Augusto Monterroso - Complete Works and Other Stories

Note

1 organ-grinder

“My husband says it’s just another one of my dumb ideas,” she thought, “but all he wants is for me to stay home all the time, slaving like I used to. And that’s just what he won’t get. Maybe the others are afraid of him but not me. If I hadn’t helped him when we were really broke, we’d still be in a mess. And why shouldn’t I recite poetry if I want to, if I like it? He’s President now but that shouldn’t stand in my way — he should realize that this way I can help him even more. The fact is that men, presidents or not, are full of their own dumb ideas. Besides, I wouldn’t run around giving recitals any old place like a lunatic, just at official functions or benefits. Yes sir, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

There was nothing wrong with it. She finished her bath. She went into her bedroom. While she was combing her hair, she saw in the mirror the shelves behind her. They were filled with books in disarray. Novels. Poetry. She thought about some of them and how much she liked them. Anthologies of the thousand best poems in the world, no one had surpassed those giants and reciters of poetry — she had marked the most beautiful ones with little strips of paper. “Laughing with Tears in My Eyes,” “The Rabbi’s Head,” “Tropics!” “To a Mother.” My God, where did they find so many things to write about? Soon there’d be no more room for books in the house. But even if you couldn’t read them all, they were the best legacy.

Several copies of that night’s program were on the dresser. She really felt like giving a reading all by herself. Until now, because she was so modest, she had not arranged anything like that. She knew, though, that she was the principal performer.

This time it was a benefit that had been organized in something of a hurry for the School Breakfast Program. Someone had noticed that schoolchildren were undernourished and that some of them were fainting at about eleven in the morning, probably the very moment when the teachers were at their best. At first it was attributed to indigestion, then to an epidemic of worms (Department of Health), and only recently, during one of his frequent attacks of insomnia, did it occur in a hazy way to the Director General of Education that they might possibly be cases of hunger.

When the Director General called a good number of parents to a meeting, most of them objected loudly to the idea that they might be so poor, and for the sake of their pride, none was inclined to believe what he said. But when the meeting adjourned, several approached the Director individually and confessed that sometimes — not always of course — they sent their children to school on an empty stomach. The Director was horrified at seeing his suspicions confirmed and decided it was necessary to do something soon. Fortunately, he remembered that the President had been his classmate in high school, and he arranged to see him immediately. He did not regret it. The President received him in the nicest way, probably with more cordiality than he would have displayed had he occupied a less elevated position. So that when he began, “Mr. President…” he laughed and said, “Cut out the ‘Mr. President’ crap and tell me straight out why you’re here,” and laughing all the while he made him sit down with a light pressure on his shoulder. Things were going fine. But the Director knew that no matter how many slaps on the back he gave him, things were not the way they were back in the days when they were in school together, or even two years ago when they would have a drink with friends at the Danubio. In any event, he was obviously beginning to feel comfortable in his office. As he himself had said as he raised his index finger over dessert at a recent dinner at his parents’ house, first to the general anticipation and then to the thunderous applause of his relatives and comrades-in-arms: “At first it feels strange, but you get used to everything.”

“Well sir, what brings you here?” he insisted. “I’ll bet you’re already having problems at the Ministry.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I am.”

“Izzat so?” said the President triumphantly, approving his own cleverness.

“But, if you’ll permit me, that’s not why I’ve come. I’ll tell you about that another time. Look, I won’t waste your time, I’ll be completely frank. The thing is, there have been several cases of children fainting with hunger at school, and I’d like to see what we can do about it. I prefer telling you directly because if I don’t it means just running from one office to the other. Besides, it’s better for me to be the one to tell you because there’s bound to be somebody else who’ll say I’m not doing my job. My idea is for you to authorize me to try to get some money and set up a kind of semiofficial Milk Fund.”

“You’re not turning communist on me, are you?” he interrupted, laughing out loud. Here is where you could see the wonderful mood he was in that day. They both laughed a good deal. The Director joked and warned him to watch out because he was reading a little book on Marxism, to which he replied, still laughing, that he better not go to see the Director of Police because he might really get fucked over. After exchanging more witticisms on the same subject, he said it seemed like a good idea to him, that he should see who he could get money from, that he should say he agreed, and maybe UNICEF could give them a little more milk. “The gringos have milk up the ass,” he declared finally, standing and ending the interview.

“Oh, and listen,” he added when the Director was already halfway out the door, “maybe you want to talk to my wife about helping you. She likes that kind of thing.”

The Director told him fine and that he would speak to her right away.

It really depressed him, though, because he didn’t like working with women — least of all officials’ wives. Most of them were strange, vain, difficult, and you always had to worry about being polite enough, making sure they were always sitting down, and becoming nervous if for some reason you had to tell them no. Besides, he didn’t know her very well. But the smartest thing would be to take the President’s suggestion as an order.

When he spoke to her, she accepted immediately. Could there be any doubt? She would not only help by talking to her friends, but she would personally work enthusiastically and take part, for example, in any benefits that would be organized.

“I can recite poetry,” she said; “you know I’ve always done it as an amateur.” “How nice,” she thought as she talked to him, “that I have this chance.” But at the same time she regretted the thought and was afraid God would punish her when she reflected on the fact that it wasn’t nice for children to faint with hunger. “Poor things,” she thought quickly to placate heaven and avoid punishment. And aloud she said:

“Poor babies. And they keep on fainting?”

The Director explained patiently that the same ones did not keep fainting regularly, but sometimes it was one, sometimes another, and the best thing was to try to give breakfast to the greatest number possible. They would have to set up an organization for collecting money.

“Of course,” she said. “What will we call it?”

“What do you think of ‘School Breakfast Program’?” said the Director.

She ran her hand over the program, an elegantly printed rectangle of satinized paper:

1. Introductory Remarks by the Honorable Hugo Miranda, Director General of Education of the Ministry of Public Education.

2. Barcarolle from the “Tales of Hoffman,” by Offenbach, performed by students from the Fourth of July School.

3. Three Waltzes by Chopin, performed by René Elgueta, student at the National Conservatory.