Beautiful Diana - Gustavo Valitutti

Texto en español en Bewildering Stories: "La bella Diana".

Traducido al inglés por Carmen Ruggero.

She sleeps... her beautiful red hair on the pillow, her pale and perfect skin, her angelic face protected by the continuous and unconquerable curtain of darkness. It is winter, and that draws a smile on her full lips for him who knows how to see it.
The nights are long... in winter.
I know I have no excuse, but solitude left when she entered my life. Diana does not love me — I know, but she will remain with me and she will be company to me until the end of my days, until the end of my nights.
The days without her are long.
Daily tasks take me away from the house and Diana sleeps within her dark refuge.
When I come home, I lie by her side and she embraces me, and hours later she leaves wearing her best dress, and I try not to think until she returns.
Diana is never late; she does not like the outdoors.
I sigh when I see her, and she mocks my sigh. She throws the money on the dresser top: “So you won’t need to be away for so long.” She smiles at me, and returns to her eternal rest, licking the blood from her lips.

Gustavo Valitutti

The Ein - Gustavo Valitutti

Texto en español en Bewildering Stories: "Los Ein".

Traducido al inglçes por Carmen Ruggero.

“Nobody knows where they got their name,” the old man said. “This planet was colonized in the first space age, and although the Ein certainly did not go unnoticed in the history of the human colonization, that detail has been lost. Nobody knows where the name came from.”
The old man ran his red, lumpy tongue across his lips. “Ein does not come from any language of Earth,” he continued, “yet it is believed to be one of the first words that we settlers learned. It is strange. Without the Ein, we would not have been able to continue colonization, particularly on the cold worlds, where the ships carried provisions that lasted barely one or two years.
“At that time it was impossible for Earth to provide the number of vehicles needed for the new worlds. The Ein solved the transportation problem and provided food when necessary. Their contribution to our civilization is without a doubt comparable to that of the dog or the horse.”
“But that’s not what brings us here, and you know it,” the officer’s voice was abrasive. He was a young man of impeccable appearance.
“I know,” the old man agreed and then fell silent.
The officer took a note pad and began to record the incident.
The old settler gazed sadly at him. He noticed the young man was wearing a medal at his collar: the Messiah receiving the light. All the colonists wearing it had been baptized into a religion born a thousand years before. Like almost all human beings for generations now, the young man had probably never been to Earth.
“No, of course,” said the old man. The uncertainty in his voice contrasted with his earlier enthusiasm. “That’s not what brought you here. I cannot believe I was the one who called you.”
“Allow me to say that you were doing your duty. All settlers must inform the authorities of unusual events, to protect the colony.”
“Yes, I know. I have always lived by that rule. Of course, I have never had to apply it so strictly as now. I have lived in three different colonies throughout my life, which is much longer than you probably imagine, and in all these years, the only events I have had to report concerned insects or alien animals the likes of which I had never seen.
“As a rule, I reported them in the morning, when I went to work in the field. An officer from the colonial authority usually arrived in the afternoon, freezered the specimen, and then told me to go back to work without giving it any more thought.
“In those days, they were cordial enough to send a letter a couple of days later, thanking me for my interest. They included a detailed report explaining how the poor animal had been classified. Generally, it had been done by an android search during the initial exploration of the new world. Otherwise, the government made sure that you received a check as a reward for having performed such a dangerous task. I received three of those checks, did you know? “
“Yes,” said the officer. “In fact, I read all that this morning before coming to see you, and I must say not too many settlers have found as many unclassified specimens as you have.”
“Thanks, but we both know that is completely accidental. I have had many accidents in my life. One of them, the third check I received, was for reporting the carnivore that took my family’s life.”
“I know that, as well. That species was so aggressive that almost every settler left that world, the year following your tragedy.”
“But once more,” the old man rushed in, “the Ein came to the rescue and demonstrated their amazing ability to mutate. The last ones I saw on that world were able to fight and overcome members of that killer species whenever one of them crossed their path.”
“Are you going to tell us what makes these Ein so different?” the officer asked the old man while ostentatiously looking at his watch, which did not disturb the settler in the least.
“Well... I should. Besides, it would be better than getting myself killed for hiding information. You know,” said the settler as if changing the subject, “the Messiah’s religion is not practiced on Earth. In fact, their society is like a great beehive, and a small bee like me can easily be replaced; it would not be worth the trouble to run the risk by opening my big mouth to one outside their authority. However, the Messiah does not allow killing,” the settler added, while filling his pipe with terrestrial tobacco.
“It seems you like to exaggerate a little. Nobody is going to kill you.” The officer relaxed in the armchair, the most comfortable place he’d seen in the last three weeks. He had spent the last two weeks in a cargo transport. The room assigned to him was no larger than a closet; he had had to remain in it fourteen hours a day, what was commonly known as fourteen-ten for the military, which followed a schedule of twenty-four hour days, terrestrial time.
The young officer felt very tempted to fall asleep. He straightened up and assumed a position uncomfortable enough to stay awake.
