Throats of a Thousand Demons (In English and Spanish)

Tyr, the Nightmare Demon

(A Nightmare of the real kind)

I heard the screams and yelling of a thousand demons, sounds of destruction and immediate death—it all came from the helm of a distant old wooden vessel—but one demon passed through the whole atmosphere around and above me—, never in all my days left on earth shall I forget the increasing agony within my heart’s valves, and its compressing chambers, and the intense pervading terror, to the point the walls of those chambers were about to bust open—; thus, I felt my blood being squeezed through congealing and hardening veins—my skin cold and Goosebumps covering me from head to toe, standing hard and erect, and the voice of the Demon of Nightmares babbling as his hand grabbed my shadow and held it high by its neck, around its throat, the heavy body under it, pulling downward as to decapitate, the neck thinning— as the neck was stretching, my heart utterly being brought to an alarm state.
“You have to see this!” the demon repeated twice, and I looked and sensed I was going into a tumbling, headlong, insensible—numbness, should I not quickly escape.
“No!” I said exceedingly apposing the voice. I didn’t want to watch and then, that was when I called out to my wife Rosa, “Wake me up!” whereupon I found myself reviving and bound once again to the waking world—paler than death.

I had nearly been run-down by a wild and loose demon, hailed by his demonic onlookers. Upon feeling my eyes opening, my explanation to my wife was but a few words—I was by all means, rough-looking from the nightly experience. Somehow he had crept into my dreams and it was impossible to avoid coming in contact with.
My wife asked, “Did you forget your prayers last night?” And I had.
“Thus, it was then obvious,” she told me, “the demon rode immediately over you—as if without the least perceptible impediment to his progress.”

No: 444 ((Nightmare, 7-28-2009) (written: 7-30-2009)) EAP

Spanish Version


Gargantas de Mil Demonios

(Una pesadilla real)

O í los gritos y rugidos de mil demonios, sonidos de destrucción y muerte inmediata—que venía del timón de un distante buque de madera viejo—pero un demonio pasó a través de la atmósfera alrededor y encima de mi—, nunca, en todos los días que me quedan en la tierra me olvidaré de la agonía creciente dentro de las válvulas de mi corazón, y sus cavidades comprimidas, y el intenso terror impregnado, al punto que las paredes de esas cavidades estaban a punto de estallar—; así, sentí que mi sangre estaba siendo exprimida a través de mis venas endurecidas y sangre coagulada—mi piel estaba fría y estaba cubierto de pies a cabeza con piel de gallina; el Demonio de las Pesadillas, tambaleándose pero erguido, balbuceaba, mientras sus manos agarraban mi sombra y la sostenía en alto a la altura de su cuello, alrededor de su garganta, debajo de su pesado cuerpo, jalándolo hacia abajo como para decapitarlo, el cuello adelgazándose—mientras mi cuello estaba siendo estirado, mi corazón fue llevado completamente a un estado de alarma.
“Tienes que ver esto”, el demonio repitió dos veces, y miré y sentí que caería de cabeza insensiblemente dentro de un adormecimiento, si no escapaba rápidamente.
“No” dije sumamente con dificultad. Yo no quería ver, y entonces fue cuando llamé a mi esposa Rosa, “¡Despiértame!” A este punto me encontré a mi mismo reanimándome y una vez más en el mundo vivo—más pálido que la muerte.
Casi fui atropellado por un salvaje demonio suelto, convocado por sus espectadores demonios. Al sentir mis ojos abiertos, mi explicación a mi esposa fue sólo unas cuantas palabras—estaba por todos los medios, movido por la experiencia nocturna. De alguna forma él se metió en mis sueños y era imposible evitarlo venir en contacto conmigo.
Mi esposa preguntó, “¿Te olvidaste de tus oraciones anoche?” Y sí, me había olvidado.
“Entonces, es obvio”, ella me dijo, “que el demonio pasó inmediatamente sobre ti—como si sin el más menor impedimento perceptible en su avance”.

