Horacio Castellanos Moya - Dance With Snakes

I slid through the hole in the chain-link fence and fell, tumbling down the ravine below. I landed in the filthy stream, completely dazed and worn out.

I had to get up right away, before another searchlight spotted me, before the tracer bullets combed the area.

The din from above was terrifying. The explosions lit up the sky so it looked like daytime.

I managed to sit up. I left in the direction of the stream, hidden on the shore, grabbing onto bushes, moving forward with great difficulty.

I couldn’t see the ladies anywhere. I didn’t even know if they’d fallen all the way down to the stream.

“Loli!” I screamed, but there was no answer.

I continued to wade through the ford until I found a path covered with enough vegetation for me to risk it.

The police were setting cars on fire indiscriminately. It was the only explanation for the thundering noise and the blaze. The helicopters were still in position, flying low and lighting up the scrapyard, the vacant lot, and the ravine.

I reached the edge of the slum. I passed through the outskirts, trying to avoid the people staring stupefied at the assault on the scrapyard. I took a dirt road that led to a busy street. I staggered around as if I were completely drunk to throw off the people worriedly going back to their homes, trying to get away from the kind of racket they hadn’t heard since the grim days of the war.

I stumbled along, talking to myself, gesturing at the night, babbling. I called out to Loli. My love, my beautiful girl, come with me. I called out to Beti and Carmela, my princesses who had loved me so. Don’t leave me, my darlings, what will I do without you, where have you gone? An hour later, exhausted, craving a drink, and weepy because I thought I’d never see them again, I spotted Niña’s Beatriz’s store. It was still open. I saw the spot where Don Jacinto’s yellow Chevrolet had been parked with the ladies inside. It made me think about coincidences, because three days ago at the same hour, I’d approached the beggar walking back to his car, and at this time just two days ago, thanks to my pocketknife with the bone-coloured handle, I had turned into the filthy old snake charmer.

I climbed the staircase, took out my keys and opened the door to my sister Adriana’s apartment.

“It’s me,” I said.

Adriana jumped off the couch to kiss me, crying and pestering me with questions: what happened to me, where had I been, how did I end up in such a sorry state? Damián was also happy I’d returned.

I said I needed to take a shower, shave, and change before I told them anything. I went into the bathroom. She called Deputy Commissioner Handal to tell him I’d come home, but he was away at the moment, extremely busy looking over the rubble of a scrapyard where Jacinto Bustillo, the snakes, and the yellow Chevrolet had been burned to ashes by flamethrowers and incendiary bombs.

San Pedro de los Pinos, D.F.,

September-October, 1995.

I would like to thank Marjorie Ratcliffe, Rafael Montano, Hugh Hazelton, Stephen Henighan, Christopher Bavota, my friends and family, and above all, Horacio Castellanos Moya.

Horacio Castellanos Moyawas born in 1957 in Honduras, but grew up in El Salvador. He has lived in Guatemala, Canada, Costa Rica, Mexico, Spain and Germany. His work has been translated into German, French, Italian, and Portuguese. His novel Senselessness was published in English to universal critical acclaim in 2008 by New Directions. He has published eight novels and is now living in exile as part of the City of Asylum project in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Lee Paula Springerworks as a freelance translator and copy editor. She lives in Montreal. Her website is www.leepaulaspringer.com

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