“Perhaps you have noticed that I talk too much,” the old man said with a smile. He leaned forward, pushed down on the arms of his armchair and sighed as he lifted himself from it. “I don’t know how much customs have changed, but during my five years in the service, this was time for coffee and cookies. The cookies were brown, oval-shaped, and tasted like crap. I couldn’t be sure; I’ve never tasted crap, but I suppose I am not far from the truth.”
“Coffee for two, then,” replied the young officer.
“Coming up,” the settler smiled. He lit a burner on the gas stove which the young man had only seen in historical museums. The sight of it seemed to bring back everything technology had taken away.
“What was so different about your Ein?” asked the young man bluntly. His training often overshadowed his manners, .
“The Ein’s ability to mutate is very powerful,” the old man continued, not exactly responding to the question he had been asked but maintaining the officer’s interest long enough to allow himself time to find the right words and the appropriate moment in which to relate the information he needed to give him. “I have heard it said that even experts on Earth think the Ein is the only animal that, because of his ability to adapt, can compete with man.”
“Yes, I have also heard that. But still, it does not tell me how these Ein differ from the others.”
“In a way... they do not differ at all from the others. They are born from larvae that the females leave in nests buried underground. They inherit a gregarious instinct that makes them cluster in small groups of five or six individuals. On the other hand, those born under this Moon have taken greater steps toward adaptation. We know so little about them... perhaps, if we had paid more attention to these mutations, they would not seem so strange to us but rather... predictable.”
“Can you at least tell me what these mutations are all about?”
“Of course... I am doing just that, believe me. I am giving you all the clues to help you understand them. Only you must pay attention to me; there isn’t much more left to be said. What you have to keep in mind is that my family was destroyed in that planet by a species that seemed to possess an indomitable aggressiveness, and the Ein adapted to defeat them. They adapted, and they helped us to remain on that world. Remember that and remember... “
“Don’t take it wrong,” said the officer who had a way of losing patience, “but I must take care of other reports from settlers, and they are very frightened. Frankly, I have just a short time. Would you believe me if I told you that some of your neighbors have reported seeing ghosts? The truth is that my men went to get their animals at the same time I came through your door.”
“I know, and they will not find anything. That is to say, they could take each Ein they find, but not these, they will not recognize them. They will not be able to see these... but I believe you are no longer listening to me and if that is so, I will not speak to you about this, or anything else. Pity, because if you were to understand this, you would understand why those men reported having seen ghosts.”
The officer, tired of listening to what he deemed to be hot air, stood to talk to his subordinates and gazed out the window pretending interest in something, while the coffee pot still over the flame, began to whistle.
“Ah, who am I fooling,” said the settler. “I will say it anyway; now pay attention!”
“My men say that there are no Ein on this property.”
“And in a way they are not mistaken. But I already told you, they would not recognize them.” The old man gazed at the pipe he’d just lit, and at the coffee, he’d just served. “How stupid! I cannot allow myself to throw overboard terrestrial tobacco, so I will smoke while you drink, I suppose.
“I have already told you that my family was left back in that damn colony and I had to abandon their tombs, because I could not take the pain. The Ein always consider their owners part of the herd, and they protect them. That is why they adapt, in order to protect to us, because they know we must occupy other worlds to subsist. Believe me, they know.
“This planet,” the settler continued, “is where almost all the settlers who survived that infamous colony ended up, before those who remained could control the situation. Keep in mind that my neighbors have known me for years. They were my neighbors in that colony, as well.”
The old man gazed at the officer to see if he still had his attention.
The officer returned the glance, took a sip of coffee, and gestured for the old man to continue speaking.
“My son’s name was Job, like the Messiah. His mother, Alicia, an extremely religious woman, chose the name. Job was only ten years old when both he and his mother died twelve years ago. They were asleep when the animal attacked them. Alicia always slept late.”
“I know... the reports...”
“Job, come here. There is a friend papa wants to introduce to you.” The settler called, interrupting the officer.
The door to the garden opened, and a bashful boy entered the room carrying a ball in his left hand; the dog he had been playing with followed him inside.
“Hello.” The boy greeted him politely and cordially. “Papa said that you were coming to visit to us. Are you from Earth?
“As you can see, the Ein will always help us adapt,” said the old man. “They consider it their duty. Or is it part of their nature? I do not know. All I ask in exchange for this information is that you not take me away from my family.
“The rest of the settlers believe they have seen ghosts. Some of them have been sticking their noses where they don’t belong. People are often afraid of the unusual, but I am sure that you will understand me, and for other reasons than mine you will want to conserve these Ein.” The settler caressed the boy’s head with sadness and then directed his gaze to the officer: “I need you to help me keep my family.”
“Job,” said the officer, “tell your mother that your father and I will chat a while and we will have dinner later. That is... if your father invites me.”
Job gazed at his father who agreed with a smile. Then, followed by his dog, he ran upstairs to awaken his mother.

