Peruvian tales
“A good book is not the one that thinks for you, but the one that makes you think.” James McCosh.
The first snowfall
“A good book is not the one that thinks for you, but the one that makes you think.” James McCosh.
The first snowfall
[Story - Full text]
Julio Ramón Ribeyro
The objects that Torroba left
me were easily incorporated into the messy panorama of my room. They were, in
short, some dirty clothes wrapped in a shirt and a cardboard box containing
some papers. At first, I did not want to receive these items because Torroba
had a reputation as a market thief and it was known that the police did not see
the hours of putting him on the border as undesirable foreigner.
However, Torroba asked me in such a way,
bringing my nearsighted and mustard-faced face close to mine, that I had no
choice but to accept.
- Brother, just for tonight! Tomorrow I come for my things.
Naturally, he did not come for them. His things stayed there for several days. Out of boredom, I watched his dirty clothes and entertained checking his papers. There were poems, drawings, pages of intimate diary. In truth, as it was rumored in the Latin Quarter, Torroba had a great talent, one of those diffuse talents and explorers that apply to various subjects, but especially to the art of living. (Some of his verses moved me: "Soldier on the stubble of winter, blue for cold hands and English.") Perhaps that is why I gained some interest in this vagrant mate.
A week after his first visit he appeared again. This time he brought a suitcase tied with rope.
-Excuse me, but I do not have the room yet. You are going to have to keep this bag for me. You do not have a razor blade.
Before I answered, he left his suitcase in a corner and, approaching the laboratory, took my personal belongings. In front of the mirror, he shaved whistling, without giving himself the job of removing his sweater, scarf, or beret. When he finished, he dried himself with my towel, told me some gossip about the neighborhood and left telling me that he would return the next day for his lumps.
The next day he came, indeed, but not to pick them up. On the contrary, he left me a dozen books and two teaspoons, probably stolen from a student restaurant. This time he did not shave, but he managed to eat a good quadrant of my cheese and to give him a silk tie. I do not know why, because I never wore a collar shirt. In this way, his visits multiplied throughout the autumn. My hotel room became something like a must-see station of your Parisian wandering. There he had at his disposal everything he needed: a good piece of bread, cigarettes, a clean towel, writing paper. I never gave him money, but he took a long time in kind. I tolerated him not without a certain restlessness and was anxiously waiting for him to find a loft where he could take refuge with all his things.
Finally something inevitable happened: one day Torroba arrived at my room quite late and asked me to let him sleep for that night.
"Here, no more, on the carpet," he said, pointing to the tapestry through whose holes a peg of hexagonal bricks appeared.
Even though my bed was quite wide, I consented to sleep on the floor.
- Brother, just for tonight! Tomorrow I come for my things.
Naturally, he did not come for them. His things stayed there for several days. Out of boredom, I watched his dirty clothes and entertained checking his papers. There were poems, drawings, pages of intimate diary. In truth, as it was rumored in the Latin Quarter, Torroba had a great talent, one of those diffuse talents and explorers that apply to various subjects, but especially to the art of living. (Some of his verses moved me: "Soldier on the stubble of winter, blue for cold hands and English.") Perhaps that is why I gained some interest in this vagrant mate.
A week after his first visit he appeared again. This time he brought a suitcase tied with rope.
-Excuse me, but I do not have the room yet. You are going to have to keep this bag for me. You do not have a razor blade.
Before I answered, he left his suitcase in a corner and, approaching the laboratory, took my personal belongings. In front of the mirror, he shaved whistling, without giving himself the job of removing his sweater, scarf, or beret. When he finished, he dried himself with my towel, told me some gossip about the neighborhood and left telling me that he would return the next day for his lumps.
The next day he came, indeed, but not to pick them up. On the contrary, he left me a dozen books and two teaspoons, probably stolen from a student restaurant. This time he did not shave, but he managed to eat a good quadrant of my cheese and to give him a silk tie. I do not know why, because I never wore a collar shirt. In this way, his visits multiplied throughout the autumn. My hotel room became something like a must-see station of your Parisian wandering. There he had at his disposal everything he needed: a good piece of bread, cigarettes, a clean towel, writing paper. I never gave him money, but he took a long time in kind. I tolerated him not without a certain restlessness and was anxiously waiting for him to find a loft where he could take refuge with all his things.
Finally something inevitable happened: one day Torroba arrived at my room quite late and asked me to let him sleep for that night.
"Here, no more, on the carpet," he said, pointing to the tapestry through whose holes a peg of hexagonal bricks appeared.
Even though my bed was quite wide, I consented to sleep on the floor.
I did it with the purpose of creating
discomfort and preventing it from acquiring bad habits. However, he seemed to
be used to this kind of vicissitudes because, during my sleeplessness, I felt
him snore all night, as if he were lying on a bed of roses.
