The Autumn of the Patriarch

...the day shit is worth money, poor people will be born without an asshole

an old man with no destiny with our never knowing who he was, or what he was like, or even if he was only a figment of the imagination, a comic tyrant who never knew where the reverse side was and where the right of this life which we loved with an insatiable passion that you never dared even to imagine out of the fear of knowing what we knew only too well that it was arduous and ephemeral but there wasn't any other, general, because we knew who we were while he was left never knowing it forever with the soft whistle of his rupture of a dead old man cut off at the roots by the slash of death, flying through the dark sound of the last frozen leaves of his autumn toward the homeland of shadows of the truth of oblivion, clinging to his fear of the rotting cloth of death's hooded cassock and alien to the clamor of the frantic crowds who took to the streets singing hymns of joy at the jubilant news of his death and alien forevermore to the music of liberation and the rockets of jubilation and the bells of glory that announced to the world the good news that the uncountable time of eternity had come to an end.

the bells of glory that announced to the world the good news that the uncountable time of eternity had come to an end

Sabía que estaba condenado sin remedio a no morir de amor.

...as he discovered in the course of his uncountable years that a lie is more comfortable than doubt, more useful than love, more lasting than truth...

...you'll see, he said, they'll go back to dividing everything up among the priests, the gringos and the rich, and nothing for the poor, naturally, because they've always been so fucked up that the day that shit is worth money, poor people will be born without an asshole...

and yet we didn’t believe it now that it was, and not because we really didn’t believe it but because we no longer wanted it to be true, we had ended up not understanding what would become of us without him, what would become of our lives after him,

alla fine di tanti e tanti anni di illusioni sterili aveva cominciato a congetturare che non si vive, cazzo, si sopravvive, s'impara troppo tardi che perfino le vite più estese e utili non sono sufficienti ad altro che a imparare a vivere

we’ve had more enemies than we had soldiers,

with every six heads sixty enemies are produced and for every sixty six hundred are produced and then six thousand and then six million, the whole country, God damn it, we’ll never end,

they brought the Bible and syphilis, they made people believe that life was easy, mother, that everything is gotten with money, that blacks carry a contagion, they tried to convince our soldiers that the nation is a business and that the sense of honor is a brother invented by the government so that soldiers would fight for free

they scrutinized the universe on the dial of the small radio through the interference of jeers from fugitive planets

our two postcard hearts were frightened in unison under the tenacious look of the unfathomable old man who kept on eating one banana after another

tan deprimido por su propia desidia que aquella noche al golpe de las ocho sorprendió a una de las mujeres encargadas de la ropa de los soldados y la derribó de un zarpazo sobre las bateas del lavadero a pesar de que ella trató de escapar con el recurso de susto de que hoy no puedo general, créamelo, estoy con el vampiro, pero él la volteó bocabajo en las tablas de lavar y la sembró al revés con un ímpetu bíblico que la pobre mujer sintió en el alma con el crujido de la muerte y resolló qué bárbaro general, usted ha debido estudiar para burro, y él se sintiómás halagado con aquel gemido de dolor que con los ditirambos más frenéticos desus aduladores de oficio

había empezado a vislumbrar que no se vive, qué carajo, se sobrevive, se aprende demasiado tarde que hasta las vidas más dilatadas y útiles no alcanzan para nada más que para aprender a vivir.

Sabíamos de sobra que era ardua y efímera pero no había otra, general.

...We knew that no evidence of his death was final, because there was always another truth behind the truth. (p. 43)

las más bellas del mundo entero que él encontraba sentadas con una decencia de maestras de canto en la penumbra de la oficina, se desnudaban como artistas, se acostaban en el diván de peluche con las tiras del traje de baño impresas en negativo de fotografía sobre el pellejo tibio de melaza de oro, olían a dentífricos de mentol,

Qué pasaba en el mundo que nadie conocía la mano fugitiva de amante en el olvido que iba dejando un reguero de adioses inútiles desde la ventanilla de cristales virados de un tren inagural que atravesó silbando los sembrados de hierbas de olor.