El mono

El mono 

Es casi humano,
                        casi,
            pero no tanto.
Cuando duerme parece un niño.
            Paco lo llaman:
Paco Paco.
(A veces se llaman Paco
                        a veces no,
a veces otra cosa).
            Dormido
seguro sueña con ser grande
                        como los grandes.
Pero de día
                        se lo pasa jugando
            como niño:
da vueltas y volteretas,
                        se agarra de un palo
                        y se columpia,
o sube en el árbol
                        y se cuelga
            bocabajo
de la cola
            o de las dos piernas,
                        que parecen
brazos.
            Mas lo que más le gusta
                        es saltar
de una bancada
                        a otra
            así no más,
sin criterio
            pero con una gran agilidad
que a uno le da envidia,
            de veras,
                        envidia:
vive en circo
            permanente.
Y cómo come
                        ¡dios mío cómo come!
            y no parece engordar:
es que parece mentira.
                        Será el
            ejercicio y todo,
supongo yo,
            los brincos
                        de un lado
            a otro,
¡qué maravilla!
                        Y se rasca,
            como un niño,
se pasa todo el día,
            rascándose,
                        o agarrándose
del ombligo
            o de otra cosa
            ¿qué sé yo?
                        sin pena,
o aparentemente sin pena
            aunque es penoso
cuando uno se le acerca,
            y tapa la cara
con las manos
                        o con la cola
            o con las dos
y no te mira
            para nada
                        sino de reojo
como si algo bien
                        vergonzoso
            sintiera,
aunque pronto se le pasa
            y en seguida está
otra vez
            brincando
                        de una bancada a otra
como si nada.
            Monterroso me dice
                        que en Guatemala
hay unos monos
            muy sabios
                        ¿qué sé yo?
Políticos,
            por lo menos
            ¿verdad?

John Lyons, Managua, 1992


Note: Paco was the name that Ernesto Cardenal gave to a monkey he once bought from a poor family, thinking perhaps to give it a better life. The monkey was kept in the back garden and his antics were an endless source of entertainment.


 

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Augusto Monterroso – a fable and a tale

Augusto-Monterroso
Augusto Monterroso (1921-2003)

One of the most delightful writers I met in Latin America was Augusto Monterroso. A Guatemalan, he lived for much of his life in Mexico, where he taught in the UNAM university. Before leaving London, I had been given the telephone number of a Nicaraguan poet, Ernesto Mejía Sánchez, and I called him as soon as I got to Mexico City. We agreed to meet one lunchtime at Sanborn’s café, which was where all the artists and writers usually met. At that time Mejía Sánchez was going through a difficult patch in his life, and the conversation was rather strained and dull until Augusto Monterroso turned up. He had with him copies of three of his published works and in each of them he wrote a very individual dedication to me. “I hate to burden you,” he said as he handed them to me. “But you can chuck them into the Atlantic when you fly back to London if you like.” Naturally, I held onto them, still have them today, and they are among my most prized possessions.

mont_dedicAugusto, was extremely warm and jovial and the conversation soon became filled with laughter and great stories and even managed to draw poor Mejía Sánchez out of himself. Monterroso’s writings tend to be short pieces, fables and short stories but always with a humorous and satirical slant. The Colombian Nobel Prize Winner, Gabriel García Márquez said of one of his works: “This book should be read with your hands in the air: its danger is based on its sly wisdom and the deadly beauty of its lack of seriousness”. With a sense of humour very much in tune with that of Julio Cortázar, it was no surprise that when the latter died in 1984, his apartment in Paris was ceded to Augusto Monterroso.

Years after that meeting in Mexico, I was asked by Index on Censorhip to translate a story by Monterroso, entitled “Mister Taylor”. This was a satirical tale about the export of shrunken Guatemalan heads to the American market where they had become fashion accessories. The tone, of course, was very much that of Jonathan Swift’s “A Modest Proposal”. In a subsequent book, Augusto touchingly singled out this publication with these words: “I’ve just received a copy of Index on Censorship from London where I story of mine, “Mister Taylor”, translated by John Lyons, has just appeared. Most surprising!” The circle was thus complete!


The frog who wanted to be a real frog

There was once a frog who wanted to be a real frog, and every day she struggled to be so. First she bought a mirror into which she gazed for hours hoping to see her longed-for authenticity. Sometimes she thought she’d found it and sometimes she did not, depending on the mood of that day or hour, until she grew tired of this and put the mirror away in a trunk.

Finally she thought that the only way to be sure of her own worth was through the opinion of others, and she began to do her hair and to dress up and undress (when she had no other option) to see if others approved of her and recognised that she was a real frog.

One day she noticed that what they most admired about her was her body, especially her legs, so she started to do squats and jumps in order to have to better legs, and she felt that everyone applauded her.

And so she continued to push herself harder and harder, and was willing to go to any length to get others to consider her to be a real frog, she even allowed her thighs to be ripped off for others to eat, and as the others devoured them she was still able to hear bitterly when they said, “Excellent frog. Tastes just like chicken.”


The mirror that could not sleep

There was once a hand mirror which when left alone with no one looking into it, felt absolutely dreadful, as though he didn’t exist, and perhaps he was right; but the other mirrors laughed at him, and when at night they were put away in the drawer of the dresser they slept soundly, oblivious to the neurotic’s worries.

Translations by John Lyons