an indifferent nape

by A. D. Canareira (translated by Clare Gaunt)

[…] but I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms towards the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. 

F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby

“Such a beautiful day!” - exclaimed the young, visibly pregnant woman, as she threw open the purple dining room curtains with indescribable joy. Her face had seemed cruelly camouflaged in the darkness, but the pouring light revealed a sculpted visage with gentle features that distilled virginal radiance. Her eyes half-closed, adapting to the sudden influx of brightness, and she peered vaguely at the children, a boy and a girl who had also suffered their birth and were heartily devouring lunch, sat tidily at the dining room table. She considered rejoining them, but someone wasn’t eating, and I’m afraid he deserves more detailed attention. His hair was peppered gray, his figure corpulent and a little overweight. He sat with his back to his wife and children, hair spurting out, eddying around the nape like a wild sea. He sat before a typewriter as old as himself and stared at the blank page. His desk backed onto large, imposing, unlaminated bookshelves.

“Come Leonardo, come and eat.” He ignored his wife’s petition and remained immobile. Yet the three diners looked expectantly towards him.

Their patience was rewarded. His head leaned to the right, and a wrinkled, feline cheek peered out and pronounced the following:

“Little one, my walking stick?”

His son felt called on to answer.

“You don’t have one, father.”

“Ah, quite right. I forgot.”

The boy, who was barely eight years old, made a disconcerted face, then laughed.

Ignoring all the progress of our human evolution, Leonardo Valetudinarian transferred his immense weight to his legs and arms, and started crawling across the room.

“Leonardo, darling...” His wife murmured gently, her expression somewhere between bewilderment, incomprehension, patience, and elation.

He had made it to the bedroom door when the doorbell rang. The girl answered and called her mother. While she chatted with their unexpected visitor, the girl returned to her father, who was now squirming his way down the corridor.

“Would you like me to help you stand up, Dad?”

He acquiesced, leaning symbolically on his daughter’s shoulders.

“Your flies are undone. Dad, you need to fasten your trousers.”

He glanced down at his open zipper and nodded as if to say that’s exactly how they should be.

His wife and their visitor walked down the corridor towards them.

“Darling, it’s the painter.”

The man held out a hand.

“Sorry, Sir, but I’m afraid I can’t. I’m not sure your hands are sufficiently clean.”

The visitor dropped his hand, clearly annoyed and perturbed.

“Tell me how you like to paint.”

“Erm, well… I use a brush,” said the man, making titanic efforts to find some kind of feasible response, “Then, I dip the brush in the paint...”

“And you slap it all over the wall. I understand. Excuse me, I have no time to waste...” and with that he shut himself away in the lounge.

“Son, your style’s too rigid. You rely too heavily on the compound tense. You are a great reader, try and disconnect your reading from your own work.”

“What did you think about the story, Father?”

“It’s a pastiche of your favorites, but that’s no matter, your vision will soon evolve wildly. And in any case, the plot’s not important, it’s style that’s the key.”

There was a rap on the door.

“Enter,” granted Leonardo.

His wife made her way into the room.

“You were very rude to that man.”

The phone rang.

“Hello,” the boy answered. “Who’s calling please?” he placed his hand over the receiver. “It’s someone asking for Mr. Valetudinarian. He says he’s your editor.”

Leonardo stood up and took the phone, greatly annoyed.

“Are you sure you’re my editor?” His wife and son stared. “Ah, thank you for the clarification.” And he hung up.

Leonardo Valetudinarian sat in the armchair in the dining room, reading the paper. He had been cackling away for some time.

His wife entered the room wearing a smile that hoped to spread.

“What’s so funny?”

“Human beings. They just deserve to be howled at.”

“You’re human too, you know.”

“I know you didn’t mean to offend me. So, we’ll overlook it. But you should have noticed.”

“Noticed? Noticed what?”

“I mutated. I’m more evolved now.”

“Dear God. It’s impossible to talk to you seriously about anything.”

“You haven’t caught the biologist’s disease have you? All they do is count the number of legs.”

“At least they care about something other than themselves.”

“Indeed. Quite right, and quite good enough for us. If everyone ignored each other the world would be truly wonderful. Are you off? In which case would you please...”

“Will you drop that archaic tone!”

Later, there was a shy tap on the door.

“Enter.”

A little head peeped through a narrow gap between the door and its frame.

“Can I come in, Father?”

“Of course. Come in, Ashley. Don’t just stand there.”

They boy entered, closed the door behind him and tiptoed over with a fistful of typed pages stapled together. He looked a bit like a waiter holding a tray.

“I’ve written you another story. At least compared to the last one, I think it’s a bit more exciting and a little bit fresher.”

“Sit. I’ll read it right away.”

Ashley drew up a chair and sat perfectly upright, back straight, expression composed, as his father read sternly on.

On finishing the last paragraph, Leonardo Valetudinarian tossed the papers down on the little marble side table, leaned back and let out a deep sigh.

“Son, there are few things I admire so much as a job well done. I am certain that soon you will write very, and I mean very, very well. But fine literature involves much more than hard work. There are as many good writers as there are good street cleaners. The difference being that we need good cleaners. Whenever you write anything... make sure it’s truly extraordinary.

The boy started to weep.

“You will know when that moment arrives. Nothing is created until it is finished…

…Come now, stop those tears. If one day you find yourself weeping, let it be because you’ve written something wonderful.”

The boy tried to obey. He pulled a crumpled tissue out of his pocket and used it to rub his eyes.

“I’m going to watch a film. Will you join me?” The boy nodded.

“What are you going to see?” Ashley asked as his father headed for the wall.

“M.”

“Again?”

“You know it’s my favorite movie.”

The boy’s mouth opened in a big oh, as if by magic, as if remembering what he really wanted to ask.

