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| Portrait of me by the artist Mario Jarquin Escobar. |
Here is the third short story (flash fiction) I've written in Spanish. You can find the other two earlier in this blog. They all seem to be about relations between men and women in a Nicaraguan context. It is a way for me to try to get deeper into the culture... and into the language.
Matar el Tigre
El artista viejo fue a la inauguración de una exposición de un artista cuarenta años mas joven que el, quien se llamo Mario. El conoció al joven anteriormente y tuvo todo respeto para su talento. También tuvo celos porque Mario estuvo empezando su camino y el viejo estuvo terminando suyo.
El exposición fue en La Galería Cristal en El Teatro Nacional Ruben Darío, un evento elegante en un espacio elegante. Había palabras de alabanza por el director cultural del gobierno y palabras de gracias por el artista. Al final había un rifa por los patronatos de la exposición, Flor de Caña y Arte Sur. Todos los asistentes tuvieron papelitos con números.
El director sacó un numero y dijo, “120!”
Una mujer tocó el brazo del artista viejo y le dijo, “Ando sin mis lenses! No puedo leer mi numero.”
El le dijo a ella, “Lo siento, señora. Usted no ganó. Tiene el 88.”
Ella le dijo, “?Y usted, mi amor? Ganó?”
“Tampoco. Yo tengo el 50.”
Se rieron.
El empezó a salir, pero otra vez ella tocó su brazo y le dijo, “Mi amor, soy soltera sin compromisos y estoy buscando.”
El artista viejo miró a la mujer. Ella no era joven, pero el tampoco. Sus ojos eran grandes. Sus labios eran rojos. Tuvo un cuerpo amplio y sensual.
“Amiga,” le dijo. “Ha hecho esta noche muy interesante, pero no tengo interesa. Tengo mi señora.”
“Caballero, a mi no me importa.”
“Pero a mi, si. Me importa mucho. Muy buenas noches.”
El besó su mejilla y salió.
El artista viejo fue a su carro y manejo a la casa. Cuando entró a la cocina sintió un hambre grande en su estómago. Fue al refrigerador y sacó huevos, cebollas, ajo, tomate, jalapeños, queso, y aceite de olivas para hacer una omelette. Encendió el radio para oír música ranchero. Cocinó y bailo y cantó. La comida olio rica y le dio mucho apetito.
Por primera vez en mas de un año no pensó en dolor, no pensó en sangre, no pensó en noches sin dormir, no pensó en cancer, no pensó en la manera en que su esposa morió. Solamente pensó, “Estoy viviendo y tengo mucho hambre. Es la hora de matar el tigre!”
To Kill The Tiger
The old artist went to an exhibition of an artist forty years younger than him named Mario. He had met the young artist before and had a lot of respect for his talent. Also he was jealous of him because Mario was starting his career and the old artist was at the end of his.
The exhibition was in the Crystal Gallery of the Ruben Darío National Theater, an elegant event in an elegant space. There were words of appreciation from the culture director of the government and works of thanks from the artist. Finally there was a raffle put on by the sponsors of the event, Flor de Caña and Arte Sur. All those in attendance had little slips of paper with numbers.
The director pulled a number and said, “120!”
A woman touched the old artist’s arm and said to him, “I don’t have my glasses! I can’t read my number.”
He told her, “I’m sorry. You didn’t win. You have 88.”
She said to him, “And you, my love? Did you win?”
“Not me either. I have 50.”
They laughed.
He started to leave, but again she touched his arm and said, “My love, I’m single. I don’t have any commitments and I’m looking.”
The old artist looked at the woman. She wasn’t young, but neither was he. Her eyes were big. Her lips were red. She had an ample, sensual body.
“Friend,” He said to her. “You have made tonight vey interesting, but I’m not interested. I have a wife.”
“Gentleman, to me that doesn’t matter.”
“But to me it does. It matters a lot. Good night.”
He kissed her cheek and left.
The old artist went to his car and drove home. When he entered the kitchen, he felt a huge hunger in his stomach. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out eggs, onions, garlic, tomato, jalapeños, and olive oil to make an omelette. He turned on the radio to hear ranchero music. He cooked and danced and sang. The food smelled great and gave him a big appetite.
For the first time in more than a year he didn’t think about pain. He didn’t think about blood. He didn’t think about sleepless nights. He didn’t think about cancer. He didn’t think about the way his wife died. He only thought, “I’m living and I’m very hungry. It is time to kill off that hunger.
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