Vortex

Author: Rivera (Rivera, J.E)
Translator: Wu Yan
Country: Albania
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2000-01-01
Features: Before I loved any woman, I had already squandered my heart, letting it be led astray by sensual pleasures. I knew nothing of the joys of being lost in love, the tenderness of affection, or the pain of shy glances. I always gave orders, not a lover, my lips never knowing how to beg. But I always longed for a divine, ideal love, a love that would set my spirit ablaze, making my heart blaze like a fire with dry wood added. When Alicia's eyes brought me misfortune, I had already given up all hope of experiencing pure love. My arms—arms tired of freedom—futilely reached out to ask for bonds from many women. No one had ever understood my dreams. My heart continued to remain silent. Winning Alicia was easy. Since she was determined to find love in me, she readily gave herself to me. Her parents, encouraged by the parish priest, were plotting a wedding, ready to force it against my will; even then, she never thought of marrying me. She once told me about their cunning plans. "I will die alone," she said. "So that my misfortune won't harm your future." Later, her family drove her out, and the judge notified my lawyer to lock me up. One night, in her hiding place, I firmly said to her, "How can I abandon you? Let's run! Whatever fate brings, let's share it with me; just give me love!" So we ran! That night—the night we spent in the Ca?on River region, insomnia was my companion. Through the mosquito net, I gazed at the twinkling stars in the boundless sky. The palm trees that shaded us were silent. An infinite silence floated around, making the transparent sky even bluer. Beside my bedroll, Alicia also breathed heavily and tossed restlessly on her narrow military cot. I was worried and overwhelmed with conflicting emotions: What have you done with your fate? What about the girl who gave herself to you in love? And what about your dreams of glory, your desire for victory, and your newly earned reputation? Fool! The bond you tied with a woman will become a chain with satiety. Childish pride made you deliberately deceive yourself. You attributed what you could never find in any woman to this girl. Yet you knew all along that the ideal was unattainable—the ideal could only be kept in your heart. Once your lust was satisfied, what value did the flesh you had paid so dearly for? Alicia's soul never belonged to you; you felt the warmth of her flesh, you felt her breath near your shoulder; yet spiritually, you were far from her, just as you were far from the silent stars slowly sinking toward the horizon. At that moment, I felt exhausted in body and spirit; not because I was unable to take responsibility for my actions, but because I was gradually tiring of my mistress. I could have persisted a little longer to possess her, though at the cost of great madness; but what then? Mad, possessed—what good would that do? The terrifying legends of the Ca?on River did not scare me. My instinct for adventure made me disdain those legends. I firmly believed I would escape unharmed from that wild Bambu; and I knew there would come a day when, in an unknown city, I would long for home and recall past adventures. Yet Alicia hindered me as if with manacles and shackles. If she were not so delicate, if she were a bit bolder, a bit more agile, that would have been better! This poor girl left Bogotá in great pain. She couldn’t ride a horse. The sun had made her dizzy. Sometimes she preferred to walk, and I had to patiently lead the horse and accompany her on foot. I had never been so patient before. We were fugitives; yet we had to travel slowly along the road, unable to avoid meeting others. Most of the travelers were farmers, and when they met us, they stopped, pitying us and asking, "Sir, why is the girl crying?" We didn’t pass through Cagayán until dark, afraid of being arrested by authorities. Several times I wanted to cut the telegraph wires and pull them down with my lasso. But I didn’t act. Deep down, I harbored a hope that we would be arrested, so I could finally be rid of Alicia and regain my spiritual freedom—even if a prison could not take that away. In the evening, as we passed by a village, we turned a corner and walked through rustling sugarcane fields (our horses nibbling and tearing at the sugarcane as we passed), heading toward the riverbank. Then we camped under a large made of palm leaves, where a sugar mill was grinding sugar. From a distance, we could hear the squeaking of the mill; we saw the firelight from the furnace boiling sugarcane juice; we saw the shadows of oxen repeatedly turning the