ENGLISH (SHORT STORIES)

 

JUST LIKE A WORM

John Taylor Kaufmann (Torres del Mogador, 10889 - Anthropolis, 10983) was one of the icons of the so-called Neo-Idealist Movement of the 10930´s decade. In 10984, his Tillung friend Wudso Durgandau exhumed the writing we introduce here, which was dated in 10912, and found among his notebooks of youth.

I´m just like a social worm who digs galleries in the world of others, looking for beauty for it to spill from the world of the fantasy.

For my secret intention (the mean ones have taken us there, that it is to be a secret intention) is to live of what I produce. And what I produce is, or it tries to be, beauty.

Probably it might be untasteful to define myself for oppositions, but I want you all to have it clear.

My work is certainly not the encomiable task of treating bodies or minds. I am not a pettifogger leaned to the best table of the great canteen of the Power. I do not look for the clash among the men in order to justify my life. I am not also capable of raising beautiful, useful buildings; I can neither poke in the phenomena of the Nature, nor discover the keys that govern the Cosmos.

This world is already a fiction; a passing, secondary dream; to this one, I and others like me add other worlds, perhaps equally unreal ones. Maybe my mission is debatable for others more capable and dressed in authority, but this is what was given to me and it´s useless to deny it. To it I owe myself, and usurping other regions of knowledge would be inconvenient, if not blasphemous.

I´m just like a worm searching Beauty without a rest; Beauty as an Absolute; not to change anybody´s life, but to try to change my own one, maybe to discover the real one. If laterally someone finds a high or pleasant moment in my works, it will correspond to my gratefulness to be inexhaustible.

Still today I try to free myself from the disgusting matrix of mere survival, where my better possibilities have to hobnob among, and even to see themselves stuck by, others´ miseries, which always are expanded by my own ones. But “today”, also, is a word of freedom. “Today” means that the day of giving a step has come, however small it may be, towards my own worldly destiny. Of that Another Destiny, He takes charge, as we already know it.

I am, it is said, just like a frail worm making its way among the density of a hostile environment. In this sense, we agree with the powerful ones, with the successful ones, with those satisfied with themselves, with the carrioners of Power, because they also see me as a worm, though in a different sense: They believe that I am a worm of their world, not of mine.

That´s why I might be very proud of my wormity.

I ignore the limit to which I will be able to come to, but my route, even though it´s human like those of everybody´s, it looks for light, and is not tempted by the dark.

I do not find another way to say that I am a writer.

THE VENUS OF LA BOCA

Aladdin Sobral was the best sculptor of the neighborhood. When I was a boy there were some in La Boca, that lovable quarter in Buenos Aires, and all of them were recognized in the country.

Aladdin, one day, got a block of Carrara's marble, and he would dedicate one entire, locked up, secret year; obsessed with his next work: Milo's Venus, but entire, with arms, with all the possible details.

The artist was working very much, and scarcely would he eat a morsel or sleep a blink. The whole day the tock tock of the mace and the chisel would be listened. Then, the equal, careful whisper of the minor tools; and ultimately, the sandpaper, and then the cloth of gloss.

The day in which he finished, covered the Venus with a clean canvas, and went for a stroll to the river, under the moonlight. It was one year since he did it last.

Back home, clearer and lucid than ever, he rose to the workshop, and discovered the Venus. She was so beautiful, so pure, so woman… He said to his creation a few welcoming words; then he whispered in her ear other tender words, and finally (anyway, he was alone) embraced her with something that he wanted to think it was only affection.

Aladdin closed his eyes and felt his heart, his old generous heart, was striking softly the Venus´ marble skin.

But he opened them with surprise, with horror, with delight, when he felt two soft hands caressing his back.

He tried to dominate his panic, so he kept himself silent; his still hands, scarcely supporting his fingers on the waist of the stone woman.

- I cannot believe it ... -he happened to say softly, trembling, with his face still on Venus's shoulder. -Do you have some explanation for this? How could you come to life?

-If I could explain it to you... No, it is not easy to do it with words, which are always so greedy. Do imagine that it was your passion what brought me to this body that you´ve just sculpted -Venus answered while she continued caressing back old Aladdin´s back, making him easy-. For one year you did not think in anything else but me; not even in the original model, but in me, when still I was a formless crag. Already in that early moment you saw me, you were guessing me, you were looking for me; after giving me a form you still continued looking for my perfection. And after it, not satisfied yet in admiring me as your own work, you saw me with an entity of my own , and because of it you gave me a beautiful welcome.

-Yes, but... You are made out of stone, and nonetheless you are alive! I can feel your breathing in your chest, I can inhale the fresh breath that exhales your mouth, I can play now with your hairs, flexible though of thin marble... As if they were real.

