By Arturo Monterroso
“I am taking it,” she said again in a lower yet firm
voice making a pout. She was petite, still holding some echoes of sweetness deep in
her eyes. “No,” he said with a slight quiver in his voice, “I am not willing to
pay a fortune for a stuffed animal that your granddaughter will not even like.”
“Our granddaughter,” she quickly corrected him; “for our granddaughter who will
be delighted with this bunny.” “Yes,” he replied, “a horrendous and extremely
expensive, odd-colored rabbit. Have you ever seen an orange rabbit before?” “It’s
a stuffed bunny, Heriberto, it’s not a real rabbit; it’s a toy,” she explained
to him. “Uh-huh,” he replied, “and surely that justifies why we must pay for it
as much as our electricity bill.”
The thin-bodied man was wearing a flat cap sunk down just
above his eyebrows. “Well, as you wish,” she said, “you win,” and left the toy
on the table from where she had taken it. Until that moment I wasn’t aware that
the bookstore sold stuffed animals, and it was not precisely found in the
children’s section. He made a gesture of complaisance, one made by those who
think they are right. “Let’s go!” commanded to his wife (they clearly were
married), “it is getting late.” “Late for what?” she asked somewhat angry. “You
always think it’s late!” “Let’s go,” he said, trying to show composure. “All
right!” she said loudly. “You are the boss! It’s always the same! You are the
boss!” And then I lost sight of them.
I went back to reading the first page of Cartas
portuguesas (this was the reason that had brought me to the bookstore’s
coffee shop), but a scream got my attention and made me to look up over the
book. “No!” exclaimed the old man, trying to lift the three-legged cane, clearly
meaning to threaten her. The lady was holding the rabbit again and the husband
was blocking her way. “No!” he repeated once again, “it’s already decided! Put
that rabbit back in its place!” She looked around as her eyes were met by the
few people in the cafe, and left the rabbit back on the table. Then she
appeared annoyed, rolled her eyes up (maybe asking to some divinity for help in
the bookstore’s ceiling), walked a couple of tired steps and reached for the
man’s arm who seemed satisfied. Finally, her wife had come to her senses.
When they had disappeared among the shelves, surely on
their way to the door which would definitively settle their disagreement, I
went back to the Cartas de la monja portuguesa, a title in Spanish of
the book that collects five letters written by sister Mariana Alcoforado, a nun
who had been seduced by a count. As I pondered on the kinky circumstances and
the image of the woman writing love letters under the dim candlelight of her lonely
cell, I saw the woman passing in front of me who, once more, had the stuffed
rabbit in her hands. I stopped thinking about the nun and paid new attention to
the drama of the rabbit that, looking closer, it wasn’t a rabbit but a lanky,
long-eared hare, the color of oranges; of orange oranges ¾because of course there are green and yellow oranges¾ and of a hue similar to the skin of ginger. It had a
long and funny face; the hare, not the lady who, ensconced in the self-help
section, was nervously and fondly squeezing the stuffed animal. Her
granddaughter would surely like it. What would an old fogey know about what a
little girl likes?
I asked for the check, paid the coffee, closed the
book, and put it back on the self. Anyhow, the famous letters were not written
by the nun, but by a Gabriel-Joseph de Guilleragues, who had been ambassador of
France in Constantinople. And that small detail spoiled the erotic taste of
reading the book. Besides, with all this drama of the old couple and the orange
hare I had lost my concentration. I even stopped for a moment to look at a
volume on sale of the complete works of the philosopher Walter Benjamin, to
whom probably I am never going to read, and then continued my way out to the
door. I was about to step out when I heard the woman’s voice again who, at the checkout
counter, was calling to her husband while her finger was pointing at a little
paper next to the hare.
Indeed, the husband’s credit card had gone through the
small payment device and the man had to sign the little paper. I would never
know how she had convinced him, but it was obvious that the women had won the
battle. I browsed through the last illustrated edition of Vida y muerte de
la pequeña Caperucita Roja (Una tragedia), by the German writer Ludwig
Tieck, pretending I wasn’t interested in learning how things would unravel. I
waited to see how the drama of the hare would end and, opposite to what I
thought, it wasn’t a big deal after all: the old man signed the paper, took his
card, and put it away in his wallet. Then he offered his arm to his wife and
left the bookstore nonchalantly. She was carrying a plastic bag with her much
coveted possession: the orange hare. I stayed a little bit longer in the
bookstore waiting for them to walk ahead.
I caught up with them just as they were about to go
down the escalator, but the couple was blocking the way because they were
arguing about who would go first. It was hard to say if his three-legged cane
was the reason or the bag the lady was holding which seemed impossible, or
maybe it was just uncomfortable, to ride the escalator at the same time.
“Heriberto,” she would say still holding his arm, “let’s wait for Gerardo to
help you go down.” “Who is Gerardo?” asked the old man annoyed and with an
inquisitive look. “He is your lifelong chauffeur, of course. Who else?” she
replied. He seemed to ponder deeply and then asked with a frown: “Should we
return it?” She replied evidently eager to pick up a fight: “Who? Gerardo?”
“That rabbit, the old man answered, pointing at the plastic bag. “It’s too expensive,
you know that at our age we should be saving.” “Oh, Heriberto!” she exclaimed,
“shut up! I will leave you here until Gerardo comes and help you down. I am
sick of you!” “I don’t need any such Gerardo to go down this simple escalator,”
said the old man. “I can do it by myself.” She turned around only to realize
that there was already a line of people waiting for them to end their squabble.
At last, she finally let go of her husband’s arm so that he could go first on
the escalator.
He took a minute to assess the elusive step each time
he wanted to place his foot on the it, but then he unexpectedly went ahead,
tried to grab the bag from the woman, and lost his balance. He was unable to
plant his three-legged cane on the fleeting stairs, and fell on his face. He
bounced several times before landing horizontally at the foot of the escalator,
looking dead. It turned out he wasn’t, because when we rushed down to help him,
he was still breathing, although with some difficulty. Now without the flat
cap, which had flung somewhere on the floor, I was able to recognize in the
pale and scrawny countenance the face of General Túnchez, one of the greatest gunrunners
of the past decades. He had become a millionaire under the shadows of power,
enabling smooth way to countless containers through customs avoiding taxes.
Later, he had invested in all kinds of properties and in the money laundering
industry. Nobody was able to prove anything. He was forever untouchable. And
that is how he had reached the age of retirement and peace. Until today. All
because of a harmless orange hare.
Arturo Monterroso
Nació en Guatemala en 1948.
Es escritor, editor y corrector de estilo.
