Tang.Song

Author: Guiraldes, F.
Translator: Wang Yaole
Country: Argentina
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-01-01
Features: Outside the town, about ten streets away from the central square, there is an old stone bridge that spans the river, connecting the town's houses with the tranquil countryside. That day, as usual, I came here, sheltered under the cool shade of the bridge stones, intending to catch a few catfish and trade them with the owner of the "La Brandyda" grocery store for some candy, cigarettes, or a few coins. But my mood was not like before; I felt bored, solitary, and had no desire to inform my usual playmates and water-haulers, for I did not want to smile at anyone or tell the old jokes. Even fishing seemed to me superfluous; I let the float of my line be carried by the current to the riverbank. I was thinking, I was thinking about my fourteen years as an abandoned child; an abandoned child, as they call it here, "gauchito." I lowered my eyelids, not looking at the things that distracted me. I imagined the town's forty blocks, the flat-roofed houses, rigidly divided by right-angled streets, crisscrossing. In one of these blocks, my so-called aunts lived; it was no more elegant or dilapidated than the others; it was my prison. My home? My aunts? My protector, Don Fabio Cáceres? These questions arose in my mind a hundred times, urgently demanding answers; and as the only possible answer, I recalled my brief life a hundred times, knowing it was useless. Yet this was an extremely persistent thought. Six, seven, eight years old? I didn't know exactly how old I was when they took me away from the person I always called "mother," on the pretext of sending me to school, and confined me in this town? I only remember that for weeks I cried, though surrounded by two strange women and a man, who were affectionately attentive to me; of that man, I retained only a vague memory. Both women called me "my dear little one" and told me I should call them Aunt Asunción and Aunt Mercedes. The man didn't ask me to call him anything, but his kindness seemed to me a better omen. I went to school. I had learned to swallow my tears, to distrust the sweet words they used to coax me. My two aunts soon grew tired of me as a plaything and spent their days whispering and scolding, united in their efforts to call me dirty and a little ragamuffin, blaming me for any misfortune that befell the family. Don Fabio Cáceres once came to see me and asked if I would like to go to his estate to play. I became familiar with the beautiful house, which no other town had, and I entered it with the respect of someone entering a church. When my two aunts took me to church, they always sat me between them to remind me to count the beads and supervise my behavior; every time they interfered with me, they considered it a merit before God. Don Fabio took me to see the chicken coop, gave me a piece of cake, presented me with a peach, and took me for a ride in a light carriage over the countryside to see the cows and horses. This visit left a vivid memory in me after I returned to town; whenever I thought of it, I couldn't help but cry, for I saw the place where I grew up and the image of "mother." She was always busy with some task, while I wandered around the kitchen or splashed in a puddle. Don Fabio came to see me two or three more times after that; years passed. My two aunts no longer paid attention to me, except on Sundays to take me to mass and in the evenings to pray. On those occasions, I felt like a prisoner, sandwiched between two guards. Their punishments gradually decreased to nothing more than a slap. I attended school for three years. I don't remember what caused me to be freed. One day, my two aunts decided it was no longer worth educating me and began to give me a thousand tasks, making me spend almost all day on the streets. In the food store, the grocery store, the post office, people treated me kindly. Those I knew smiled at me, no one imposing anything on me. The joy and feelings I had always hidden were released from their confinement; my true nature developed freely, boiling, and lively. The streets were my paradise, the house my prison. The friendships I had begun to form outside turned into resentment toward my two aunts. I became quite clever. I could enter hotels without hesitation and talk to the great men who gathered there in the mornings and evenings to play cards. I also often went to the barber shop, listening to people discuss various reliable news, quickly learning many things about many people. No kind of jest or joke was absent from my mind. My mind had become a repository, where adults loved to rummage playfully, making me utter coarse words for their amusement. I knew the police chief's affair with the widow Elena; I knew the commercial network of the Gumputis; I also knew the dubious reputation of the clock repairer, Master Polo. Once, at the instigation of the innkeeper Gómez, I cursed the postman Morella, who retorted, "Gauchito!" Hearing this, I began to suspect that I too harbored a secret no one was willing to tell me. However, since I had earned the sympathy and affection of the townspeople, I was content and was not troubled by any kind of unease. This was the happiest time of my childhood. My two aunts were cold to me, and I treated them with equal indifference. The boldness I had developed in my roving life also made me more able to endure their scoldings. Later, I