-They are real, Aladdin. I am real. I am a reality that you yourself created.

In the end, their eyes met and both laughed just like children after a prank. Aladdin helped Venus to go down from her pedestal and invited her to sit down. Predictably, the chair was destroyed under the weight of the living statue.

-Pardon. I should have foreseen this detail -Aladdin apologized. Venus, amused, only laughed silently.

The artist prepared a light garment for his creation with a few big linens, and both sat down on the floor. She breathed deeply and indicated that she was feeling strange while breathing. Certainly, there were many questions to do, probably too many, but both decided that it would be time enough for it. Especially those regarding of physiological questions, since after mentioning the topic of breathing, Venus felt hungry and thirsty.

Venus ate a bit of bread, a bar of chocolate and drank a bit of water. The sensation turned out to be agreeable to her, and she was grateful to Aladdin with a kiss: the first one of her life.

-It´s curious, my dear Venus. There are some persons that, it´s clear, they are of flesh and bones, but they are so wicked or so indifferent, that it is said of them that they are stoned-hearted. You were created out of stone, but you seem to have a tender heart; a sweeter and more tender one than that of many other persons.

-Perhaps my heart is nothing else that a reflex of yours, Aladdin. Do not forget that I am your work.

-In the external, Venus, in the external thing. It is true that as you were getting shape, I would felt my passion ranging between one form and another one. It is true also that in the end I felt real love for you, but until we embraced each other for the first time, I did not rely on you having an conscience of your own. Or a soul.

At 3 o´clock in the morning, the warm starry night was propitious for a walk along the Riachuelo, the creek dividing Buenos Aires City and the Province. Aladdin knew that during one Wednesday´s early morning there would be no inopportune people in the street.

Venus got astonished with the full moon and the stars, and Aladdin explained to and showed to her some things on the heavenly bodies. But knowing that the most brilliant star of the Southern sky had the same name impressed Venus a lot. Aladdin already knew that Venus was romantic-minded, thus he invited her to rise to the rooftop of his atelier to watch the dawn.

Only a few high cirruses would give notes of oranges on the indigo of the sky, when the Sun began to stretch under the horizon. Venus held Aladdin around his waist, and he did the same thing to her. Aladdin was an old seawolf, and he had lived this scene often in his life. But in this occasion it was quite different. Other women might have seen or not a dawn after a night of pleasure, but it was granted that they could have seen the dawn going to work or in a long trip. In Venus' particular case, positively this one was the very first dawn of her life for any concept. When he was bottled into these thoughts, he saw that the first Sun of the day was reflecting in the first tears of the Venus of La Boca. She only limited herself to smile to him and to say thanks, Aladdin.

Aladdin wondered then if his work would feel dream or weariness, in the same way as she had felt appetite. Also in this opportunity the artist went forward to Venus.

-Aladdin, I don´t feel well. What is happening to me? I feel that I am going out within; my head weighs and I cannot have my eyes wide open.

-Do not worry, it is only lack of sleep. Let's go down to the atelier, which is also our house. There you will be able to sleep in calm. Then you will see how good you will feel.

-To sleep? What is it?

Aladdin laughed lowly and helped Venus to get comfort. Certainly, they did not sleep hugging each other for logical reasons, but Aladdin caressed Venus very much until she began to breathe deep, slowly.

At midday both woke up and Aladdin prepared food. Venus tried it with wine and she liked both.

Days passed pleasantly, and Aladdin Sobral realized that he might never exhibit his masterpiece. It was easy to imagine the scandal, the vulgarization, the comments, if not the risk that would imply exposing Venus publicly.

It was decided that she would be known only by a few friends, people of confidence and proven reserve. Meanwhile, he taught Venus how to create a sculpture, and also to play the old piano existing in one corner of the atelier. Venus was charmed with music, and within few months she could play a couple of sonatas.

Certainly, they were living for one another. Love was growing while they were sharing their passion for sculpture, for music, for books and for red wine, for humor (Venus had a contagious laugh) and for night meetings with old friends. Aladdin continued giving lessons of sculpture and painting in the ground floor, and occasionally he would sell some work: It was enough, in that generous epoch, to live decently.

Years passed by without being felt, and one morning Aladdin thought that the mirror did not have good news for him.

He had become a really old man.

Life with Venus had been exceptionally good, and only now it was discovered that he had aged faster than his wife-sculpture. Because Venus, having physiological functions, also had a process of aging, but this one was extremely slow. She still was a young woman, whereas he already was a geronte.

Some years later, in a radiant midday Aladdin died very elderly and happy, holding one hand of his beloved Venus. To keep up appearances, a sculptor of the intimate circle of friends, Carlos Vanegas, made traverse the voice around the neighborhood that he would occupy the house-atelier of his dear friend. La Boca, a neighborhood bohemian enough, had changed within the years, and only few of the ancient neighbors would remainin, so few people was really interested about the news.