# 444 ((Pesadilla, 28-Julio-2009) (Escrito el 30-Julio-2009)) EAP

The Mystery of Stone Ship ((in English and Spanish)(from: the Satipo jungles Peru))

The Mystery of Stone Ship

(A Legend out of the Jungles of Satipo)



(Advance) It’s a very old rock structure, brown, with a sandy like texture to it, about the size of a 17th Century Ship, it resides in the middle of the Perene Rio, in the Central Jungles of Peru, called Satipo. Deep within the jungle nearby this rock structure, lived a tribe of natives, the ‘Ashaninka,’ derived from the earlier natives called the ‘Arawak’ …I have visited an Ashaninka tribe myself; they are a warm hearted peaceful people, very creative in the arts. And so now for the Legend…:



Throughout the bloody and frightfully sixteen-hundreds, the so called Colonists (Colonos), with their slave ships, sought out the Ashaninka natives, for slaves, sold them to the highest bidder, in the Lima, and Huancayo markets, and in other parts of Peru, along with other cities of South America. The Colonists jammed an absolutely peaceful people into the guts of the ship; it was absolutely body to body. The officers were very cold and dehumanizing. The aftermath of these years took a toll; the Colonists had rapped the land like fire in dry grass—of its masses, putting them into slavery. These natives: insulted, frightened, none of them to return to their tribes. And the Colonists kept their recurrent surge up, keeping the slave-flesh, in the hole of the ship, with stale, deadly breath and putrid surroundings, many died on the journey to the markets, thrown over the stern of the ship for the fish and vultures to eat, once dead.
On a given day, something took place, that would mold into a legend, something, every Colonist would ponder on thereafter, and ship captains would forever take into account, when they’d sailed down the Rio Perene by what would be named—forevermore the ‘The Rock of Stone Ship.’

It was an atrociously hot day. The rain had stopped; the captain had anchored his ship in the middle of the river, scouts lowered a small vessel into the waters, turned the boat towards an orchard like opening of the jungle, they were to search for tribal members, and return to the ship with the information, where they were now, how many of them were useful as slaves. In the meantime the Captain and his crew remained waiting onboard.

In those days, the chief of the Ashaninka kept a look out for the ships. They knew what the Colonists were contemplating, and of course the ship was taller than anything in sight and filled a good portion of the center of the river, and it was of course a symbolical threat once seen. And on this hot summer’s day, it was seen by the chief, and his bodyguards.
The path the chief and his bodyguards were on came out on to the top of a hill; there they prayed that none of their kind would be kidnapped into slavery this day.

The scouts from the ship looked about spent quite a lot of their time trying to find stragglers, or the tribe itself, but they saw nothing, nothing but massive trees which shaded them from the hot sun, and would condemn them as they rested and fell to sleep, and when they awoke and went back to inform their captain of their fruitless search, they noticed suddenly the ship was gone. Refusing to believe the ship and its crew, and its captain could have left so anonymously, they moved about, but the only thing they found was a rock island mound in the middle of the river, that wasn’t there before, it resided where the ship had been anchored.
It was a brown structure, likened to the ship itself in design and some details, as if it was melted down from wood to soft stone, somewhat circular dimensions, the rock island being the same size of the ship, which was now covered with large ants, running about.

The Chief, now looking down from the top of the hill, could see the newly formed mound, and the three scouts standing on it, in disarray, he said nothing, just bowed his head.


