745],"tags":[5846],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[5764],"lal_author":[5763],"class_list":["post-47111","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-editors-pick-poetry-from-the-southern-cone","tag-numero-39","translator-jorge-rafael-abuchedid","lal_author-alfonsina-storni"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47111","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47111"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47111\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47114,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47111\/revisions\/47114"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/47112"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47111"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47111"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47111"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47111"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47111"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47111"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47111"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47111"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47055,"date":"2026-09-20T21:36:48","date_gmt":"2026-09-21T03:36:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47055"},"modified":"2026-09-21T17:57:44","modified_gmt":"2026-09-21T23:57:44","slug":"three-poems-from-the-empty-chalices-1913","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/three-poems-from-the-empty-chalices-1913\/","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems from The Empty Chalices (1913)\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"

To Eros<\/b><\/p>\n

Because you enslave the lioness
\n<\/span>In chains stronger than Life, bound by
\n<\/span>A chain of roses around your arm.<\/span><\/p>\n

Because your body is the root, the Essential bond of divergent trunks
\n<\/span>Of pleasure and pain, sprawling plants.<\/span><\/p>\n

Because your beautiful, firm hand emerges, Like a mystic diamond brooch
\n<\/span>The most intoxicating dispute with Death.<\/span><\/p>\n

Because above Space I see you,
\n<\/span>Bridge of light, scent, and melody,
\n<\/span>Communicating heaven and hell.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014With burning soul and somber flesh . . .\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Your Mouth<\/b><\/p>\n

My divine labor, over the Growing Rock of Pride. From a distant life,
\n<\/span>A lively petal blew into me this morning,
\n<\/span>A nightly kiss. Steadfast like mad, kept on going my divine labor on the stone.<\/span><\/p>\n

When your voice melts like a sacred bell
\n<\/span>In the sky bound note of human vibrato,
\n<\/span>It tied its golden snare to the edge of your mouth;<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014Astounding nest whirl, that mouth of yours!
\n<\/span>Two rose petals clasping the abyss . . . \u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

Labor, glorious labor of pain and light;
\n<\/span>Canvas where my spirit sowed itself!
\n<\/span>You stay atop the rock of pride,<\/span><\/p>\n

And I fall, endless, into the bloody abyss!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Silently\u2026<\/b><\/p>\n

By your lazy hands
\n<\/span>My hair unravels;
\n<\/span>Burning vertigo I suffer
\n<\/span>Over two mocha mugs
\n<\/span>By your warm pupils
\n<\/span>Worse than mad am I driven
\n<\/span>By the cream of your teeth
\n<\/span>Within the strawberries of your mouth;<\/span><\/p>\n

In flame I am torn asunder
\n<\/span>By locking in your embrace,
\n<\/span>Scorched by delirium
\n<\/span>When I arise in your life,
\n<\/span>All dressed in white.
\n<\/span>All incensed with lilies!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Diego Jourdan Pereira<\/span><\/h5>\n
Editor\u2019s Note: Diego Jourdan Pereira\u2019s complete translation of\u00a0The Empty Chalices\u00a0<\/em>by Delmira Agustini is forthcoming from Renard Press.<\/strong><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Buy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Photo: Antonio Verd\u00edn, Unsplash.<\/span><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

To Eros Because you enslave the lioness In chains stronger than Life, bound by A chain of roses around your arm. Because your body is the root, the Essential bond of divergent trunks Of pleasure and pain, sprawling plants. Because your beautiful, firm hand emerges, Like a mystic diamond brooch The most intoxicating dispute with […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":47104,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5745],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[5758],"lal_author":[5760],"class_list":["post-47055","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-editors-pick-poetry-from-the-southern-cone","tag-issue-39","translator-diego-jourdan-pereira","lal_author-delmira-agustini"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47055","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47055"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47055\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47259,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47055\/revisions\/47259"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/47104"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47055"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47055"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47055"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47055"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47055"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47055"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47055"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47055"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47049,"date":"2026-09-20T21:34:39","date_gmt":"2026-09-21T03:34:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47049"},"modified":"2026-09-21T13:56:03","modified_gmt":"2026-09-21T19:56:03","slug":"three-poems-from-stone-pilgrims-1909","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/three-poems-from-stone-pilgrims-1909\/","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems from Stone Pilgrims (1909)\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Return<\/b><\/p>\n

The land offers the caress of a paternal greeting . . .
\n<\/span>While the mule grazes the wretched road grass
\n<\/span>and the mountain boasts before the late winter sun,
\n<\/span>like a village crone shows off her linen apron.<\/span><\/p>\n

A kind sky and a tender zephyr . . .
\n<\/span>The cicada rests burns under the pine tree,
\n<\/span>and the crowded herds slowly step
\n<\/span>towards the priestly horn music.<\/span><\/p>\n

Carrying timber on his shoulders for supper,
\n<\/span>the shepherd\u2014whose absence takes less than a day\u2014
\n<\/span>walks calmly towards the farmstead.<\/span><\/p>\n

When they see him, the family offers their praise . . .
\n<\/span>while the dog\u2014impelled by loyal friendship\u2014
\n<\/span>wags his tail in circles of joy.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Siesta<\/b><\/p>\n

Only a single clock\u2019s beat: the belfry,
\n<\/span>marking the village\u2019s joyous tedium
\n<\/span>which, under the summer sun, bitterly crackles
\n<\/span>with the distant attitude of an unflappable old man . . .<\/span><\/p>\n

Sitting by the door the apothecary dozes . . .
\n<\/span>At the park nearby the hen clucks
\n<\/span>and hornbeam timber in the fireplace burns,
\n<\/span>while the reverend reflects on his prayer book.<\/span><\/p>\n

There is peace at home. An undisturbed sky
\n<\/span>blesses the work, doles out the sweat . . .
\n<\/span>Mothers, sisters, aunts all sing while they wash in unison
\n<\/span>the clothes farmers will suffer on Sunday . . .\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And the lazy donkey which steps on the sidewalk
\n<\/span>runs away\u2014kicking about\u2014from the neighborhood dogs.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dawn<\/b><\/p>\n

Smoking on the welcoming stove
\n<\/span>the rustic candles . . . Early rising timber
\n<\/span>infusing tasty local flavor
\n<\/span>while breakfast approaches the calling land.<\/span><\/p>\n

Bouncing against the hills the daily chant
\n<\/span>of the yeoman who, for a moment, drops his yoke and dreams.
\n<\/span>Phyllis prepares the loom. Tethys, while milking,
\n<\/span>offers God the milk of her prayer.<\/span><\/p>\n

The valley distressed by its nocturnal pilgrims,
\n<\/span>the cattle, slow and foreboding,
\n<\/span>leaves the stables. The young breeze stretches . . .\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And like a piously awoken shepherdess,
\n<\/span>\u2014her eyes misty in sweet idleness\u2014
\n<\/span>an ecstatic Dawn gazes upon the stars in heaven.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Diego Jourdan Pereira<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Buy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Foto: Daeva Miles, Unsplash.<\/span><\/h6>\n
\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Return The land offers the caress of a paternal greeting . . . While the mule grazes the wretched road grass and the mountain boasts before the late winter sun, like a village crone shows off her linen apron. A kind sky and a tender zephyr . . . The cicada rests burns under […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":47103,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5745],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[5758],"lal_author":[5756],"class_list":["post-47049","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-editors-pick-poetry-from-the-southern-cone","tag-issue-39","translator-diego-jourdan-pereira","lal_author-julio-herrera-y-reissig"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47049","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47049"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47049\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47106,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47049\/revisions\/47106"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/47103"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47049"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47049"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47049"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47049"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47049"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47049"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47049"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47049"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47026,"date":"2026-09-19T22:16:37","date_gmt":"2026-09-20T04:16:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47026"},"modified":"2026-09-19T22:19:55","modified_gmt":"2026-09-20T04:19:55","slug":"the-redemptorist","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/the-redemptorist\/","title":{"rendered":"The Redemptorist"},"content":{"rendered":"

If the sea had asked people what they wanted her to be <\/span><\/i>
\n<\/span><\/i>they would have made but a muddle of her.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cPeter and Rosa\u201d by Isak Dinesen\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t arrange a religious service for her, and she was a believer, <\/span><\/i>Estela said. Alicia and Marta looked at each other, then they both looked at Liliana, and Liliana looked at them, and the three of them looked at Enrique, and Enrique, who seemed at a total loss for words, said, <\/span>Wait, what\u2019s the matter with you? Where are we going to find someone to perform a religious service?\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

She asked not to be buried without a blessing.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

When?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

A long time ago, when we were still living in her house.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

I never heard her say that.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

You never hear anything, <\/span><\/i>Estela said.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mim\u00ed\u2019s request from long ago had come to Estela\u2019s mind, striking her like a falling rock, a rock she then threw into the middle of the wake so that nobody could play the fool. Enrique would have preferred her to stay out of it, even if he did hear his mother say it, even if he did see it in her eyes. After all, he\u2019s in charge of the wake as Mim\u00ed\u2019s only surviving child, now that Ricardo\u2019s dead. Not the only child left, no, because there\u2019s also Elsita, but Elsita doesn\u2019t count.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Estela isn\u2019t too worried about whether her comment irritates her husband or her sister-in-law. When she gets something into her head, no one can get it out and that\u2019s what infuriates Enrique.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019re not going to stop until you have your way, are you? You\u2019re not going to leave me alone even at my mum\u2019s wake.<\/span><\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Estela, sure enough, won\u2019t let it go; she speaks with Alicia, and Marta, and Miguel, and Liliana, to see if any of them knows a priest who could carry out the wishes of the deceased, but it turns out the local priest isn\u2019t available, nor is the priest from the nearby <\/span>villa<\/span><\/i>1<\/span><\/sup>, nor the one from\u2026 It\u2019s January fourth and the priests have either gone on spiritual retreats or on holiday.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

There isn\u2019t a man of faith within a hundred kilometre radius, <\/span><\/i>says Alicia, who has taken on the challenge, telephone and directory in hand, in an effort to appease Estela. Everyone laughs at Alicia\u2019s turn of phrase, except for Enrique who sees Aunt Chichi coming in the door of the funeral home.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

Aren\u2019t you going to ask a priest to recite the Lord\u2019s Prayer?<\/span><\/i>, says the aunt, determined to stay standing, leaning on her Canadian walking stick, <\/span>you haven\u2019t even put up a crucifix, you haven\u2019t even been capable of\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

It\u2019s January, Aunt Chichi, we couldn\u2019t find anyone.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Not even a nun, not even a lay clergywoman, not even a churchgoer? The truth of the matter is it\u2019s all the same to you, but I\u2019ll tell you something, Enrique, as your godmother, you\u2019re not to move Mim\u00ed from this spot without a funeral prayer. Disrespectful, hopeless, all of you\u2026!<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

As she speaks, her voice, mouth and jaw tremble, <\/span>If only your father were alive\u2026<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

I told you so, <\/span><\/i>Estela says to Enrique.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But where do you want me to conjure up a priest from?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

If you had bothered to go to mass even once, you\u2019d know where to find one,<\/span><\/i> the aunt says, all flushed, probably from heat exhaustion; her assistant runs to get some water, puts a sweet in her mouth, <\/span>Calm down, Ms. Chichi, for the love of God; remember what Doctor Romano said.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Please, Aunt Chichi, calm down, or you\u2019ll give yourself a heart attack, <\/span><\/i>Enrique says, and Miguel, an Emergency Room doctor, making the most of the commotion, puts a few drops of Ribotril in her mouth.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019ve all rallied around Estela to find someone to lay Mim\u00ed to rest, and it turns out <\/span>one of Alicia\u2019s sisters who couldn\u2019t attend the wake has<\/span> a neighbour who has a friend who knows a redemptorist nun always ready to bring solace where it\u2019s needed, but they\u2019d have to go find her in Villa Corn\u00fa. The nun is called Noem\u00ed, just like the deceased, a pure coincidence. She doesn’t arrive dressed as a nun, she wears a pair of flat leather sandals, a long skirt and a white shirt, belonging as she does to a congregation that fought for years to get rid of the habit. It\u2019s forty degrees according to the thermometer on this midday in January, but nobody can take their eyes off this woman as she enters the room light on her feet, acknowledging everyone with a slight nod of her head and positioning herself next to the deceased before offering some words of comfort that satisfy Estela and console Aunt Chichi\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s no crucifix behind the coffin, only a purple cloth hanging on the wall and two spotlights that give off an equally purple shade of light, like a freezer. The redemptorist says that this afternoon is <\/span>Mim\u00ed\u2019s afternoon<\/span><\/i>. She lets the phrase linger in the air, allows it to clash with the silence, and perhaps because the silence is uncomfortable, Estela says <\/span>Elsita isn\u2019t here.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Enrique\u2019s face says it all. <\/span>We can\u2019t move Elsita, she\u2019s lived in that bed since she was born, she has no idea what\u2019s going on, who knows if she understands anything?\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

She and grandmother understood each other pretty well, <\/span><\/i>says Mim\u00ed\u2019s granddaughter, Estela and Enrique\u2019s daughter. The nun insists it\u2019s important everyone says their goodbyes.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Please, for the love of God<\/span><\/i>, Enrique says, <\/span>my sister is bedridden, it\u2019s very difficult to move her.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

So Noem\u00ed asks those present to consider where, in what barely<\/span> illuminated, dark recess of their hearts, lies the truth, <\/span>that tree in the middle of the swampland<\/span><\/i>, she says. Estela thinks it\u2019s the nun\u2019s faith in God that keeps her from insisting on Elsita being there; they all watch as she takes out an image of Santa Noem\u00ed from her bag and places it on the chest of the deceased. Before opening her prayer book, she tells everyone she was a missionary in Guatemala for many years and that the Guatemalan Indians believe that the past is before us and the future behind us, that before us we see the backs of our elders, <\/span>the back of Mim\u00ed, in this case.<\/span><\/i> She marks the path for us, and since I didn\u2019t have the good fortune of meeting her, I would like to ask for your help.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Enrique can\u2019t tolerate carrying on without smoking, things going the way they are, so he takes out a cigarette and lights it. Soon after, Alicia lights up too and so does the Emergency Room doctor; the silence is broken by the striking of a match, the sparks of lighters. <\/span>What does Mim\u00ed\u2019s back tell us?,\u00a0 <\/span><\/i>the redemptorist inquires,<\/span> and when nobody replies, she expounds on the biblical Noem\u00ed, whose name means sweetness. <\/span>Was Mim\u00ed delicate?<\/span><\/i>, she asks. Everyone looks at Enrique\u2026 <\/span>She\u2019d lost her way some time ago, but she was\u2026\u00a0 yes, before Elsita arrived she was\u2026\u00a0 she used to sit us on her lap to tell us stories, she had a sad childhood, but she was happy to talk about it all\u2026 <\/span><\/i>The nun says that Noem\u00ed of Judea allowed her daughters-in-law to marry again,<\/span> so here we have an aspect of the story that leads us to wonder how Mim\u00ed treated her daughters-in-law. Are the daughters-in-law present?\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Yes, <\/span><\/i>said Estela, and then Liliana also said yes. <\/span>She was very good to me, <\/span><\/i>Estela said. <\/span>When they arrested Enrique, she went with me everywhere, my father-in-law would drive us to the police station, but she was the one who came inside with me, neither of us having a clue as to what was happening\u2026<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