He remained there until about noon. To prepare breakfast I had to jump over the body. He finally got up, stuck his ear to the door, and running toward the table, took a drink of coffee to his throat.
-It is time to leave! The pattern is in the rooms above.
And he left quickly without saying goodbye.
Since then, he came every night. He entered very late, when the patron of the hotel was already snoring.
Between us there seemed to be a tacit agreement, because without asking me or demanding anything from me, he appeared in the room, made a coffee and then threw himself on the frayed carpet. He rarely spoke to me, unless he was a little drunk. What bothered me most was its smell. It is not that it was a particularly unpleasant smell, but it was a different smell from mine, a foreign smell that occupied the room and gave me the feeling, even during its absence, of being completely invaded.
Winter came and the frost began to grow on the windowpanes. Torroba must have lost his joke in some adventure, because he was always in a shirt shivering. It was a pity for me to see him lying on the floor, without covering himself with any blanket. One night his cough woke me up. We both dialogue in the dark. He asked me, then, to let him lie on my bed, because the floor was too cold.
"Well," I said. For tonight nothing more.
Unfortunately, his cold lasted several days and he took advantage of this situation to seize a piece of my bed. It was an emergency measure, it is true, but that ended up becoming routine. Once the cough, Torroba had conquered the right to share my pillow, my sheets and my blankets.
Providing a bed for a tramp is a sign of claudication. From that day, Torroba reigned fully in my room. He seemed to be the occupant and me the clandestine sleeper. Many times, when I returned from the street, I found him in my bed, reading and underlining my books, eating my bread and filling the sheets of crumbs. He even took amazing liberties, like wearing my underwear and painting cravings for my delicate reproductions of Botticelli.
The most disturbing thing, however, was that I did not know if he kept some gratitude for me. I never heard the word thank you from your lips. It is true that, at night, when I found him in one of those sordid redoubts he eats Chez Moineau, surrounded by Swedish lesbians, inverted Yankees, and pot smokers, he invited me to his table and gave me a glass of red wine. However, maybe I did it to have fun at my ribs, to say, when I left: "That is a moron guy that I have mastered." True, I lived a little fascinated by his temper and often told me to comfort myself in that domain: "Maybe I have an unknown genius in my room."
Finally something unusual happened: one night it was twelve o'clock and Torroba did not appear. I went to bed a little uneasy, thinking that maybe I had suffered an accident. But, on the other hand, I seemed to breathe a sweet air of freedom. However, at two in the morning I felt a pebble crashing into the window. When I looked out, leaning on the windowsill, I spotted Torroba standing at the door of the hotel.
-Give me the key that I am dying of cold!
After midnight, the boss locked the door. I threw her wrapped in a handkerchief and returning to my bed I waited for her to enter. It took a long time; he seemed to climb the stairs with extreme caution. Finally, the door opened and Torroba appeared.
He remained there until about noon. To prepare breakfast I had to jump over the body. He finally got up, stuck his ear to the door, and running toward the table, took a drink of coffee to his throat.
-It is time to leave! The pattern is in the rooms above.
And he left quickly without saying goodbye.
Since then, he came every night. He entered very late, when the patron of the hotel was already snoring.
Between us there seemed to be a tacit agreement, because without asking me or demanding anything from me, he appeared in the room, made a coffee and then threw himself on the frayed carpet. He rarely spoke to me, unless he was a little drunk. What bothered me most was its smell. It is not that it was a particularly unpleasant smell, but it was a different smell from mine, a foreign smell that occupied the room and gave me the feeling, even during its absence, of being completely invaded.
Winter came and the frost began to grow on the windowpanes. Torroba must have lost his joke in some adventure, because he was always in a shirt shivering. It was a pity for me to see him lying on the floor, without covering himself with any blanket. One night his cough woke me up. We both dialogue in the dark. He asked me, then, to let him lie on my bed, because the floor was too cold.
"Well," I said. For tonight nothing more.
Unfortunately, his cold lasted several days and he took advantage of this situation to seize a piece of my bed. It was an emergency measure, it is true, but that ended up becoming routine. Once the cough, Torroba had conquered the right to share my pillow, my sheets and my blankets.
Providing a bed for a tramp is a sign of claudication. From that day, Torroba reigned fully in my room. He seemed to be the occupant and me the clandestine sleeper. Many times, when I returned from the street, I found him in my bed, reading and underlining my books, eating my bread and filling the sheets of crumbs. He even took amazing liberties, like wearing my underwear and painting cravings for my delicate reproductions of Botticelli.
