Si existe y nos ve

If Someone is there watching us

Se había puesto a buscarle forma a las manchas de la mesa mientras hablaba con el otro, muy atento a los ruidos allende la ventana pero sin despegar los ojos de la madera agrietada.

— Lo que digo es que el mundo debe significar algo más.

— Llevamos tres meses entre tiroteos, casi no hemos conseguido comida, ¡tanta hambre! No puedes llegar a viejo con ilusiones de niño. Estamos solos.

Una mancha parecía la cola de un caballo, la otra se dividía en dos como la cabellera de una mujer.

— No sé, pero aunque cada letra de que estamos hechos venga de la roca fría, la vida tiene algo de misterioso.

— Todo –susurrando–, es por casualidad, nada tiene razón de ser.

— ¿Qué?

— Nada, tenemos que esperar,  han de venir tarde o temprano.

          La luz de un vehículo lejano pobló la habitación de sombras, le latía el corazón con una calma extraña, prefería la ansiedad previa de la batalla. Mientras, los riñones le descontaban días a su vida. El otro ya casi dormía,  su pensamiento daba pasos hacia la puerta de su casa mientras se convertía en sueño, movía los dedos de los pies, pensó en café, en el olor del café, pero no soltó el fusil cargado con una sola bala.

          Se puso a pensar en el carpintero y la mesa, en el día que los clavos fueron martillados, en todo hay un rastro de su creador, hasta la guerra. Tenía que encontrar la forma de salir, Algo, Alguien debía escribir su salvación o su huída.

          Los disparos cesaron allá lejos, meses antes había ruido de borrachos, música y gente que pasaba. Ahora los muertos, los que estaban muriendo y los que se escondían, ya no quedaban ruidos humanos, todo era quejidos y silencio de felinos al acecho. Entre la silla y la piel de su espalda había tres tipos de tela, polvo de varios suelos distintos, sudor de varios días y sangre seca de un desconocido. Cada uno de sus pensamientos estaba envuelto en angustia. El otro despertó, había soñado con su casa, pero no pudo soñar con su familia.

 Se quedaron callados, mirando la pequeñez de su mundo, los dos tenían mucho miedo de que el ruido de metrallas volviera y fuera el momento de morir.

— ¿Entonces, crees eso de que un Autor todo poderoso nos mira desde todos los ángulos posibles?

— Tampoco dije eso, sabes que no soy religioso.

José Chávez

He was trying to find figures in the stains on the table while talking with the other one, all the while focusing on the sounds beyond the window but still staring at the cracked wood.

–What I’m saying is that the world must mean something.

–For three months there has been shooting, we have almost no food at all, we’re so hungry! You can’t get old and still have childhood dreams. We are alone.

One stain looked liked a horse tail, the other one was divided in two like a woman’s hair.

–I don’t know, even if every letter that we are made of comes from nothing but cold stone, life is still mysterious.

–Everything happens by chance, nothing has a reason to exist, he whispered.

–What?

–Nothing, we have to wait, they´ll come sooner or later.

          The light from a distant vehicle filled the room with shadows, his heart beating with a strange calm; he preferred the anxiety before the battle. Meanwhile, his kidneys were numbering his days. The other one was almost asleep. His thoughts, gradually turning into sleep, were drifting to the front door of his house.  He wiggled his toes, remembering coffee, the smell of coffee, all the while never loosening his grip on his rifle, loaded with  his last bullet.

          He started to think about the carpenter and the table, about the day the nails were hammered in. There was a hint of his creator in everything, even in war. He had to find a way out, Something, Someone, had to write his salvation, or his escape.

          The sound of gunfire had stopped far off where just months ago music, drunks and people passing by could be heard. Now the only sound was that of the dead, the ones that were dying and those that were hiding.  There were no human sounds, only moans and the stealth silence of a wild cat stalking its prey . 

Between the chair and the skin of his back there were three types of cloth, dust of many different grounds, sweat of many days and dry blood of a stranger.  Every single thought was full of distress. The other one awoke; he had dreamt of his home, but wasn’t able to dream of his family.

They remained silent, observing the smallness of their world. They were both terrified that the sound of gunfire would return and the moment of death would arrive.

–But then, do you believe that out there is an “Almighty Author” watching us from every possible angle?

–Well, I didn’t say that either, you know I’m not a religious person

Collaborative in-class translation: Recoder team