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IX: "BREAKING THE PIG"

"My father agreed to buy a doll of Bart Simpson. And that my mother if she wanted, but my father relented and said I'm a freak.

- Why are we going to have to buy, eh ? - my mother told -. Simply open your mouth and you and you become firm orders.

My father said I have no respect for money, if you do not learn to deeming same now that I'm small , when I do that? The children who buy dolls without Bart Simpson converted from older thugs who shoplift because they are accustomed to getting whatever they please on the easiest way. So instead of a Bart Simpson doll I bought an ugly ceramic pig with a slot in the back, and now I'm going to bring up being a good person, now I'm not going to turn into a villain.

What I have to do from now on, every morning is drink a cup of chocolate, but I hate it. Milk chocolate is a shekel, without milk, half a shekel, but if you catch me after I go directly to vomit, then do not give me anything. The coins go throwing the pig through the back, so if you shake it makes noise. When the pig has many coins that shaking can not hear anything, then I got a Bart Simpson doll skateboard. Because as my father, that's education.

The fact is that the pig is very cute, has the cold muzzle when you touch it and also put him smile at the shekel by the back, the same as when you only pour half a shekel, but it is best to also smiles when he is not check anything. Also I have searched a name, I've put Pesajson, as the man who took our mailbox before us, a mailbox where my father was unable to start the label. Pesajson not like my other toys, is much quieter, no lights or springs, and without batteries that liquid spilled his face. All you have to do keep an eye is not to jump off the table.

-! Pesajson, care, which are ceramic! - I say when I realize it has been bent a little and looks down, and then he smiles and waits patiently for me to turn it down. I love when he smiles and waits patiently for me to turn it down. I love when he smiles, it's just why I took the chocolate milk every morning, so that we can take the shekel by the back and see her smile does not change one iota.

Measuring the sow, Francisco Toledo. Photo: Johanna Lozoya

- I love you, Pesajson - say next - and to be honest I'll tell you I love you more than Mom and Dad. Also always love you no matter what happens, but steal shops. ! But if you get to jump off the table, poor you!

Yesterday my father came, grabbed Pesajson and began to shake wildly upside down.

- Careful, Dad - I said - to Pesajson will hurt the tummy, but my father continued as usual.

"No noise, you know what that means, Yoavi? Tomorrow you will have a skateboarding Bart Simpson.

-! Great, Dad! - I said -. A Bart Simpson skateboarding, cool. But let's shake it, because you feel sick.

Pesajson

Dad left in place and went to call my mother. He returned a minute with one hand dragging and holding a hammer with the other.

- See how I was right? - Told my mother - now know the value of things, is not it, Yoavi?

- Of course - I said - oh yes, but why a hammer?

- It's for you - said my father as he handed me - but be careful.

- Of course I'm going to have - I answered, because the truth is that it was, but after a few minutes my father I became impatient and blurted

-! Come, break the piggy once!

- What? - I exclaimed -. "Break on Pesajson?

- Yes, yes, to Pesajson - my father insisted -. Come on, come on, break it. You deserve that Bart Simpson, you've earned.

Pesajson gave me the sad smile of a ceramic pig who knows he has come to an end. To hell with the Bart Simpson, how could he give a hammer head to a friend?

- do not want a Bart Simpson - said, and returned the hammer to my father - I just Pesajson.

- Do not you understand - I said then my father, nothing happens, well is how you learn, see, I'm going to break me. He raised the hammer while I watched the desperate eyes of my mother and then Pesajson weary smile, and then I knew that everything depended on me that if he did something, Pesajson going to die.

- Dad - I said holding of the leg.

- What, Yoavi? - I responded with the hammer still high.

- I want a shekel more, please - I begged him - let him take another shekel, morning, after chocolate, and then we break, tomorrow, I promise.

- Another shekel? - My father smiled, leaving the hammer on Table -. You see, woman?, I managed to make the child aware.

- That, yes, conscience - I said - tomorrow .- And that tears and throat choked me.

When they had left the room embraced with great force and di Pesajson vent to my tears.

Pesajson said nothing, but very quietly shaking in my arms.

- Do not worry - I whispered in her ear, "I'm going to save.