But you didn\u2019t want her to come live with us<\/span><\/i>, Enrique said quietly.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I wouldn\u2019t have minded, it was for the children\u2019s sake.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

No light shines brighter than the light of a memory, in memory everything shimmers, like the foam on waves\u2026 , <\/span><\/i>says the redemptorist, adding<\/span> that the past and future live within the present, with their visions and recollections,<\/span> and that we are ignorant of it all, that we don\u2019t know anything about the night or the wind, or the moon on the water, or death\u2026 To Estela\u2019s surprise, Enrique has started to open up, talking first about what his mother was like, then, getting worked up, about details of her homelife that Estela had never heard before and once again about that business of the land which he\u2019s mentioned many times, but everything seems different now, because all of a sudden his tone has changed, as if he\u2019s worn out. <\/span>She was quiet<\/span><\/i>, he says again, <\/span>not submissive\u2026 quiet.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

And so eager to fall in love!<\/span><\/i>, says Aunt Chichi. <\/span>If she told me a secret or two, it\u2019s because we were friends before we were sisters-in-law.\u00a0 We used to go to the matin\u00e9e<\/span><\/i>2<\/span><\/sup> on San Mart\u00edn Avenue and Bulevar, a tearoom frequented by celebrities, and one afternoon we saw Tita Merello, she was having a secret rendezvous with Luis Sandrini\u2026 <\/span><\/i>Enrique smiled,<\/span> I don\u2019t know where this is going, <\/span><\/i>he said, under his breath, to Estela.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

The <\/span>redemptorist has returned to the topic of <\/span>the Guatemalan Indians and the backs of the elders, <\/span>backs with wings<\/span><\/i>, she says, and speaking of wings, she gets sidetracked telling the story of a husband who, while stroking his wife\u2019s back one night, realises that she has a scab right at her left shoulder blade. The next morning he discovers that another scab has formed on her right shoulder blade, and the next day the scabs have become wings and a little later they look like angel wings. The husband consults the parish priest and the parish priest says that if they were true wings, Godly wings, they would be capable of flying \u2026 so he takes his wife to a clearing surrounded by very high trees and asks her to take off her coat; <\/span>the woman takes off each item of clothing until she is left with only her pair of wings, <\/span>and after a few light footsteps tries to fly. A fluttering of wings is heard in the air and all of a sudden the woman is a few meters high\u2026\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Without anyone knowing why, Enrique\u2019s friend, the Emergency Room doctor, tells a story about when he was taken to the wake of a beautiful young woman as a child, and how he felt so bewitched by her that he wouldn\u2019t have minded dying himself\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

She has long hair, this redemptorist, <\/span>with braids tied together in a low bun. Mim\u00ed wore her hair in a bun too. Estela had been at university when she\u2019d met her; talking about mothers was the favourite pastime of all the girls back then, it was simply a matter of not being like them, of studying, getting a job\u2026 <\/span>Having aspirations<\/span><\/i> was the maxim, at the very least a profession, none of this business of staying at home for a husband and children. But then the years passed and\u2014<\/span>Lord knows<\/span>\u2014she did what she could, but there had been a time when she\u2019d crossed her fingers, touched wood and avoided walking under ladders, <\/span>all so she wouldn\u2019t turn out like Mim\u00ed.<\/span> Mim\u00ed died<\/span><\/i>, Estela had said, <\/span>we won\u2019t have a wake for her, only a brief viewing during the service, before we move on to the crematorium<\/span><\/i>; but later things had turned out differently, playing out in their own way.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

The redemptorist asks everyone to close their eyes<\/span>, to look inward, <\/span>what makes evidence appear in the heart that cannot be bent to one\u2019s will?, <\/span><\/i>she asks. Until that afternoon, i<\/span>t had seemed to Estela that Mim\u00ed was nothing. No one. <\/span>A little animal, that\u2019s what she\u2019d been. She had lived for years in a stupor and before that\u2026 they\u2019d all forgotten what she\u2019d been like before. Now\u2014she saw it clearly\u2014they had become bound to one another. Was that living? Was becoming bound to one another living?<\/span> Dropping the anchor on one\u2019s dreams, on one\u2019s puny life, and always being bound to others?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

This nun has asked them to remember and now Enrique can\u2019t stop; he explains that during the years of easy money,<\/span>3<\/span><\/sup> his father had wanted to sell the land, some land he had inherited, but that one night his mother threw a stack of plates on the floor and screamed that they wouldn\u2019t sell that land over her dead body, and the land was never sold\u2026 <\/span>I was a little boy<\/span><\/i>, he said,<\/span> it scared me<\/span><\/i>\u2026 <\/span>because she was more of a quiet person<\/span><\/i>\u2026 Imagine putting the money from the land in the bank, in the bank!, Estela knows there\u2019d be nothing left of that money now, that they wouldn\u2019t have been able to buy their house or start the pharmacy, or\u2026 , <\/span>quiet<\/span><\/i>, Enrique repeats, <\/span>not submissive, she wasn\u2019t submissive.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

What can we be certain of?, <\/span><\/i>the<\/span> redemptorist<\/span> asked out of nowhere, <\/span>have we ever wondered what we\u2019re certain of when the night comes and we\u2019re left alone with ourselves? And in the morning, what are we certain of? That\u2019s why faith is essential. That\u2019s why we can\u2019t survive without faith.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span> *<\/span> *<\/span><\/p>\n

The redemptorist was speaking with her eyes closed and her words took the form of a hymn and that\u2019s the moment the deceased became much more than a body rotting in the sun. She became a tree. A lone tree in the middle of a swampland. And there were clouds and beams of light between her branches\u2026 Nobody knows what to say at this point. <\/span>In memory, everything gets a second chance, we have to endeavor not to forget, having a beating heart in the present is endeavoring not to forget, <\/span><\/i>Noem\u00ed says. And the past, at that moment, is an animal with its mouth open and the mourners are moles digging caves below the earth, while Mim\u00ed rises above the trees towards the sky, high up, so high up, far away, with her delicate fluttering wings\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Alina Lazar and Anna Evelyn White<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

1<\/span> A <\/span>villa <\/span><\/i>or <\/span>villa miseria <\/span><\/i>is a poor neighborhood characterized by improvised structures and a lack of formal infrastructure, such as paved roads, sewage, and electricity.\u00a0<\/span><\/h6>\n
2<\/span> In Argentina, a matin\u00e9e (or <\/span>matin\u00e9<\/span><\/i>) refers to <\/span>a nightclub party for teenagers, typically aged fourteen to eighteen, held on weekend evenings, usually from around seven p.m. or eight p.m. to midnight, without alcohol<\/span>.\u00a0<\/span><\/h6>\n
3<\/span> Plata dulce <\/span><\/i>(\u201ceasy money\u201d, or literally, \u201csweet money\u201d) is an Argentine expression referring to the economic policies of the late 1970s and early 1980s that led to high speculation, prosperity, and fraud in the financial sector, and the push for consumers to store money in savings accounts. The period was short lived, and was followed by decades of financial instability and crisis. The popular 1982 film <\/span>Plata Dulce <\/span><\/i>captured the ethos of the period.<\/span><\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

Buy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Photo: Dar\u00edo Bonzi, Unsplash.<\/span><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

If the sea had asked people what they wanted her to be they would have made but a muddle of her. \u201cPeter and Rosa\u201d by Isak Dinesen\u00a0   We didn\u2019t arrange a religious service for her, and she was a believer, Estela said. Alicia and Marta looked at each other, then they both looked at […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":46783,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2876],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[5823],"lal_author":[5826],"class_list":["post-47026","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-issue-39","translator-anna-evelyn-white-alina-lazar","lal_author-maria-teresa-andruetto"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47026","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47026"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47026\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47336,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47026\/revisions\/47336"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/46783"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47026"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47026"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47026"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47026"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47026"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47026"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47026"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47026"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47329,"date":"2026-09-19T22:08:19","date_gmt":"2026-09-20T04:08:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47329"},"modified":"2026-09-21T14:59:39","modified_gmt":"2026-09-21T20:59:39","slug":"las-adelantadas","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/las-adelantadas\/","title":{"rendered":"Las adelantadas"},"content":{"rendered":"

Nota del editor: <\/strong>Este texto no es un cuento independiente, sino un fragmento que condensa los cap\u00edtulos iniciales de <\/span><\/i>El pudridero<\/span>, novela en curso de Rafael Gumucio y continuaci\u00f3n de <\/span><\/i>Los parientes pobres<\/span> (2024). En \u00e9l se entrelazan la cr\u00f3nica de la conquista de Chile con la historia de Emilia y Jos\u00e9 Francisco, una pareja contempor\u00e1nea unida por un parentesco inesperado.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pienso en las mujeres de esos hombres que no se casaron nunca: Diego de Almagro, Francisco Pizarro, Gonzalo Pizarro. Y en esos otros, casados pero viviendo como si no lo fueran: Pedro de Valdivia y Hern\u00e1n Cort\u00e9s. Sus casas, sus tardes, sus siestas, sus literas, sus almuerzos, sus sirvientes, sus letrinas, sus hijas sin esposa leg\u00edtima, pero con hijos, y muchos hijos, que reconocen, nombran y a los que heredan sus bienes.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Somos hijos leg\u00edtimos de esos matrimonios bastardos. Descendientes de mujeres est\u00e9riles. Pienso en Ana Mart\u00ednez, la ind\u00edgena paname\u00f1a con quien Diego de Almagro el Viejo tuvo a Diego de Almagro el Mozo. Ni una l\u00ednea en ninguna cr\u00f3nica, diccionario, manuscrito o tesis, en ingl\u00e9s o en castellano, de las que reviso en la biblioteca de la Universidad de Columbia, donde espero que se decida algo que no puedo decidir, que est\u00e1 decidido dentro de m\u00ed. El monstruito o los monstruos que el doctor nos confirm\u00f3. <\/span>No somos hermanos, no podemos ser hermanos Jos\u00e9 Francisco y yo, pensamos los dos en silencio los resultados del test que nos acaba de recitar un doctor que es como la versi\u00f3n jud\u00eda de Pinochet. No somos hermanos pero somos ni\u00f1os, eso si somos ni\u00f1os. Ni\u00f1os que no pueden tener ni\u00f1os. Ni\u00f1os que no pueden penetrar ni\u00f1os, que no pueden ser penetrados por otros ni\u00f1os.<\/span>No puede ser, no puede ser, repetimos. \u00bfPero y si es? S\u00ed, simplemente es. Mis enemigos, mis parientes m\u00e1s pr\u00f3ximos, mis amigos, mis hijos, mis sobrinos.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ana Mart\u00ednez, la amante de Diego de Almagro, la violaron, seguro. Seguro que as\u00ed empez\u00f3 todo, pero luego tuvieron una casa, un hijo. \u00bfEn qu\u00e9 lengua hablaban? Algunas palabras sab\u00eda seguro Diego de Almagro en la lengua \u2014\u00bfmaya?, \u00bfn\u00e1huatl?, \u00bfchibcha?\u2014 que hablaba ella. Algunas palabras sab\u00eda ella de castellano, seguramente tambi\u00e9n. Col\u00f3n dice que habla con los ind\u00edgenas, y los otros cronistas tambi\u00e9n. Dicen tambi\u00e9n que tienen int\u00e9rpretes que muchas veces traducen interesadamente lo que quieren y callan lo que no quieren. Dependen de los traductores, dependen del error, del capricho con que estos inventan, mejoran o callan lo que traducen. La conquista es eso: un enorme malentendido. Uno se entiende cuando no entiende nada. Yo hablo el mismo idioma que Jos\u00e9 Francisco, tengo la misma religi\u00f3n que Jos\u00e9 Francisco, y no entiendo nada de \u00e9l, y \u00e9l no entiende nada de m\u00ed. No entiendo, no entiendo, ni nunca entend\u00ed, y s\u00e9 que nunca voy a entender nada, y no me importa.<\/span><\/p>\n

Estos adelantados, estos conquistadores, estos encomenderos est\u00e1n parados solos en un mundo que no habla su lengua. Pero hay gestos que no necesitan traducci\u00f3n, pienso. Diego de Almagro ha sido mendigo, mozo, soldado; lo han escupido por todos los caminos de La Mancha. No sabe ni leer ni escribir. Lleg\u00f3 aqu\u00ed despu\u00e9s de matar a un hombre en Espa\u00f1a. Ana vio morir a muchos de los suyos desde que Crist\u00f3bal Col\u00f3n tom\u00f3 posesi\u00f3n de esas tierras, antes de ver desesperado c\u00f3mo su barco se lo com\u00eda la broma en los manglares. Sarna y s\u00edfilis, bastonazos y espada son su idioma. Ha vivido en chozas y dormido en el bosque, pero sabe c\u00f3mo se mata, c\u00f3mo se duerme al lado de una fogata, c\u00f3mo se pide que le den pan o ma\u00edz. Y c\u00f3mo atar trapos para llevar cosas en su espalda, y c\u00f3mo encontrar senderos entre las ca\u00f1as.<\/span><\/p>\n

Eso saben los dos: dormir sin techo o con techos fr\u00e1giles de ramas y hojas temblando sobre sus cabezas. Se toman la punta de los dedos, pienso. Sin palabras, se quedan frente a frente, \u00e9l siendo due\u00f1o de ella de cualquier modo, pero al mismo tiempo esperando que le peine la frente, que le abrigue los hombros. Son rudos los dos, o al menos Diego de Almagro es rudo. Abandonado por su padre y su madre, sirve a un t\u00edo suyo, Hern\u00e1n Guti\u00e9rrez, que lo golpea d\u00eda y noche. No aguanta el trato y va donde su madre, a la que le va a pedir un pedazo de pan para sobrevivir: \u201cTan poco que, dado el pan que el vagabundo solicitaba, y algunas monedas para sosegar su conciencia, le dijo: \u201cToma, fijo, e no me des m\u00e1s pasi\u00f3n, e vete e ay\u00fadate Dios a tu ventura\u201d.<\/span><\/p>\n

