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Fiction

By the Power Vested in Me

By Yuri Herrera
Translated from Spanish by Christina MacSweeney

One day the two of them will be going around the drugstores, greedy for pills to bring back the days they’ve dumped in the trash, thought Romero. What a waste, being young: someone tells them that they have their whole lives ahead of them, and what do they do? Put on a mask and parrot the speeches dictated to them by some other character who they imagine knows how to be happy. Morons.

The bride and groom were making their tour of the tables, smiling at the throng of strangers who had jumped at the chance of going on a bender at someone else’s expense. Their smiling faces beamed with the certainty that they already had their future set in stone. Ha! And there were people who really believed it, believed they were in the tedious line headed for happiness, like the ones wriggling about pathetically on the dance floor; their guts ache from trying so hard to be liked, they learn steps, learn to chatter in chorus; or to sit silently in a corner until they learn how to please. Puppies who delude themselves that their efforts will bear fruit, that things are going to get better… Romero knew. If there’s one thing that’s a waste of time, it’s hope.

The newlyweds reached his table and Romero hid his repugnance behind hypocritical congratulations. “You’re a lucky man,” he said to the downy-faced youngster—nowhere near  a man—as he dutifully eyed the scrawny collection of freckles that was his wife. In his mind, Romero gave a jaundiced laugh. That was why he came to these parties, for the slightly depraved pleasure of proving to himself that those sheep couldn’t attain his elevated state of awareness. They roll their eyes, he thought, as if marriage were not just a direct route to mutual hatred. And they will hate each other, he said to himself, yet they’ll be the same people who are right now wetting themselves with the emotion of it all. Given enough time, these extremes will meet. If you’ve got that clear, why pretend you’re headed anywhere? The wonderful thing about these times, he thought, is that every day there are new drugs for reducing the distance between other extremes. For example: What was the big difference between him and that child at the next table whose tits had scarcely started to sprout? The dress in which her parents had draped her screamed “For Sale.” (And since they were offering her, couldn’t he satisfy her better than some stupid adolescent would in a year or two?) With the right pills, they could both do anything that occurred to them.

When the bride and groom had left his table, the other diners stood up to go in search of friends around the room. The table those guests had been assigned was a telltale sign of their hosts’ opinion of them. Maybe, just a few years earlier, four or five at most, Romero would have been placed closer to the dance floor, to add a touch of elegance to the celebration, to flirt; but now, here he was, stuck in a corner by the men’s toilets, languishing among bored, middle-aged couples.

After the exodus, only he and another man remained at the table. A man who, although he might be his own age, seemed older, with that pathetic air of a widower who has led a comfortable life. He was holding his glass of sparkling wine in one hand and, with the other, was polishing off the last of the canapés filled with some supposedly seafood paste. He became aware that Romero was observing him and raised his glass in a gesture of solidarity: What can you do? Parties are for the younger generation. Romero half-heartedly returned the gesture and, as their eyes met, he felt a sharp contraction in his chest that had its origins in some other time; so unexpected was that contraction, it was as if he were experiencing it for the first time. But it was nothing new, it was a relic from the past scratching at the earth of its grave.

Those eyes.

Going milky now, but behind the ravages of age, the substance of someone he knew was still recognizable.

Those eyes. Small, blue, arrogant, mocking, smug pieces of shit. Whose eyes were they?

An outrageous sense of hatred, impossible to resist, took hold of his body. Violated him. As if someone had turned his body into a machine, automatically accomplishing its task. And, in his desperation to understand this hatred, his heart began to race. Why was he losing control of himself?

The man asked, “Do we know each other?” and Romero averted his eyes and gave a terse “No,” anxious for it to be true.

He tried to concentrate on the party, yet the vista of people and tables began to merge, like the colors of a painting soaked with water. For all his attempts to focus his attention on the here and now, he was overwhelmed by a dizzying rush of distant impressions: those eyes challenging his, a roar of impotence; betrayal and melodramatic phrases; eternal hatred, blood and vengeance. He was unable to remember precise dates, names or places, but did recall the offense that had formed the seed of this bilious memory.