Certainly, Vanegas executed this maneuver to assure tranquility to Venus. She was desolated and didn´t know what to do with her strange life, halfway between a sculpture and a human being.

One day Venus felt that in her chest a song was vibrating, a music that she could know, a non-stop repeating melody. She tried the piano, but after hours of trying, she saw that that was not the way. In the evening, after thinking and trying to listen more carefully what was vibrating throughout all her being, she had a clear vision of what was all about. Immediately she called Vanegas and asked him to obtain for her a block of Carrara's marble. Vanegas had the necessary resources to do the purchase quickly, and after one month the marble block was raised to the atelier.

Venus had sketches and tools ready. When the laborers left, Vanegas warned her that already she could go out, and she began immediately the task.

One year later a statue, Aladdin Sobral's perfect reproduction, was ready. Venus made it having a former photography as a model, when the artist was 35 years old, an age exchangeable against her current age.

When she finished the polishing, Venus felt terror. She felt the ice of fear, by thinking that so much work and so much love she had put in the carving of the statue, could not give any result at all. She remained before the sculpture with absorbed look; then she begged Aladdin to come back to life. After a few instants, given the silence of the immobile statue, she had a nervous brakedown and cried to Aladdin not to be cruel.

With uncontrollable weeping, Venus fell down on her knees and prostrated herself before the statue, already without hope. The only thing she had within her chest was a pain that had the size of the Cosmos. The tears of stone fell to the floor of the atelier with small, modest noises.

She only rose her look when a marble hand offered her a handkerchief, lovingly.

ON THE BRIDGE

This bridge does not serve exactly to be crossed. It serves rather to come to its exact half and to rest awhile, perhaps during the twilight of the morning or that of the evening. One supports one´s elbows on the railing masonry, and looks at the flow of the broad River of Life.

One shore or the other one is almost the same thing. Those who live on one side think that the neighbors in front abjure the truth; these also abominate of the first ones.

To tackle the differences, one dawn the Bridge appeared reigning on both margins. Overnight; as well as it is read. The first discussion that the inhabitants of both shores would have was on the authorship of this prodigy: Some were accusing others of having constructed a bridge without their own express permission. When they became exhausted the hours of discussion (tiring, it´s necessary to say, since the River is broad and the communication continues to being on bare shout still today) another motive of dispute came: Let´s see who would be the brave one to come to the highest point of some of both Columns the bridge hangs from. It is true; I use to visit that place of privilege, but even I have felt dizziness the first time.

It happens that from the top of that Bridge one sees the River of the Life in all its magnitude. Indeed, the very first thing that one sees is that the inhabitants of both shores ignore that those who really live are the ones who sail in the changeable currents of that course. In spite of the perils and risks that it means. In spite of not having sometimes anything else than a fragile boat, or a canoe. It is clear that there are also those who pass with enormous sluggish ships, full of supernumerary luxuries; those who circulate with noisy engines out of hut, and even those who commanding an oceanic shyness, furrow the waters in a submarine, of which you hardly achieve to see the most modest of the periscopes.

I, here up, take delight with this vision of th Everything. But already many years have passed and I know I´ll have to leave this Bridge at some time, to be busy with assembling my own boat and with continuing my trip. From one shore and the other one, throughout time, I have known wise persons who warned me that the Bridge, though delicious, can be itself a deception, and as a third shore, it can absorb me, and leave me without navigation and without own life. It is clear that a bridge is not a place to remain. It is a place to continue.

Already it is for dawning again. From here I can see the lights of the tiny Island of the Shipyard, which is always open, by day and by night, right in the very half of the River. The Shipyard, establishment useless and despised by the sedentary inhabitants of both shores.

Right now I´m going down and walking there: I have Work to do.

THE MUSIC, THE BEAUTIFUL MUSIC

My mother, Euterpe, delight of the Olympian gods and of the mortal men, gave birth to me centuries ago; so many centuries that already it´s not worthy counting them. The name that she chose for me was Melody; nevertheless, all my sisters (so many people we are that already it´s not worthy counting us) were called the same. What differentiates us is the name that the mortal ones give to us.

That´s how I was said by Euterpe, the one of snowy arms, that when I would came to the indicated age, I would have a father among men, and that this father would give me a name of my own, different from that of my sisters. And that this man would love me as nobody else, and that he would make me known in the whole orb. Nevertheless, the creator of my days also said to me that I should look for him with determination, and once found I should inspire love in him, seduce him, conquer him, convince him that all his existence was destined for our meeting.