Gustavo Valitutti

The Butcher’s Portrait - Gustavo Valitutti

Texto en español en Bewildering Stories: "El Retrato del Carnicero".

Traducido al inglés por Carmen Rugero.

Amsel, a cartoonist, arrived at the military prison at six in the morning, as planned. His visit was on that day’s priority list.
“Third floor — someone will take you there,” the guard at the door spit out his words while another guard pointed to the white marble stairs leading to the cells.
Amsel followed the soldier in silence; his gaze downcast, his shoulders heavy. His seemed not to be thinking, but his fists were tight as rocks. He walked through very long, gray corridors, before coming to a solid iron door, which the guards opened to let him enter.
Behind thick iron bars, a portly man sat behind a heavy wood table. His back was broad; his shoulders carried an air of arrogance. He smiled. His mouth was extremely small, and his expression, frightful.
“Are you Amsel?” asked the prisoner, running his tongue between his lips. “I’ve heard good things about you, and of course, I have taken the trouble to look at your work carefully. But did I say ‘trouble’? I apologize: it has been a pleasure.”
“I’ve also heard about you,” Amsel responded. He was a man advanced in years, but his air was jovial. “So one could say that I know your ‘work’ quite well,” he said, drawing quotation marks with his fingers, “but I cannot say it has been a pleasure. If any kind of justice comes out of this war,” he added, feeling his heartbeat in his throat, “you ought to be shot soon.”
Amsel removed his dark overcoat and hung it on a coat hanger near the door.
“Don’t get your hopes up about that,” said the prisoner with a vile sneer. “The trial has not taken place yet.” The Butcher, as he was nicknamed during the war, spread his heavy arms over his head, pretending to stretch without losing sight of the cartoonist, who watched him intently.
“The trial?” Amsel asked, ironically. “And how do you think that can change things?” He removed the sketch pad from his portfolio, noting the Butcher’s avidity.
“By God, that changes everything. I only followed orders,” the Butcher spoke without taking his eyes away from the artist’s hands. “I thought the Germans would bring order to Europe, yes, but does that make me guilty of something?”
“Well, that is exactly what each and every one of the inhabitants of the city has said,” Ansel affirmed.
“They are resentful. They don’t want to admit that I protected them the best way I could,” the Butcher responded with touch of sadness. “Somebody had to negotiate with the Nazis; they wanted everything, and I gave them... “
“What they needed.” Amsel raised his voice and drew the first line of his illustration.
The Butcher made himself comfortable in the chair, careful not to make obvious what he actually made obvious by raising his head trying to catch a glimpse of the drawing. “They told me you have sketched hundreds of convicts and assassins, many of whom were condemned to death. I saw your rendition of that assassin in Ostrava, about ten years ago.”
“Eleven, to be exact,” Amsel, already immersed in his work, corrected him.
“Yes, I remember that angular face breaking through the shadows, the crucifix behind him because he had been thrown out of a seminary some years earlier, but I don’t remember why.”
“He had killed a cat and gutted it for no reason. Its ears had disappeared.”
“He had devoured them.”
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
“And how will you portray me? Will I also break from the shadows, or will I perhaps walk on the snow-covered streets of Prague wearing my uniform, as on one of my famous rounds?”
