33 Revolutions by Howard Curtis, Canek Sánchez Guevara
Authors: Howard Curtis, Canek Sánchez Guevara
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2
T he wind comes in through the cracks, the pipes hiss, the building is a multifamily organ. Nothing can compare with the music of the cyclone; itâs unique, unmistakable, exquisite. In the small apartment, the walls, painted a nondescript color, with no decorations or images, combine with the sparse furniture, the wooden TV set, the Russian record player, the old radio, the camera hanging from a nail. The telephone off the hook, books on the floor. Water seeps in through the windows, soaks the walls, forms pools on the floor. Mud. Grime and more grime. A grimy scratched record. Millions of grimy scratched records. The whole of life is a grimy scratched record. Repetition after repetition of the scratched record of time and grime.
In the kitchen, two cans of condensed milk, one of meat stew, a bag of cookies. On the side, an egg, a piece of bread, a bottle of rum. Some food past its expiration date, with mold on it. The whisk on a corner of the little table; the frying pan on the stove (grease on the wall); and the refrigerator from the Fifties, empty and switched off, with the door open. The bed is in the middle of the bedroom. The bathroom is tiny, dark, without water. The shower is hardly ever used: the bucket and the jug have replaced it. The tube of toothpaste, the deodorant, the razor. The broken mirror paints a scar on his reflection.
He goes out onto the balcony and is hit by a gust of wind. Anonymous in the immensity of the storm, abandoned to his fate, replaying the scratched record of life and death, he lights a cigarette and looks out at that apocalyptic postcard. Time and again, like a scratched record, he wonders why everything appears unchangeable even though each mutation brings upheavals. The building withstands, yes, but everything else sinks into the seaweed and the dead things left by the tide. Finally, he smiles: with the passing of the days, the sea will recover from its tropical illness and the repetitive cycle of routine will return, like a scratched record, to meet normality.
3
T he scratched record of work. The office, the photograph of the leader, the metal desk, the chair that gives him hemorrhoids, the fat old typewriter, the ballpoint pen to one side, the yellowing papers, the rubber stamps, the telephone. The manager appears. He flaps his double chin, smooths down his white shirt, and clears his throat before speaking. His voice is like a flute when he receives orders and a trombone when he gives them. Like now. The manager walks out of the office, leaving behind him the echo of a slamming door. At last, he is alone in his office, blacker, skinnier, and more nervous than usual. Slightly more subordinate too.
The telephone rings, and the skinny, nervous black man replies without much conviction. All he can hear through the wires is noiseâfar away, like a scratched recordâand he hangs up. He goes to the window and lights a cigarette. Life stops in front of his eyes, and doesnât surprise him at all. When it comes down to it, he thinks, itâs always been like this, stasis disguised as dynamis. He glances at his self-winding Soviet watch: Ten in the morning, and already he canât stand his job. Of course, heâs never liked it, but now heâs truly sick of it (and immediately, in parenthesis, he wonders when this started). Evening after evening he goes back to his solitary apartment, and morning after morning he leaves it to its solitude. The neighbors are a bunch of scratched records, devoid of interest. As for the committee, you just have to obey silently, come out with a few
Vivas!
, and everybodyâs happy.
In reality, nobody cares about anybody else.
4
L unchtime. The dining room is filled to the brim with technicians and bureaucrats, and the line is so long, itâs like thereâs a movie premiere happening. The food is as cheap as it is limited, but itâs better than nothing and everybodyâs grateful for it. âWhat are they giving
T he wind comes in through the cracks, the pipes hiss, the building is a multifamily organ. Nothing can compare with the music of the cyclone; itâs unique, unmistakable, exquisite. In the small apartment, the walls, painted a nondescript color, with no decorations or images, combine with the sparse furniture, the wooden TV set, the Russian record player, the old radio, the camera hanging from a nail. The telephone off the hook, books on the floor. Water seeps in through the windows, soaks the walls, forms pools on the floor. Mud. Grime and more grime. A grimy scratched record. Millions of grimy scratched records. The whole of life is a grimy scratched record. Repetition after repetition of the scratched record of time and grime.
In the kitchen, two cans of condensed milk, one of meat stew, a bag of cookies. On the side, an egg, a piece of bread, a bottle of rum. Some food past its expiration date, with mold on it. The whisk on a corner of the little table; the frying pan on the stove (grease on the wall); and the refrigerator from the Fifties, empty and switched off, with the door open. The bed is in the middle of the bedroom. The bathroom is tiny, dark, without water. The shower is hardly ever used: the bucket and the jug have replaced it. The tube of toothpaste, the deodorant, the razor. The broken mirror paints a scar on his reflection.
He goes out onto the balcony and is hit by a gust of wind. Anonymous in the immensity of the storm, abandoned to his fate, replaying the scratched record of life and death, he lights a cigarette and looks out at that apocalyptic postcard. Time and again, like a scratched record, he wonders why everything appears unchangeable even though each mutation brings upheavals. The building withstands, yes, but everything else sinks into the seaweed and the dead things left by the tide. Finally, he smiles: with the passing of the days, the sea will recover from its tropical illness and the repetitive cycle of routine will return, like a scratched record, to meet normality.
3
T he scratched record of work. The office, the photograph of the leader, the metal desk, the chair that gives him hemorrhoids, the fat old typewriter, the ballpoint pen to one side, the yellowing papers, the rubber stamps, the telephone. The manager appears. He flaps his double chin, smooths down his white shirt, and clears his throat before speaking. His voice is like a flute when he receives orders and a trombone when he gives them. Like now. The manager walks out of the office, leaving behind him the echo of a slamming door. At last, he is alone in his office, blacker, skinnier, and more nervous than usual. Slightly more subordinate too.
The telephone rings, and the skinny, nervous black man replies without much conviction. All he can hear through the wires is noiseâfar away, like a scratched recordâand he hangs up. He goes to the window and lights a cigarette. Life stops in front of his eyes, and doesnât surprise him at all. When it comes down to it, he thinks, itâs always been like this, stasis disguised as dynamis. He glances at his self-winding Soviet watch: Ten in the morning, and already he canât stand his job. Of course, heâs never liked it, but now heâs truly sick of it (and immediately, in parenthesis, he wonders when this started). Evening after evening he goes back to his solitary apartment, and morning after morning he leaves it to its solitude. The neighbors are a bunch of scratched records, devoid of interest. As for the committee, you just have to obey silently, come out with a few
Vivas!
, and everybodyâs happy.
In reality, nobody cares about anybody else.
4
L unchtime. The dining room is filled to the brim with technicians and bureaucrats, and the line is so long, itâs like thereâs a movie premiere happening. The food is as cheap as it is limited, but itâs better than nothing and everybodyâs grateful for it. âWhat are they giving
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