Expulsado por su madre, despu\u00e9s de andar por los caminos de La Mancha, desierto de calor extremo en verano y fr\u00edo extremo en invierno, se convierte en mozo de Luis Polanco, poderoso consejero de los Reyes Cat\u00f3licos. Piensa que dej\u00f3 atr\u00e1s esas cuevas blancas donde vive gente, esas cuadras y cuadras de polvo donde no crecen ni los cerdos ni la mala hierba, esos valles donde rebotan voces de peregrinos perdidos. Su suerte parece haber cambiado. Polanco lo ayuda y promueve hasta que acuchilla a otro criado en Sevilla. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 pelearon? \u00bfDe qu\u00e9 lo acusaron? \u00bfQu\u00e9 le recordaron? Polanco lo salva de un juicio. Se embarca para Am\u00e9rica para no agravar su caso. Tiene la ventaja sobre otros conquistadores de que sabe que no puede volver a Sevilla, que una vez all\u00e1 le toca la prisi\u00f3n.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Navega d\u00edas y noches olvidando cualquier nombre, cualquier fama que tuvo antes. Llega a Santa Mar\u00eda de Dari\u00e9n despu\u00e9s de pasar por varias islas, y ah\u00ed prospera. Animales, casas. Financia expediciones, es due\u00f1o de esta mujer ind\u00edgena y de la casa en que vive; cuadras de polvo, algunas casas al borde de una selva en que siguen comi\u00e9ndose los jaguares a los inmigrantes venezolanos hasta el d\u00eda de hoy.<\/span><\/p>\n

Almagro no se arriesga. Duerme con Ana Mart\u00ednez, con la que nunca llega a casarse. \u00bfC\u00f3mo la conoci\u00f3? Trato de leer entre l\u00edneas en los documentos. \u00bfC\u00f3mo le dijo que fuera su esposa? No se sabe. No es hija de cacique o de rey; lo dir\u00eda la cr\u00f3nica. Le ponen el nombre m\u00e1s com\u00fan, el apellido m\u00e1s com\u00fan que pueden: Ana Mart\u00ednez. No hay Mart\u00ednez en el \u00e1rbol geneal\u00f3gico que me mand\u00f3 a hacer la t\u00eda Julieta a Julio Retamal Favereau cuando supo la noticia de mi embarazo. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 somos hermanos si no tenemos la misma madre ni el mismo padre? Raramente; ni Fern\u00e1ndez ni L\u00f3pez; s\u00ed Gonz\u00e1lez, s\u00ed Araya, s\u00ed P\u00e9rez, s\u00ed Aguirre en ninguna rama del \u00e1rbol geneal\u00f3gico. Valenzuela en el \u00e1rbol de Jos\u00e9 Francisco, Bola\u00f1os tambi\u00e9n, su L\u00f3pez; ninguno en com\u00fan. Los apellidos cambian de ortograf\u00eda con los siglos, dice Julio Retamal. Mi t\u00edo Mario vio con espanto que dos de sus hijos, de distintas madres, se enamoraban, hasta que una de las madres los calm\u00f3 confesando que ella no era hija de mi t\u00edo. Ninguno de los hijos de mi t\u00edo era, despu\u00e9s de todo, su hijo; se supo despu\u00e9s. Solo embarazadas, sus amantes aceptaban ser sus esposas. Uno de ellos desapareci\u00f3 en la dictadura y nadie \u2014su madre muerta, sus hermanos, que saben que no son sus hermanos\u2014 lo sali\u00f3 a buscar.<\/span><\/p>\n

Escuchan la lluvia juntos Diego de Almagro y Ana Mart\u00ednez. Van a misa los dos. Vuelven de misa los dos. Las lluvias insolentes del Caribe. La iglesia donde los curas lo sermonean por maltratar a los indios, que son la mitad de los feligreses, sus pelos a\u00fan te\u00f1idos de rojo, como lo vi yo desde la moto de Jos\u00e9 Francisco cuando viajamos hacia el sur de Puerto Lim\u00f3n. Las plumas en algunos casos; el humilde sayal que les ponen los monjes; otros con ropa de espa\u00f1oles, soldados y capitanes de su ej\u00e9rcito, escuchando todos en lat\u00edn, que ni indios ni espa\u00f1oles entienden, el ritual de la carne y la sangre que ser\u00e1 perdonado por nosotros, por el perd\u00f3n de los pecados.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ana Mart\u00ednez espera del hombre con el que viven sin palabras. \u00bfC\u00f3mo se lo dice a Diego de Almagro? \u00bfNecesita dec\u00edrselo? Han crecido entre animales que se cruzan y paren sin parar. Saben de ese ritmo, que es el de los \u00e1rboles tambi\u00e9n. No hay m\u00e1s explicaci\u00f3n que esta. Un d\u00eda Ana engorda y Diego sabe, sin decir nada, lo que pasa. La puede repudiar, expulsar, devolverla a la tribu, pero no lo hace. Nace, le pone su nombre: Diego de Almagro. No es su nombre tampoco, es un nombre art\u00edstico: se llama Diego de Montenegro Guti\u00e9rrez, pero, para no confundirse con otro Montenegro o con otro Guti\u00e9rrez, lleva el apellido de su pueblo, en La Mancha, cuando casi todos vienen o de Extremadura o de Andaluc\u00eda. Agrega un \u201cde\u201d a su apellido, que le da un aire de nobleza. Son artistas los conquistadores, eso es lo que no se dice. Pedro de Valdivia, que se llamaba Pedro Guti\u00e9rrez de Valdivia; Hern\u00e1n Cort\u00e9s, que se llamaba Hern\u00e1n Cort\u00e9s de Monroy. Como cantantes de rock o de salsa, eligen sus nombres, su pasado. Eso complica todo el trabajo de los genealogistas, dice Julio Retamal: tres apellidos diferentes pueden venir del mismo conquistador, que puede llamarse, a su vez, de tres maneras distintas. Hernando de Aguirre, del que vienen casi todas las familias de La Serena, puede llamarse de Aguirre, Aguirre, Araya, Toro o incluso Torres.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tiene un hijo Diego de Almagro, le pone su nombre: Diego de Almagro, que todos van a llamar \u201cel Mozo\u201d para distinguirlo del viejo. Porque se hace viejo. Porque ese es el secreto de la conquista del Per\u00fa, o sea, de la de Chile: la hacen hombres viejos. La hacen hombres que ya tienen fortuna en Dari\u00e9n, que podr\u00edan haberse quedado en su casa. Su casa terminada, su hacienda suficiente, un hijo que cuida y alimenta una criada negra, Malgarida, que compr\u00f3 a otro espa\u00f1ol, que puede ser Francisco D\u00edaz, que pas\u00f3 doce ducados a Juan Bibaldo, genov\u00e9s que la compr\u00f3, no se sabe por cu\u00e1nto, a Juan de Fiuco, que la compr\u00f3 pre\u00f1ada por doce mil maraved\u00eds.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00bfLa s\u00edfilis que enloquecer\u00e1 a Diego Almagro en sus \u00faltimos a\u00f1os la contrae abrazado a Ana Mart\u00ednez o a Malgarida? No lo sabemos. Hay muchos documentos, muchas actas, muchos contratos, muchas declaraciones, pero ninguna carta personal, ninguna confesi\u00f3n sentimental. Eso es lo que me espanta y me gusta de esos libros, legajos, microfilms que reviso para olvidar lo que a\u00fan no se mueve en mi vientre. No hay coqueter\u00eda, no hay excusas, no hay perd\u00f3n, no hay novela en los legajos coloniales. Hay culpa, hay cr\u00edmenes, hay santos, hay canallas, pero nadie gimotea, nadie suspira, nadie explica, nadie justifica en las novelas de ahora. No hay mujeres; pocas. No hay \u201cminas\u201d, sobre todo. No hay j\u00f3venes. A Diego de Almagro lo abandonaron al nacer; quiz\u00e1s por eso no abandona a su vez. Su madre hab\u00eda sido prometida de su padre, pero la boda no tuvo lugar, aunque ella qued\u00f3 embarazada igual. La verg\u00fcenza de que la novia no fuese virgen la hizo esconder al hijo que no se casa nunca con Ana Mart\u00ednez, pero reconoce inmediatamente al hijo, al que hace inmediatamente heredero de la empresa de conquista que emprende con otros dos rezagados en Panam\u00e1,<\/span> dos conquistadores t\u00edmidos hasta ahora<\/span>: Francisco Pizarro y el padre Hernando de Luque, que, como Mois\u00e9s ante la tierra prometida, nunca llegar\u00e1 al Per\u00fa.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hay una casa en Santa Mar\u00eda de Dari\u00e9n, pueblo tragado por la selva del que no queda nada, que Diego de Almagro abandona un d\u00eda para tomar un barco y luego, a caballo, bajar por el camino del Inca, conquistar las torres de oro y las ciudades de plata, y el imperio sin fin del que vienen hablando los indios, traductores, yanaconas, primos, hermanos, t\u00edos de Ana Mart\u00ednez, que, sin ser su esposa, es su mujer, lo \u00fanico que se ha parecido alguna vez a una familia en su vida. Esa casa, esa tarde que deja atr\u00e1s, la madre india dando leche a su hijo. \u00bfO es la criada negra quien le da leche al ni\u00f1o? \u00bfAlguna nodriza? \u00bfQu\u00e9 entiende Ana Mart\u00ednez de su vida? \u00bfQu\u00e9 entiende Diego de Almagro de la suya? Ese hijo que ella pare. Eso ordena todo, eso explica.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014Lo podemos devolver \u2014descubre Jos\u00e9 Francisco t\u00edmidamente a la salida de Columbia Hospital.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00bfDevolverlo d\u00f3nde? \u00bfDevolverlo adonde? \u00bfDevolverlo c\u00f3mo?, \u00bfsabemos de d\u00f3nde viene para que podamos devolverlo? \u00bfC\u00f3mo se devuelve eso que no se sabe c\u00f3mo existe, donde existe, eso que no se sabe si existe siquiera?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014Devolver no es la palabra, perdona, me equivoque\u2014vacila Jos\u00e9 Francisco\u2014… no quise decir devolver… lo contrario de devolver \u00bfC\u00f3mo se dice?\u2014sigue trastabillando ante mi silencio que no tiene que decir. \u00bfLo contrario de devolver que es? \u00bfRevolver, volver? Esa arruga que late de m\u00e1s y menos dos cent\u00edmetro en la materia negra, ese pedazo fluorescente que interrumpe la caverna en la ecograf\u00eda, c\u00e9lulas, membranas, anfibio embri\u00f3n.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014Devolver, por favor, no quise decir eso… Las palabras, me fallaron las palabras perdona mi amor. Me equivoco siempre cuando elijo las palabras, quer\u00eda decir otra cosa, lo contrario de devolver… \u2013 Devolver, revolver, volver. Volver a la universidad, a ese barrio en que todos son estudiantes o ancianos, nos ha vuelto ni\u00f1os de nuevo a Jos\u00e9 Francisco y a m\u00ed, pienso. Columbia Hospital, Columbia University, Colombia pa\u00eds, parte de la gran Colombia, Col\u00f3n, <\/span>Columbus Circus, la universidad en que no termino de empezar mi doctorado en c\u00f3digos, jurisprudencias, bulas, sermones y c\u00e1nones de cuando los espa\u00f1oles llegaron Am\u00e9rica he hicieron con las locales que son nuestros ancestros comunes a Jos\u00e9 Francisco y a m\u00ed.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Malgarida llega a Chile sin \u00f3vulos que fecundar, como llegara luego In\u00e9s de Suarez la amante de Pedro de Valdivia y Marina Ortiz de Gaete la esposa del mismo. Est\u00e9ril, viejas, menop\u00e1usicas las tres madres de Chile. Ni un hijo que parir. Es la patria est\u00e9ril, el pa\u00eds al que se va con la amante. Claudia Cardinale cuando se baja del tren en \u201c\u00c9rase una vez en el Oeste\u201d. C\u00f3mo camina por el pueblo en construcci\u00f3n, el ruido, los caballos, el polvo, su perfecto cuerpo, su sorpresa a cada paso. Es evidente: los <\/span>westerns<\/span><\/i> son la historia no contada de la conquista. <\/span>Spaghetti western<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>western<\/span><\/i> cat\u00f3lico (los de John Ford son cat\u00f3licos, pero cat\u00f3licos irlandeses).<\/span><\/p>\n

Claudia Cardinale atraviesa el barro, las planchas de madera de unas calles que no existen, hasta que llega a la casa de su prometido, con el que se cas\u00f3 por cartas. Llega levantando las polleras, espantada, pero tranquila, a la casa que le prometieron, para encontrarse con los cad\u00e1veres del que tendr\u00eda que ser su marido y sus hijos, acostados sobre unas mesas a la vista de todos. Su nueva vida, muerta ante sus ojos antes de empezar. Claudia Cardinale, que, violada por Henry Fonda, recuerda la prostituta que fue y goza y hace gozar para alargar su vida, como la profesional que es.<\/span><\/p>\n

