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Fiction

A Hole of Light at the End of a Tunnel of Trees

By Carlos Oriel Wynter Melo
Translated from Spanish by Pamela Carmell
An anxious woman awaits her lover in Panamanian writer Carlos Oriel Wynter Melo’s exploration of jealousy and doubt​.

If you look at the park head on, stare straight at it, look with more than your eyes, imagining it or linking it to a memory, you’ll see a tunnel of trees that ends in a hole of light. If your gaze is colored by some melancholy thought, that spot of light might suggest several interpretations. One possibility is that everything comes to an end.

On the corner of the park you might see men in snow-white hats, children in their Sunday best, and maybe a woman looking off into the distance.

To the right, just beyond the park, peering down at the park is a hotel. It’s wedged in between other buildings as if they were a group of friends, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders, looking down from high above. At street level, smaller friends, little grocery stores and general stores, look on, their doors flung wide open. In the background, a ways away, the sun stretches out for a rest behind the park and the town.

Streetcar tracks, like parallel lines in a drawing, make a turn at the park and continue along one of its sides. The people are standing right at that corner, waiting. They have no choice. At least they think they’re waiting. They’re not really waiting for anything.

She’s waiting, and yet she isn’t, she doesn’t believe she’s waiting, she’s sure that she’s waiting in vain. He’s supposed to show up on the next streetcar, but she doesn’t believe he will. Love has been a tightrope lately.

That’s why she’s not waiting: she’s pretending to wait. She lets the inertia of the days carry her along and bring her to the day, to the hour, to that corner of the park, to the meeting she doesn’t believe will actually take place. 

She looks at the hotel and almost crosses over to it. She looks at the grocery stores and general stores. She looks at the people lined up next to her: children, men in white hats, and a couple of overdressed women. She looks at the tunnel of trees and at the gradually disappearing light at the end of it. She looks at the curved lines and parallel lines that the streetcar has to travel along.

But in fact, she isn’t looking at anything; her memories distract her.

For a moment she wishes she were wrong, that she’d misjudged. She wishes he’d show up at the time they’d agree on and that the streetcar would continue along its intrepid tracks and that they could go on with their day, not suspecting that anything had changed.

But no, she argues with herself, she’s wary. She betrays so she won’t be betrayed; forgets so she won’t be forgotten. And her next thought is nostalgic, prophetic, it fills her to overflowing with an inevitable death.

She imagines that years later, many years later, the spotlight no longer shines on the corner where she now waits, on its curbs and benches, and they’re covered by the mold-ridden shadow of disuse. She imagines that the streetcar has disappeared or looks different: made of metal and painted bright colors. Cars drive over its iron footprints and no one waits on the corner where there once were white hats (no one wears white hats anymore), children, and women in elaborate outfits.

She imagines that someone is indeed waiting, a lady, a woman who looks like her more or less, a spinster who agreed to meet someone at a specific time but doesn’t think that meeting will take place. And she imagines that the woman’s clothes are different from hers: She pictures baggy pants, sandals, a linen shirt.

She imagines that the woman is waiting, wondering if she should stick to the plan.

And that vision, that certainty that nothing will be left—just nostalgia—makes her feel alone, alone even with herself.

And with all her might she starts to long for him to come today, to keep his promise today, to show up, climb down off the streetcar, embrace her knowing how little time they have left before the future steps in and ends it between them just as they’re getting to know each other.

But she doesn’t know if he’ll come and that’s the worst part. She doesn’t know if he can justify coming, the way she has, if he’s seen what she saw in that park, in its tunnel of trees and the light at the far end. She doesn’t know if they ever agreed, or if it was just the illusion of agreeing.

She imagines the lady in the baggy pants, sandals, and linen shirt waiting, in good spirits, looking forward to the meeting with high hopes; waiting as if she could will everything to go the way she wanted; waiting as if she were praying.

And she waits, but something frightens her, something chills her blood as if her patience has stretched over the years, dying little by little, resigned to dying without realizing it.