A woman. Suddenly, he was able to evoke her, an ordinary woman, like any of those on the dance floor. What was extraordinary was that although he could describe her in detail, could imagine her gestures, her voice, even her smell, he was unable to revive the emotions she had awakened in him. He recalled—as something unconnected, even though the recollection came from that same time—that he’d felt humiliated when the girl had dumped him for someone he considered despicable, beneath contempt. He even recalled feeling that he had lost any sense of identity and self-worth, all because of that girl who collected fotonovelas. And it was weird to remember that.

The affront to his pride suddenly seemed completely arbitrary, unrelated to anyone so insignificant. She might be the person who had made this man a widower, or might have disappeared in a swarm of puerile circumstances. It made no difference.

That’s the truth: it made no difference.

The images of the party began to take shape again, he himself felt he was regaining his solidity, as if he’d momentarily become detached from reality, or like when you spend the night in a strange place and, on opening your eyes, confuse sleep with waking life.

He began to chuckle and the sound rose from a discreet titter to a full belly laugh as he shook his head paternally. He felt better than he had for a while, lighter, freed of a burden that he hadn’t known was weighing down on him. Then, almost as if by dictation, a phrase came into his mind that seemed perfect to say to the other guest. Turning to deliver it, he found the man bent over the table, gasping for air, still holding his glass in an unsteady hand. He was turning pale: choking on a canapé. Romero watched him for a few seconds and then looked around: no one had noticed what was happening. He stood up slowly, not taking his eyes from the man, turned and entered the toilets.

In one of the cubicles, a boy had his head in the bowl. It wasn’t even midnight, but the quasi adolescent was already vigorously throwing up his dinner. That’s what I call not letting the grass grow under your feet, thought Romero; he felt the urge to pat the boy on the back, but instead just looked with a smile and, aloud, almost shouting, said: “Now go fuck a cow, son!”

At that moment, he heard a commotion outside, plates and glasses falling with a tablecloth. He abandoned the boy to his gastric relief and went to one of the urinals. He unzipped his fly, extracted his cock, and took a long, frothy piss. It felt good. You can’t call a man who can hold his piss like that old, he thought. He finished the operation, settled his prick, zipped up his fly; on the way back to the room, he stopped for a moment to admire his beautifully groomed hair, his closely shaven cheeks. Amazing things, those MACH3s.

When he came out, he found a semicircle of good Samaritans crowding around the man from his table, who—sweating, his head resting on someone’s lap— was nodding and stammering “I’m fine now, I’m fine now.” Romero thought that, had he still hated him, he would have tried carrying out the Heimlich maneuver so as not to miss the opportunity to get his revenge in person. How puerile! Now the only thing that occurred to him was to say the words that had come into his head during that clear self-revelation a few minutes earlier: “Do you get it, Granddad? You’re not even worth an ounce of anger these days.” Maybe he could say it to him later. Or maybe not. It didn’t really matter.

Among the onlookers, he spotted the little girl with the plunging neckline, her arms folded. Romero went up and gently touched the back of her neck. “A young lady like you shouldn’t be all alone,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t we take a walk in the gardens so I can have a good look at those pretty nails of yours? Did you paint them yourself? Impressive.” The child shrugged her shoulders, blushed and followed Romero to the door. Who would have imagined, he thought, that at this stage in life, I’d have become an educator.

“Por el poder investido en mí” first published in Daniel Saldaña Paris, ed., Un nuevo modo. Antología de narrativa mexicana actual (Dirección de Literatura, UNAM, 2012). © Yuri Herrera. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Christina MacSweeney. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

One day the two of them will be going around the drugstores, greedy for pills to bring back the days they’ve dumped in the trash, thought Romero. What a waste, being young: someone tells them that they have their whole lives ahead of them, and what do they do? Put on a mask and parrot the speeches dictated to them by some other character who they imagine knows how to be happy. Morons.