At night I waited for my father to finish watching TV in the room and went to sleep. Then I got up quietly and slipped to Pesajson the gallery. We walked together a very long time in the dark, until we came to a field full of nettles.

- A love pigs fields - Pesajson told as he left on the floor, especially the fields of nettles . You'll be fine here.

I was expecting an answer, but Pesajson said nothing, and when I touched the nose as a gesture of farewell, he just nailed me with their melancholy eyes. I knew that never again see me. "

Etgar Keret, Missing Kissinger , translation Ana María Bejarano, Mexico, Sixth Floor, 2009. ISBN 978-607-7781-004

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Hugo Hiriart, "which raises an issue, and JUDGEMENT THAT WAS GIVEN IN ALEXANDRIA"

"This story, as mentioned, is anonymous and was written in Florence in the late thirteenth century. I think your theme has much to do with imagination.

In Alexandria is in Romania (since there are 12 Alexandria), founded by Alexander in March, before he died, in the district where the Saracens and sell fried, on a Monday, a cook Mohammedan, whose name was Fabratto, was in his kitchen when he got a poor Saracens with bread in hand. I had no money to buy anything and put his bread on the pot to receive the smoke coming out of there. Full of delight bread bit by the smoke smoked delicacy that was cooking in the pot, and ate it all. This Fabratto had not sold enough in the morning, took hold of ill omen, and caught the poor Saracen disgust and said,

- Pay what you've made of mine.

Poor said

- I have not made your dish other than smoke.

- From what you caught, pay me - shouting Fabratto.

identity of the image, 1998. Manuel Felguérez

Such was the contention that, never have happened before a lawsuit of this nature, came to the Soldan. This, by the very novelty of the case, brought together scholars. Locked case. The wise Saracens began to quibble. One argued that the smoke was not the cook and argued that: the smoke can not retain odor becomes lacks substance and any property that is useful, and should not therefore be paid. Another said that the smoke is attached to the dish, it depends on and is generated from their properties, Cook sold its goods, if you take the smoke must therefore pay. There were many views. Finally imposed his wise advice saying:

- As the chef is to sell your goods and the other to buy, you, fair sir, have just paid their value. If when the chef sells a useful property of the dish, you are paid with money useful now that it has sold smoke, which is the useless part of the kitchen, please, sir, sound currency, and judges have the sound payment it comes out.

And the soldier who was sentenced observed.

Is not this remind you of the imagination? "

Hugo Hiriart, teeth were the piano. A study of art and imagination , Mexico, Tusquets, 1999. ISBN 968772383-1

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Walking slowly through the streets. VIII

"We came out, the wind was back behind us, we pezcaba the neck, kick us a tip. A major wave splashed us and I got the joy of running for a few steps. Don Gaetano was attached to the head wet beret. We were alone, ' or vient' had locked the city at home. I imagined deserted, with people who had fled, leaving the door open and the pots in the fire. I could go on all buildings , sit in the chair of the bishop and the mayor, live at the royal palace, up to the boat. Americans also had disappeared, leaving the empty carrier in the middle of the harbor. The idea tickled my nose. It lasted until I saw the wind come face to us. They ran in groups, with shirts, shorts and tennis shoes. We are very warm and they half-naked, citizens had disappeared, the Martians had landed. Don Gaetano and I looked at your feet to know if we were on the ground or by air. Run for us was a serious word.

One of us ran off to escape an earthquake, bombing. Running without being chased was like water without boiling pasta. We passed by concentrating on their movements, the wind blowing.

- No may be true, Don Gaetano, this is a hallucination due to hot coffee.

- Go if any. They are the last people invented the world, the last to arrive. They do the war and cars. Is an enlarged children's village. If you ask them where they are, they reply that far from home. There. For them, it is we exist. Cross with us, go ahead and do not see us. They live here and not even see the volcano. I have read in the newspaper that an American sailor has fallen into the mouth of Vesuvius. It is not unusual, I had not seen.

Leaving the seafront between the lanes reappeared our crowd, dense and clueless. Moved the old insecure, for support, the children opened their arms to be carried away by the wind blows. There was clothes hanging, withdrawal to keep her in the gusts. Without sheets hanging on the top looked mottled sky puffy clouds, aromatic and fried pies.