Written 7-17-2009, in part, at the hotel in Satipo, while visiting the rivers and falls and natives of this Central, Peruvian Jungle



Spanish Version

El Misterio del Barco de Piedra

(Una Legenda de las Selvas de Satipo)


(Avance) Es una construcción de roca muy antigua de color marrón, con una textura arenosa, similar al tamaño de un barco del siglo diecisiete, éste reside en el medio del río Perene, en la Selva Central de Peru, en la ciudad llamada Satipo. Profundo dentro de la selva, cerca de esta construcción de piedra, vive una tribu de nativos llamada ‘Los Ashaninka’, descendientes de los primeros nativos llamados ‘Los Arawak’…Yo he visitado una tribu Ashaninka, ellos son personas pacíficas muy cordiales y muy creativos en las artes. Y ahora la leyenda…:

Durante los sangrientos y terribles años 1600s, los llamados colonos con sus barcos de esclavos, buscaban a los nativos Ashaninkas para esclavizarlos y venderlos al mejor postor en los mercados de Lima y Huancayo, y en otras partes de Perú, así como también en otras ciudades de Sudamérica. Los colonos, fríos e inhumanos, atascaban a esta gente pacífica en el interior de los barcos, era completamente cuerpo con cuerpo. Las repercusiones de estos años trajeron un número de víctimas, los colonos habían vejado esta tierra, como el fuego en pasto seco, de sus masas, poniéndolos en la esclavitud. Estos nativos insultados, asustados, ninguno de ellos retornaron a sus tribus. Los colonos mantenían su recurrente aumento, manteniendo la carne esclava en el hueco del barco, con viciado aliento mortal y alrededores putrefactos, muchos morían en el camino al mercado, siendo luego tirados sobre la popa del barco para que, una vez muertos, los peces y los buitres se los comieran.

Pero un día dado, algo tomó lugar que se moldearía en una leyenda, algo en que cada colono reflexionaría, y algo, en la que los capitanes de barco lo tomarían siempre en cuenta cuando navegaban por el río Perene, por los alrededores de lo sería llamado—siempre “La Roca del Barco de Piedra”

Era un atroz día caluroso, la lluvia había cesado y el capitán del barco había anclado en el medio del río, así los exploradores habían descendido a pequeños botes en el agua y se dirigían hacia una abertura de la selva, similar a una huerta, ellos iban a buscar a los miembros de las tribus y volverían al barco con la información de dónde se encontraban ahora, cuántos de ellos servirían como esclavos. Mientras tanto el capitán y su tripulación permanecían esperando en el barco.

En aquellos días, el Jefe de los Ashaninkas mantenía guardia sobre los barcos. Ellos, los Ashaninkas, sabían lo que los colonos estaban contemplando; y por supuesto, el barco era más alto que todo lo que se veía a la vista y ocupaba una gran porción en el medio del río, y era por supuesto, una amenaza simbólica una vez visto. Y en este día caluroso de verano, éste fue visto por el Jefe y sus guardaespaldas.

El camino que el Jefe de los Ashaninkas y sus guardaespaldas seguían llegaba a la cúspide de un cerro; allí ellos rezaron para que ninguno de su clase fuera secuestrado en la esclavitud ese día.

Los exploradores del barco miraron alrededor, emplearon bastante de su tiempo tratando de encontrar rezagados, o a la tribu misma, pero no encontraron nada, nada, sólo los árboles masivos que los protegían del sol caluroso y que los condenarían mientras ellos descansaban y se quedaban dormidos. Cuando ellos despertaron y regresaron a informarle a su capitán de su búsqueda infructuosa, ellos notaron repentinamente que el barco no estaba. Negándose a creer que el barco, su tripulación y su capitán podrían haber partido tan secretamente, ellos caminaron alrededor, pero la única cosa que ellos encontraron fue una isla de roca en el medio del río, que no estaba allí antes, ésta estaba donde el capitán había anclado el barco.

Era una construcción marrón, similar al mismo barco en diseño y algunos detalles, como si éste hubiera sido fundido de madera a piedra suave, de dimensiones un tanto circulares, la isla o montículo de roca era del mismo tamaño que el barco y ahora había sido cubierta con hormigas grandes corriendo por todos lados.

El Jefe de la Tribu, ahora mirando hacia abajo desde la cima del cerro podía ver al recientemente montículo formado y a los tres exploradores parados sobre éste en desconcierto; él no dijo nada, sólo inclinó su cabeza.

Escrito en parte el 17 de Julio del 2009, en un hotel en Satipo, mientras visitaba las cataratas y a los nativos de la Selva Central, en Perú.