In\u00e9s Suarez que Pedro de Valdivia casa con unos de sus lugartenientes para acallar el esc\u00e1ndalo de su \u201camancebamiento\u201d. La esposa oficial Marina Ortiz de Gaete que llega a Chile para que le informen que el marido ha muerto devorado por los indios.\u00bfE In\u00e9s Mu\u00f1oz, que se encarg\u00f3 de los hijos de In\u00e9s Huaylas, la princesa inca que casaron con Francisco Pizarro? \u00bfY la concubina de Atahualpa, Angelina, con la que tambi\u00e9n casaron Francisco Pizarro y sus primas, casadas a la fuerza con Gonzalo Pizarro? Todo se enreda, todos son hermanos de todos en el Cuzco cuando llegan los hermanos Pizarro, que no tuvieron ning\u00fan hijo que no fuera mitad inca y ninguna esposa que no fueran esas concubinas de sangre real de Atahualpa, su v\u00edctima.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pienso en Malgarida, que algunos llaman Margarita, la \u00fanica mujer en la expedici\u00f3n de Diego de Almagro. La primera mujer no ind\u00edgena que pisa tierra chilena. La expedici\u00f3n es una enorme columna de infinitos kil\u00f3metros. Una sola l\u00ednea de cabezas, de mulas, de caballos. Pocos caballos, que no paran de morirse; llamas, alpacas. Cabezas, muchas cabezas de indios amigos que aparecen y desaparecen en el camino sin dar explicaciones. Los espa\u00f1oles no pillan a nadie por sorpresa en su expedici\u00f3n; todos saben que vienen. Sus v\u00edveres, sus curas, sus avanzadas, sus animales y sus hombres, muertos de hambre, los preceden. En la avanzada, Pablo Inca, el hijo de Manco C\u00e1pac, y el sacerdote Villaq Umu, encargados de advertir de su llegada y recoger el suficiente oro para que Diego de Almagro no sospeche que es una trampa, un error, una estafa, la muerte que lo espera desde que es el hijo del copero de La Mancha al que su propia madre mand\u00f3 a mendigar lejos, al fin del mundo.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00bfDuerme con Malgarida Diego de Almagro, el Viejo, en los tambos incas en que solo caben los espa\u00f1oles? Descansan cuando ya no tienen aire. Escuchan riachuelos que no ven. Preguntan a los indios por qu\u00e9 se escapan y no responden. Preguntan qu\u00e9 hay m\u00e1s all\u00e1. Se instalan unos d\u00edas en oasis. Sus perros, los primeros perros que ladran en esos valles, buscan cuyes que devorar. Llega la noche. Las estrellas tan pr\u00f3ximas en el cielo de la cordillera, a tajo abierto. Malgarida, o Margarita como la llaman otras cr\u00f3nicas, que se abriga y abriga al hombre que la compr\u00f3 a su due\u00f1o anterior en Panam\u00e1. El hielo recorre el tambo. Piensan que no van a aguantar la noche, pero aguantan, aunque tienen apenas ramas con que alimentar el fuego. Al otro d\u00eda, un mensajero: un grupo de espa\u00f1oles que mand\u00f3 antes, masacrados sin piedad. La fortuna gastada de Diego de Almagro desgastada en la partida infinita, la larga l\u00ednea de indios y esclavos negros, y caballos muertos, zapatos congelados que se quedan con los pies de los que los llevan. Y la impresi\u00f3n cierta de que se adentra en una trampa, que lo alejan del Cuzco para que no pueda proteger all\u00e1 sus intereses, sus tierras, sus animales, sus t\u00edtulos, que quieren con igual af\u00e1n los incas y los Pizarro.<\/span><\/p>\n

Otra noche. Las estrellas tan cerca que da miedo, que da asco, que da v\u00e9rtigo. Malgarida, que duerme entre los cuerpos de los soldados que intentan, como pueden, juntarse para no morir de fr\u00edo. Los rugbistas uruguayos que se devoraron entre s\u00ed, que antes durmieron entre los restos de su avi\u00f3n, pienso. Chile tiene ese precio: comerse el cad\u00e1ver de tus amigos. Se llega a Chile cuando ya no tienes fuerza para llegar a ning\u00fan lugar m\u00e1s. La nieve y las monta\u00f1as y las estrellas, que debieron verse tan cerca, tan apretadas en el cielo, como las vio el Adelantado, el Mariscal, como lo llama Diego de Rosales, el jesuita que leo.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hace fr\u00edo y demasiado calor en los valles por los que bajan los que siguen la senda que dejaron los incas. Su nuevo gu\u00eda, el \u00abDesorejado\u00bb, Gonzalo Calvo de Barrientos, un soldado espa\u00f1ol que hab\u00eda perdido las orejas cuando los Pizarro se las cortaron por robo. Una enorme venda rodeando su cara, obligado a huir de entre los espa\u00f1oles, caminando por la costa miles de kil\u00f3metros hasta convertirse en uno m\u00e1s de los indios del valle del Aconcagua. \u00c9l y su socio en el crimen y la huida, Ant\u00f3n Cerrada, que encontr\u00f3 una casa y unas esposas en lo que hoy es Conchal\u00ed. Esos dos, los primeros chilenos, dos forajidos sin ley que se hacen indios, pero que recuerdan que son espa\u00f1oles cuando llega Almagro y traducen, esta vez, en buen espa\u00f1ol y buen quechua \u2014o lo que hablaran los ind\u00edgenas del valle\u2014. Y saben de repente que no son bienvenidos, que de repente los van a matar a todos.<\/span><\/p>\n

Y el Desorejado, que le aconseja a Almagro irse, que decide irse con \u00e9l a pesar de los hijos, la casa y la cosecha que acumul\u00f3 en su nueva tierra. Y Almagro que ordena la partida cuando, m\u00e1s al sur, la expedici\u00f3n que mand\u00f3 volvi\u00f3 diezmada y asustada por la lluvia de flechas. Diego de Almagro, que, temeroso siempre de que lo traicionaran, quema en una noche a treinta caciques, cada uno amarrado a un poste. Esa noche iluminada por los cuerpos de los caciques. Sus gritos, el olor de su carne quemada, los otros indios aterrados mirando el espect\u00e1culo. Almagro sin escuchar un solo ruego. \u00bfMalgarida que pensara? \u00bfQu\u00e9 habr\u00e1 dicho? Ha visto cosas terribles: la muerte de Atahualpa y de todo su s\u00e9quito. Pero esos gritos, esas llamas. Y Felipillo, su traductor, con el que hab\u00eda viajado de norte a sur de Ecuador y Per\u00fa, que de pronto arranca sin avisar. Felipillo, que corre y corre desesperado sobre la nieve, un solo punto negro en medio del glaciar, cuenta la cr\u00f3nica. Uno de los pocos detalles de color en la cr\u00f3nica de Crist\u00f3bal de Molina: una mancha en la nieve que corre y corre desesperada.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Felipillo, que pierde sus fuerzas en la nieve. Felipillo, torturado hasta que confesara que traduc\u00eda mal, a prop\u00f3sito, los dichos de Atahualpa cuando, preso en Cajamarca, depend\u00eda de sus palabras. Felipillo, que confiesa tambi\u00e9n que estaba enamorado de una de las concubinas (\u00bfcu\u00e1ntas eran? \u00bfVeinte? \u00bfTreinta?) de Atahualpa, y confiesa que por eso hizo lo posible para que lo mataran. Atadas sus manos y sus pies a distintas cuerdas, que tiran distintos caballos hacia los cuatro puntos cardinales, separando de su tronco los miembros, colgados a la orilla de distintos caminos para advertir lo que les suceder\u00eda a los traidores Y la historia de doce indios atados a la misma cadena, que van muriendo de a poco hasta que el espa\u00f1ol que los empuja por el desierto decide decapitar al \u00faltimo para no darse el trabajo de sacarle la cadena.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Esa informaci\u00f3n precisa y terrible que los propios espa\u00f1oles que marchan con esos criminales, que comparten su pan, que batallan con ellos, cuentan al rey, a la reina, sin que los censuren del todo. No me importa la historia, me importa mi historia, la que tengo en el vientre, que no siento: solo mucha sed, solo ir mucho al ba\u00f1o a mear. Solo vaciarme para que haya hueco dentro de m\u00ed para los monstruos.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Castigando a todos los indios que puede y a los espa\u00f1oles que quieren amotinarse con ellos, llega Diego de Almagro vuelve al Cuzco: \u201cLos rotos de Chile\u201d lo llaman. La ropa ajada, la piel reseca, los caballos reemplazados por mulas, las mulas por sus pies, que perdieron la mitad de sus dedos en la helada. \u201cMuera el Roto Quezada\u201d, escrito en los muros de Pelotillehue, en <\/span>Condorito<\/span><\/i>. La estatua del roto chileno en la playa Yungay. <\/span>Diego de Almagro, que va de fracaso en fracaso tratando de levantar contra Pizarro al resto de los espa\u00f1oles. La batalla de Salinas. Almagro, que pierde la batalla y suplica por su vida a Hernando Pizarro, el hermano mayor de Francisco, su socio. Diego de Almagro, que, seg\u00fan el cronista Pedro Cieza de Le\u00f3n, \u201cEn la c\u00e1rcel, pidi\u00f3 confesi\u00f3n y, tras recibirla, fue estrangulado. Su cuerpo fue sacado a la plaza y decapitado p\u00fablicamente\u201d.<\/span><\/p>\n

Decapitado despu\u00e9s de muerto, al centro de una plaza del Cuzco. Su esclava liberada, Malgarida, recogiendo los pedazos. Uniendo por primera vez la cabeza al cuerpo de su amante, que fue antes su amo. Diego de Almagro, que le dio su libertad en herencia. Los incas, que miran el espect\u00e1culo sin saber qu\u00e9 decir. Los espa\u00f1oles, que tampoco saben qu\u00e9 hacer o decir ante la paciencia con que la esclava liberta reconstruye el cuerpo de su amado.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014Ya no puedo ser un ni\u00f1o\u2014me explica Jos\u00e9 Francisco\u2014, aunque quisiera. \u00bfTe das cuenta? Tenemos que ser adultos t\u00fa y yo ahora. Tenemos que tomar decisiones aunque nos duelan. Perdona, yo entiendo el shock, la noticia. Yo quiz\u00e1s lo dije mal con eso de devolver. Quizas yo tampoco reaccione bien, pero luego pens\u00e9, he estado pensando todo este tiempo. Pensando como un adulto. Es doloroso pero tenemos que hacer eso, pensar como adultos los dos. Pensar en lo que es lo mejor para los dos. Entiendo que no puedas ahora por eso pienso por los dos.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014\u00bfPara qu\u00e9?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014\u00bfC\u00f3mo para qu\u00e9? Esas preguntas que haces tu a veces. Esas cosas que dice, es eso. Ese es el problema tu no piensas como nadie m\u00e1s en el mundo. Es lo que me gusta de ti pero no puede ser. El test, t\u00fa no eres para m\u00ed y yo no soy para ti.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014\u00bfPara qu\u00e9?\u2014repito no para molestarlo sino porque no se me ocurre ninguna pregunta m\u00e1s, aunque esa tampoco se me ocurre, aunque esa solo la repito para repetir algo, para no que<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014\u00bfPara qu\u00e9 qu\u00e9? Tu no quieres entender. Con lo brillante que eres, con todo lo que sabes. No quieres ver lo que todo el mundo ve. Las cosas m\u00ednimas. Yo te quiero, pero no eres responsable. No puede ser ahora, \u00bflo ves? Alguna vez, yo s\u00e9 que con el tiempo, que otra situaci\u00f3n t\u00fa y yo s\u00ed…Eres lo m\u00e1s maravilloso que me ha pasado nunca, pero no se puede. No eres t\u00fa, no soy yo…<\/span><\/p>\n

Y como si hubiese recibido una bofetada en el centro mismo de la cara se fue separando de m\u00ed hacia su lado de la vereda de Columbus Avenue. De a poco al principio, a grandes pasos despu\u00e9s, volviendo su cara hacia mi cada cierto tiempo para asegurarse que segu\u00eda ah\u00ed, que no hab\u00eda desaparecido, que hab\u00eda existido alguna vez, que alguna vez hab\u00eda sido real.<\/span><\/p>\n

Y Diego de Almagro el Mozo, el hijo al que Pizarro jura conservar la vida el t\u00edtulo de gobernador de Nueva Toledo despu\u00e9s que su padre termin\u00f3 decapitado en esa plaza del Cuzco. Es piedad impensable de esos hombres con sus hijos y los hijos de sus enemigos. Asesinos de multitudes, crueles capitanes que no desheredan nunca a sus bastardos, que los casan con otras princesas deshonradas.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Diego de Almagro el Mozo y sus amigos que todos conocen como \u201clos caballeros de la capa\u201d porque tienen una sola capa que se turnan para ir a mendigar por la Cuidad de los Reyes (actual Lima).\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLos caballeros de la capa\u201d que esperan miserables y olvidados alguna falla de los Pizarros, para\u00a0 matar al marqu\u00e9s, a Pizarro a palo. La rebeli\u00f3n que no puede salir bien porque los hombres de Pizarro se unen contra Diego de Almagro el Mozo que solo tiene 20 a\u00f1os y quiere ser el nuevo Inca. Diego de Almagro Martinez, \u00bfQu\u00e9 recuerda de su madre, de Panam\u00e1, la lluvia de all\u00e1, la casa de Dari\u00e9n? Es hijo de su padre solo, acompa\u00f1ado por Malgredida que es lo m\u00e1s cercano que tiene a una madre.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mata a sus ayudantes que se asesinan entre ellos. Intenta una batalla en que El ca\u00f1onero apunta mal, Almagro el Mozo sospecha de traici\u00f3n lo mata ah\u00ed mismo. Mueren 500 espa\u00f1oles de los pocos cientos que habitaban el Per\u00fa. Otra emboscada hasta que Diego de Almagro el Mozo que es condenado a la misma pena que su padre.<\/span><\/p>\n

Y Malgerida que de nuevo une la cabeza y el cuerpo del hombre que am\u00f3. Y Malgerida que de nuevo envuelve de una sola manta de lino el cad\u00e1ver del que sin ser su hijo, fue su hijo. Y Malgerida que de nuevo hace que Diego de Almagro, otro y el mismo Diego Almagro, sea un solo cuerpo y lo entierra en el mismo subsuelo que su padre del monasterio de la Merced del Cuzco, reserv\u00e1ndose para ella, gast\u00e1ndose toda la fortuna que le dejaron el padre y el hijo, un lugar para ella entre los dos decapitados que amo.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a1Compra libros de los autores y traductores incluidos en este n\u00famero en nuestra p\u00e1gina de Bookshop!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Foto: Kirk Cameron, Unsplash.<\/span><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Nota del editor: Este texto no es un cuento independiente, sino un fragmento que condensa los cap\u00edtulos iniciales de El pudridero, novela en curso de Rafael Gumucio y continuaci\u00f3n de Los parientes pobres (2024). En \u00e9l se entrelazan la cr\u00f3nica de la conquista de Chile con la historia de Emilia y Jos\u00e9 Francisco, una pareja […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":47617,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2876],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[],"lal_author":[5822],"class_list":["post-47329","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-issue-39","lal_author-rafael-gumucio"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47329","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47329"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47329\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47568,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47329\/revisions\/47568"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/47617"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47329"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47329"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47329"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47329"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47329"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47329"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47329"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47329"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47014,"date":"2026-09-19T21:49:27","date_gmt":"2026-09-20T03:49:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47014"},"modified":"2026-09-21T09:11:06","modified_gmt":"2026-09-21T15:11:06","slug":"pig","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/pig\/","title":{"rendered":"Pig"},"content":{"rendered":"