Then she imagines that the hours have caught up with the woman and that church bells chime the time she’s to meet—that church is still standing in the distance, the same church that now tolls the hour—and one last hope lights up those invented eyes, but as the bells chime one, that hope starts to die away, utters death rattles after two, lies down and breathes its last at three. 

Again she’s filled with nostalgia because, in her vision, she can clearly make out an inevitable death, an early death, an omnipresent death, a timeless death that will lay waste to that park, the tunnel of trees, the buildings, that hotel, those stores, the distracted pedestrians.

Then the streetcar stops and her stomach contracts like a fist clenched tight, like a newborn curled up like a snail.

And the passengers get off one by one, one after another, until the streetcar is almost empty. And she braces herself for the imagined woman’s pain, the future pain of a future woman that’s reproduced in her since time can’t change what’s really important, can’t change the axis it keeps spinning around.

But one last passenger gets off the streetcar, he gets off the streetcar, the last breath of the weary streetcar. In the end, the moment passes and she survives.

And she kisses him eagerly and he doesn’t understand why she’s so eager; he doesn’t understand her explosive happiness: Love has been a tightrope lately. But she kisses him, certain that by kissing him she protects the park, that park that will never be the same.


“Un Agujero De Luz Al Final De Un Túnel De Árboles” © Carlos Oriel Wynter Melo. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Pamela Carmell. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

If you look at the park head on, stare straight at it, look with more than your eyes, imagining it or linking it to a memory, you’ll see a tunnel of trees that ends in a hole of light. If your gaze is colored by some melancholy thought, that spot of light might suggest several interpretations. One possibility is that everything comes to an end.

On the corner of the park you might see men in snow-white hats, children in their Sunday best, and maybe a woman looking off into the distance.

To the right, just beyond the park, peering down at the park is a hotel. It’s wedged in between other buildings as if they were a group of friends, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders, looking down from high above. At street level, smaller friends, little grocery stores and general stores, look on, their doors flung wide open. In the background, a ways away, the sun stretches out for a rest behind the park and the town.

Streetcar tracks, like parallel lines in a drawing, make a turn at the park and continue along one of its sides. The people are standing right at that corner, waiting. They have no choice. At least they think they’re waiting. They’re not really waiting for anything.

She’s waiting, and yet she isn’t, she doesn’t believe she’s waiting, she’s sure that she’s waiting in vain. He’s supposed to show up on the next streetcar, but she doesn’t believe he will. Love has been a tightrope lately.

That’s why she’s not waiting: she’s pretending to wait. She lets the inertia of the days carry her along and bring her to the day, to the hour, to that corner of the park, to the meeting she doesn’t believe will actually take place. 

She looks at the hotel and almost crosses over to it. She looks at the grocery stores and general stores. She looks at the people lined up next to her: children, men in white hats, and a couple of overdressed women. She looks at the tunnel of trees and at the gradually disappearing light at the end of it. She looks at the curved lines and parallel lines that the streetcar has to travel along.

But in fact, she isn’t looking at anything; her memories distract her.

For a moment she wishes she were wrong, that she’d misjudged. She wishes he’d show up at the time they’d agree on and that the streetcar would continue along its intrepid tracks and that they could go on with their day, not suspecting that anything had changed.

But no, she argues with herself, she’s wary. She betrays so she won’t be betrayed; forgets so she won’t be forgotten. And her next thought is nostalgic, prophetic, it fills her to overflowing with an inevitable death.

She imagines that years later, many years later, the spotlight no longer shines on the corner where she now waits, on its curbs and benches, and they’re covered by the mold-ridden shadow of disuse. She imagines that the streetcar has disappeared or looks different: made of metal and painted bright colors. Cars drive over its iron footprints and no one waits on the corner where there once were white hats (no one wears white hats anymore), children, and women in elaborate outfits.

She imagines that someone is indeed waiting, a lady, a woman who looks like her more or less, a spinster who agreed to meet someone at a specific time but doesn’t think that meeting will take place. And she imagines that the woman’s clothes are different from hers: She pictures baggy pants, sandals, a linen shirt.

She imagines that the woman is waiting, wondering if she should stick to the plan.

