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Fiction

A Sign

By Julio Durán
Translated from Spanish by Lisa M. Dillman
In Julio Durán’s short story, a would-be bond between a political prisoner and his keeper is irretrievably broken.

On the first attempt, the trigger jammed. The prisoner wasn’t afraid, and in fact felt a sort of indifference that seemed, in light of the brutality of the instant, to have been there all along, his whole life, quietly lurking behind each of his experiences as though awaiting the ideal moment to surface.

Behind him, the footsteps of the soldier, his executioner, rang out: rapid-fire, ready to finish off the job. Then the cold of the steel touched the back of his head for the second time, and again the mechanism failed.

It occurred to the prisoner that death’s convoluted approach was an omen. That thought, the image of a mocking and indecisive reaper, struck him and led him to believe that he wasn’t meant to die, that in that second during which the world conspired in the name of his salvation, he’d won the right to survive. 

A few seconds later, the soldier returned with another gun, intent on getting the job done.

“Tell me—what’s your name?” asked the prisoner, screaming like a man possessed.

The soldier, a young campesino whom the militias had recruited by force and who, in time, had learned, unwittingly, to enjoy the fear and submission he inspired in his enemies, did not immediately respond. He remained pensive before replying to the question, which to him smacked of an affront.

He said his name, proud, although feeling he shouldn’t.

“Then I’m saved . . .” the prisoner replied.

The young soldier felt mocked and was violently overcome by the merciless urge to fire his gun, but curiosity stopped him. Cautiously, as though fearing his reply, frozen stiff by a situation that seemed to him unreal, he asked the prisoner, “Why do you say that?”

“Because you have the same name as my son . . .” the prisoner said resolutely, almost happy and proud. “And my son has the same name as my father.”

To the soldier it seemed like a bad joke, a stupid trick, the sort of thing to be expected of someone suddenly overcome by insanity, a fit of madness that threatened to envelop him, as well.

Now devoid of fear, practically brazen, though cautious, the prisoner turned his face to his executioner, searching his eyes. He found them tremulous, anxious to cast off his uncertainty. He wouldn’t admit it, but the soldier had been expecting the prisoner to question him with his eyes.

“What’s your name?” the soldier asked, almost unable to believe his own words, now taking up the gun with no conviction, certain that the answer would reveal all.

The prisoner, breathing at this point with a certain serenity, with the breath of a newborn child, said his name. He smiled on seeing the fear and bewilderment in the young soldier’s eyes. The soldier shuddered.

“Like my father, like my son . . .” said the soldier, shocked and fearful.

“That’s a sign of something, don’t you think?” the prisoner asked.

“No, I don’t think  . . .” the soldier replied mechanically. “It doesn’t make any sense . . .”

“Maybe it doesn’t make any sense on its own, but we can make it make sense,” the prisoner replied, smiling timidly. “We’re the ones who make sense of the things that happen and this is something special . . .”

“No! It makes no sense! It’s just a coincidence . . .” the soldier shouted, feeling trapped by the facts.

“Everything makes sense!” the prisoner exclaimed, evidently exalted. “This moment makes sense! We must recognize the signs the world presents us, and this is a sign, because otherwise . . .”

“It is not! It’s not a sign of anything!” the soldier shouted in rage, as though waking violently, and fired his gun into the prisoner’s face.

He gazed at the dead body for a few seconds before kneeling beside it. He attempted to contain himself but something overcame him and he began to cry, bitterly, feeling he’d destroyed a perfect balance, as if he’d taken a step that forever distanced him from himself. He felt, suddenly and with chilling certainty, that that man shouldn’t have died, though he didn’t know why.

“Una Señal” © Julio Durán. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Lisa M. Dillman. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

On the first attempt, the trigger jammed. The prisoner wasn’t afraid, and in fact felt a sort of indifference that seemed, in light of the brutality of the instant, to have been there all along, his whole life, quietly lurking behind each of his experiences as though awaiting the ideal moment to surface.

Behind him, the footsteps of the soldier, his executioner, rang out: rapid-fire, ready to finish off the job. Then the cold of the steel touched the back of his head for the second time, and again the mechanism failed.

It occurred to the prisoner that death’s convoluted approach was an omen. That thought, the image of a mocking and indecisive reaper, struck him and led him to believe that he wasn’t meant to die, that in that second during which the world conspired in the name of his salvation, he’d won the right to survive. 

A few seconds later, the soldier returned with another gun, intent on getting the job done.

“Tell me—what’s your name?” asked the prisoner, screaming like a man possessed.

The soldier, a young campesino whom the militias had recruited by force and who, in time, had learned, unwittingly, to enjoy the fear and submission he inspired in his enemies, did not immediately respond. He remained pensive before replying to the question, which to him smacked of an affront.

He said his name, proud, although feeling he shouldn’t.

“Then I’m saved . . .” the prisoner replied.

The young soldier felt mocked and was violently overcome by the merciless urge to fire his gun, but curiosity stopped him. Cautiously, as though fearing his reply, frozen stiff by a situation that seemed to him unreal, he asked the prisoner, “Why do you say that?”

“Because you have the same name as my son . . .” the prisoner said resolutely, almost happy and proud. “And my son has the same name as my father.”

To the soldier it seemed like a bad joke, a stupid trick, the sort of thing to be expected of someone suddenly overcome by insanity, a fit of madness that threatened to envelop him, as well.

Now devoid of fear, practically brazen, though cautious, the prisoner turned his face to his executioner, searching his eyes. He found them tremulous, anxious to cast off his uncertainty. He wouldn’t admit it, but the soldier had been expecting the prisoner to question him with his eyes.