The most disturbing thing, however, was that I did not know if he kept some gratitude for me. I never heard the word thank you from your lips. It is true that, at night, when I found him in one of those sordid redoubts he eats Chez Moineau, surrounded by Swedish lesbians, inverted Yankees, and pot smokers, he invited me to his table and gave me a glass of red wine. However, maybe I did it to have fun at my ribs, to say, when I left: "That is a moron guy that I have mastered." True, I lived a little fascinated by his temper and often told me to comfort myself in that domain: "Maybe I have an unknown genius in my room."
Finally something unusual happened: one night it was twelve o'clock and Torroba did not appear. I went to bed a little uneasy, thinking that maybe I had suffered an accident. But, on the other hand, I seemed to breathe a sweet air of freedom. However, at two in the morning I felt a pebble crashing into the window. When I looked out, leaning on the windowsill, I spotted Torroba standing at the door of the hotel.
-Give me the key that I am dying of cold!
After midnight, the boss locked the door. I threw her wrapped in a handkerchief and returning to my bed I waited for her to enter. It took a long time; he seemed to climb the stairs with extreme caution. Finally, the door opened and Torroba appeared.
But he was not alone: this time he was accompanied by a woman.
I looked at them in amazement. The woman, who was painted like a dummy and wore long Mandarin nails, did not give herself the job of greeting me. He took a theatrical tour around the room and finally stripped off his coat, revealing a palatable body.
"It's Francoise," said Torroba. A friend of mine. Tonight you will sleep here.
I looked at them in amazement. The woman, who was painted like a dummy and wore long Mandarin nails, did not give herself the job of greeting me. He took a theatrical tour around the room and finally stripped off his coat, revealing a palatable body.
"It's Francoise," said Torroba. A friend of mine. Tonight you will sleep here.
It is a bit doped.
-About the carpet? -I asked for.
-No, in bed.
As I doubted, he added.
-If you do not like the plan, lay on the floor.
Torroba turned off the light. I sat on the bed, watching them both move in the dim light. They probably undressed, because the smell - this time an unknown smell - enveloped me, penetrated my nostrils and were stuck in my stomach like a bolt.
-About the carpet? -I asked for.
-No, in bed.
As I doubted, he added.
-If you do not like the plan, lay on the floor.
Torroba turned off the light. I sat on the bed, watching them both move in the dim light. They probably undressed, because the smell - this time an unknown smell - enveloped me, penetrated my nostrils and were stuck in my stomach like a bolt.
When they got into bed, I jumped dragging a
blanket and lay on the floor. I could not sleep all night. The woman did not
speak (perhaps she had fallen asleep), but instead Torroba trembled and roared
until dawn.
They left at noon. In all that time, we do not cross a word. When I was alone, I locked the door and walked through my papers and my mess, smoking endlessly. Finally, when it began to get dark, I closed the window curtains and began throwing methodically all Torroba objects in the hotel corridor. His socks, his poems, his books, his bread beggars, his boxes and his suitcases were piled up in front of my bedroom door. When there was no trace of his person in my room, I turned off the light and lay on my bed.
I started to wait. Outside the wind blew furiously. After a few hours, I felt the steps of Torroba climbing the stairs and then a long silence in front of my door.
They left at noon. In all that time, we do not cross a word. When I was alone, I locked the door and walked through my papers and my mess, smoking endlessly. Finally, when it began to get dark, I closed the window curtains and began throwing methodically all Torroba objects in the hotel corridor. His socks, his poems, his books, his bread beggars, his boxes and his suitcases were piled up in front of my bedroom door. When there was no trace of his person in my room, I turned off the light and lay on my bed.
I started to wait. Outside the wind blew furiously. After a few hours, I felt the steps of Torroba climbing the stairs and then a long silence in front of my door.
I imagined him dumbfounded, in front of his
scattered goods.
First, it was an indecisive blow, then several angry blows.
-Hey, are you there? What has happened?
I did not answer.
-What does this mean? Are you moving out of the room?
I did not answer.
- Stop joking and open the door!
I did not answer.
-Don't play the sneak! I know very well that you are there. The boss told me.
I did not answer.
-Open, I'm being stuck!
I did not answer.
-Open, it snows, I am all wet!
I did not answer.
-I just drink coffee and then I go.
I did not answer.
-One minute, I am going to show you a book!
I did not answer.
-If you open me, I will bring Françoise tonight to sleep with you!
I did not answer.
For half an hour he continued screaming, pleading, threatening, insulting. He often reinforced his cries with a kick that shook the door. His voice had become hoarse.
-I come to say goodbye! Tomorrow I go to Spain. I will invite you to my house! I live on Serrano Street, even if you do not believe it! I have boys with livery!
In spite of myself, I had gotten into bed.
-So you treat a poet?.