The bride and groom were making their tour of the tables, smiling at the throng of strangers who had jumped at the chance of going on a bender at someone else’s expense. Their smiling faces beamed with the certainty that they already had their future set in stone. Ha! And there were people who really believed it, believed they were in the tedious line headed for happiness, like the ones wriggling about pathetically on the dance floor; their guts ache from trying so hard to be liked, they learn steps, learn to chatter in chorus; or to sit silently in a corner until they learn how to please. Puppies who delude themselves that their efforts will bear fruit, that things are going to get better… Romero knew. If there’s one thing that’s a waste of time, it’s hope.

The newlyweds reached his table and Romero hid his repugnance behind hypocritical congratulations. “You’re a lucky man,” he said to the downy-faced youngster—nowhere near  a man—as he dutifully eyed the scrawny collection of freckles that was his wife. In his mind, Romero gave a jaundiced laugh. That was why he came to these parties, for the slightly depraved pleasure of proving to himself that those sheep couldn’t attain his elevated state of awareness. They roll their eyes, he thought, as if marriage were not just a direct route to mutual hatred. And they will hate each other, he said to himself, yet they’ll be the same people who are right now wetting themselves with the emotion of it all. Given enough time, these extremes will meet. If you’ve got that clear, why pretend you’re headed anywhere? The wonderful thing about these times, he thought, is that every day there are new drugs for reducing the distance between other extremes. For example: What was the big difference between him and that child at the next table whose tits had scarcely started to sprout? The dress in which her parents had draped her screamed “For Sale.” (And since they were offering her, couldn’t he satisfy her better than some stupid adolescent would in a year or two?) With the right pills, they could both do anything that occurred to them.

When the bride and groom had left his table, the other diners stood up to go in search of friends around the room. The table those guests had been assigned was a telltale sign of their hosts’ opinion of them. Maybe, just a few years earlier, four or five at most, Romero would have been placed closer to the dance floor, to add a touch of elegance to the celebration, to flirt; but now, here he was, stuck in a corner by the men’s toilets, languishing among bored, middle-aged couples.

After the exodus, only he and another man remained at the table. A man who, although he might be his own age, seemed older, with that pathetic air of a widower who has led a comfortable life. He was holding his glass of sparkling wine in one hand and, with the other, was polishing off the last of the canapés filled with some supposedly seafood paste. He became aware that Romero was observing him and raised his glass in a gesture of solidarity: What can you do? Parties are for the younger generation. Romero half-heartedly returned the gesture and, as their eyes met, he felt a sharp contraction in his chest that had its origins in some other time; so unexpected was that contraction, it was as if he were experiencing it for the first time. But it was nothing new, it was a relic from the past scratching at the earth of its grave.

Those eyes.

Going milky now, but behind the ravages of age, the substance of someone he knew was still recognizable.

Those eyes. Small, blue, arrogant, mocking, smug pieces of shit. Whose eyes were they?

An outrageous sense of hatred, impossible to resist, took hold of his body. Violated him. As if someone had turned his body into a machine, automatically accomplishing its task. And, in his desperation to understand this hatred, his heart began to race. Why was he losing control of himself?

The man asked, “Do we know each other?” and Romero averted his eyes and gave a terse “No,” anxious for it to be true.

He tried to concentrate on the party, yet the vista of people and tables began to merge, like the colors of a painting soaked with water. For all his attempts to focus his attention on the here and now, he was overwhelmed by a dizzying rush of distant impressions: those eyes challenging his, a roar of impotence; betrayal and melodramatic phrases; eternal hatred, blood and vengeance. He was unable to remember precise dates, names or places, but did recall the offense that had formed the seed of this bilious memory.

A woman. Suddenly, he was able to evoke her, an ordinary woman, like any of those on the dance floor. What was extraordinary was that although he could describe her in detail, could imagine her gestures, her voice, even her smell, he was unable to revive the emotions she had awakened in him. He recalled—as something unconnected, even though the recollection came from that same time—that he’d felt humiliated when the girl had dumped him for someone he considered despicable, beneath contempt. He even recalled feeling that he had lost any sense of identity and self-worth, all because of that girl who collected fotonovelas. And it was weird to remember that.

The affront to his pride suddenly seemed completely arbitrary, unrelated to anyone so insignificant. She might be the person who had made this man a widower, or might have disappeared in a swarm of puerile circumstances. It made no difference.