grinding plates, and the shadows of children driving the oxen. Several women were preparing dinner, and they gave Alicia a herbal remedy to reduce fever. We stayed there for a week. Resentment made me recall Alicia with disgust. I blamed everything on her. If there was anything wrong with me in this disaster, it was only that I hadn’t been strict enough with her, hadn’t completely imposed my will and love on her. I poisoned my own soul and tortured my heart with these baseless excuses. Had she indeed been unfaithful to me? Had Barreira seduced her and succeeded? Had he indeed seduced her? When had he won her heart? Those traitorous words of Griselda—wasn’t it just her scheme? Couldn’t it have been that she wanted to ruin my wife and win my favor? Perhaps I had been harsh and unfair, but Alicia would forgive me, even if I didn’t ask—because I and my faults and virtues belonged to her, and she could not choose but to accept everything in me. And indeed, the facts served to excuse me: my madness was the result of "Come, Come" that Griselda had put in my drink. When was there a time I was in my right mind that Alicia had a reason to complain? Then why didn’t she come to me? Sometimes, I would see her approaching with a feathered hat drooping over her eyes, extending her arms to hug me, weeping as she said, "Who, heartless as he is, hurt you for my sake? Why are you lying on the ground? Why don’t they give you a bed?" She sat beside me, letting my head rest on her trembling thighs, her gentle hands brushing my hair back, her tears covering my face. Deceived by these illusions, I had been leaning on Clara. When I recognized it was Clara, I moved away. "Boy, why don’t you lean on my lap? You should drink some lemon water to cool down. Shall I change your bandages?" Sometimes I would hear Clara’s impatient cough in the hallway. "Woman, get out of there, or you’ll make the patient even hotter. He’s not your husband!" Clara shrugged. But why was this girl so concerned about me? Wasn’t she just a piece of refuse from a brothel, the dregs of lust, a hungry girl wandering about? She had given herself to me with such shy tenderness, as any noble woman, as Alicia, as the women who had loved me—what mysterious force had redeemed her soul then? Once, she asked me how much gold I had left in my pockets. There was little left, and she snatched it and pressed it to her chest, keeping it safe. When we were alone in the room, she took out a piece of paper and read it to me: "Clara owes you two hundred fifty head of cattle, Barreira owes you one hundred pounds; I have twenty-eight pounds, which I have kept for you." "Clara, you told me that all the money I won was earned honestly. The money is now yours, because you have treated me so well." "Boy! What are you talking about? Don’t think I’m serving you for my own gain. I just want to return to my hometown, ask my parents for forgiveness, and die with them. Barreira promised to pay for my trip to Venezuela, but he took advantage of me, wasting me and constantly demanding sexual favors." "Clara says he wants to marry me and take me to Bolívar City, to my parents’ place. I believed him—and as a result, I have been drunk for the past two months, because Clara always gives me the same advice: ‘Who will be my wife? The woman who drinks with me!’" "Major Englishman, the commander of the Venezuelan detachment that occupied Cagua, left me here. In Cagua, during one of their card games, they made me a bet. A man named Puante won me; but when they settled the bets, the Englishman left me to himself. Later, he was defeated and fled to Colombia, leaving me here." "The day before yesterday, you arrived here on horseback, your gun in front of your saddle, your hat pushed back, and you rode your horse into the crowd, knocking people over. To me, you were indeed a true man. When I learned you were a poet, I liked you even more." Maoque often came in to perform rituals over my wound, and I was still somewhat conscious enough to pretend to believe in his powers. He sat on my bedroll, chewing tobacco from a roll that looked like dried meat. He spat all over the ground. He brought me news of Barreira: "He’s down with fever and lying in his tent, wasting his time. He just asked me how long you’ll stay here. Who knows why you’re making trouble with him!" "Why doesn’t old Clara come to his bedroll to sleep?" "Because he’s cautious. He’s afraid of another fight. He’s locked himself in the kitchen." "Did Barreira go back to Mompox?" "Fever has kept him in bed." This news relieved me, because I began to doubt Alicia, even Griselda. What were they doing? What would they say about my behavior? When would they come to see me?