Nota del editor: 

LALT se enorgullece de publicar una vista previa exclusiva de la traducción al inglés de Rahul Bery de  Shadows of Bearded Kings de José J. Veiga  como la primera entrega de una serie en curso dedicada a la literatura brasileña. Este artículo está disponible en LALT en inglés y portugués; Al hacer clic en el enlace “Español” de arriba, accederá a la versión en portugués.

Nota del traductor:

Sombras de reis barbudos de José J. Veiga , publicado por primera vez en Brasil en 1972, es un texto a la vez familiar y extraño, de su tiempo en cierto modo y, sin embargo, perennemente relevante. Tiene elementos de bildungsroman, fantasía, fábula, alegoría, y podría ubicarse fácilmente dentro de la categoría de ‘realismo mágico’. De hecho, las primeras novelas de Veiga se publicaron en las mismas décadas que Cien años de soledad  y Rayuela., y dos de sus libros fueron publicados en inglés, en el período post-boom. Escrito en medio de la dictadura de dos décadas de Brasil, tiene elementos de alegoría política, pero tiene una atemporalidad que significa que tiene resonancia en muchos otros contextos, tanto ahora como en aquel entonces. No me sorprendió en absoluto descubrir que Veiga era muy popular en la Checoslovaquia de la década de 1970, ni que los derechos en idioma turco de Sombrasacaban de ser comprados. Hay mucho en él que refleja nuestros paisajes políticos y sociales actuales: la toma de espacios públicos por parte de corporaciones que pueden convertirse en gobiernos de facto; el horror pero también el aburrimiento que agota la vida de vivir bajo un régimen represivo; la forma en que las atrocidades no son llevadas a cabo por monstruos, sino por burócratas aburridos, en este caso, los inspectores anodinos de la Compañía. Al mismo tiempo, ofrece un relato muy cercano y conmovedor de la adolescencia, visto de primera mano a través del joven narrador de la novela, Lucas, y está atravesado por una ironía ligera pero a veces devastadora. La traducción de los primeros capítulos de la novela no me trajo grandes problemas, aparte de algún que otro aforismo o jerga. Aunque la novela está claramente ambientada en el interior de Brasil, en algún lugar como Goiás, el estado natal de Veiga, huye del regionalismo más específico de otros novelistas brasileños del siglo XX como Graciliano Ramos o João Guimarães Rosa, creando un ambiente más surrealista, de fábula, en el que no nos sorprende en absoluto ver hombres voladores, buitres domesticados o enormes muros separando cada calle de la siguiente. Me siento honrado de compartir la primera traducción al inglés de cualquier parte de esta obra maestra, y solo puedo esperar que se publique en su totalidad en breve; lo necesitamos ahora más que nunca. Me siento honrado de compartir la primera traducción al inglés de cualquier parte de esta obra maestra, y solo puedo esperar que se publique en su totalidad en breve; lo necesitamos ahora más que nunca. Me siento honrado de compartir la primera traducción al inglés de cualquier parte de esta obra maestra, y solo puedo esperar que se publique en su totalidad en breve; lo necesitamos ahora más que nunca.

Capítulo 1: La llegada

Está bien, mamá. Haré lo que dices. Escribiré la historia de todas las cosas que pasaron aquí después de que llegó el tío Baltazar.

Sé que la única razón por la que sigues preguntando es para que me quede adentro, porque crees que es peligroso para mí seguir deambulando afuera, a pesar de que los inspectores ya no inspeccionan tanto y con tanta atención como solían hacerlo. Tal vez sea realmente una buena manera de pasar el tiempo, y de todos modos estoy cansado de vagar por los mismos lugares de siempre, de la visión lúgubre de casas vacías, puertas y ventanas que se rompen con el viento, arbustos silvestres que crecen en patios que fueron una vez tan bien mantenido, lagartijas arrastrándose sin miedo sobre los muebles, y zarigüeyas haciendo nidos en las chimeneas vacías, recuperando su propio dinero para los días en que ningún lugar, ni siquiera los patios traseros, era seguro para ellos.

Con los eventos aún vivos en mi memoria, pensé que escribir nuestra historia sería fácil. Pero me quedé sentado allí, bolígrafo y libreta en mano, sin saber cómo empezar. Mamá dice que no va a leer mis escritos porque no es muy buena lectora y también porque ya conoce toda la historia mejor que yo. Este es obviamente otro truco, destinado a tranquilizarme. Mamá es tan astuta que piensa en todo. Debo tener cuidado de no dejar mi libreta tirada, sobre todo si decido hablar de lo que pasó aquella vez en casa del tío Baltazar.

Would I be writing anything at all if Uncle Baltazar hadn’t turned up here, his mind set on establishing the company? I’m not saying I think it was his fault; it was a good idea, and everyone was so excited about it. Anyway, the story I’m going to tell starts with his arrival. Who would have imagined in that time of joy and celebration that such a beautiful dream would end up degenerating into the disastrous Taitara Improvements Company…..? Poor Uncle Baltazar, how he’d suffer if he was still alive today. I think that’s one of the reasons Mum didn’t cry so much when the news finally came.

I was eleven when Uncle Baltazar first showed up. He’d married again, but came alone. Everyone had heard of him because he was meant to be a very rich man. Remembering that time, my father told me that after just a few days here Uncle Baltazar had thought about quitting the Company and going back home. So I’ll ask the question again: if he had gone back, might he still be with us? And if he hadn’t founded the company, would we have endured all that we did? But asking these questions now is as pointless as asking if your neighbour’s calf would still be alive if it hadn’t died. I’m here to talk about what happened, not what didn’t.