1<\/span><\/p>\n

Outside Necker Hospital, I watched him taking the stairs two at a time, bolting through rooms of deformed babies. When he whispered in my ear, in a deafening Paris bar, that he was expecting a baby with some other woman, but that it had been an accident, we weren\u2019t an \u201cus\u201d yet, I hadn\u2019t even laid a finger on him, I was living a bourgeois, almost monogamous life. After the delivery, I went to see him at his place and he was grilling sausages on a barbecue out on a terracotta terrace, and his baby hadn\u2019t been diagnosed yet but was already wailing and gasping for air. I stared at his walk-in closet, his coats, their ski boots dumped in a pile by the door, and the papers welding their names together, taxes, documents. He had no history of killing a dog, as he would later do, his clothes were immaculate; the necklaces, brushes, and suitcases shared with his wife. He hadn\u2019t smashed any windows, hadn\u2019t crashed a car yet, no massacre on my hands, no shredded clothes, no bloody ass. In the hospital we paced through the hanging gardens, hands not yet locked together, tongues still untasted, eyes still set right in their sockets. Recalling this now is like dragging turtles out of the water by the scruff. The babies wailed in turmoil, unable to slurp, like helpless pups. In every pitch-black room, one of them. In every box, one: a macabre surprise. I tracked on the calendar the time that had passed since that day to see exactly when the fever broke out. And how passion always surges up from the pitch-dark, just like sea monsters.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

2<\/span><\/p>\n

Death can be in a bottle tossed onto the subway tracks, in an umbrella stand, on a Roman bridge over a swollen river. Ours was a passion like Anna Akhmatova\u2019s, exactly seventeen months without moving a single centimeter from the line at the Moscow prisons to see her beloved prisoner, Stalin never gave him back, she hanged herself right there, was cut down and swept away by a clerk. Stories of passion must be told even if through the words of another, words always belong to someone else, we speak and we die without ever having said a thing.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

3<\/span><\/p>\n

The first time we kissed was the first night we saw each other under an extinguished sky, we\u2019d dined in some bar on rue Oberkampf, passing Arabs telling him to ask for my hand. We\u2019re already married, we explained. But I can love two men at the same time \/ but I can love two women at once, we said. First we hammered each other with glasses of alcohol. There was already the precedent of having seen each other at a wedding, of having danced, so tall we were, so dazzling we were in the window crystals, in a wandering at the edge of a lake like a portrait, in the skylights. And the first kiss arrived without witnesses, in that cellar, but places do not exist, lights do not exist and upon stepping out, his wife\u2019s demands on the phone, the first insults, the defeated and hallucinatory rhetoric of jealousy, me sprawled on the pavement and his wife saying that we were exchanging inflamed words and him explaining that no, where did she get that from, that he was working in the ambulance dispatch, denying me right to my face while looking at me wild with delirium. The Parisian tow truck had taken his car. To take a taxi that September night\u2014now lost who knows where\u2014a taxi to make us fly to the city\u2019s impound lot. To make us fly through the air to perdition. At the traffic office he paid for the car behind some bars. I want you, he screamed, I want you, clutching the bars like a monkey. I want you I want you but he wasn\u2019t crazy yet. And then he drove back at top speed. Seething. Without identity. Without stopping at a single traffic light, without respecting a single sign, and that was when he killed a black dog limping on the road, but he kept right on going, with no other horizon than the sky tearing itself away in his path.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

4<\/span><\/p>\n

Avenue Hoche. Royal Monceau. He hadn\u2019t seen me, though we had both arrived. An unbearable first step in the lobby. The elevator was assaulted by two obnoxiously loud Americans and my emotion was infected. I headed for the grand staircase. The elderly watching me. They know what they lost, the old ones behind lustful doors smelling the heat of the other guests. Chambre 1311. In four hours this place will no longer exist. It will be scalded. One last rapid look at the crystal chandeliers and the paintings. My eyes dangling from his eyes. It was compulsive. Reaching for his heart above my head. It was mine. Several thousand kilometers of travel to own that heart. The sludge of lava in an active volcano. Like the screams of children in night terrors after a bus crash.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

5<\/span><\/p>\n

Handprints branded on the wallpaper. That\u2019s how we spent the hours, lighting and burning out lamps. This is passion, I said, inside a German bathtub, like a chant in another language, like a motorcycle trip down savage roads. Yesterday my wife heard your name in my sleep, but I spoke in your tongue, Spanish, and she didn\u2019t understand a damn thing. She put on her boots to go outside and burn bushes that were not meant to be liquidated, and she nearly burned down the house, the cat, the dog, her daughter in her chair, and <\/span>his <\/span><\/i>wife. And all those hours shifting room bed body. That immense ghost, the Alhambra by night. A grave under stalks and dirt like a homicidal passion. We had been born lipless and we grew them when we kissed. Madrid, London, Berlin, Prague, Bruges, Valencia, Granada, Giverny, Crozon, Le Mont St Michel, Honfleur, Deauville, Tr\u00e9auville, and Madrid again. I wondered what would happen if, sprawled here now mid-resuscitation, he found out. That was the scene. Him finding out about my death, about the four hours of attempted resuscitation. So I would leave without knowing what he had said, what he would do the hour after the news, the next night, that summer, the first Christmas, and I would die insane.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

6<\/span><\/p>\n

Jealousy is a child destined for experiments, prostrate and naked, his eyes injected with typhus. Jealousy is white cows and a retard trying to graze them. Shedding desire to gain time. Like a mystic who flings himself onto the tiles to cool down and levitate, but he is erect and cannot. Desire is always there like the edge of a ravine, men have always sucked each other everywhere, on the hills and the pyramids, in the Roman circus, they gnawed on the cerebellum in mouthfuls. Where are you that you don\u2019t answer? I bequeath you my dirtiest thoughts and my most sacred declamations. Call me. Right now in this waiting I am a dead woman after death.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

7<\/span><\/p>\n

I am the soul of Caesar in a woman\u2019s body, I smash myself against the fence but I don\u2019t see my blood. You stopped answering, you vanished. How many times the door stood ajar and I didn\u2019t see it. How many times the sky of the free shone outside to be seized, to plunge into the highway verges and become a drifter or a beggar. Desire is pathetic, right now I can\u2019t even look myself in the eye, turned into a fanatic, into a laughingstock. And you still won\u2019t show up? I see your shadow in the house and I hunt it through every room, I float, clutching your shadow, I rape it. He was with a killer and he didn\u2019t realize it. I didn\u2019t realize it either, what a joke. Now I\u2019m going out to hunt you down. You\u2019ll be a pig with its brains blown out.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Miaad Banki<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Buy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Photo: Jp Valery, Unspash.<\/span><\/h6>\n
\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

1 Outside Necker Hospital, I watched him taking the stairs two at a time, bolting through rooms of deformed babies. When he whispered in my ear, in a deafening Paris bar, that he was expecting a baby with some other woman, but that it had been an accident, we weren\u2019t an \u201cus\u201d yet, I hadn\u2019t […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":46773,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2876],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[5828],"lal_author":[5819],"class_list":["post-47014","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-issue-39","translator-miaad-banki","lal_author-ariana-harwicz"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47014","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47014"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47014\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47577,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47014\/revisions\/47577"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/46773"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47014"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47014"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47014"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47014"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47014"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47014"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47014"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47014"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47009,"date":"2026-09-19T20:15:51","date_gmt":"2026-09-20T02:15:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47009"},"modified":"2026-09-19T21:07:09","modified_gmt":"2026-09-20T03:07:09","slug":"jaws-tiburon-translated-by-dora-prieto-and-daniela-rodriguez-chevalier","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/jaws-tiburon-translated-by-dora-prieto-and-daniela-rodriguez-chevalier\/","title":{"rendered":"JAWS [tibur\u00f3n], translated by Dora Prieto and Daniela Rodr\u00edguez Chevalier"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u201cSomething in my name turns me into a fish under attack,\u201d says Jaws: shark, worker, spectacle. This award-winning poetry collection collapses the distance between sea and office, aquarium and classroom, factory and vacation resort, resum\u00e9 and body under attack. <\/span><\/i>JAWS<\/span> is a book about water, breath, and suffocation, about work that disciplines the body, about survival under glass. Through (mis)translation, documentary fragments, and cinematic archive, these poems reveal how capital renders certain lives expendable, human and non-human alike. Fierce, darkly funny, and formally restless, <\/span><\/i>JAWS<\/span> insists on the shark not as monster, but as mirror… swimming, working, alive and curious about where meaning breaks down across languages, worlds, and personas… and what lurks in the waters between.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jaws<\/i><\/b>. La pel\u00edcula<\/b><\/p>\n

Los tiburones siempre mueren en las pel\u00edculas. La vida es una pel\u00edcula. <\/span>Jaws<\/span><\/i> es un anglicismo adoptado por toda una generaci\u00f3n de nadadores, de hombres que nadan, dir\u00eda Viel Temperley, tambi\u00e9n de origen ingl\u00e9s. En espa\u00f1ol se pronuncia como si se tratara de un desdoblamiento de la personalidad \/Yos\/. Pero esto no lo sab\u00eda, s\u00f3lo que algunas bestias tienen m\u00e1s dientes que otras. Y dentar significa asirse al mundo, a lo mordido, al oc\u00e9ano carioso, procarioso, jard\u00edn de sal. De ah\u00ed vengo. Como el tibur\u00f3n blanco de Amity Island, Universal Studios. De ah\u00ed.<\/span><\/p>\n

Spielberg no s\u00f3lo cont\u00f3 un mal d\u00eda de un gran tibur\u00f3n blanco, sino tambi\u00e9n del escualo cola negra, tibur\u00f3n gata, tibur\u00f3n linterna, tibur\u00f3n linterna vientre de terciopelo, tibur\u00f3n cigarro, tibur\u00f3n noche de domingo sin tele por cable, tibur\u00f3n probeta, tibur\u00f3n imprenta, tibur\u00f3n coj\u00edn, tibur\u00f3n cacharro, tibur\u00f3n ciclot\u00edmico, gatibur\u00f3n, tibur\u00f3n m\u00e1quina, mako, yo… Todos reflejados en el ojo met\u00e1lico de un robot en Hollywood. Y una alberca. Su mar era una alberca, su entorno era una alberca, su muerte: apenas un charco. Tibur\u00f3n de utiler\u00eda. Es m\u00e1s f\u00e1cil morir ahogado en la bah\u00eda o en una tina de ba\u00f1o. En cualquier lugar con agua. En un vaso. Todo es agua. Esto es agua. El agua es una pel\u00edcula. La vida es una pel\u00edcula. Y en ella siempre se muere, alguien se muere. Casi siempre nosotros. Yos.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jaws<\/i><\/b>. The Movie<\/b><\/p>\n

Sharks always die in movies. Life is a movie. <\/span>Jaws<\/span><\/i> is an Anglicism adopted by an entire generation of swimmers, of men who swim, <\/span>de hombres que nadan<\/span><\/i>, as Viel Temperley would say, also of English origin. In Spanish <\/span>Jaws<\/span><\/i> is pronounced as if it were the plural of <\/span>I<\/span><\/i>, a splitting of the personality \/Yos\/. But this I did not know, only that some beasts have more teeth than others. And to tooth means to cling to the world, to the bitten, to the cavity-filled ocean, prokaryotic, garden of salt. That\u2019s where I\u2019m from. Like the white shark from Amity Island, Universal Studios. From there.<\/span><\/p>\n

Spielberg not only told the story of a bad day for a great white shark, but also of the blacktip reef shark, catshark, lantern shark, velvet-belly lantern shark, cigar shark, Sunday night with no cable TV shark, test tube shark, imprint shark, cushion shark, rust-bucket shark, moody shark, kittyshark, machine shark, mako, me… All reflected in a robot\u2019s metallic eye in Hollywood. And a pool. His sea was a pool, his environment was a pool, his death: barely a puddle. Prop shark. It\u2019s easier to drown in the bay or in a bathtub. Anywhere with water. In a glass. Everything is water. This is water. Water is a movie. Life is a movie. And in it, there\u2019s always death, someone always dies. Almost always us. Yos.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A Shark in Chacala<\/b><\/p>\n

Jaws es otro. Jaws soy yo y mis hermanos, embriones muertos en el vientre de mi madre, embriones engullidos por m\u00ed. Jaws es otro. Mand\u00edbula de pl\u00e1stico o hueso olvidada en un librero o al fondo de las aguas, \u00bfqu\u00e9 m\u00e1s da? Siempre sola. Con polvo o con plancton. Con o sin dientes. Jaws significa que hay otra cosa que no me dicen, que no entiendo, algo. Otra lengua. Algo en mi nombre me vuelve pez asediado, perseguido, blanco de arp\u00f3n, pez de utiler\u00eda, pez muerto, a 58 pesos el kilo. En esta cinta siempre muere el tibur\u00f3n. Tambi\u00e9n en el resto. La vida es una pel\u00edcula. Pero el tibur\u00f3n sigue: ni un tanque de gas, ni cables el\u00e9ctricos, ni la basura, ni Melville, ni Darwin, ni Spielberg han acabado con \u00e9l.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A Shark in Chacala<\/b><\/p>\n

Jaws is another. Jaws is me and my siblings, dead embryos in my mother\u2019s womb, embryos gobbled by me. Jaws is another. Jaw made of plastic or bone, forgotten in a bookcase or in the watery depths. What difference does it make? Always alone. With dust or with plankton. With or without teeth. Jaws means there\u2019s something else they won\u2019t tell me, that I don\u2019t understand, something. Another language. Something in my name turns me into a fish under attack, pursued, harpoon target, prop fish, dead fish, at 58 pesos per kilo. In this film the shark always dies. In the rest, too. Life is a movie. But the shark continues on: not a gas tank, nor electric cables, nor garbage, nor Melville, nor Darwin, nor Spielberg have finished him off.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Curr\u00edculum Vitae<\/b><\/p>\n

Yo soy Jaws y esto es agua \/ para t\u00e9 o caf\u00e9 \/ agua que se bebe en los profundos edificios \/ cafeteras \/ de un bot\u00f3n saldr\u00e1 la leche \/ de soya \/ de almendra \/ de coco \/ no de vaca \/ de \u00e9sa he vaciado camiones enteros al mar \/ hace mucho \/ camiones cargados de queso \/ jocoque \/ panela \/ reques\u00f3n \/ crema buen\u00edsima \/ productos l\u00e1cteos jaliscienses \/ de primera calidad \/ arrojados al Pac\u00edfico \/ porque de lo bueno poco \/ y como usted sabe, hay que devaluar \/ Se\u00f1or.<\/span><\/p>\n