The Conley Boys (Based on actual events)

The Conley Boys
(Based on true events)



Dan Conley climbed into the car where his younger brother Jessie was sitting behind the steering wheel, waiting for him, after running out of the bank from robbing it. He set down the bag of cash on the floor, between his legs, and knocked on the dashboard with his fist, as if to say: job competed let’s get the hell out of here. There were no words spoken. Dan, looking at his brother Jessie, behind the steering wheel, gave him a smile, still having the smell of the hot asphalt street in his nostrils; Jessie feeling the manual gearshift, shifted quickly into first gear—looking into the rearview mirror, there was someone behind him, he had seen a figure, but it was by a blink of an eye, and more likened to a shadow that whizzed by. He felt and sensed it again, from his peripheral vision. Now someone was at the side of his door—blocking the sun, and the wheels of the car started to spin on the hot asphalt street, and they were burning rubber as the car speeded out of its parking space, and out of town.
“Jessie,” Dan said, listening to the tires squealing.
Jessie was silent, dodging the traffic to escape the police.
“He’s there, over there too,” Jessie remarked.
“Who’s there?” asked Dan.
“What do you mean who?” asked the hoarse voice of Jessie. “I want to get out of here fast brother,” he added.
Something in his head clicked, he was seeing things, thought Dan, and his voice had changed, he knew Jessie had been drinking all night, and he knew Jessie was tired and hungry.


A short fat elderly woman sat on a bus stop bench on the far side of the road at the corner in this little Minnesota town, a ways outside of the county they had just robbed a bank in. Above her head was a café sign that read, ‘Food and Beer, Open Twenty-four hours, daily’ and under that sign it read, on the windows in white letters ‘Food, food…!” and had pictures of food pasted onto the glass.
The short fat elderly woman sat motionless on the bench, turned to look at the green 1960 Ford Galaxy 500, and stared as if in a trance. They had stopped at the corner stop sign, looking to their side, checking out the restaurant, waiting for the red light to change to green.
Ahead of them was another sign that read “Straight ahead, Canada, and Welcome!”
They’d go back to their wives after a quick rest in Canada, and they had both thought of this, talked about it, or they’d eventually, get caught again, and go back to jail, and they thought about that also. But this time, Jessie in particular was getting tired of the bank robbery business, and serving years upon years, a half lifetime in jails. Age was catching up with both of them, but Jessie was feeling it more so. Dan was forty-two years old, and Jessie forty.
“Canada Welcomes You!” Dan read the sign aloud.
Dan saw Jessie looking at the sign sharply, hesitantly, almost morbidly.
“Canada is getting old brother, we made some scandals up here,” said Jessie. “The police are still looking for us, but if we must go let hit the café, I’m hungry.”
Dan looked at Jessie, knowing he was spontaneous and perhaps he was now, and he was more on the wild side than he usually, and then leaned back into the soft seat of the car deep in thought, there was something wrong.
“Relax,” Dan told Jessie. “Take that hat off your head; it’s too hot for a hat.”
“I thought we were dead,” said Jessie, still with his hat on. Then hit the dashboard with his fist. The little fat lady looked at him across from the street. As if wondering what they were going to do, they had just sat at the corner talking, through three green lights.
“How many banks and stores and gas stations, and restaurants have we robbed this year?” Jessie Asked.
“About twenty, that’s all.”
Then Jessie stepped on the gas and within a minute they were out of town. Dan looked up and into the mirror checking out to see if anyone was following them, it was a habit, even if he knew he was safe from the police he had trained himself to double-check, to doubt what might be the obvious. He knew from experience, that when you least expected it, the police were on your tail. He felt for certain they had made a clean break from them, and the check was just a kind of reassurance.
Dan, as well as Jessie, had left their wives behind as usual; and both had spent twenty-years in jail, off and on, in different jails, prisons, halfway houses, pretrial confinement centers, on house arrest, you name it, in the criminal justice system, they had experienced it, spent half their lives dealing with it, they both had qualified to be veterans of the system.