Uncle Baltazar. A name, a reputation, dozens of photographs — that was how I knew him. It seems he found it absolutely necessary to have someone take his portrait every month, maybe even every week. He would often send Mum photographs of himself, taken either in a studio by a portrait photographer or out in the open by a friend.

*            *            *

There’s one I remember particularly well, which shows him at the wheel of a shiny sports car local experts said was Italian, and very expensive: Uncle Baltazar has his left arm resting on the car door, his hair parted in the middle, his open shirt collar folded over his check jacket like a movie star, cigarette and holder in his mouth, and on his face the smile of a very wealthy man. That photograph, with the inscription to Mum on it, was a great hit among our friends, many of whom as well as looking at it themselves wanted to show it to other people.  Diligent but vain too, Mum did lend it out; but if someone was late to return it, it would be my job to go and get it back, for a document of such importance could not spend too much time in profane hands.

If I’m going to be completely honest, I can’t fail to mention the disappointment I felt when I first saw Uncle Baltazar outside our front door, getting out of his car. At first I thought it was someone else, a friend or perhaps an employee of his. His hair was much thinner and it wasn’t parted down the middle, I think because it was no longer fashionable to have it like that. And his face wasn’t as boyish as the one in the photographs. But what disappointed me most, frightened me even, was the missing arm. Where was the left arm that had been resting on the car door in that famous photograph? As I saw him lower himself out of the car, aided by the driver, with his empty jacket sleeve tucked into his pocket, the magical image I’d had of my Uncle, the champion sportsman, immediately went up in smoke. I’d seen people with missing legs, missing arms, missing hands, and once I even saw a man with no nose kneeling by my side in church during Holy Week: but none of those people were my uncle. I felt so disappointed that I went and hid in the cellar, and didn’t come out even for dinner. Thinking back to that day, it’s difficult to understand why I behaved like that; it’s as if I was accusing Uncle Baltazar of having cut off his own arm off in order to humiliate me in front of my friends.

But no one worried much about my absence. I only heard Mum calling me once, and I became more and more curious to know why they were so oblivious as to my whereabouts. If no one cared about the fact that I was missing, then something very important must have been going on up there while I hid in the dark making bats out of scraps of paper. I made up my mind to go up before it became too difficult.

First I went to the kitchen to eat something, and considered how I was going to make my entrance into the living room. I was rummaging around the cooking pots when Mum came in to get more coffee, taking me by surprise.

—Really, Lu— she said, sounding like she wasn’t all that concerned.—Your uncle arrives and you just disappear. Could the rabble out on the streets really not have waited?

Just as well she thought that’s what I’d been doing. I already knew it had been foolish to run away from Uncle Baltazar just because he was missing an arm. You don’t stop being human just because you lose an arm or a leg, do you? And what about that lame detective I saw in that film, beating up a whole bunch of consummate criminals? What a shame I hadn’t remembered that film earlier.

Mum was looking at me, and I could tell she knew the truth. But instead of scolding me, she smoothed my hair and said:

—Just eat something and come and talk to him. He has a surprise for you, and he’s keen to know if you like it. I’ll say you had a meeting at school.

I ate quickly, not even touching the pudding. I was still wiping my mouth as I entered the room.

—At last, the scholar has arrived— Uncle Baltazar said, resting his cheroot on the ashtray. —Come here so I can get a good look at you. He’s got his grandfather’s face, hasn’t he, don’t you think Vi? I’ve never seen such a strong resemblance. How’s school going? Good grades? Study hard, but don’t forget to play too. Children who only study and never play end up weedy, with those mean-looking faces geniuses always have, and we don’t want that in our family. Am I right, Horácio?

The question was directed at my father, who was smoking quietly at one corner of the table. Before he had a chance to respond, Uncle Baltazar continued, taking a small, thin package from his pocket.

—I brought this for you. See if you like it.

Mum gestured at me to open the package, while my father continued to smoke, making an clear effort to display his indifference. (I was still unaware of certain issues between my father and Uncle Baltazar.) I tore off the paper to find a small black box with a latch on top. When I opened the box, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Inside it was a gold watch with a gold strap; a real watch, perched upon a velvet cradle.

We tried out the watch on my wrist, and Uncle Baltazar taught me how to adjust the size of the strap, which was loose even on the smallest fitting. Mum told me to wait two or three months, but I wouldn’t hear of it; I said it was fine the way it was and went off, fearful that the watch would be taken away from me. Even my father, who had seemed so distant, laughed and said he doubted I’d have the patience to wait two or three months.

Looking at the watch on my wrist, feeling the weight of it as I lowered my arm, I felt that something wasn’t right: such a valuable object couldn’t really be mine, and this suspicious feeling lasted a good while. But from the moment Uncle Baltazar placed the watch on my wrist I completely forgot he was a cripple. He rested the watch on the table and went about shortening the strap with a single hand, demonstrating just how easy he found this task.

Mamá se decepcionó al saber que el tío Baltazar había alquilado unas habitaciones en el Grande Hotel Síria e Líbano y que no se iba a quedar en nuestra casa. Pero él venía casi todos los días a almorzar o cenar, y los domingos me sacaba a pasear en su automóvil, yo solo porque mamá fue una vez y estaba enferma, y ​​mi padre nunca pudo ir; cuando no estaba cansado le dolía la cabeza o tenía que ir a visitar a alguien, y no creo que se subiera nunca a ese coche.

Un día el tío Baltazar fue a buscar a la tía Dulce, y cuando volvió por segunda vez hubo una fiesta aún mayor, porque esta vez su estadía duró muchos años.

Traducido por Rahul Bery