El agua \/ sobre todo el agua \/ blanca gasolina en taza negra \/ todo es blanco y tambi\u00e9n es negro \/ como un oficio \/ blanco y negro \/ como el ocio y el empleo \/ como vaca \/ orca \/ panda \/ cebra \/ como su d\u00e1lmata corriendo hacia las olas \/ Se\u00f1or.<\/span><\/p>\n

Entiendo que esto es agua \/ y trabajo \/ pulcro y buen trabajo \/ manso trabajo para un pobre tibur\u00f3n \/ de camisa hecha por su madre \/ m\u00e1quina Singer \/ una madre que fuma cigarros \/ Del Prado o Carmencita \/ uno tras otro \/ sus ni\u00f1os nadando alrededor del humo \/ con breves quemaduras \/ sin importancia.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tambi\u00e9n he servido \/ en un hostal \/ y repartido baguettes \/ porque los tiburones somos \u00fatiles \/ en el \u00e1rea del turismo \/ pagan por vernos trabajar \/ huir, digamos \/ y tras nosotros funcionan barcos y tripulaciones \/ redes en movimiento \/ la cacer\u00eda de mi cuerpo es el trabajo de alguien \/ Se\u00f1or.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pero tambi\u00e9n leo pruebas: s\u00f3lo le pido una oportunidad.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Curriculum Vitae<\/b><\/p>\n

I am Jaws and this is water \/ for tea or coffee \/ water you drink in deep buildings \/ coffee makers \/ press a button and milk comes out \/ soy \/ almond \/ coconut \/ not cow\u2019s \/ I\u2019ve emptied whole truckloads of that into the sea \/ long ago \/ truckloads of cheese \/ jocoque \/ panela \/ reques\u00f3n \/ really amazing cream \/ Jalisco dairy products \/ top quality \/ thrown into the Pacific \/ because \/ good things in small doses \/ and as you know, we must create scarcity \/ Sir.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Water \/ especially water \/ white gasoline in black cup \/ all is white and also black \/ like a job \/ black and white \/ like leisure and employment \/ like a cow \/ orca \/ panda \/ zebra \/ like your Dalmatian running towards the waves \/ Sir.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I understand that this is water \/ and work \/ neat and good work \/ meek work for a poor shark \/ with a shirt made by his mother \/ Singer machine \/ a mother who smokes cigarettes \/ Del Prado or Carmencita \/ one after another \/ her children swimming around smoke \/ with brief burns \/ unimportant.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve also served \/ in a hostel \/ and delivered baguettes \/ because we sharks are useful \/ in the tourism industry \/ they pay to see us work \/ run away, let\u2019s say \/ and behind us they run boats and crews \/ moving nets \/ the hunt for my body is someone\u2019s job \/ Sir.<\/span><\/p>\n

But I also proofread: I\u2019m just asking for a chance.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

IR\u00c9 AL GRANO: mi vida es dental; mi mand\u00edbula, retr\u00e1ctil. Quince hileras de dientes, mudas de dientes cada dos semanas, filas intercambiables, que corren en mi hueso dislocado, desfilan, avanzan, retroceden, \u00a1hacen olas! Un promedio de veinte mil dientes a lo largo de mi vida. Promociones, incorporaciones, p\u00e9rdidas. Mi vida es dental. La naturaleza, ese ogro, sacando u\u00f1as en enc\u00edas, y yo poniendo nombres. Todos mis peque\u00f1os juntos, hijos nacidos de m\u00ed, de mi carne, entre mi carne, frenes\u00ed alimenticio. Todos juntos con ese otro hombre dental, cuya vida tambi\u00e9n es calc\u00e1rea y dolorosa y apegada al alimento perecedero de la carne o el plancton o las algas o la uva o el dinero. O la carne. Cuando lo miro embrocado sobre m\u00ed, est\u00e1 disminuido. Me gusta saber que con mi dolor de dientes no estoy m\u00e1s solo que ese otro hombre dental, con sus caninos, de porcelana, que pasan las noches en un vaso. Los m\u00edos velan en el mar e inspiran libros que dicen: \u201cEl gran pez se mov\u00eda silenciosamente en el agua de la noche\u201d. Mis dientes lo pasan en grande; cuando crezcan podr\u00edan incluso hacer algo extraordinario, como decorar el arco de una estancia o una pared en la capitan\u00eda de puerto.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019LL GET TO THE POINT: my life is toothy; my jaw, retractable. Fifteen rows of teeth, molting teeth every two weeks, interchangeable rows, running in my dislocated bone, parading, advancing, retreating, making waves! An average of twenty thousand teeth throughout my life. Promotions, additions, losses. My life is toothy. Nature, that ogre, with its claws out in gums, and me, putting a name to it. All my little ones together, children born of me, of my flesh, among my flesh, feeding frenzy. All together with that other toothy man, whose life is also chalky and painful and attached to the perishable food of flesh or plankton or algae or grapes or money. Or meat. When I look at him, poured into me, he is diminished. I like knowing that with my toothache I\u2019m no more alone than that other toothy man, with his porcelain canines that spend their nights in a glass. Mine keep vigil at sea and inspire books that say: \u201cThe great fish moved silently in the night water.\u201d My teeth have a great time; when they grow up they might even do something extraordinary, like decorate the archway of a room or a wall in the harbor master\u2019s office.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

EN CASA HAY DOS cobayas que se alimentan de zanahorias \/ no saben del agua \/ que son animales acu\u00e1ticos \/ que cuando no comen zanahorias comen pelets \/ sustantivo en ingl\u00e9s que tambi\u00e9n nombra a cierto tipo de balas \/ pero que en general se refiere a porciones diminutas de materia comprimida \/ como uno frente al mar.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

AT HOME THERE ARE TWO guinea pigs that eat carrots \/ they don\u2019t know about water \/ what aquatic animals are \/ that when they don\u2019t eat carrots they eat \/ pellets \/ English noun that also names a certain type of bullet \/ but that generally refers to tiny portions of compressed matter \/ like someone facing the sea.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Dora Prieto and Daniela Rodr\u00edguez Chevalier<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

JAWS [tibur\u00f3n]<\/i><\/b> is available now from Cardboard House Press.<\/b><\/a>
\nBuy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cSomething in my name turns me into a fish under attack,\u201d says Jaws: shark, worker, spectacle. This award-winning poetry collection collapses the distance between sea and office, aquarium and classroom, factory and vacation resort, resum\u00e9 and body under attack. JAWS is a book about water, breath, and suffocation, about work that disciplines the body, about […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":46769,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2881],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[5818],"lal_author":[5815],"class_list":["post-47009","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-translation-previews-and-new-releases","tag-issue-39","translator-dora-prieto-daniela-rodriguez-chevalier","lal_author-xitlalitl-rodriguez-mendoza"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47009","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47009"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47009\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47322,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47009\/revisions\/47322"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/46769"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47009"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47009"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47009"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47009"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47009"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47009"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47009"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47009"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47005,"date":"2026-09-19T19:51:05","date_gmt":"2026-09-20T01:51:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47005"},"modified":"2026-09-19T20:00:25","modified_gmt":"2026-09-20T02:00:25","slug":"sardine-translated-by-laura-cesarco-eglin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/sardine-translated-by-laura-cesarco-eglin\/","title":{"rendered":"Sardine, translated by Laura Cesarco Eglin"},"content":{"rendered":"

Writing for the first time in Galician, Miriam Reyes crosses the oblique, multi-dimensional passages between Galicia and Venezuela, where she migrated at the age of eight. In <\/span><\/i>Sardine<\/span>, Reyes\u2019 frustrations using her maternal grandfather\u2019s native tongue become confrontations with the insufficiency of language itself, as a means to contain experience, meaning, and the self. <\/span><\/i>Sardine<\/span> lives in the ruptures in space and time forced open by migration and offers memory as a yoke for our discordant selves.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

as flores rebentan
\n<\/span>eu estoupo
\n<\/span>ti agromas<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

flowers burst
\n<\/span>i explode
\n<\/span>you sprout<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

pasaron moitas cousas dende que deixaron os teus
\n<\/span>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0osi\u00f1os na caixa aquela:
\n<\/span>o primeiro que pasou foi o tempo
\n<\/span>venceu o alugueiro da cavidade onde gardaron a caixa
\n<\/span>a t\u00faa muller colleuna e levouna ao pante\u00f3n dunha veci\u00f1a<\/span><\/p>\n

pasou tanto tempo que parec\u00eda distancia f\u00edsica
\n<\/span>coma se marcharas al\u00e9n da estratosfera<\/span><\/p>\n

tardei en decatarme mais decateime:
\n<\/span>o meu corpo \u00e9 a cavidade que non precisas alugar
\n<\/span>\u00f3llame \/ olla pra min
\n<\/span>te\u00f1o sardi\u00f1as nos beizos
\n<\/span>paseos \u00e1 beira do mar para ti<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

much has happened since they left your bones in that box:
\n<\/span>the first thing that happened is time
\n<\/span>the lease on the cavity where they kept the box expired
\n<\/span>your wife took it to a neighbor\u2019s graveyard<\/span><\/p>\n

so much time had passed that it felt like physical distance
\n<\/span>as if you\u2019d gone beyond the stratosphere<\/span><\/p>\n

it took me a while to realize it but i finally did:
\n<\/span>my body is the cavity you don\u2019t need to lease
\n<\/span>look at me \/ look, at me
\n<\/span>i have sardines on my lips
\n<\/span>walks along the shore for you<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00e1bsida aparello armaz\u00f3n de min
\n<\/span>o que eu che ofrezo non cho ofreceu muller ningunha
\n<\/span>e ofr\u00e9zocho a gati\u00f1as a granel a mares<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

gable grove growth\u2014me, mine
\n<\/span>what i offer you no other woman has
\n<\/span>and i offer it felinely generously oceanically<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

falo de ti
\n<\/span>mais son eu o suxeito
\n<\/span>deste estudo \/ desta paix\u00f3n<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

i speak about you
\n<\/span>but i\u2019m the subject
\n<\/span>of this study \/ of this passion<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00e1s veces det\u00e9\u00f1ome
\n<\/span>na metade desta linguaselvaescura onde te procuro
\n<\/span>a gati\u00f1as<\/span><\/p>\n

que \u00e9 o que espero recuperar?
\n<\/span>como \u00e9 que podo encontrar as palabras
\n<\/span>se non sei en que buracos se esconden?<\/span><\/p>\n


\nsometimes i stop
\n<\/span>midway along this tonguedarkforest where I look for you
\n<\/span>felinely<\/span><\/p>\n

what do i hope to recover?
\n<\/span>how can i find the words
\n<\/span>if i don\u2019t know which holes they hide in?<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a:<\/span><\/p>\n

destino\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>distancia<\/span><\/p>\n


\na:<\/span><\/p>\n

modo<\/span><\/p>\n

sardi\u00f1as \u00e1 prancha
\n<\/span>rapaci\u00f1a ao colo<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


\non:<\/span><\/p>\n

location\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/span> contact<\/span><\/p>\n


\non:<\/span><\/p>\n

mode<\/span><\/p>\n

sardines on the grill
\n<\/span>little girl on your lap<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/h5>\n
Translated by Laura Cesarco Eglin
\n<\/span>from <\/span>Sardine<\/span> by Miriam Reyes, translation \u00a9 Laura Cesarco Eglin (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2026)<\/span><\/em><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sardine<\/i><\/b> is available now from Ugly Duckling Presse.<\/b><\/a>
\nBuy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Writing for the first time in Galician, Miriam Reyes crosses the oblique, multi-dimensional passages between Galicia and Venezuela, where she migrated at the age of eight. In Sardine, Reyes\u2019 frustrations using her maternal grandfather\u2019s native tongue become confrontations with the insufficiency of language itself, as a means to contain experience, meaning, and the self. Sardine […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":46779,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2881],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[1161],"lal_author":[5813],"class_list":["post-47005","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-translation-previews-and-new-releases","tag-issue-39","translator-laura-cesarco-eglin","lal_author-miriam-reyes"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47005","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47005"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47005\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47315,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47005\/revisions\/47315"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/46779"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47005"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47005"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47005"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47005"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47005"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47005"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47005"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47005"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":47001,"date":"2026-09-19T17:45:49","date_gmt":"2026-09-19T23:45:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=47001"},"modified":"2026-09-23T16:07:42","modified_gmt":"2026-09-23T22:07:42","slug":"tales-of-love-madness-and-death-translated-by-diego-jourdan-pereira","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/tales-of-love-madness-and-death-translated-by-diego-jourdan-pereira\/","title":{"rendered":"Tales of Love, Madness and Death, translated by Diego Jourdan Pereira"},"content":{"rendered":"

An extraordinary writer whose work has long been woefully neglected in English translation, Quiroga\u2019s tales\u2014and the life of the writer behind them\u2014are a fever dream of morbidity and horror. Frequently compared to the works of Edgar Allan Poe, this avant-garde collection is staggeringly modern in its content, and is suffused with the themes and settings of his later works.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Quiroga\u2019s first published short-story collection, <\/span><\/i>Tales of Love, Madness and Death<\/span> is presented here in a brand-new translation, and also includes his lauded tongue-in-cheek \u201cTen Commandments for Short-Story Writers,\u201d readying some of the great writer\u2019s finest work for a new generation of readers.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Tales of Love, Madness and Death is available now from Renard Press.<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

BARBED WIRE<\/b><\/p>\n

(El alambre de p\u00faa)<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

For a fortnight, the sorrel horse had searched in vain for the path through which his partner was escaping the paddock. The formidable hedge\u2014consisting of inextricably interwoven bushes\u2014didn\u2019t even allow enough room for the horse\u2019s head to get through. Evidently, this was not where the chestnut was getting through.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then he walked around the farm, trotting uneasily with his ears on high alert. From the depths of the woods, the chestnut responded to his partner\u2019s vibrant neighing\u2014his calls short and brief, no doubt the fraternal promise of abundant fodder. It was most irritating for the sorrel to see the chestnut reappearing two or three times a day to drink. When he came back he promised not to abandon his companion an instant, and truly, for a few hours they fed in admirable harmony. But suddenly, the chestnut would plunge into the bushes with its rope in tow, and when the sorrel realised he had been left alone and set off in pursuit he found the hedge to be impregnable. That said, from within\u2014very close, even\u2014the wicked chestnut responded to his desperate neighing with a satisfied neigh of his own.<\/span><\/p>\n