It was believed of old everywhere and everywhere in the criminal justice system in the Midwest, it is still believed by some, they were the modern day Frank and Jessie James type robbers of yesteryear.
Jessie took a more relaxed posture now, took his hat off and threw it into the backseat, then made a turn to the Canadian Boarder. His face had changed from an aloof attitude, to a more peaceful if not tolerate manner. He looked pale and tired, drained and nearly fried as far as thinking went, and his appearance was that of a sickly person, and taking that hat off gave him a stranger look, as if he was missing hair that he should not have been missing; that is to say, his scalp (skin and hair on the top of his head) was unhealthy looking, hair thinning, skin discolored and cut.
“You seem better, but you don’t look so well,” said Dan.
“I’ve been feeling shitty since that bank robber, two months ago,” Jessie said. “And when I was serving my last ‘time’ a year ago or so, it was mostly in the hospital, they told me I had cancer, I thought it stopped spreading, and I got my strength back some, but it’s back again I guess…!” Jessie explained.
“No,” said Dan. “It’s not true. You’re kidding, you just want to go back home!”
Jessie leaned to his right side looked across the dashboard, then directly into Dan’s face, and pushed his right hand to Dan’s left shoulder, said in a serious tone of voice, hoarse like, “Brother, it’s true, give me a cigarette.”
Dan handed him one “Thanks,” he told his brother. Then Dan lit it for him.
“Want some?” Jessie asked Dan.
“No,” Dan replied shaking his head, “not now anyway.”
“There isn’t much time anymore,” Jessie said.
“I’m a robber,” Dan replied.
“I know,” laughed Jessie.
Dan sat back in the car seat angry at what he had heard come out of Jessie’s mouth. He wasn’t mad at Jessie per se, but at time, the times, it had come and gone, and he only knew those summers that were and this summer, it was to him a little while, and that little while was going to be no more. It was all coming to an end.
I’ll let you have the car and most of the money if you want, but I got to go back home to Shelly, I’ve been feeling bad, and I’m not sure how much time I’ve got left. I can’t serve anymore time Dan.”
“To-morrow morning…tomorrow I suppose, we’ll split up then,” said Dan in a stupor.
“You can have it all if you want, I just want to rest in a nice bed, with clean sheets, and a warm body next to mine,” said Jessie. He leaned back, and then over the steering wheel. He was no longer interested in robbing, it did not appeal to him. For a moment he almost fell to sleep driving; Dan would have liked to have helped him but he sat back, unable to figure out how to. It was all up to him he told himself, as was his driving. It was the way they worked things.
“How much is half Dan?” asked Jessie. Dan was still trying to figure out how they could stick together and do some more jobs. The idea of them splitting up was too much for him to handle, yet I suppose in the back of his mind he knew it was a fruitless endeavor.
“I don’t like this situation for you or for me,” Dan said.
“Dan look,” said Jessie, “what you see is all I have left of me, and it will not get any better, before it gets worse.”
“Why don’t I put you on the next bus home, I’ll need the car, and we’ll split-up the money, fifty-fifty, we have $12,000-dollars,” Dan explained.
“I’m offering to put you on the bus tomorrow morning,” Dan told Jessie in an exhausted tone of voice.
“I don’t really like the situation either,” Jessie reiterated.
“How much do I get?” asked Jessie, as if he had forgot the sum total Dan had just confirmed between them.
“We each get six-grand,” answer Dan.
“Six-grand and a good breakfast,” Jessie said. He had a smile on his face, but Dan noticed it was becoming hard for him to even open his mouth to smile, everything, every movement, every breath strained him.
“You got it brother, your six-grand and the biggest breakfast you can eat,” Dan exclaimed, unable to hold back the pain of losing his brother.
“Can I have twenty-dollars now?” Jessie asked.
“Sure,” said Dan, his emotions more under control now. Next he took the bag grabbing a twenty-dollar note from it, and handing it to Jessie.
“You know I’ve got to have one good breakfast with my brother before we part.” Said Jessie (feeling it maybe the last they see of each other).
“I know,” said Dan.
“All I want is to see my wife, have a good breakfast with my brother, and a little time to make peace with God,” said Jessie with a deep breath, as if trying to help his heart and lungs operate properly.
Jessie was telling his brother his desires, man to man, before they’d part, and Dan was—for the most part—in another world, hearing but not hearing, thinking about how life was going to be without Jessie. He didn’t hear much of what he said, but I suppose he didn’t have to, he knew his brother inside and out.
“If you need a little extra, you can have a few thousand,” Dan said. “I can get more.”
“All right,” Jessie said, “let’s stop here and eat.”
Dan picked up his bag of money, and got out of the car.
“Shut the door,” Jessie called to Dan; Dan’s mind was elsewhere, and he turned around and shut the car door.