- Hungry? - I asked Don Gaetano, casting an eye upwards.

had heard my thoughts on the cloud.

- Guilt of them are fried by vocation.

was the day of convalescence of happiness. Don Gaetano and `o vient 'were charged with the task of digesting me on Sunday. They were getting. So I learned that happiness is to forget the next day. Anna was not thinking. The bruising of the body was sufficient to account for the heating step to happiness. "

Erri de Luca, The day before happiness, translated by Carlos Gumpert, Mexico, Sixth Floor, 2010. ISBN 978-607778104-2

...

"Happiness is a" gift. " Has a before and after, possible to identify if you pay attention to the multitude of signs which reveals its name. Decode arrival is a real art. Don Gaetano, janitor of a building in Naples in the fifties, has the gift to hear the thoughts of people. It was he who, through their stories about the horrors of war and the heroism of the Neapolitan people, start with this art to the narrator of the novel, a young orphan of eighteen.

Erri de Luca was born

in Naples in 1950. At eighteen he entered the ranks of Lotta Continua, leftist political movement which was a leader in the seventies. After performing various jobs - truck driver, laborer, construction worker - bent for writing, becoming one of the most important Italian artists today. The day before happiness is one of his most recent works. "

Editorial , Sixth Floor

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Walking slowly through the streets. Etgar Keret

Christo Mastaba project, 1966

" He fell asleep. When he opened his eyes and let it roll over the back, the sun was setting. The wind went through the grass with a rumor merciful. Tied and untied three pine branches with large fraternal gestures appeasers. Robinson felt his soul light ship flying into a heavy clouds crossing the sky with majestic slowness. A river flowed into it gently. It was then that he was sure a change in the weight of the atmosphere, perhaps, or in breathing things. He was on another island , which had seen once and never again had become a show later. He felt, as never before, which was lying on the island, as if on someone who had the body of the island in itself. It was a feeling that I had never experienced with that intensity, even when walking barefoot on pebbles yet! was so alive! The almost carnal of the island against him, warmed him, he was excited. She was naked, the land that surrounded him. He undressed in turn. With outstretched arms, stomach tight, with all his might embraced her body quake, burned all day by the sun and releasing a musky sweat in the cooler air of late. His face closed to digging in the grass roots and with his mouth blew a warm breath in the middle of humus. And the earth said to the face sent him a whiff of smelling overloaded that linked with the soul of plants adjudged and smell musty, sticky seeds of outbreaks in pregnancy. ! To what extent wisely mingled and confused life and death at the elementary level! Your sex pierced the ground as if the fence of a plow and there poured an immense pity for all created things. ! Strange sowing a solitary image of the great Pacific! Here lies, exhausted, he who married the earth and it seems - lazily attached tiny frog skin of the globe - turn sharply with her in the infinite space ... At last he rose again in the wind, a little dazed, and was greeted eagerly by the unanimous three pines that answered the cheers far down the rain forest which bordered the green and stormy horizon. "

Michel Tournier, Friday or the limbs Pacific Mexico, Alfaguara, End of the Century Collection, 1992. ISBN 9-789682-939662

...

"Today, on this island, a miracle happened: summer came on. I put the bed near the swimming pool and bathing was, until very late. It was impossible to sleep. Two or three minutes were enough to turn out in sweat water that should protect me from the awful calm. In the morning I woke up a phonograph. I could not return to the museum, to look for things. Hui by ravines. I'm in the basement of the south, including aquatic plants, outraged by mosquitoes, with the sea or dirty streams to the waist, seeing absurdly anticipated my flight. I think that these people came to look, perhaps I have seen. But I follow my destiny, I am deprived of all, confined to small place, less habitable island in the sea marshes deleted once a week.

