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Encuentro Nocturno

Story by Rodolfo Rivas (Read author interview) June 12, 2017

Art by Joshua K. Jackson

“Encuentro Nocturno” is part of the Global Flash Series at SmokeLong Quarterly. The English translation follows the story in its original language, Spanish.

 

Está lloviendo. Jesús va tan rápido como puede, con el cuello del abrigo alto y el sombrero bien calado, el viejo maletín de piel apretado sobre el pecho, la cabeza embistiendo la lluvia, los zapatos lustrosos de agua y luces navideñas.

Dobla una esquina y un hombre se le abalanza, lo empuja con fuerza contra la pared, le pega con el cañón de un revolver helado en la cara, se lo clava en el entrecejo.

-¡No te muevas o te mato!-con la mano le aferra el abrigo, con el antebrazo le aprieta la garganta, con el aliento etílico lo aturde.

-¡Dame todo lo que tienes!

Jesús asiente con la cabeza, abre los brazos, el maletín en la mano derecha, la respiración suspendida, los ojos cerrados.

El hombre palpa los bolsillos encuentra la billetera, retrocede un paso, la abre, tienta el contenido y vuelve a encañonarlo, a aturdirlo con el resuello furioso.

-¡Aquí no tienes casi nada! ¿Dónde tienes lo otro?

Jesús niega con  la cabeza y afirma con el hilo de voz que puede sacar de su apretada garganta:

-Nada más. No tengo nada más…

-¿Y el maletín?

Jesús ofrece el maletín.

-¡Ábrelo!

Jesús lo abre: sólo hay algunas fotos. El hombre se lo arrebata, vierte el contenido en la acera y las fotos comienzan a borrarse  bajo la lluvia.

El hombre deja caer el maletín y mueve la cabeza en un gesto de incredulidad. Echa mano a la billetera de Jesús y cuenta su contenido.

-¿Cuatro horas…? ¿Eso es todo lo que tienes?

Jesús asiente en silencio.

El  hombre toma las horas y, con un gesto de desprecio, lanza la billetera al pecho de su víctima, que no hace nada por atraparla. Luego guarda el revólver en el bolsillo del abrigo y se aleja calle abajo, rompiendo con brusquedad la lluvia.

Jesús respira aliviado, pero las piernas ya no le sostienen. Con la espalda pegada a la pared se desliza hasta quedar sentado sobre la acera húmeda de colores, junto a las fotos que son una masa irreconocible, junto a la billetera vacía, y comprende con una penosa claridad que había perdido los recuerdos que eran su pasado y las pocas horas que constituían su futuro y que por ende quedaba  atrapado en la paradoja de una eternidad sin tiempo, en un momento único y absoluto…

Sintió un escalofrío y vió como la lluvia se detenía en el aire.

Cazasoles.

*

Nocturnal Encounter
translated by Cecilia Llompart

It’s raining. Jesús walks as quickly as possible, the collar of his coat turned up, hat jammed onto his head, the old leather suitcase tight against his chest, head dodging the rain, his shoes gleaming with water and holiday lights.

As he turns a corner a man pounces on him, pushes him forcefully against the wall, hits him with the butt of an ice cold revolver, and nails it between his eyebrows.

“Don’t move or I’ll kill you!” A hand grabs his coat, a forearm presses against his throat, a breath heavy with drink leaves him stunned.

“Give me everything you have!”

Jesús nods his head, opens his arms, the suitcase in his right hand, his breath suspended, his eyes closed.

The man pats every pocket and finds the wallet, takes a step back, opens it, notes the contents and raises the gun again, panting furiously.

“There’s almost nothing here! Where’s the rest?”

Jesús says no with his head but the threadbare voice that just barely escapes his choked throat says otherwise: “Nothing else. I have nothing else…”

“And the suitcase?”

Jesús offers the suitcase.

“Open it!”

Jesús opens it: just a few photos. The man snatches it, empties the contents onto the sidewalk, and the photos begin to wash out in the rain.

The man lets the suitcase drop and shakes his head in disbelief. Reaching back into Jesús’s wallet, he counts its contents.

“Four hours…? That’s all you’ve got?”

Jesús nods in silence.

The man takes the hours and hurls the wallet in contempt, striking his victim in the chest, who makes no attempt to catch it. He then puts the gun in the pocket of his jacket and retreats down the street, parting the rain suddenly.

Jesús takes a breath of relief, but his legs give out beneath him. Back to the wall, he slides down to a seated position, the pavement slick with color beneath him, near the pile of photographs, now unrecognizable, near the empty wallet, and understands with painful clarity that he’s lost the memories which were his past and the few hours which made up his future, therefore finding himself trapped in the paradox of a timeless eternity, a moment at once unique and absolute…

He felt a chill and noticed the rain had stopped dead in the air.

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Notes from Guest Reader Cecilia Llompart

This story left me breathless. The language of the original version is both ferocious and evocative. Getting to translate it felt like a gift.

About the Author

Escribir historias cortas es algo natural en mi, un proceso mental que se desencadena con el más fortuito de los acontecimientos y que busca redondear su limitada masa alrededor de una excitante potencialidad. Naci en Cuba sesenta y cuatro años atrás. Vivo en la Florida, EEUU.

For Rodolfo Rivas, writing short stories is a natural mental process, triggered by chance and full of boundless, exciting potential. Born in Cuba, Rivas lives in Florida, USA.

 

About the Artist

Find more of Joshua K. Jackson‘s work on Unsplash.

This story appeared in Issue Fifty-Six of SmokeLong Quarterly.
SmokeLong Quarterly Issue Fifty-Six
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