That’s the truth: it made no difference.

The images of the party began to take shape again, he himself felt he was regaining his solidity, as if he’d momentarily become detached from reality, or like when you spend the night in a strange place and, on opening your eyes, confuse sleep with waking life.

He began to chuckle and the sound rose from a discreet titter to a full belly laugh as he shook his head paternally. He felt better than he had for a while, lighter, freed of a burden that he hadn’t known was weighing down on him. Then, almost as if by dictation, a phrase came into his mind that seemed perfect to say to the other guest. Turning to deliver it, he found the man bent over the table, gasping for air, still holding his glass in an unsteady hand. He was turning pale: choking on a canapé. Romero watched him for a few seconds and then looked around: no one had noticed what was happening. He stood up slowly, not taking his eyes from the man, turned and entered the toilets.

In one of the cubicles, a boy had his head in the bowl. It wasn’t even midnight, but the quasi adolescent was already vigorously throwing up his dinner. That’s what I call not letting the grass grow under your feet, thought Romero; he felt the urge to pat the boy on the back, but instead just looked with a smile and, aloud, almost shouting, said: “Now go fuck a cow, son!”

At that moment, he heard a commotion outside, plates and glasses falling with a tablecloth. He abandoned the boy to his gastric relief and went to one of the urinals. He unzipped his fly, extracted his cock, and took a long, frothy piss. It felt good. You can’t call a man who can hold his piss like that old, he thought. He finished the operation, settled his prick, zipped up his fly; on the way back to the room, he stopped for a moment to admire his beautifully groomed hair, his closely shaven cheeks. Amazing things, those MACH3s.

When he came out, he found a semicircle of good Samaritans crowding around the man from his table, who—sweating, his head resting on someone’s lap— was nodding and stammering “I’m fine now, I’m fine now.” Romero thought that, had he still hated him, he would have tried carrying out the Heimlich maneuver so as not to miss the opportunity to get his revenge in person. How puerile! Now the only thing that occurred to him was to say the words that had come into his head during that clear self-revelation a few minutes earlier: “Do you get it, Granddad? You’re not even worth an ounce of anger these days.” Maybe he could say it to him later. Or maybe not. It didn’t really matter.

Among the onlookers, he spotted the little girl with the plunging neckline, her arms folded. Romero went up and gently touched the back of her neck. “A young lady like you shouldn’t be all alone,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t we take a walk in the gardens so I can have a good look at those pretty nails of yours? Did you paint them yourself? Impressive.” The child shrugged her shoulders, blushed and followed Romero to the door. Who would have imagined, he thought, that at this stage in life, I’d have become an educator.

“Por el poder investido en mí” first published in Daniel Saldaña Paris, ed., Un nuevo modo. Antología de narrativa mexicana actual (Dirección de Literatura, UNAM, 2012). © Yuri Herrera. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Christina MacSweeney. All rights reserved.

Por el poder investido en mí

Un día van a recorrer las farmacias ávidos de pastillas que les devuelvan los días echados a la basura, pensó Romero, qué desperdicio, ser joven: alguien les informa que tienen toda la vida por delante y ¿qué hacen? Se disfrazan, repiten como loros los parlamentos que les dicta otro sujeto a quien le creyeron que sabe cómo ser feliz. Pendejos.

Recorrían las mesas, los novios, sonreían a la caterva de desconocidos que hallaron ocasión para la borrachera impaga. Exhibían con una mueca sonriente la certeza de que ellos ya tenían escriturado el porvenir, ja. Y había algunos que lo creían, que en verdad se alineaban en la fila tediosa rumbo a la felicidad, como esos que se agitaban lastimosamente en la pista; a esos les duele el estómago de tanto querer gustar, aprenden pasos, aprenden a chacharear a coro; o a callarse en un rincón mientras aprenden cómo se place. Cachorritos que conciben ilusiones de que el esfuerzo va a rendir frutos, de que las cosas van a mejorar… Romero sabía. Si algo hace perder el tiempo es la esperanza.