They were quiet in the café. The morning sun had been penetrating, and the cool air had been brisk, and refreshing, the wind had been perfect, just enough to lift up and push back their hair. There they were in the café, as quiet as sleeping mice. There were several customers sitting at tables, and at the counter. Old man playing cards, solitary at one table, and two men at another smoking and drinking coffee they had the paper laying to the side of them on the table. Jessie ordered eggs over easy, bacon and toast, fried potatoes, coffee and a glass of milk. Dan ordered the same, but neither one could eat but half the breakfast, the food was fine, but Jessie was falling to sleep, and Dan had lost his appetite.
A waiter came by asking if they needed anything else.
“Bring me some more coffee,” Dan said, “for both of us.”
The waiter came back carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, looking at Jessie almost falling asleep where he sat.
“I think your partner will need a little more than you my friend,” said the waiter.
Dan smiled with a smirk.
“A hell of a lot he knows,” said Dan.


He brought him to a motel, thereafter; and Jessie slept hard and long, and the following morning Jessie took a bus back home, it would be the last time Dan saw his brother Jessie. Dan would end up servicing another two sentences in prison. Not being able to see Jessie’ funeral. But he had talked to Jessie over the phone. Jessie was happy for once in his life. But Dan never got over it, could never quite let go of the past. Matter-of-fact, as I am writing this, he is somewhere out there running from the law, at fifty-six years old; still living the legacy of Frank and Jessie James, as if he himself was part of the saga, right out of the Old West, only his brother is no longer his sidekick.


Notes: This story was originally written in AD 2000, after talking to Dan about his life of robbing banks, who thereafter, would escape the confinements of the Bureau of Prisons where I worked—and written in short story form for the book, “Everyday’s an Adventure,” under the title: “The Restless” published in 2002, reedited 6-2009.