The artist kept silent. He observed the prisoner at great length, penciled some strokes on the sketch pad, and looked up at him, again.
“Come on, what do you say? I can give you my opinion. We can do this together. It’s not as if I wanted to give you professional advice, but who could blame you for wanting a little help? I am a very complex character.”
A very long silence came between both men.
“Do you know who the political cartoonist was?” Amsel asked without raising his eyes. “The politicians’ caricatures, and all that.”
“The political jokes?” the Butcher asked, glad to have reestablished conversation. “Are you talking about the offensive cartoons that your newspaper published before the war? Don’t misunderstand me, I agree with political dissent, including Communism, as was the case, but I believe it must be done with respect. Yes, if there is a lesson we have — should have — learned from the war, it is indeed respect. Is that not the truth?”
“Don’t you know what happened to that cartoonist?” Amsel pressed, while drawing on his sketch pad.
“No,” the Butcher answered dryly.
Amsel moved his hand quickly to put the final touches on his drawing.
“Why is that so important, what happened to one person in particular? Besides, I dare say that he is easily replaceable. Unlike you,” said the Butcher, thinking his compliment would be valued.
“Perhaps... perhaps many wouldn’t notice the difference,” said Amsel.
“I am not one of them. Your work is different, superior, if you allow my opinion. I think you are an artist. Your friend, however, was a simple illustrator. Is he dead?”
Amsel penciled one last stroke, took a couple of steps back, and smiled.
“That’s exactly the expression I wanted to capture,” he announced almost joyous, and noticed the Butcher also seemed cheerful.
“Let me see it. I will see it in the morning paper, anyway; right?
“That’s true.”
“Well then?”
“He did not die,” said Amsel. “You still don’t understand, do you?
“Who did not die? what are you talking about?” the Butcher asked, holding on to the black iron bars, suspecting something was very twisted.
“The cartoonist did not die,” Amsel raised his eyes and nailed his gaze on the Butcher. “I am he. Regrettably, our political cartoonist did die. The man you would have wanted to immortalize you. He really helped us sell newspapers. But do not worry; although I doubt I can walk in my colleague’s shoes, I believe I can do you justice.”
“You are lying, I know you are lying,” said the Butcher. His face was flushed, and his eyes moistened. He squeezed the iron bars in his hands as if trying to break them.
“No, I am not lying to you, but don’t concern yourself. I believe that I have managed to capture your expression perfectly.” He distanced himself from the drawing, and then looked at the Butcher, mocking him. “Yes, you, with a weeping boy’s face, your dull eyes, and dense eyebrows, remind me of that poor chimpanzee I saw in the zoo years before the war.”
“I warn you!” the Butcher roared, but he did not continue.
“Yes, I’m listening to you,” said Amsel. “You know, I have a great memory and I have seen too many photographs of you, through the years. So... accept my gift,” and he offered the piece of paper to the Butcher.
The Butcher snatched it and looked at it — furious. “You would not dare publish this!”
“What? Don’t you like it?”
“I am going to kill you!”
“Perhaps... in your dreams. But don’t forget to look at the morning paper.”

Guatavo Valitutti

Publicado en inglés en Bewildering Stories.