I was some few years old only, but I took courage and went down to the world.

I visited the loneliness of many houses, in which inspired composers were inhabiting; sensitive artists, players of every known instrument and of those who, forced by the grace, were seen in the need to create new sources of sounds. Nevertheless, in all that I would appear in their not always miserable quarters, the musicians scarcely took note of my presence and continued, taciturn and imperturbable, thinking about another some other things: mainly in reputation and glory.

I couldn´t decipher with clarity the motive of distraction in those men; Euterpe had said to me that I had born embellished with a singular beauty and that I would not be late in finding my secret name.

Rather desolate, but encouraged by the curiosity to know what happened with those disinterested souls, I followed my way. I found, as time passed by, musical monks, happy jongleurs, big masters, outstanding pupils… But none could pay attention to me sufficiently. I was feeling that already I was not that simple and innocent melody that had departed from the Olympus; already I was a music with certain complexities gained in the way, and was noticing that not always it was easy to understand.

Chronos continued his indifferent course, but he also was becoming my teacher. I remembered the words of my mother, when she would sa to me that I had to conquer the heart from that one to whom I would choose as my mortal father. So that I imposed myself the learning of another art, that of the patience, and when at last I found the luminous soul of a musician as brilliant as sensitive, simply I settled in his cabinet to observe it, simply to observe it.

It doesn´t matter what his name is, today very known. But let's suppose that he was called Henry.

It was a question of another age already, and the instruments had changed very much. The sound landscape also seemed to myself to be strange, strange and mysterious, and everything Henry would listen to, though it was agreeable to the ear, was the figure of the time I had spent looking for him. Yes, it was him; it was he who I needed to find. So many centuries of search, of thirst, of longing, they had come to an end and for long I could not articulate one single note.

Without realizing it I began to love Henry. As if I myself was the mortal one. I began to love his kindness, his sensibility, his humor, his pinch of laziness, his greatness of spirit, his wisdom, his honesty and his sense of the ethics. Also his so human many contradictions and conflicts. I did not know what was happening to me, since in my unmateriality, and in my nature of music, were impulses that I didn´t know, and by far didn´t understand.

I took the decision to confess this torment to my cousin, Harmony, who knows the art of ordering feelings. She advised me to take from Henry whatever he could give me, and make the same thing I with him. But she didnt say to me how, since I would discover that in due time. The time, again the time… I came then to another one of my cousins, Rhythm, regent of the durations. He suggested me that I should never try to hurry, that everything has an intrinsic metre which everyone must mate with.

I returned slowly to Henry's house, at night, perhaps not less confused than what was when I had left. I found him drinking, lights switched off, sat in his favorite armchair, staring at the Moon, the aged Selene of white face -silently. Only the feline purring of the refrigerator was listened, in the distant kitchen.

In a second I realized everything.

I allowed him to sleep an uncomfortable, short and insufficient dream, and the following day I received him with opened arms. The morning was radiant. Henry had a shower, had breakfast and sat down awhile at the piano, but it he couldn´t meet what he was looking for. I strained in being interwoven with his soul, though without any result. I could feel just a dark emptiness, an emptiness claiming an urgent light.

In this moment somebody knocked the door. Henry rushed to open. His look was another one; it was a look in which there was courage, hope, a certainty of imminent glory.

When the door was opened, I saw her. She was just like me, but in the flesh. I hadn´t any doubt and got in her.

- How our musician is, today? - we both asked.

- I was expecting to listen to your voice, which is the most beautiful existing melody.

It was the morning, and only in the late afternoon they dressed and had a coffee. Henry asked her to speak to him a bit, about whatever. We both obeyed punctually. While we were doing it, Henry sat down at the piano and began to find me, to decipher me, to compose me.

TO PLAY WITH FIRE

Without arcanes, without priests, without rites, both neophytes raised an altar and dropped the suitable words. At a short distance there was a silent river; from its liquid flesh the haze which defamed the oaks, the larches and the pines would sprout.

The time was the half of the night. The lunar circle was rubbing perfection.

With their white tunics, which could not delay the soft cold, the aspirants brought together in the altar an entire trunk, good logs fact of secondary branches and tinder in quantity. They added a cone of small branches and gave beginning to the ceremony.

The flames were not late in having the height of a child, then that of a man. The bonfire in that clear of the forest, the black wall of trees and the nearby river, would formed a picture crowned by the Moon and its court of bejeweled stars. The fire, which seemed to speak to them, was crackling keenly, perforating a hot cylinder in the increasingly thick haze.

Both novices sat down on the grass of the forest clear and in the look of each one there was a decision that only was confirmed for that of the other one.

Adam and Eve threw the tunics into the fire, while the Apple Tree continued burning, defeated.