Short Story from around the WORLD

A Drama of Our Time part 1/4

by Fernando Sorrentino

Translated from the Spanish by Michele Aynesworth

It happened when youth and optimism were my boon companions.

The breezes of spring came wafting down Matienzo street in Las Ca๑itas around 11:00 o'clock on a Thursday, the only day of the week that my teaching schedule left me free. I taught Language and Literature in more than one high school, I was twenty-seven and full of enthusiasm for books and imagination.

I was sitting on the balcony drinking maté and rereading, after a lapse of fifteen years, the enchanting adventures of King Solomon's Mines. (I noted sadly that when I was a boy I had enjoyed them much more.)

Suddenly I felt someone watching me.

I looked up. On one of the balconies of the building facing mine, at the same height as my own apartment, I spied a young woman. I raised a hand and waved. She waved back and left the balcony.

Curious to know where this might lead, I tried to get a glimpse inside her apartment, with no result.

"This will go nowhere," I said to myself, and returned to my reading. I hadn't read ten lines before she was back on her balcony, this time with dark glasses, and she sat down on a deckchair.

I began feverishly making signs and gestures. The young woman was reading — or pretending to read — a magazine. "It's a ruse," I thought; "it's not possible that she doesn't see me, and now she's posing so I can enjoy the show." I couldn't quite make out her features, but I could tell she was tall and slender and her hair, dark and straight, came down to her shoulders. Overall, she seemed to be a beautiful girl, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five years old.

I left the balcony, went to my bedroom, and peered through the shutters. She was looking in my direction. So I ran out and caught her in flagrante delicto.

A Drama of Our Time part 2/4

by Fernando Sorrentino

Translated from the Spanish by Michele Aynesworth

"Uh . . . With the girl . . ."

"What girl, se๑or? What girl are you talking about, se๑or?" The thundrous voice now carried a note of menace.

How do you explain something to someone who doesn't want to understand?

"Uh . . . With the girl on the balcony." My voice was a tiny sliver of glass.

But this didn't move him. On the contrary, he became more enraged:

"Don't bother us, se๑or, please! We're working folks, se๑or!"

An irate click ended the conversation. For a minute there I was speechless. I looked at the telephone and began cursing it between clenched teeth.

Then I spoke harshly of that stupid girl who hadn't taken the trouble to answer the phone herself. Suddenly I decided it was my fault for calling too soon. The man with the booming voice had answered so quickly, the telephone must be within reach, maybe even on his desk. That's why he'd said, "We're working folks."

And what about me? Everybody worked, that wasn't so special. I tried to picture him, giving him awful features: he was fat, florid, perspiring, and potbellied.

This stentorian-voiced fellow had served me an unconditional defeat by telephone. I felt a bit depressed and wanting vengeance.

A Drama of Our Time part 3/4

by Fernando Sorrentino
Translated from the Spanish by Michele Aynesworth

Then I reasoned: "In the Green Guide there's a section where it's possible to use the telephone number to find out someone's name. I don't have a Green Guide. Large companies have the guide. Banks are large companies. Therefore banks have the guide. My friend Balbón works in a bank. Banks open at noon."

I waited until 12:30 and called Balbón.

"Oh, dear Fernando," he answered, "I'm overjoyed and comforted to hear your voice . . ."

"Thanks, Balbón. But listen . . ."

" . . . that voice of a young man with no cares or obligations, duties or responsibilities. Lucky you, dear Fernando, drifting along on the happy tide of life, not allowing external events to disturb your peace. Lucky you . . ."

I can't prove it, but I beg to be believed: I swear Balbón exists and that, indeed, he talks like that and says that kind of thing.

After having endowed me with such imaginary charms, he proceeded to portray himself — without giving me a chance to talk — as a sort of victim:

"In contrast, I, the humble and negligible Balbón, carry on today, as I did yesterday and will tomorrow, and for centuries of centuries, dragging a heavy cartload of miseries and heartaches across this treacherous planet . . ."

I had heard this story a thousand times.

My mind wandered as I waited for the litany of complaints to reach an end. Then suddenly I heard:

"It's been nice talking to you. Take care, now."

And he hung up.

Indignant, I called him back.

"Che, Balbón!" I reproached him, "Why did you hang up?"

"Ah," he said, "you wanted to tell me something?"

"I want you to look in the Green Guide, see whose name corresponds to this telephone number . . ."

"Hang on. I'm looking for my fountain pen, I hate to write with pencils or ballpoints."

I was eaten up with impatience.

Finally, after several minutes, he said, "That number belongs to one CASTELLUCCI, IRMA G. DE. Castellucci with double ell and double cee. But, why do you want to know?"

A Drama of Our Time part 4/4

by Fernando Sorrentino

Translated from the Spanish by Michele Aynesworth

"Oh, gweat! Dat's you, se๑or Castewussi . . . How you dooing, se๑or Castewussi?"

"No, no, se๑or! Listen to me, se๑or!" He was about to blow a fuse. "The Castellucis haven't lived here for at least seven years, se๑or!"

"You dooing OK, se๑or Castewussi?" I cordially insisted. "And da wife? And your widdle ones? Don't you wemember me, se๑or Castewussi?"

"But who are you, se๑or?" In addition to being terrible, the monster was curious.

"Dis is Bawwie, se๑or Castewussi."

"Barrie?" he repeated, disgustedly. "Barrie who?"

"Bawwie, se๑or Castewussi, da qwerk in da wibwawy."

"What?! The library?!" He hadn't understood me very well: it was all I could do to keep from laughing.

"Bawwie, se๑or Castewussi, Bawwie Wudder."

"Barrie Rudder? What Barrie Rudder?"

"Bawwie Wudder, da one dat got one eye cwossed and can't see wit dee udder, se๑or Castewussi."

He exploded like an atom bomb: "Do me a favor and get lost, you idiot! Why don't you just shoot yourself, clown!?"

The Red and Gold Shoe

The Red and Gold Shoe part 7/7

They passed the shoe from hand to hand, and Lata watched jealously as they examined it.

"Can I try it on?" asked one of the girls, and Lata looked at her for a long moment. "Only for a second-just to see what it feels like," the girl pleaded.

This was something new indeed-to be asked, instead of ordered, shouted at, or even pushed. And then to know that she had the choice of answering yes, or even no. She had to be careful here, and so she said, with that cunning that comes from being treated like nothing for too long: "What will you give me in return?"

It started off with a piece of sesame crunch saved from the recent marriage feast to which they had not invited her. She shared it promptly with Joseph, and from there it went on until, at the end of the week, she had for him a top without a point, three plastic bangles for herself, first place at the tap on two occasions when she overslept and was late, and even an invitation to a not-so-important doll marriage, For only the first week that was a good run of luck indeed, and Lata had reason to feel happy. The conditions laid down for the wearing of her shoe were stern. It must never touch the ground, nor be scuffed against anything to wear away the gold. This was no ordinary shoe and therefore it must be treated as no ordinary shoe was ever treated. Such conditions were bound to affect the wearer too. The betel seller's daughter borrowed the shoe for a whole afternoon and she wore it when her relatives called on the family from their village. All through the visit she sat sedately on a trunk, one leg folded under her and the other hanging down.