And that vision, that certainty that nothing will be left—just nostalgia—makes her feel alone, alone even with herself.

And with all her might she starts to long for him to come today, to keep his promise today, to show up, climb down off the streetcar, embrace her knowing how little time they have left before the future steps in and ends it between them just as they’re getting to know each other.

But she doesn’t know if he’ll come and that’s the worst part. She doesn’t know if he can justify coming, the way she has, if he’s seen what she saw in that park, in its tunnel of trees and the light at the far end. She doesn’t know if they ever agreed, or if it was just the illusion of agreeing.

She imagines the lady in the baggy pants, sandals, and linen shirt waiting, in good spirits, looking forward to the meeting with high hopes; waiting as if she could will everything to go the way she wanted; waiting as if she were praying.

And she waits, but something frightens her, something chills her blood as if her patience has stretched over the years, dying little by little, resigned to dying without realizing it.

Then she imagines that the hours have caught up with the woman and that church bells chime the time she’s to meet—that church is still standing in the distance, the same church that now tolls the hour—and one last hope lights up those invented eyes, but as the bells chime one, that hope starts to die away, utters death rattles after two, lies down and breathes its last at three. 

Again she’s filled with nostalgia because, in her vision, she can clearly make out an inevitable death, an early death, an omnipresent death, a timeless death that will lay waste to that park, the tunnel of trees, the buildings, that hotel, those stores, the distracted pedestrians.

Then the streetcar stops and her stomach contracts like a fist clenched tight, like a newborn curled up like a snail.

And the passengers get off one by one, one after another, until the streetcar is almost empty. And she braces herself for the imagined woman’s pain, the future pain of a future woman that’s reproduced in her since time can’t change what’s really important, can’t change the axis it keeps spinning around.

But one last passenger gets off the streetcar, he gets off the streetcar, the last breath of the weary streetcar. In the end, the moment passes and she survives.

And she kisses him eagerly and he doesn’t understand why she’s so eager; he doesn’t understand her explosive happiness: Love has been a tightrope lately. But she kisses him, certain that by kissing him she protects the park, that park that will never be the same.


“Un Agujero De Luz Al Final De Un Túnel De Árboles” © Carlos Oriel Wynter Melo. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by Pamela Carmell. All rights reserved.

Un Agujero De Luz Al Final De Un Túnel De Árboles

Si se mira el parque de frente, como si fuera a los ojos, y con algo más que los ojos, imaginándolo o relacionándolo con un recuerdo, se verá un túnel de árboles que acaba en un agujero de luz. Si la mirada está coloreada por alguna melancolía, esa mancha de luz sugerirá varias interpretaciones. Una podría ser que todo acaba.

En la esquina del parque, habrá hombres con sombreros níveos, niños con trajes domingueros y quizás una mujer que mire a ningún lugar.

A la derecha, más allá del parque, oteando el parque, habrá un hotel. Su edificio estará pegado a otros como si fuera un grupo de amigos que se abrazan por la espalda y miran desde lo alto. Al nivel de la calle, amigos más pequeños, las tiendas de abarrotes y misceláneos, mirarán con sus puertas a todo abrir. El sol estará acostado al fondo, muy lejos, tras el parque y el poblado.

Los rieles del tranvía, como los trazos paralelos de un dibujante, darán la vuelta al parque por uno de sus lados. Las personas que están ahí, en la mera esquina, esperarán. Esperarán sin remedio. O creerán esperar. O en realidad no esperarán nada.

Ella espera, pero no espera, no cree esperar, cree esperar en vano. Él debería aparecer a la llegada del tranvía, pero ella no cree que lo haga. El amor ha sido una cuerda floja en los últimos tiempos.

Por eso no espera: hace como que espera. Deja que la inercia de los días le empuje y la lleve al día, a la hora, a esa esquina del parque, a la cita que no cree se haga realidad.