English Version

Baby Obese

By Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

The slow morning clouds swerved on. It would be first light, the crack of dawn after a while, and he would be asking for his coffee, plain, strong and dark, but that would be in a few hours yet, he was now only cold, and remaining under his two blankets, as he tried to go back to sleep, which would cure that. His breathing appeared to be with less effortless now, in the thin mountain air, and then he decided to get up and walk about his first floor apartment, and he looked out the window, he knew it was near daybreak, the night almost ended. He could tell that from the streetlights and the bushes and flowers in the garden outside his window, everything had shadows now; the inky like night had turned into a light gradation of grays. Cars and other vehicles were starting to become constant and ceaseless on the street beyond his garden bushes, thus, giving over to the hummingbirds dancing over the tall foliage, next to his pantry window. He had got up, and stared out the window. He was a little stiff, his old bones, and muscles, he needed to stretch them out, walk to cure that cold inside them, and soon he knew there’d be sun. He went on outside with his wife to catch a taxi, toward the corner, where they sold the papers in a little cubicle, and there were many neighborhood voices, and bird calls, unending—all these quick and vital thumping hearts ready to meet the early July morning. He did not look anywhichway.
By the time they got to the café, it was too late to eat breakfast. The old man grasped his belt, behind him the taxi had quickly taken off, his young wife by his side, holding his elbow; he had fallen three times in two days, lost his balance. He thought for a moment of pulling his arm away, but he did know himself, if he did, he could lose his balance again. So he looked down toward the ground and walked slowly to the café door entrance. His pulse and breathe racing; presently he was in the road, about to step up onto the sidewalk. He could hear the movement of vehicles on the two crossroads, as if they were almost upon him, but he didn’t look; he had to make sure he kept his balance, and even then he knew his ankles might give out, as if the body knew his very urgent need in that moment, if only he had wings, so he thought. He looked around him, it was a weed and rock choked road.
Once inside the Mia Mamma Café, he saw in an instant in the far-off distance, the colorful silhouette of Mini, the chef. The early summer light, and coolness of the sky had not vanished, and shinned outward as if running from the glass doors to the kitchen, pausing now without knowing on two figures, Nancy and Mini, then on a third figure, but only on his back (Enrique).
“Hola, Hola!” he said, in Spanish.
His back towards the back doors, his face toward what he knew to be the café kitchen, knowing behind the wall of the kitchen was the café garden where he’d eat today, he was hugging his books, he was brave he thought, he didn’t fall for the forth time in two days, God forbid.
Mini and Nancy gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he stumbled forward on his feet, looking for, the child he called the Little Elephant, a child, whom he was a Great Uncle to. His wife went to go fetch him. He was huge for six months old, much living meat and volume and weight as to any two children he had ever seen. He feared to hold him, lest he drop him. He had an astonishing high voice he thought, like the fighting call of Bruce Lee, that karate man of the movies. And when he returned the same call back to the child, troubled features appeared on his face. And this day, it was no different; when he first saw him this forenoon, the child only showed an expression of ox-like interest, when he saw the old man. Thereafter, his little arms were reaching for the old man’s wife’s neck, for security. His little heart and lungs drumming, as if they were looking for a safe-house; he almost burst into tears, sobbing for speech. He saw the astonished face of the old man, without knowing who he was, or perhaps knew who he was, and that in itself was the reason for his behavior.
“What?” the old man said in the café kitchen. “Yes, the boy cries when I imitate him.”
“Take him,” his wife told him.
But it was too late this time too. The baby elefante, as the old man referred to the child, was being carried away, back through the door of the kitchen, near screaming.
Behind him, were the soups and hot dishes being prepared for lunch, it was 12:05 p.m., he lifted up the covers of the pots to smell the aroma, squatting beside them, as if he wanted to dive inside the big pots deliberately, if not for the aroma, to get away from the baby elefante.