“What’s your name?” the soldier asked, almost unable to believe his own words, now taking up the gun with no conviction, certain that the answer would reveal all.

The prisoner, breathing at this point with a certain serenity, with the breath of a newborn child, said his name. He smiled on seeing the fear and bewilderment in the young soldier’s eyes. The soldier shuddered.

“Like my father, like my son . . .” said the soldier, shocked and fearful.

“That’s a sign of something, don’t you think?” the prisoner asked.

“No, I don’t think  . . .” the soldier replied mechanically. “It doesn’t make any sense . . .”

“Maybe it doesn’t make any sense on its own, but we can make it make sense,” the prisoner replied, smiling timidly. “We’re the ones who make sense of the things that happen and this is something special . . .”

“No! It makes no sense! It’s just a coincidence . . .” the soldier shouted, feeling trapped by the facts.

“Everything makes sense!” the prisoner exclaimed, evidently exalted. “This moment makes sense! We must recognize the signs the world presents us, and this is a sign, because otherwise . . .”

“It is not! It’s not a sign of anything!” the soldier shouted in rage, as though waking violently, and fired his gun into the prisoner’s face.

He gazed at the dead body for a few seconds before kneeling beside it. He attempted to contain himself but something overcame him and he began to cry, bitterly, feeling he’d destroyed a perfect balance, as if he’d taken a step that forever distanced him from himself. He felt, suddenly and with chilling certainty, that that man shouldn’t have died, though he didn’t know why.

“Una Señal” © Julio Durán. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Lisa M. Dillman. All rights reserved.

Una Señal

Al primer intento, el gatillo se atascó.
El prisionero no sintió miedo, más bien lo invadió una indiferencia que parecía, a la luz de la brutalidad del instante, haber estado ahí todo el tiempo, durante toda su vida, subyaciendo ca- llada detrás de toda experiencia, como si aguardara el momento cumbre de surgir.

A sus espaldas, se escuchaban los pasos del soldado, su verdugo, trepidantes, dispuestos a terminar la tarea. El frío del acero tocó su nuca por segunda vez y nuevamente el dispositivo falló.

El prisionero pensó que la muerte se le acercaba con los vericuetos propios de un augurio. Ese pensamiento, esa imagen de una parca dubitativa y burlona, lo asaltó y lo llevó a creer que no él debía morir, que, en ese segundo en que el mundo conspiró para su salvación, él había conquistado el derecho de sobrevivir.

Apenas pasaron unos segundos para que el soldado volviera con otro fusil, presto a acabar la tarea.

—Dime, ¿cuál es tu nombre? —preguntó el prisionero gritando como un poseído.

El soldado, un joven campesino reclutado a la fuerza por las milicias y que con el tiempo había aprendido, sin darse cuenta, a disfrutar del temor y el sometimiento que ejercía sobre sus enemigos, no respondió de inmediato. Se quedó pensando antes de contestar esa pregunta que le sonó a afrenta.

Dijo su nombre, orgulloso, pero sintiendo que no debía hacerlo.

—Estoy salvado, entonces… —dijo el prisionero.

El joven soldado se sintió burlado y violentamente lo embargó el feroz deseo de descargar el fusil, pero lo detuvo la curiosidad. Preguntó al prisionero, cautelosamente, como si temiese la respuesta, aterido ante una situación que se le mostraba irreal.

—¿Por qué dices eso?

—Porque te llamas como mi hijo… —dijo el prisionero con firmeza, casi feliz y orgulloso—. Y mi hijo se llamaba como mi padre.

Al soldado le pareció una mala broma, un chiste necio, propio de alguien asaltado repentinamente por la demencia, un ataque de locura que amenazaba con envolverlo a él también.

Ya sin temor, casi descaradamente, pero con cautela, el prisionero volteó el rostro hacia su verdugo, buscando sus ojos. Los encontró temblorosos, ansiosos de arrojar su incertidumbre. No lo aceptaría, pero el soldado había estado esperando que el prisionero lo interrogara con la mirada.

—¿Cómo te llamas tú? —preguntó el soldado, casi sin creer en sus propias palabras, tomando el fusil ya sin firmeza, sabiendo que la respuesta lo develaría todo.

El prisionero, respirando ya con cierta calma, como el aliento de un niño que recién llega a la vida, dijo su nombre. Sonrió al ver en los ojos del joven soldado el espanto y el desconcierto. El soldado se estremeció.

—Como mi padre, como mi hijo… —dijo el soldado extrañado y temeroso.

—Es señal de algo, ¿no crees? —dijo el prisionero.

—No creo… —respondió mecánicamente el soldado—. No tiene sentido…

—Tal vez no tenga sentido en sí, pero nosotros podemos dárselo —dijo el prisionero sonriendo tímidamente—. Somos nosotros quienes damos sentido a las cosas que suceden y esto es algo especial…

—¡No! ¡No tiene sentido! Es solo una coincidencia… —gritó el soldado, sintiéndose acorralado por los hechos.

—¡Todo tiene sentido! —exclamó el prisionero evidentemente exaltado—. ¡Este momento tiene sentido! Nosotros debemos reconocer las señales que nos entrega el mundo, y esto es señal de algo porque si no…

—¡No lo es! ¡No es señal de nada! —dijo el soldado con furia, como despertando violentamente, y descargó el fusil en el rostro del prisionero.

Contempló el cuerpo muerto unos segundos antes de arrodillarse junto a él. Trató de contenerse pero algo lo venció y comenzó a llorar, amargamente, sintiendo que había destruido un equilibrio perfecto, como si hubiera dado un paso que lo alejaba para siempre de sí mismo. Sintió, de golpe y con una certidumbre helada, que ese hombre no debía haber muerto, aunque no supiera por qué.

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