But that morning, the old sorrel found the opening easily. Crossing in front of the brick wall which protruded fifty metres into the field from the woods, he saw a faint diagonal pathway leading into the forest. There was the chestnut, munching leaves straight from the trees.<\/span><\/p>\n

It had all been very straightforward. Crossing the brick wall one day, the chestnut had found a gap in the hedge caused by an uprooted bush. He repeated his journey until he knew perfectly well how to reach the entrance to the tunnel. Then he used the old path he and the sorrel had carved along the edge of the woods. And herein lay the sorrel\u2019s difficulty, as the entrance to the path joined their pathway so diagonally that\u2014used as he was to walking it south to north but never north to south\u2014it took him a while to find the opening.<\/span><\/p>\n

He joined his partner in an instant, and together, with no other concern than clumsily munching the young palm trees, the two horses decided to get further away from the field they already knew so well.<\/span><\/p>\n

The woods, quite thinned out, allowed for easy passage, even for horses. In truth all that was left of the forest was a two-hundred-metre-wide expanse. Behind it, a two-year-old clearing adorned itself with wild tobacco. The old sorrel\u2014who had spent six months of his youth prancing around such pastures\u2014led the way, and in half an hour the tobacco plants were stripped of leaves, as far up as a horse\u2019s neck could reach.<\/span><\/p>\n

Walking, eating, perusing, the sorrel and the chestnut crossed the clearing, until a barbed wire fence stopped them.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Barbed wire,\u2019 said the sorrel.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Barbed wire indeed,\u2019 said the chestnut.<\/span><\/p>\n

And both looked over the top, watching attentively. From there they could see a tall grazing pasture, white with frost, a banana plantation and a new plantation. None of this was very tempting, no doubt about it; but even so the horses followed the fence to the right.<\/span><\/p>\n

Two minutes later they found a gap\u2014a tree, ravaged by fire, had fallen over the wires. Traversing the whiteness of frozen grass, which muffled their steps, and around the reddish, frost-scorched banana plantation, they discovered what these new plants were up close.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s mat\u00e9,\u2019<\/span>1<\/span> stated the chestnut, his lips trembling half a centimetre away from the leathery leaves.<\/span><\/p>\n

Disappointment couldn\u2019t have been greater; but the horses, although greedy, aspired above all to roam free. So they continued on their way, cutting diagonally through the mat\u00e9 field, until a new wire fence brought them to a standstill. Going around it with sombre and patient ease, they reached a gate\u2014which stood open, to their joy\u2014and the visitors suddenly found themselves in the middle of a main road.<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, now, to the horses what they had just accomplished seemed quite the feat. From the boring paddock to this present freedom lay an endless distance. Yet, infinite as it was, the horses wanted to extend it even further. So, after lazily surveying their surroundings, they cleaned the dust from each other\u2019s necks, and in meek happiness they continued on their adventure.<\/span><\/p>\n

In truth, the weather motivated their happiness. The morning haze in Misiones had just fully dissipated, and under the newly clear skies the landscape glittered with magnificent clarity. From the hill the horses now stood on, the red dirt road cut the prairie before them with admirable precision, descending into the white valley of frozen wire grass and climbing back up a faraway hill. The wind\u2014very cold\u2014crystallised the golden morning even more sharply, and the horses, feeling the still, nearly horizontal sun, squinted at the glorious splendour.<\/span><\/p>\n

They continued like this\u2014alone and drunk with freedom\u2014down the dazzlingly bright road until, rounding the corner of the hilltop road, they saw an unusually green expanse stretching away from the path. Grass? No doubt\u2014and yet it was the middle of winter\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

With their nostrils dilated with gluttony, the horses approached the barbed-wire fence. Yes, fine grass, admirably so! And they, free horses that they were, would go in!<\/span><\/p>\n

It must be said that the sorrel and the chestnut, since early that morning, had held themselves in high regard. No gate, no wire fence, no woods nor clearing was an obstacle to them. They had seen extraordinary things, surpassed unbelievable odds, and they felt contented, proud and empowered to make the most outlandish decision they could devise.<\/span><\/p>\n

In this heightened state, they saw a number of cows standing on the side of the road a hundred metres away, and trotting over there, they arrived at the gate, blocked by five robust logs. The cows stood still, staring at the unreachable green paradise.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Why don\u2019t you come in?\u2019 the sorrel asked the cows.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Because it isn\u2019t allowed,\u2019 they answered.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018We can go anywhere,\u2019 the sorrel boastfully asserted. \u2018Since last month we\u2019ve been finding our way wherever we want.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Their glistening adventure had made the horses lose track of time.<\/span><\/p>\n

The cows wouldn\u2019t even look at the intruders.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Horses cannot,\u2019 said one cheeky heifer. \u2018They claim they can, but never make it through. We do.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018They are roped,\u2019 added an old mother, without turning her head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Well, I am not roped!\u2019 exclaimed the sorrel quickly. \u2018I used to live in clearings, and have been through many.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, after us! We go through and you cannot.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The cheeky heifer intervened again. \u2018Master said the other day, \u201cA single wire will keep horses away.\u201d What then? Can you go through?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018No, no we can\u2019t,\u2019 replied the chestnut simply, convinced by evidence.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018But we do!\u2019 maintained the cows.<\/span><\/p>\n

To the honest chestnut, however, it suddenly occurred that the cows\u2014daring and cunning, unrepentant violators of farms and the Code of Good Agricultural Practice\u2014wouldn\u2019t pass the gate either.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s an evil fence,\u2019 objected the old mother. \u2018But <\/span>he<\/span><\/i> can! He can dislodge the gate logs with his horns.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Who?\u2019 asked the sorrel.<\/span><\/p>\n

All the cows turned their heads to him, astonished.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Midge,<\/span>2<\/span> the bull! He\u2019s stronger than any wicked wires.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Wire fences…? Really?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Everything! Barbed wire, too. We go in after him.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The two horses, reduced to the peaceful condition of animals a single wire can contain, felt naively dazzled by that hero who was capable of facing barbed wire, the most terrifying obstacle their desire to go through could happen across.<\/span><\/p>\n

Suddenly, the cows moved away tamely. The bull arrived at a slow pace, and before his flat, obstinate brow, which directly pointed towards the gate, the horses humbly accepted their inferiority.<\/span><\/p>\n

The cows moved apart as Midge, passing his head under the lock, tried sliding it aside.<\/span><\/p>\n

The horses raised their ears in awe, but the bolt would not budge. The bull tried removing the logs, one after another, but to no avail. The farmer, happy owner of the oat plantation, had fastened them securely using wedges the previous evening.<\/span><\/p>\n

The bull ceased his efforts. Turning lazily around, he sniffed into the distance, half-closing his eyes, then grazed the barbed wire with his ribs, uttering muffled hissing grunts.<\/span><\/p>\n

From the gate, the horses and cows stared. The bull came to a halt and passed his horns under the barbed wire, stretching it upwards violently with his head, and the huge beast slid under it, arching his back. Four more steps set him among the oats, and then the cows also headed over, trying to pass under the fence themselves. But cows evidently lack the male disposition which tolerates bloody scratches on the hide, and as soon as they slid their neck under, they swiftly withdrew, with a dizzying nod.<\/span><\/p>\n

The horses kept looking on.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018They can\u2019t go through,\u2019 observed the chestnut.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018The bull could,\u2019 replied the sorrel. \u2018He\u2019s bingeing.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

As the horses set off and followed the fence as they were so used to doing, a lowing, clear and bellowing, reached them. In the oat field, the bull was bellowing at the farmer and feigning lunges at him, as the farmer tried to hit him with a stick.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Ah! I\u2019ll give you prancing!\u2019 yelled the man.<\/span><\/p>\n

Midge, always dancing and bellowing at the man, dodged his blows.<\/span><\/p>\n

And so they feinted for fifty metres, until the farmer managed to force the beast against the wire fence. But the bull, with the muscular determination his brute strength allowed, sunk his head below the wire and passed through, under a sharp violin of wires and barbs thrown twenty metres away.<\/span><\/p>\n

The horses saw how the man rushed to his home, and came out again with a pale face. They saw him jump the fence and walk straight in their direction. Faced with such a determined step, the companions retreated along the road towards the ranch. As the horses walked meekly a few steps ahead of the man, they were able to arrive together at the farm belonging to the bull\u2019s owner, listening in on their conversation.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was evident, as far as the horses could ascertain, that the farmer had suffered a great deal at the hands of the rancher\u2019s bull. Plantations\u2014no matter how deep into the woods\u2014and barbed wire\u2014no matter how great their tension, or how numerous the threads\u2014were all overwhelmed by the marauding bull. They also inferred that the neighbours were fed up with both beast and owner too, due to the incessant destruction. But since the country folk rarely brought animal-related complaints before the Justice of the Peace, no matter how destructive, the bull continued to gorge himself everywhere but on the farm of his owner, who, on the other hand, seemed quite amused by this fact.<\/span><\/p>\n

In this way, the horses saw and heard the following exchange between the irate farmer and the negligent Pole.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018This is the last time, Don Zaninski, that I come to see you about your bull! He trampled all my oats! I can stand it no more!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The Polish rancher, tall and blue-eyed, spoke with an extraordinary mellow falsetto.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Ah, bad bull! Not my responsibility! I tie it, but it escapes! Cows are to blame! The bull follows them!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018As you well know, I don\u2019t own any cows!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018No, no! Ram\u00edrez\u2019s cows! Make my bull crazy!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018And the worst thing is that it loosens all the wires \u2013 you know this too!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, yes, wires… Ah, I don\u2019t know!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Well, look, Don Zaninski, I don\u2019t want any trouble with my neighbours, but for the last time, try and have a care for your bull so it doesn\u2019t get through the fence at the back. I\u2019m going to build a new one along the road.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Bull uses the road! Not back!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Well, now it won\u2019t cross the fence.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Bull will get through! Never mind barbs! Gets through anything!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It won\u2019t.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018What are you installing?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Barbed wire\u2014but it won\u2019t get through.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It doesn\u2019t do anything, barbs!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Well, do your best to keep it out, because if not he will hurt himself.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The farmer left. As before, the wicked rancher\u2014laughing once again at the animal\u2019s grace\u2014pitied his neighbour for even attempting to build an impregnable wire fence against his bull. Sure enough, he rubbed his hands.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He won\u2019t be able to complain this time around if the bull eats all of his oats!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The horses rejoined the road that took them away from their farm again, and after a while they reached the place where Midge had accomplished his feat. The beast stood motionless in the middle of the road, staring with solemn emptiness at the horizon for a quarter of an hour or so. Behind him, the cows were dozing in the blazing sun, chewing the cud. But when the poor horses passed by, they opened their eyes in contempt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s the horses. They wanted to get through the wire, and now they are roped.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Midge did get through!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018A single wire will keep horses at bay.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018They are skinny.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The latter seemed to upset the sorrel to his core, who turned his head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018We are not skinny\u2014you are. Anyway, this isn\u2019t going to happen again,\u2019 he added, pointing to the fallen wires, Midge\u2019s work.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Midge always gets through! Then we do. You don\u2019t.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It won\u2019t happen any more. The farmer said so.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He will eat that man\u2019s oats. We will follow.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Due to their better treatment by us, horses are noticeably fonder of man than cows are. So it stands to reason, then, that the sorrel and the chestnut had faith in the new wire fence the farmer was going to install. The partners went on their way and, moments later, before an open field, they lowered their heads to eat, forgetting about the cows.<\/span><\/p>\n

Later, when the sun had just set, the two horses felt a craving for corn, and turned back. On the side of the road they saw the farmer changing all the fence posts, and a blond man on horseback by his side, watching him labour.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019m telling you it will still happen,\u2019 said the rider.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He won\u2019t try it twice,\u2019 replied the farmer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018You will see! It\u2019s all a game for that damned Polish bull! It will get through!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Not twice,\u2019 the other repeated stubbornly.<\/span><\/p>\n

The horses continued on their way, still hearing the odd broken phrase.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018…last laugh!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018…we shall see.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Two minutes later, the blond man trotted past them in the English style. The chestnut and the sorrel, a little surprised by the unfamiliar step, watched the hurried man vanish into the valley.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Would you look at that!\u2019 observed the chestnut after a while. \u2018The horse is trotting and the man is galloping!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

On they went, reaching the top of the hill, as they had that morning. Against the pale, cold sky, the meek, downcast silhouettes stood out in black, the chestnut in front, the sorrel trotting behind. The atmosphere, bleached in daytime in excessive sunlight, acquired during twilight an almost funereal transparency. The wind had ceased completely, and with the calm of the evening, when the mercury began to fall, the frozen valley\u2019s dampness expanded, and condensed into a trailing mist in the shadowy depths of the slopes. From the cooled ground, winter\u2019s burnt grass stench blew back, and as the road skirted the hills the atmosphere suddenly became colder and damper, and excessively heavy with the heavy perfume of orange blossom.<\/span><\/p>\n

The horses walked through the gate of their farm, since the boy, who was banging their corn feeder, heard their panting. The old sorrel had the honour of being credited with the initiative of their little adventure, and was whipped with a rope as a consequence.<\/span><\/p>\n

But the next morning, quite late, on account of a dense fog, the partners repeated their escape, crossing the wild tobacco field again, imprinting their hooves into the frozen grass with mute steps and crossing the still-open gate.<\/span><\/p>\n

The sun already high in the sky, the morning reverberated with light, and the excessive heat promised a change in weather conditions. After crossing the hills, the horses suddenly saw the cows standing on the road, and the memory of the previous afternoon roused their ears and their trot\u2014they wanted to see what the new wire fence looked like!<\/span><\/p>\n

But when they arrived their disappointment was great. Stretched across the new dark and crooked posts there were two simple barbed wires. They were thick, perhaps, but only two in number.<\/span><\/p>\n

Despite their stoic audacity, a life lived on the farm had given the horses some experience of enclosures. They gave it a closer look\u2014especially the posts.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018They are made of fine wood,\u2019 observed the chestnut.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, burnt edges.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

And after another long examination, he confirmed: \u2018The wire goes through the middle \u2013 there are no staples.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018They are pretty close to one another.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Close indeed, at three metres. But these two modest wires, replacing the five strands of the previous fence, were a let-down for the horses. How was it possible that the man could think such a fence suitable only for calves would stop a fearsome bull?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018The man said he wouldn\u2019t pass,\u2019 dared the chestnut nonetheless. Being his master\u2019s favourite, he ate more corn, which made him feel smarter.<\/span><\/p>\n