No: 440, written: 7-8-2009, Huancayo, Peru●●



Spanish Version

El Bebé Obeso

Las nubes se habían esparcido lentamente, dentro de poco iban a aparecer las primeras luces de la mañana y él estaría pidiendo su taza de café bien cargado sin azúcar, pero eso sería en unas cuantas horas más adelante, ahora él estaba solamente con frío y permanecía debajo de sus dos frazadas mientras trataba de volver a dormir. Su respiración era menos dificultosa ahora, en el aire fino de las sierras; luego él decidió levantarse y caminar en su departamento de un piso, miró a través de la ventana, él sabía que era cerca del amanecer, la noche casi había terminado; él podía decirlo por las luces de la calle y las ramas y flores en el jardín afuera de su ventana, todo tenía sombras ahora; la noche oscura se había vuelto con tonos grises ligeros. En la calle, más allá de los arbustos de su jardín, los carros y otros vehículos empezaron a volverse más constantes y continuos, dejando así paso a los colibríes que danzaban sobre los altos follajes, cerca de la ventana de su cocina. Él se había levantado, y miraba por la ventana; estaba un poco adormecido, necesitaba estirar sus viejos huesos y músculos, caminar para curar el frío dentro de ellos, y él sabía que pronto el sol saldría. Más tarde él y su esposa salieron a la calle, a la esquina donde vendían periódicos en un kiosco, para coger un taxi, y allí había muchas voces de los vecinos, y cantos de pájaros sin fin—todos estos rápidos latidos vitales de los corazones listos para encontrar la mañana temprana de Julio. Él no miró hacia ningún lado.
Para el rato en que llegaron al café, era muy tarde para tomar desayuno. El anciano se ajustó su cinturón, detrás de él el taxi se alejó rápidamente, su joven esposa estaba a su lado, cogiéndolo por el codo, él se había caído tres veces en dos días, había perdido su equilibrio. Él pensó por un momento en jalar su codo y soltarse de las manos de su esposa, pero él sabía bien que si lo hacía él podía perder su equilibrio de nuevo. Así él miró al suelo y caminó lentamente hacia la puerta de entrada del café. Su pulso y su respiración estaban rápidos; actualmente él estaba en la pista, cerca a un paso de la vereda. Él podía oír el movimiento de los vehículos en las dos pistas, como si ellos estuvieran casi encima de él, pero él no miró; él tenía que estar seguro de mantener su equilibrio, e incluso entonces él sabía que sus tobillos podrían agotarse, como si su cuerpo sabría su necesidad urgente en ese momento, si sólo el tuviera alas, eso él pensó. Él miró alrededor suyo, era una calle de tierra, piedras y mala hierba.
Una vez dentro del café restaurante La Mia Mamma, él vio por un instante en la distancia, la silueta colorida de Mini, la chef. La temprana luz de verano y el frescor del cielo no habían desaparecido y brillaban extendiéndose como si corriendo desde la puerta de cristal hacia la cocina, posándose ahora sin saber sobre dos figuras, la de Nancy y Mini, luego sobre una tercera figura, pero sólo en su espalda, la de Enrique.
“¡Hola, Hola!” él saludó en español.
Su espalda daba hacia la puerta de entrada, su cara hacia lo que él sabía era la cocina del café, sabiendo que detrás de la pared de la cocina estaba el jardín del café donde él comería hoy día, él estaba abrazando sus libros; él era valiente, él pensó, de no haberse caído por cuarta vez en dos días, Dios no lo permita.
Mini y Nancy le saludaron con un beso en la mejilla, y él se balanceó hacia delante sobre sus pies, buscando al bebé al que él llamaba el Bebé Elefante, un niño del que él era su tío abuelo. Su esposa fue a buscar al bebé; él era enorme para un bebé de seis meses, mucha carne viviente, volumen y peso como dos niños juntos que él nunca había visto antes. Él temía cargarlo, por temor a soltarlo. Él tenía una asombrosa voz alta, él pensó, como los gritos de pelea de Bruce Lee, ese karateka de las películas. Cuando él le devolvía esos mismos gritos al bebé, facciones de molestia aparecían en su carita. Y este día no fue diferente; cuando él lo vio por primera vez esta tarde, el niño sólo mostró una expresión como la de un buey molesto cuando vio al anciano. Luego sus bracitos trataron de abrazar el cuello de su esposa, por seguridad. Su corazoncito y pulmones estaban rápidos como si estuvieran buscando una casa segura; él casi rompe en llanto; gimiendo por hablar. Él vio la cara de asombro del anciano, sin saber quién era él, o talvez sabía quién era él, y eso, en sí mismo era la razón de su comportamiento.
“¿Qué?” el anciano dijo en la cocina del café. “Si, el niño llora cuando lo imito”.
“Cárgalo” su esposa le dijo.
Pero era muy tarde este vez también. El Bebé Elefante, como el anciano se refería al niño, estaba siendo llevado a través de la puerta de la cocina, casi gritando.
Detrás de él se estaban preparando las sopas y los platos calientes para ser servidos en el almuerzo, eran las doce y cinco de la tarde, él levantó las tapas de las ollas para oler el aroma, agachándose al lado de ellas, como si queriendo zambullirse dentro de las grandes ollas deliberadamente, si no por el aroma para escaparse del bebé elefante.

No: 440, escrito: 8-Julio-2009, Huancayo, Peru