even slipped out at night and went to the races on a Sunday, where it was chaotic, and a few shots were fired, though nothing serious happened. All this made me feel that I had attained adulthood, to the point that I regarded my peers as tedious little things. Because they had given me a reputation for being a mischievous child, I acted accordingly, with the cruelty of a child who took pleasure in bullying the weak. "Go tell Juan Sosa a few things," someone urged me. "He's there, in the inn, drunk." Four or five curious onlookers, knowing the joke, walked to the door or sat at nearby tables, gathering to listen. With the courage given me by my pride, I approached Sosa and extended my hand: "Hello, Juan?" "You're drunk. You don't even know who I am." The drunkard looked at me as if I were from another century. He recognized me completely but didn't speak, afraid I would tease him. I raised my voice, puffed out my chest, and approached him like a toad: "You didn't see, I'm Filipena, your woman. If you keep drinking like this, when you come home drunk tonight, I'll throw your behind into the duck pond to sober you up." Juan Sosa raised his hand to punch me; but hearing the laughter behind me, my courage returned, and I stood still, instead using a threatening tone: "Don't scare people, Juan. You might drop your glass. You know the police chief doesn't like drunks—he'll beat you like last time. Have you lost your memory?" The poor Sosa looked at the innkeeper, who turned his cunning eyes toward those who had incited me. Juan pleaded with him: "Tell him, boss, tell that little rascal to get out. He might lose his patience." The innkeeper pretended to be angry and yelled at me: "See, I'm going to throw you out, you little devil. Don't bother the grown-ups." Once outside, I asked the person who had incited me for money: "Give me a peso." "A peso? You have to sober Sosa up." "Not really, give me a peso, see me prove it." The man laughed and agreed, hoping for another joke, and in fact, it wasn't bad, because then, I pretended to be a big shot, saying to the three or four people there: "Guys, go inside and have some beer, I'll treat you." I sat in the inn at the hotel where the big shots usually went, paid for the beer myself, and called them over, while recounting the latest news I had heard—how Melo's chestnut horse was doing, how the Tape?o Burgos had argued with Sinfonia Erellá, and how the disgraceful affair of the Gringocuero, who had sold his twelve-year-old daughter to the old brothel keeper Salomovich for twenty pesos, and so on. Among my reputation for being talkative and bold, there were also some discussions I didn't know about. People said I was a child who had gone astray; they were sure that when I grew up, I would live by doing wrong. These words made some people look at me with suspicion and also made me familiar with those who lived a dissolute life, who took me to the inn, urging me to drink, drinking me into a stupor, but a natural suspicion kept me from falling for their tricks. One night, Pancho put me on the back of his horse and took me to a brothel. Inside, I realized what it was, but I didn't show any nervousness, and no one noticed my panic. Having been flattered so often, I had lost the charm I had felt in the first few days. I felt bored again, though I still went to the inn, the barber shop, the food store, or "La Brandyda" grocery store, where the owner was very kind to me, and there I met many "strangers": shepherds, outsiders, or just workers from the estate. Fortunately, at that time, when I was about twelve, Don Fabio treated me more like a good protector. He would visit me occasionally, sometimes taking me to the estate, sometimes giving me gifts. He gave me a poncho, a set of clothes, and, truly amazing, two small horses and a saddle, so that we could ride together when we went out. This went on for a year. My fate was not destined to last long. Don Fabio stopped coming. My aunts lent one of my horses to the son of the grocery store owner Festal, a man I hated, because he was proud and snobbish. My saddle was also put in the attic, saying I didn't need it. I became more lonely. Because people grew tired of joking with me; I was no longer so eager to entertain them. The steps of this little rogue led me to the river. I met the son of the miller Monsone, and the little black boy Lechusa, who, though only fifteen, had gone deaf from constantly diving under water. I learned to swim and fished almost every day, because I could get some benefit from it. My memories gradually brought me back to the present moment. I was thinking of the joy of running away, but even this thought gradually dissipated as evening fell, as the shadows of dusk began to rise. The mud on the riverbank, the nearby ditches, turned a deep purple. The rocks by the shore glowed with a metallic luster. The flowing water in the river seemed cool to my eyes, and the reflections of the surrounding scenery on the calm water were more colorful than the objects themselves. The sky receded, the clouds turning from gold to crimson, then to dark red. I picked up the string of "deadly" catfish I had caught; they were still struggling desperately in their slow suffocation. I wound the line around my rod, inserted the hook into the soft water, and walked toward the town, where the lights had already begun to twinkle. Night fell on the low roofs, making the old bell tower of the church stand out even more prominently.