“By the way, what are you writing about?”

Leonardo turned away.

“The story of a shipwreck. The sailors are trying to go under with all their might. The last thing they want to do is reach safe harbor. They want to know the depths of the ocean.” he smiled.

He took down the paintings that brightened the wall, including a reproduction of Vincent Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows. He unraveled a sheet rolled up at the ceiling and positioned the old projector at the far end of the room. When the first roll of film was in place, he launched the mechanism and lowered the blind.

At the end of the film, as Leonardo rearranged the room, he noticed his son still sitting in the chair, utterly absorbed, doing nothing, which was incredibly rare, and frenetically shaking one little leg.

“Whatever it is that’s worrying you, you’re obviously coming to the wrong conclusions. Try and avoid your ego to reach a reasonable solution. You’re sufficiently intelligent to solve the problem.”

“You see, Father, I’d like you to help me.”

“I can’t help anyone.”

“Let me explain. A few days ago...”

“No, no, no... he interrupted hurriedly, and with extreme concern. Please don’t tell me anything. If it’s about money, you know where to find my wallet, if it’s a spiritual concern, you know where to find the library. The only thing I dare say, which you must attempt to interpret wisely, is the following aphorism: one prostitute doesn’t make a brothel.

The sun set in all its splendor. Nevertheless, Leonardo Valetudinarian sat practically in the dark, with the blinds down, his tiny room illuminated by a single light bulb. His daughter came in and slipped onto his knees. He turned his head towards her after a moment or two.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m here. I don’t feel anything.”

“Well, I feel amazing. I’m going to the park at a quarter to seven. I’m going roller-skating and I’ll have an ice-cream and... what about you?”

“I’m seriously considering going travelling.”

“That sounds fun! Where?”

 “The answer’s in your name.”

Marta lowered her eyelids, while still looking towards her father’s face. Then she spun her pupils around in all directions inside their sockets, to give the impression she was thinking very hard. When she gave up, or found an answer, she waved the palm of her hand in front of her father’s eyes.

“Why don’t you look people in the eyes? Did you know your eyes always look at the end of your nose?”

“To avoid having to put up with people scratching.” Marta immediately stopped scratching the back of her head.

He remained gloomy for a long time, until he decided to urge his daughter to hurry and call her brother. They came back in together, holding hands, immovable, until their tormented father started to speak.

“What I’m going to say... may be of some help. As your father...” the word echoed painfully around the room... “I ask you this favor: Remember. It’s important.” Both children nodded tremulously.

“It’s not nice, but soon you won’t have a choice. Anyway, when the time comes, observe suffering carefully. Suffering is nature. Son, in that story you told me you’d really enjoyed yesterday... how did they face the waves?”

“With indifference.”

The great man raised his hands more or less to chest level, pointing them out on both sides, as if carrying the weight of the whole universe. And in that posture, he carried on speaking.

“Oh, lucky man!”

“I’m going to make a confession: I am God.” He stood in silence, twisting his neck a little to one side, observing their reaction. “And you are too. The Cosmos, this Whole is indefinitely modified by consciousness. Every single part of you is a star.”

There was a long, pregnant silence, after which, with great effort, he prepared to speak again.

“An artist’s life is a form of suicide,” he proclaimed inhaling as much air as possible. “It leads to death. There was a time when this made me suffer. But consider this: just before a creature is fertilized, wouldn’t it find life so terrible as death seems to us?

Oh, I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t preach. Go, begone.”

His wife entered the room. She raised the blind and opened the curtains, flooding the room with brightness.

“Those curtains ought to be violet,” Leonardo said with an absent gaze.

“What’s wrong with these ones?” answered his wife as she sat in the armchair.

“They’re not violet.”

“Am I going to have a hard time persuading you to leave the house?” His gaze remained lost, and he didn’t answer. “Come on, darling. Let’s go swimming, to the pool, to the park, to the cinema... just like before. Why not, eh? Why don’t we do that anymore?”

“I’ve tried to explain... I don’t want to hurt you… There are other people.”

He lifted his hands to his head and held it for a long while, until she asked:

“And what’s wrong with that? What do you have against them?”

“Remember what Nick Carraway told Jay Gatsby before he was murdered?”

 “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

“I am better than them!”

“I know that, darling. I know, but remember the book is based on the understanding that not everyone has the same opportunities.”

“Lara,” he looked at her. “I’ve been aware of that every second of my life. Anyway, that’s no excuse.”

Somehow, in that moment, she knew.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’m the master of my fate, the captain of my soul.” His eyes were wide open, to such an extent that holding his gaze could only produce dread. Nervously, she stood up from the armchair and went over to him. She took his hand and tried to make it caress her swollen belly. But it wouldn’t. He broke brusquely away, stood up, left the room, crossed the passageway, entered the kitchen, half-opened the window, stepped out onto the balcony, stretched out his arms, and tossed himself head first into the void.

And as he fell, just before his head smashed against the curb, he couldn’t avoid thinking what a blue day it was.

Photo of A. D. Canareira

BIO: Á. D. Canareira has published several stories in magazines like "Bull", "The Nelligan Review", "Espacio Fronterizo", "El Coloquio de los Perros" and "Hispanic Culture Review". Likewise, he has translated into Spanish "A Dog's Tale", by Mark Twain, whose translation he also has published, as well as an essay on the story by the aforementioned North American author, in the book "Semblanza de un perro" and in "Gambito de Papel".

Photo of Clare Gaunt

BIO: Clare Gaunt has translated several of his stories into English: "The Inner Keep" was published in 2023, along with the original in Spanish, in the Canadian magazine "The Nelligan Review"; "Through the Wasteland" was published in "Bull" and in "The Argyle Literary Magazine" and "La Piccioletta Barca" published "3442" in 2024.