Café VI © Johanna Lozoya 2010

writing this to let adverse testimony of the miracle. If you do not die within days drowned, or fighting for my freedom, I hope to write the Defense for survivors and praise of Malthus . Attack them in these pages, to the exhausting of forests and deserts, demonstrate that the world, with the improvement of police documents, journalism, radio-telephony, customs, does irreparable any miscarriage of justice, is a hell unanimous for the persecuted. So far I have written this page yesterday but did not provide. ! How about occupations in the desert island! ! What is the unsurpassed hardness of the wood! ! Much larger space shifting the bird!
An Italian, who sold carpets in Calcutta, I had the idea to come to me, said (in their language):
- For a fugitive, for you, there is only one place in the world, but do not live there. It is an island. White people was built in 1924 or so, a museum, a chapel, a swimming pool. The works are completed and abandoned.
I interrupted him, wanting his support for travel. The trader continued:
- not Chinese pirates or the ship painted white Rockefeller Institute touched. Is the focus of a disease, even mysterious, which kills from outside to inside. Caen nails, hair, skin die and whites of the eyes and the body lives eight, fifteen days. The crew of a ship that had docked on the island were skinned, bald, no nails - all dead - when he found the Japanese cruiser Namur a. The steamer was sunk by gunfire.
But my life was so horrible that I decided to leave ... The Italian tried to dissuade me, I was able to help me.
Last night, for the hundredth time, I slept on the island empty ... Seeing the buildings thought what it would cost to bring these stones, how easy it would have been up a brick kiln. I slept late and the music and screams woke me at dawn. The life of fugitive sleep lightened me: I'm sure that has not reached any boat, no plane, no blimp. However, from time to time, in this heavy night of summer, the grasslands of the hill are covered with people dancing, strolling and bathing in the pool, as holidaymakers installed from some time in the Teques or Marienbad. "


Adolfo Bioy Casares, The Invention of Morel , Buenos Aires, Emecé Publishers, 1953.

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VII: "DROPS"

" My girlfriend says that someone U.S. has invented a pill that makes you not feel alone. I heard yesterday, in the capsule information Sixty seconds military station, and now you are sending an urgent letter to her sister to buy him a shipment and send it by mail. Sixty seconds in said on the East Coast is sold in all stores and in New York and has caused a furor. It comes in two forms: drops or spray. My girlfriend has asked drops, because you may not want to feel alone, but he does not want is to damage the ozone layer.

drops you throw in the ear and Twenty minutes you stop feeling alone. I do not act chemically on that area of \u200b\u200bthe brain, had explained over the radio, but my girlfriend had not understood. It is not that precisely is Madame Curie, my girlfriend and I would even say it's a bit silly. He spends his days sitting thinking that I will be unfaithful, I'm going to leave and stuff. But I love her, love her madly. When you return to the post office tells me now you can stop living with me. Because the drops, Taran-Taran, will arrive soon and will no longer be scary to be alone.

- Let me? - I say -. Why drops? How is that possible?

But if you love her, love her madly.

- Go, if you like - say - but I want you to know that neither those nasty ear drops or any other you will want to as I have loved you.

What is true is that the drops the ears are not going to be unfaithful. That's what she says, then leaves. As if I did I would be unfaithful.

has now hired a Florentin attic in every day waiting for the mailman. For my part, I have no connection with the mail, does not excite me, and I have no friends abroad to send me things. if present, would have long since gone to visit them. Would come to have a drink with them and have told my sorrows. The hug a lot and not be ashamed to mourn me in front of them and all that stuff. We could be together years and spend a lifetime. In the most natural, as has always been done, much better than a few drops. "

Etgar Keret," Drops "in r Missing Kissinger, Mexico, Sixth Floor, 2009. ISBN978-607-7781-00-4

...

"Born in Tel Aviv in 1976, Etgar Keret is today the most popular writer among Israeli youth. Keret began writing in 1992 and since then he has published four books of short stories, a novel, three books comic and a children's book. His books have been best-sellers in Israel and have received international acclaim. (...) More than forty short films have been based on their stories. His stories have been adapted to the theater in Israel .

Since its arrival on the international literary scene, Etgar Keret has captivated readers all gender and age with its particular literary style. In stories of a few pages, Keret plasma extreme situations of daily life, which when viewed through the lens carefully, reveals not have anything everyday. His writing reflects the volatile, violent and uncertain reality of the Middle East, but not from the ethical or moral grandeur, but by fleeting glimpses of situations and characters involved in a chaos that transcends, in an attempt to keep head above water, finding value and meaning in the surrounding nonsense. "

Editorial Sixth Floor