But the cows had overheard him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s the horses. Both roped. No dice. Midge already went through.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He did? Through here?\u2019 asked the disheartened chestnut.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Out the back. He will get through here too. He ate the oats.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Meanwhile, the loquacious heifer tried passing her horns through the wires; and a sharp vibration, followed by a sharp blow on the horns, left the horses in suspense.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018The wires are really tense,\u2019 said the sorrel after a long examination.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Indeed. Couldn\u2019t be more tightly stretched…\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

And both of them, without taking their eyes off the wires, thought confusedly about how they could pass between them.<\/span><\/p>\n

Meanwhile, the cows cheered one another on.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He got through yesterday. Went through the barbed wire. We will follow.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018You didn\u2019t follow yesterday, and you won\u2019t do so today,\u2019 they heard the sorrel say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Here\u2019s the barbs, and Midge shall pass! Here he comes!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Skirting the inside of the fence, by the hedges, still two hundred metres away, the bull advanced towards the oat field. The cows all stood facing the fence, attentively watching the invading beast. The horses, motionless, raised their ears.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Come and eat all the oats! Then we can go through the fence!\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018The wires are very tense…\u2019 observed the chestnut still, wondering what would happen if\u2026<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He ate the oats! The farmer\u2019s coming! The farmer\u2019s coming!\u2019 bellowed the cheeky heifer.<\/span><\/p>\n

Indeed, the man had left his house, and was advancing towards the bull. He had a stick in his hand, but he didn\u2019t seem angry; rather he looked very serious and sported a sombre frown.<\/span><\/p>\n

The beast waited for the man to reach him, and then started his bellowing and goring pretence. The man took a step further, and the bull began his retreat\u2014still bellowing and laying waste to the oats with savage prancing\u2014until, ten metres from the road, he turned on his haunches with a last bellow of mocking defiance and launched himself over the fence.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Here comes Midge! He shall get through! Get through the barbed wire!\u2019 the cows managed to cheer.<\/span><\/p>\n

With the momentum of his heavy trot, the enormous bull lowered his head and connected his horns between the two wires. There was a high-pitched groan along the wires, a strident crackle shot from post to post, and the bull crossed through.<\/span><\/p>\n

But from his loin to belly, deeply sliced from forerib to flank, rivers of blood rained down. The beast, frozen in stupor, was left stunned and shaking. He walked away, soaking the grass in his blood, before collapsing with a rough grunt twenty metres away.<\/span><\/p>\n

At noon, the rancher went looking for his bull, and cried an opera before the unmoved farmer. The animal had managed to stand up and walk a little, but the rancher, understanding it would be costly to cure him\u2014if that was even possible\u2014butchered him that very afternoon.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next morning, as luck would have it, the chestnut found himself carrying home two kilograms of dead bull meat in his stomach.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated by Diego Jourdan Pereira<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

1<\/span> mat\u00e9<\/span><\/i>: A shrub used to make a bitter tea, high in caffeine.<\/span><\/h6>\n
2<\/span> Midge<\/span><\/i>: In the original the bull is called Barig\u00fc\u00ed, from the indigenous Guaran\u00ed language, referring to the biting insect.<\/span><\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tales of Love, Madness and Death<\/i><\/b> is available now from Renard Press.<\/b><\/a>
\nBuy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Photo: Jacque Cook, Unsplash.<\/span><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An extraordinary writer whose work has long been woefully neglected in English translation, Quiroga\u2019s tales\u2014and the life of the writer behind them\u2014are a fever dream of morbidity and horror. Frequently compared to the works of Edgar Allan Poe, this avant-garde collection is staggeringly modern in its content, and is suffused with the themes and settings […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":47666,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2881],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[5758],"lal_author":[3975],"class_list":["post-47001","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-translation-previews-and-new-releases","tag-issue-39","translator-diego-jourdan-pereira","lal_author-horacio-quiroga"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47001","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47001"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47001\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47668,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47001\/revisions\/47668"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/47666"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47001"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47001"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47001"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=47001"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=47001"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=47001"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=47001"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=47001"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":46994,"date":"2026-09-19T16:53:26","date_gmt":"2026-09-19T22:53:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/?p=46994"},"modified":"2026-09-21T15:05:27","modified_gmt":"2026-09-21T21:05:27","slug":"five-sonnets-from-the-art-of-killing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/09\/five-sonnets-from-the-art-of-killing\/","title":{"rendered":"Five Sonnets from The Art of Killing"},"content":{"rendered":"

Caim<\/b><\/p>\n

Com ele come\u00e7ou todo o sud\u00e1rio
\n<\/span>do sangue tr\u00e1gico que at\u00e9 hoje assina
\n<\/span>todo o acervo deste itiner\u00e1rio
\n<\/span>cujo torpor nos causa e nos domina.
\n<\/span>Desde o primeiro gesto que, arbitr\u00e1rio,
\n<\/span>nos desenhou o mapa desta sina
\n<\/span>e segue apregoando esse calv\u00e1rio
\n<\/span>do amor que pare, acolhe e assassina.
\n<\/span>Nunca se sabe o fim de tal mist\u00e9rio
\n<\/span>que deu \u00e0 vida o mesmo patamar
\ne encerra a alegria ao cemit\u00e9rio;
\n<\/span>nunca se aprende o tom deste bolero
\n<\/span>que dan\u00e7a\u00a0 e d\u00e1-se e d\u00f3i sem recuar,
\n<\/span>cujo final ningu\u00e9m sabe explicar.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Cain<\/b><\/p>\n

That bloody shroud that to this very day
\n<\/span>leaves its imprint on the record of our past,
\n<\/span>Cain\u2019s stain, our stain, that will not go away,
\n<\/span>that dulls our heart that should respond aghast.
\n<\/span>It started from that arbitrary act
\n<\/span>which first laid out our soiled map of fate,
\n<\/span>then led to calvary and love\u2019s contract:
\n<\/span>give birth, then nurture, then assassinate.
\n<\/span>We cannot see that mystery, that frame,
\n<\/span>that puts on equal footing life and death,
\nthat terminates our joy in mother earth;
\n<\/span>we never learn to breathe bolero\u2019s breath,
\n<\/span>that dancing, damns us to a life of pain,
\n<\/span>whose final step, no one can explain.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Um rei<\/b><\/p>\n

Um rei atormentado por vingan\u00e7a
\n<\/span>morre. E deixa a seu filho, Salom\u00e3o,
\n<\/span>uma lista apontada \u00e0 sua lan\u00e7a,
\n<\/span>como plano da pr\u00f3xima execu\u00e7\u00e3o.
\n<\/span>O primeiro era o filho sem heran\u00e7a,
\n<\/span>que deseja o poder do seu irm\u00e3o —
\ne a concubina do pai, de confian\u00e7a –,
\n<\/span>feito um abutre na escurid\u00e3o.
\n<\/span>Foi um clamor de sangue desabrido
\n<\/span>ao velho que depois de ter morrido
\n<\/span>julga incompleto o que deixou pra traz:
\n<\/span>segue matando os desafetos seus.
\nUm rei segundo o cora\u00e7\u00e3o de Deus,
\n<\/span>que em sua Lei nos diz: \u201cN\u00e3o matar\u00e1s!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A King<\/b><\/p>\n

A king, obsessed with death, as death draws near,
\n<\/span>leaves Solomon, his son, a kind of will,
\n<\/span>a list of those predestined for his spear,
\n<\/span>those that his father says that he must kill.
\n<\/span>The first, a son, bereft, and not in line,
\n<\/span>who wished to seize by force his brother\u2019s rights,
\n<\/span>and sought his father\u2019s favorite concubine,
\n<\/span>a vulture in the darkness of the night.
\n<\/span>It was the calling of a haughty heart,
\n<\/span>within an aged man who later died,
\n<\/span>feeling those already killed were just a start
\n<\/span>and went on killing those not on his side.
\n<\/span>A king in concord with God\u2019s inner will,
\n<\/span>that God who said to all \u201cThou shalt not kill.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Um rei menino<\/b><\/p>\n

N\u00e3o h\u00e1 plena certeza, mas, suspeita-se
\n<\/span>que o fim de Tutanc\u00e2mon foi tramado
\n<\/span>por um bra\u00e7o secreto enclausurado
\n<\/span>na art\u00e9ria de um poder que lhe rejeita.
\n<\/span>Um compl\u00f4 de aliados e vassalos
\n<\/span>do fara\u00f3 menino que ascendeu
\n<\/span>ao que por lei do gens j\u00e1 era seu —
\n<\/span>ainda que usurpassem destron\u00e1-lo.
\n<\/span>Por\u00e9m, s\u00f3 mesmo o tempo \u00e9 o perito
\n<\/span>do que a lenda transformou em mito
\n<\/span>dessa arqueologia\u00a0 em que resenho
\n<\/span>o silencio da pedra sobre o grito.
\n<\/span>Muito antes do sangue sobre o lenho:
\n<\/span>um crime que se esconde entre os mil\u00eanios.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A Child King<\/b><\/p>\n

No one is certain, but many suspect
\n<\/span>that Tutankhamun\u2019s end was calmly planned
\n<\/span>by well-placed agents of a secret band
\n<\/span>that served an unseen power to perfect
\n<\/span>a plot contrived by enemies, home-grown,
\n<\/span>to strip the Pharaoh child of his crown,
\n<\/span>a crown already his, by law passed down,
\n<\/span>though someone hoped to nudge him from his throne.
\n<\/span>Of course, the work could simply be the scheme
\n<\/span>of time, transforming story into myth,
\n<\/span>or archeology suggesting this:
\n<\/span>the silence of a stone upon a scream.
\n<\/span>Long, long before blood dripping from a cross,
\n<\/span>this ancient crime, its tangled traces lost.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

O sol de C\u00e9sar<\/b><\/p>\n

Iata alea est<\/span><\/i> \u2013 disse o grande C\u00e9sar
\n<\/span>atravessando o Rubic\u00e3o e a G\u00e1lia \u2013,
\n<\/span>fazendo da conquista a sua reza,
\n<\/span>muito antes que Roma fosse It\u00e1lia.
\n<\/span>O carimbo do Imp\u00e9rio e a realeza
\n<\/span>da espada face a toda a escumalha
\n<\/span>\u2013 rendida para sempre ao sol de C\u00e9sar \u2013
\n<\/span>e o orgulho fatal que vira tralha.
\n<\/span>Mil anos que marcaram a carne e as mentes
\n<\/span>\u2013 o cora\u00e7\u00e3o dos povos, seu decoro \u2013,
\n<\/span>do Capit\u00f3lio ao ch\u00e3o do Oriente.
\n<\/span>Tanta soberba, enfim, tanto tesouro,
\n<\/span>para morrer, depois, t\u00e3o simplesmente,
\n<\/span>como morrem os bois no matadouro.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Sun of Caesar<\/b><\/p>\n

Alea iacta est<\/span><\/i>\u2014said Caesar the Great,
\n<\/span>who crossed the Rubicon and all of Gaul,
\n<\/span>to conquer everyone, that seemed his fate,
\n<\/span>long years before Rome stumbled and grew small.
\n<\/span>The Empire\u2019s seal, the sword\u2019s nobility,
\n<\/span>its confrontation with the vilest scum
\n<\/span>(forever rendered up to Rome\u2019s virility);
\n<\/span>and fatal pride that tarnishes to junk.
\n<\/span>A thousand years that mark both flesh and mind,
\n<\/span>of varied peoples with their varied ways,
\n<\/span>Rome\u2019s Capitol now stretching East through time.
\n<\/span>Such pride, such plundered treasures, such displays,
\n<\/span>and then to die so simply and so blind,
\n<\/span>like cows to slaughter, standing in a line.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Genghis Khan<\/b><\/p>\n

Plantado no estribo dos cavalos,
\n<\/span>sua esgrima reinou sobre o planeta;
\n<\/span>sem bons modos de elite nem caneta,
\n<\/span>tornou a China inteira o seu regalo.
\n<\/span>Do fio da espada ergueu respeito e medo,
\n<\/span>sobre os rivais de todas as origens;
\n<\/span>domou valente e inseminou as virgens
\n<\/span>e fez princesa beber leite azedo.
\n<\/span>Ao governar estepes e declives,
\n<\/span>o Grande Khan sentiu-se altivo e livre
\n<\/span>para al\u00e7ar dinastias e outros bens.
\n<\/span>Mesmo agora na quadra em que se vive,
\n<\/span>certamente este mundo ainda treme:
\n<\/span>vinte por cento chinos t\u00eam seu <\/span>gens<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Genghis Khan<\/b><\/p>\n

Planted on the stirrups of his horse,
\n<\/span>with sword in hand, he ruled all planet earth;
\n<\/span>without a pen, or manners, or high birth,
\n<\/span>he gifted China to himself, per force.
\n<\/span>Respect and fear grew from the sword\u2019s fine edge,
\n<\/span>and filled his rivals, civilized and wild;
\n<\/span>he tamed the brave, left virgins big with child,
\n<\/span>and made a princess drink sour milk and retch.
\n<\/span>Governing the steppes, the slopes, the streams,
\n<\/span>the Great Khan felt both arrogant and free,
\n<\/span>to gather plunder, raise up dynasties.
\n<\/span>And even in our realm today he roams,
\n<\/span>a world which doubtless trembles still and groans:
\n<\/span>twenty percent of China bears his genes.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/h5>\n
Translated by Alexis Levitin
\n<\/span>Poems from <\/span>A arte de matar<\/span><\/i> (7Letras, 2026)<\/span><\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Buy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop<\/b> page!<\/a><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Photo: Brazilian poet Salgado Maranh\u00e3o, by Nick Levitin.<\/span><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Caim Com ele come\u00e7ou todo o sud\u00e1rio do sangue tr\u00e1gico que at\u00e9 hoje assina todo o acervo deste itiner\u00e1rio cujo torpor nos causa e nos domina. Desde o primeiro gesto que, arbitr\u00e1rio, nos desenhou o mapa desta sina e segue apregoando esse calv\u00e1rio do amor que pare, acolhe e assassina. Nunca se sabe o fim […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":46767,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2875],"tags":[5739],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[1190],"lal_author":[424],"class_list":["post-46994","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-brazilian-literature","tag-issue-39","translator-alexis-levitin","lal_author-salgado-maranhao"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/46994","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=46994"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/46994\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47299,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/46994\/revisions\/47299"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/46767"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=46994"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=46994"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=46994"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=46994"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=46994"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=46994"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=46994"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=46994"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}]