Mira el hotel casi atravesándolo. Mira las tiendas de abarrotes y misceláneos. Mira a quienes la flanquean: a los niños, a los hombres de blanco sombrero y a un par de mujeres con trajes recargados. Mira el túnel de árboles y la luz en su fin que poco a poco desaparece. Mira las líneas curvas y paralelas por las que ha de pasar el tranvía.

Pero, en verdad, no mira nada; los recuerdos la distraen.

Por un momento desea no tener razón, fallar; desea que a la hora pactada él aparezca y el tranvía continúe por sus rieles impertérritos y que el día sigan sin sospecha de cambios.

Pero no, se desmiente, desconfía. Y es que traiciona para no ser traicionada; olvida para no ser olvidada. Y esa nostalgia próxima, profética, la colma de una muerte inevitable.

Imagina que años después, muchos años después, la esquina en la ahora espera, sus bordillos y bancas, han perdido la luz de la cal y tienen la sombra del moho. Imagina que el tranvía desaparece o es distinto: de metal y colores brillantes; y que los automóviles pasan por las que fueron sus pisadas de hierro y que ya nadie espera en la esquina que fue de sombreros blancos – ya no se usan sombreros blancos-, de niños y de mujeres con trajes enredosos.

Imagina que alguien sí espera, una dama, una mujer, que en esencia se le parece, una solterona a la que citaron a una hora precisa para un compromiso acordado y que no cree que se realice. E imagina que la mujer viste diferente de como ella viste: imagina un pantalón holgado, unas sandalias, una camisa de lino.

Imagina que ella espera, pero no sabe a qué atenerse.

Y esa visión, esa certeza de que nada quedará – de que la nostalgia quedará -, le hace sentirse sola, sola hasta de sí misma.

Y comienza a desear con todas sus fuerzas que él llegue hoy, que sus promesas se cumplan hoy, que aparezca y se apee del tranvía, que la abrace consciente de lo poco que les queda, antes de que el futuro dé los pasos necesarios para acabarlos tal como se conocen.

Pero ella no sabe si él llegará y eso es lo más terrible. Ella no sabe si él encuentre las mismas justificaciones, si habrá visto en ese parque – en su túnel de árboles y luz al fondo – lo que ella vio. Ella no sabe si alguna vez coincidieron o todo fue la ilusión de coincidir.

Imagina que la dama de pantalón holgado, sandalias y camisa de lino, espera, que espera con la mejor disposición, con los mejores deseos; que espera como si de su voluntad dependiera lo que va a ocurrir; que espera como rogando.

Y ella espera, pero algo la asusta, algo le hiela la sangre, y es que su paciencia se estire por años, morirse poco a poco, resignarse sin darse cuenta de que se resignó.

Entonces imagina que a la mujer la alcanzan las horas, que suenan las campanadas de la cita – persiste la iglesia a lo lejos, la misma que ahora da sus tañidos – y una última esperanza ilumina esos ojos inventados, pero la esperanza agoniza después de una hora, da sus últimos estertores después de dos, se acuesta y expira a la tercera.

Y ella vuelve a llenarse d nostalgia porque reconoce en su visión una inevitable muerte, una anticipada muerte, una omnipresente muerte, una muerte intemporal, que asolará ese parque, el túnel de árboles, los edificios, ese hotel, esas tiendas, a paseantes distraídos.

Y el tranvía se detiene y el estómago de ella se contrae como puño que se resiste, como un recién nacido que se vuelve caracol.

Y salen los pasajeros, uno por uno, uno tras uno, hasta que el transporte queda casi vacío. Y ella anticipa el dolor de la mujer imaginada, el dolor futuro de una mujer futura que, sin embargo, se reproduce en sí misma, porque el tiempo no puede cambiar lo que realmente importa, el eje en torno al que hace círculos.

Pero un último pasajero sale del tranvía, él sale del tranvía, es el aliento final del tranvía cansado. Y él, en fin, sobrevive el paso del instante.

Y ella lo besa con entusiasmo y él no entiende su entusiasmo; no entiende su explosiva felicidad: el amor ha sido una cuerda floja en los últimos tiempos. Pero ella lo besa y está segura de que así resguarda ese parque, ese parque que jamás será el mismo.

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