Los novios llegaron a su mesa y Romero revirtió con una felicitación hipócrita la repugnancia que le producían. “Eres un hombre afortunado”, le dijo al crío lampiño que distaba mucho de ser un hombre, mientras ojeaba cumplidoramente al escuálido costal de pecas que era su esposa. Romero soltó en su interior unas risitas mustias. Para eso venía a estas fiestas, a comprobar con placer algo vicioso cómo el rebaño no podía alcanzar el estado de conciencia en el que se encontraba él. Ponen los ojos en blanco, pensó, como si el matrimonio no fuera un camino sin desviaciones hacia el odio mutuo.

Se odiarán, y no obstante, se dijo, serán los mismos que ahora se mean de la emoción. Con tiempo suficiente, los extremos resultan ser idénticos. Si uno tiene eso claro ¿para qué simular que se dirige a cualquier parte? Eso es lo maravilloso de esta época, pensó, cada vez hay más cápsulas para atajar la distancia entre los extremos. Por ejemplo: ¿Cuál era la gran diferencia entre él y esa niña de pezones apenas brotantes en la mesa de junto? El vestido en que la habían enfundado sus padres proclamaba ¡Se Vende! (ya que la ofrecían ¿no podía él satisfacerla mejor de lo que lo haría algún adolescente idiota dentro de uno, dos años?) Con las pastillas adecuadas, tanto él como ella podían hacer lo que les pegara la gana.        

En cuanto los novios terminaron de saludar en su mesa, el resto de los comensales se puso de pie para ir a buscar a algún conocido por el salón. La mesa a donde los habían asignado era reveladora de cómo los anfitriones consideraban a estos invitados. Quizá unos años antes, no muchos, cuatro, cinco, a Romero lo habrían puesto en una más cerca de la pista, para vestir la celebración, galantear; pero ahora, esquinado junto a los baños de los hombres, languidecía con estas parejas de mediana edad aburridas de sí mismas.

Tras la estampida, quedaron sólo él y otro hombre en la mesa. Aunque el otro podía ser de su misma edad aparentaba ser mayor. Tenía un patético aire de viudo que ha llevado una vida provechosa. Sostenía en una mano su copa de vino espumoso y con la otra daba cuenta de los canapés rellenos de alguna pasta supuestamente marina. Advirtió que Romero lo observaba y levantó su copa en ademán de solidaridad: qué se le va a hacer, las fiestas son para los jóvenes. Romero le devolvió a medias el gesto y al topar miradas sintió un calambre en el pecho que le venía de otras eras; tan improbable, que fue como si lo sufriera por primera vez. Mas no era nuevo, era un despojo que escarbaba su vuelta a través de la tumba.

Esos ojos.

Camino de glaucos, sí, pero tras la carcoma de la vejez aún reconocible la sustancia de alguien que él conocía.

Esos ojos. Claros, soberbios, pequeños, burlones, satisfechos, mierdas. ¿De quién eran esos ojos? 

Un odio abusivo tomó su cuerpo sin que él pudiera oponer resistencia. Como una violación. Como si algo lo convirtiera en una máquina que cumple su cometido sin albedrío. Con la desesperación por no entender ese odio le creció una taquicardia súbita. ¿Por qué perdía el control sobre sí mismo?

El hombre preguntó “¿Nos conocemos?”, y Romero desvió la mirada y dijo “No”, seco, ansioso porque fuera verdad.

Trató de concentrarse en la fiesta, sin embargo el panorama de gente y mesas se le escurrió como un lienzo al que bañaran de agua. Por más que intentara fijar su atención en el mundo presente, un vértigo de impresiones remotas se le impuso: un enfrentamiento con esos ojos, un fragor de impotencia; traiciones y una frase melodramática que sentenciaba odio eterno, sangre y venganza. No consiguió recordar fechas precisas ni apellidos ni lugares, pero sí la clase de injuria que le había sembrado ese reflejo bilioso.

