(Translated by Keith John Richards)
Playing ad being grown up
had become tiresome to me. I wanted to understand the adult world and wandered through
rooms, spying through keyholes. It was an amusing game, but futile; I’d grow
weary and throw myself onto the bed, trying to guess at the meaning of the
phrases and gales of laughter that accumulated and penetrated the wall of my
bedroom, but when the groans began to reach my door they frightened me so much
that I would just close my eyes and go off to sleep. Whenever I asked Mama what
it was all about, she’d reply that I was still too young to understand.
I was around twelve when Mama decided to take me to Aunt
Elsa’s farm for the summer. I watched fearfully as she let go of my hand and
moved off down the path bordered with jasmine. Just when I thought she would
never turn around and look at me, she did just that, waving as if to warn me no
to forget all the things she’d said.
Aunt Elsa took me straight away. After lunch we would take
our siesta in the room where my cousins, defying the heat, shared the same
cramped and sweaty bed. When she got drowsy I’D slip out of the mosquito net
and into the kitchen. I would almost always be hungry and usually I’d find
Maria sprawled across the table snoring, not even bothering to wave the flies
away from her face. She was young and gad been at the farm since she was a
child, so she did pretty much as she liked in the kitchen. I’d go in silently,
over to de far corner where I’d skilfully steal a couple of the smoked sausages
Maria used to hang up; I’d leave with my mouth still full, taking care not to
disturb the peace, or even scare up the flies, and I’d still be swallowing as I
went down to the stream. On the way down, I’d see Juan in the shade of the
orange trees, asleep or just pretending to be. He only moved when Aunt Elsa or
the servant called him for some errand; once his chores were done he’d kick a
ball around with my cousins or go with them to hunt doves until it got dark. I
didn’t have permission to play certain games; I could play with my cousins by
the stream, but once Juan came to look for them, they all seemed to forget
about me, so I’d entertain myself climbing trees and chasing hens, or just laze
around in the grass until dinnertime when Aunt Elsa would call us in and tell
us ghost stories. Juan and Maria would end up scared and my cousins would
snigger at them, but I’d try o to laugh because Juan wasn’t laughing.
At times I think he knew
that I went into his house when he was snoozing under the trees. I’d run and scramble
up to his window in a few strides. He was a tall, gangling kid for his age and
he would obey my aunt’s orders with a smile. Once inside, I’d amuse myself
looking at the pictures of women he’d cut out and stuck on the wall. I’d never
seen anybody naked and those smiling women didn’t seem as bad as Mama made them
out to be whenever we passed the kiosk on the corner.
One of those afternoons I went down to the stream and a splash
of water surprised me. Juan was crossing from one bank to another with broad
strokes, exhibiting his nakedness. It seemed he hadn’t seen me, even when he
came out stream and I saw how his body, gleaming in the sun, was covered in
downy hair that shaded his dark skin, an ended in a bush next to his sex. The
water was still running down his body as he began to get dressed. It was still
running down his body as he began to get dressed. It was then that his eyes met
mine; my gaze was paralyzed and I couldn’t tear itself away from his image. He
smiled at me and left. A sense of unease accompanied me all the way back. I
reached the house alongside him and smiled, thinking that now we were friends,
but as usual, he didn’t pay me much attention. During the days that followed,
the idea of Juan coming out of the water repeated itself again and again in my
mind; it provoked a strange tingling sensation that lasted until bed time when
I’d close my eyes to shut out the memory. As the daily routine of the holiday
hadn’t been altered, I began to be bothered by indolence and loneliness, I
still couldn’t play every game with my cousins and it was worse when Juan came
along. That hurt a little, and running around after chickens no longer seemed
very interesting.
On one of those dull afternoons, I returned to the kitchen
to steal myself another sausage. It was very quiet, although the buzzing of the
flies told me not everything was still I went striding down the slope that led
to Juan’s house and was about to go in through the window, when I froze at the
sound of frenzied panting. With my back against the wall, heart pounding with
curiosity, I saw two naked bodies separate. Juan saw me at once and with a
smile of complicity remained languid on his bed. I don’t remember if I returned
the smile, I only know I ran away from that house after seeing how he leaned
his head against the large breast of one of his paper figures and she smiled
happily.
I spent the days hanging around Maria, sitting in the kitchen
doorway, dying to ask her what she’d been doing in the little house down below.
I sometimes think she was pretending not to understand as she ground the yucca and
shielded herself by calling Aunt Elsa to the kitchen. That irritated me so much
that I needed to be cruel to someone, so I went to the banks of the stream to
cut up toads or dismember ants: only they din my mood change. I returned with
fresh hope, having crossed off another of the days before the holiday would be
over and I could go back to the city.
The
afternoon I thought everybody was asleep, I went down to the gorge and walked
along kicking stones, ruminating upon my solitude and rejection. The melancholy
gave me the courage to get into de water naked. It was very hot and the contact
with cold water relaxed me, I let myself be taken by the current and by my
thoughts when a light splash made open my eyes. I saw Juan who was coming
towards me slowly and I began to tremble for no reason at all. He smiled, put
his calloused hands bellow me and caused me to slide against his naked body. “Don’t
be scared – do you want to play? We can be friends now”. I heard him say this
at the time as he brought me out of the water and held me against his belly as
he pushed me down towards the beach. What happened next I wouldn’t even know
how to tell you, but the contact with the roughness of his hand was magical. I
only reacted later, with the sun roasting my body. I was really scared because
Juan had been panting just like before when I heard him in the house. I don’t
know why I didn’t cry, I just washed myself and got dressed, feeling a great
anguish inside.
When
the servant arrived she realized something was up because she went to call my
aunt in alarm. Together they took me to my bed, asking what had happened to me.
When I was about to answer, Aunt Elsa began to scold me for eating so much,
gave me a little pat on the belly and wrapped me up, as I was feeling very
cold. When I asked about Juan, the maid replied that he’d gone to play with my
cousins, and smiled happily because now everything was going to be different.
I
enjoyed that last phase of the holiday bathing in the stream, as long as my
aunt didn’t know about it, and I enjoyed the company of Juan who now always
wanted to be with me. When Mama took me back along de jasmine path on the way
home, I turned my head to say good bye to everyone; now, at last, Juan was my
friend too…
Beatriz Kuramoto: Santa Cruz de la Sierra,
Bolivia (1954 - 2004) Short-story writer; studying dentistry in Brazil. She is
a member of the Taller del Cuento Nuevo, directed by Jorge Suárez. She has participated
in several anthologies and collections of short stories such as "Narrativa
del Trópico Boliviano" by Keith John Richards; "Fuego en Los
Andes" by Kathy Leonard. She is co-author of the book of poems "Juego
de tiempos" with Amalia Estela Bringas. During her lifetime she has taught
literary courses and workshops.
Author biography: Taller del Cuento Nuevo, Narrativa del Trópico Boliviano and Internet.
Photograph of the author: Blog of the Diccionario Cultural Boliviano, by Elías Blanco Mamani, www.elias-blanco.blogspot.com
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“The secret of innocence” is
part of “Narrative from Tropical Bolivia” by Keith John Richards. La Hoguera Editorial, Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia, 2004
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