First, it was an indecisive blow, then several angry blows.
-Hey, are you there? What has happened?
I did not answer.
-What does this mean? Are you moving out of the room?
I did not answer.
- Stop joking and open the door!
I did not answer.
-Don't play the sneak! I know very well that you are there. The boss told me.
I did not answer.
-Open, I'm being stuck!
I did not answer.
-Open, it snows, I am all wet!
I did not answer.
-I just drink coffee and then I go.
I did not answer.
-One minute, I am going to show you a book!
I did not answer.
-If you open me, I will bring Françoise tonight to sleep with you!
I did not answer.
For half an hour he continued screaming, pleading, threatening, insulting. He often reinforced his cries with a kick that shook the door. His voice had become hoarse.
-I come to say goodbye! Tomorrow I go to Spain. I will invite you to my house! I live on Serrano Street, even if you do not believe it! I have boys with livery!
In spite of myself, I had gotten into bed.
-So you treat a poet?.
Look, I will give you that
book that you have seen, written and illuminated with my own hand! I have been
offered three thousand francs for him. I give it to you, it's for you!
I went to the door and put my hands on the wood. I felt disturbed. In the dim light, I almost looked for the handle. Torroba was still imploring. I expected a phrase from him, the decisive one, that prompted me to move that handle that my hands had found. But there was a huge pause. When I stuck my ear on the door, I did not hear anything. Maybe Torroba, on the other side, imitated my attitude. Soon I felt that he was lifting his things, that he was falling, that he was lifting them again. Then, his steps down the stairs ...
Running to the window I drew the tip of the curtain. This time Torroba hadn't fooled me: it was snowing.
Large flakes fell obliquely, crashing against the facades of the hotels. People ran on the white floor, adjusting their hats and buttoning their thick coats. The terraces of the cafés were lit, full of parishioners who drank hot wine and enjoyed the first snow covered by the transparent screens.
Torroba appeared on the road. He was in a shirt and carried in his hands, under his armpits, on his shoulders, on his head, his heterologous heritage. Raising his face, he stared at my window, as if he knew I was there, spying on him, and wanted to show himself abandoned under the storm. Something must have said because his lips moved. Then an indecisive march began, full of meanders, setbacks, doubts, trips.
When I crossed the boulevard towards the Arab quarter, I felt that I was drowning in that room that seemed to me, now, too big and sheltered to cover my loneliness. Opening the window with a swipe, I pulled half a body out of the rail.
-Torba! I shouted. Torroba, I'm here! I'm in my room!
Torroba kept walking away among a crowd of walkers who glided silently over the silent snow.
-Torba! I insisted. Come, there is room for you! Do not go, Torrobaaa!
Only then, did he turn and stare at my window. However, when I thought he was coming towards me, he just raised an arm with a clenched fist, with a gesture that was, more than a threat, a revenge, before being lost forever in the first snowfall.
FINISH
I went to the door and put my hands on the wood. I felt disturbed. In the dim light, I almost looked for the handle. Torroba was still imploring. I expected a phrase from him, the decisive one, that prompted me to move that handle that my hands had found. But there was a huge pause. When I stuck my ear on the door, I did not hear anything. Maybe Torroba, on the other side, imitated my attitude. Soon I felt that he was lifting his things, that he was falling, that he was lifting them again. Then, his steps down the stairs ...
Running to the window I drew the tip of the curtain. This time Torroba hadn't fooled me: it was snowing.
Large flakes fell obliquely, crashing against the facades of the hotels. People ran on the white floor, adjusting their hats and buttoning their thick coats. The terraces of the cafés were lit, full of parishioners who drank hot wine and enjoyed the first snow covered by the transparent screens.
Torroba appeared on the road. He was in a shirt and carried in his hands, under his armpits, on his shoulders, on his head, his heterologous heritage. Raising his face, he stared at my window, as if he knew I was there, spying on him, and wanted to show himself abandoned under the storm. Something must have said because his lips moved. Then an indecisive march began, full of meanders, setbacks, doubts, trips.
When I crossed the boulevard towards the Arab quarter, I felt that I was drowning in that room that seemed to me, now, too big and sheltered to cover my loneliness. Opening the window with a swipe, I pulled half a body out of the rail.
-Torba! I shouted. Torroba, I'm here! I'm in my room!
Torroba kept walking away among a crowd of walkers who glided silently over the silent snow.
-Torba! I insisted. Come, there is room for you! Do not go, Torrobaaa!
Only then, did he turn and stare at my window. However, when I thought he was coming towards me, he just raised an arm with a clenched fist, with a gesture that was, more than a threat, a revenge, before being lost forever in the first snowfall.
FINISH
With affection,
Ruben
No comments:
Post a Comment