Una mujer. Pudo evocarla de golpe, una mujer común como cualquiera de esas que se carcajeaba en la pista. Lo extraordinario fue que, aunque podría describirla en detalle, aunque podría representarse los gestos de la chica, su voz, inclusive su aroma, no consiguió revivir los sentimientos que le despertaba. Recordó, como una cosa ajena aunque el recuerdo perteneciera a la misma época, que se había sentido humillado cuando la chica lo había cambiado por alguien que él consideraba ruin, despreciable. Recordó que había llegado a sentirse nadie, todo por esa muchacha que coleccionaba fotonovelas. Y recordarlo fue tan extraño.

La afrenta a su orgullo le pareció de repente completamente arbitraria, sin relación con alguien así de insignificante. Ella podría ser quien hizo viudo a este hombre, o acaso había desaparecido en un enjambre de circunstancias pueriles. Qué más daba.

Eso es: qué más daba.

Las imágenes de la fiesta cobraron forma nuevamente, él mismo sintió recuperar su consistencia, como si por un instante se hubiera desprendido de la realidad, o como cuando se trasnocha en un lugar desconocido y al despertarse uno trueca el sueño y la vigilia.

Comenzó a reír, y la risa escaló del rictus discreto hacia la carcajada, mientras movía de un lado a otro la cabeza, paternalmente. Se sintió aún mejor que un rato antes, más ligero, libre de un peso que no sabía que lo lastraba. Entonces, a manera de dictado, le vino a la cabeza una frase que parecía muy propio decir al hombre. Al girar para decirle descubrió que aquel estaba inclinado sobre la mesa, trataba de jalar aire, aún sostenía su copa en una mano vacilante. Perdía color: se asfixiaba con un canapé. Romero lo observó durante dos segundos y luego oteó alrededor: nadie advertía el suceso. Se puso de pie con lentitud, sin dejar de mirar al hombre, dio media vuelta y entró al baño.

En uno de los privados estaba un joven abrazado a la taza. No era ni siquiera la medianoche pero el cuasi-adolescente ya vomitaba la cena con gran vigor. Eso se llama aprovechar el tiempo, pensó Romero; le dieron ganas de palmearle la espalda, pero sólo se asomó al espectáculo con una sonrisa y le dijo en alta voz, casi a los gritos: “¡Ahora ve y cógete una vaca muchacho!”.

De pronto, escuchó un estrépito que venía de afuera, platos y copas que se iban abajo con un mantel. Abandonó al chico en su desahogo y se dirigió a uno de los mingitorios. Abrió la bragueta, sacó su verga, orinó, larga, espumosamente. Se sintió bien al hacerlo. El chorro poderoso le recordó el viejo refrán: “Enfermo que come y mea, que el Diablo se lo crea”. Jajá. Así es, pensó, que nadie le diga viejo al buen meador. Terminó de orinar. Guardó su verga, cerró la bragueta, camino del salón todavía se detuvo un instante para admirar su peinado impecable, sus mejillas afeitadas al ras. Cosa extraordinaria, esas Match III.

Al salir encontró un semicírculo de buenos samaritanos quitándole el oxígeno al hombre de su mesa, quien, sudoroso, recargado en el regazo de alguien, asentía y balbuceaba Ya estoy bien, ya estoy bien. Romero pensó que, si aún lo odiara, habría intentado la maniobra Heimlich para que no se le fuera la oportunidad de vengarse propiamente. Qué infantil. Ahora sólo se le antojaba decir lo que le había venido a la mente al descubrirse limpio unos minutos atrás: “¿Te das cuenta, anciano? Ya ni rencores despiertas”. Quizá podría decírselo más tarde. Quizá no. Qué importaba.

Entre los curiosos descubrió a la niñita escotada, las manos cruzadas al frente. Romero se le acercó y puso con delicadeza una mano en su cuello. “Una señorita como usted no debería estar tan sola”, le sonrió “¿Por qué no damos un paseo por el jardín para que me cuente de esas uñas tan bonitas que tiene? ¿Usted misma se las arregló? Impresionante”. La niña se encogió de hombros, ruborizada y siguió a Romero hacia la puerta. Quién iba a decirlo, pensó él, a estas alturas de la vida me he convertido en un educador.

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