The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories by Carlos Velázquez Page A
Authors: Carlos Velázquez
Tags: spanish, Fiction, Mexico, Crime, Short Stories, Literary Fiction, Short Fiction, mexican fiction, drug war, Border, Carlos Velazquez, Narcos, Mexican books, English translation, Stories about Mexico, Surreal, Latin American literature, Mexican music, Mexican literature, Mexican pop culture
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411 on the gun’s whereabouts. Disconcerted by his stubborn silence, they dropped him back in his cell so that after a brief rest and a chat, he’d recover his ability to feel pain, so that he wouldn’t forget what it felt like, so that he wouldn’t miss it.
At seven they brought him dinner. It was already dark because of the summer change in time zones. He could hear music coming from the central plaza. He’d be transferred to Lecumberri the next day. The torture sessions left him exhausted, and he fell asleep with his eyes fixed on the wall.
Some goings-on in the cell woke him up. When he was sleeping, he dreamed of saxophones: tenors, altos, sopranos. He imagined the band’s revelry, he even thought he heard When the Saints Go Marching In. But the noise in the cell wouldn’t let him concentrate on the melody. He imagined the cops would be coming back for another round. What are they waiting for, he asked himself. But it wasn’t them. He remembered the dogs. He was sure it was the dogs, but he refused to look.
He kept his face to the wall. He heard a voice in his head, and he was afraid. There they are again, the voice said. Because of the din, he assumed the dogs were playing around. The voice spoke again: There they are again, and those bastards don’t understand. Pedro Rodríguez turned to look. They weren’t dogs but men, and they had gathered in a circle like a group of boys kicking around a ball on fire. He got up from the cot and moved to the center of the circle.
How can I be afraid of them, if they’re a part of me, he said, as if he was talking back to the voice inside him. Then the one hundred and seventeen men all began to jump inside him with a long wail.
The guards on duty woke from the riot.
—Go get him, the new guy’s acting out. Quick, before he hangs himself.
But when the guards on duty looked through the bars, they didn’t see the prisoner. The lock was still locked. The only thing in the cell was a snake that glittered like a cowboy belt.
—Look, partner. A snake.
—Kill it, kill it. Shoot it, you dummy. It’s a Masticophis flagellum. They nest in houses.
They pulled out their guns and opened fire on the snake that slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled. When they were sure it was dead, the opened the cell door, but there was absolutely no trace of the creature. In its place they found only a piteado belt shot through with bullet holes.
Epilogue I
Emilio says to The Cowboy Bible, You can consider this goodbye. With what’s due you, you can restart your life. I’m going to San Francisco, with the one who’s everything to me.
Four shots were heard. The Cowboy Bible had killed Emilio. The police found only a discarded gun. No one heard anything ever again about the money or The Cowboy Bible.
Epilogue II
Later, at dawn, she told me:
—You’re a loser, Old Paulino. You’re not at all affectionate. You know who was sweet to me?
—Who?
—The Cowboy Bible. He really knew how to make love.
About the Author
Born in Coahuila, Mexico, in 1978, CARLOS VELÁZQUEZ is the author of story collections Cuco Sánchez Blues (2004), La Biblia Vaquera (named one of the books of the year by Reforma in 2009), and La marrana negra de la literatura rosa (2010). He received the Premio Nacional de Cuento Magdalena Mondragón and has been anthologized in El Fondo de Cultura Económica’s Anuario de poesia mexicana 2007 .
About the Translator
Born in Havana, Cuba, ACHY OBEJAS has written fiction, poetry, and journalism. She is the author of five books, including three novels: Days of Awe , Memory Mambo , and Ruins . Her poetry chapbook, This Is What Happened in Our Other Life , was both a critical favorite and a bestseller. She is trained as a journalist and has worked in the alternative press, including In These Times , where she writes a monthly column, and the Chicago Tribune . A translator between Spanish and English, she translated into Spanish
At seven they brought him dinner. It was already dark because of the summer change in time zones. He could hear music coming from the central plaza. He’d be transferred to Lecumberri the next day. The torture sessions left him exhausted, and he fell asleep with his eyes fixed on the wall.
Some goings-on in the cell woke him up. When he was sleeping, he dreamed of saxophones: tenors, altos, sopranos. He imagined the band’s revelry, he even thought he heard When the Saints Go Marching In. But the noise in the cell wouldn’t let him concentrate on the melody. He imagined the cops would be coming back for another round. What are they waiting for, he asked himself. But it wasn’t them. He remembered the dogs. He was sure it was the dogs, but he refused to look.
He kept his face to the wall. He heard a voice in his head, and he was afraid. There they are again, the voice said. Because of the din, he assumed the dogs were playing around. The voice spoke again: There they are again, and those bastards don’t understand. Pedro Rodríguez turned to look. They weren’t dogs but men, and they had gathered in a circle like a group of boys kicking around a ball on fire. He got up from the cot and moved to the center of the circle.
How can I be afraid of them, if they’re a part of me, he said, as if he was talking back to the voice inside him. Then the one hundred and seventeen men all began to jump inside him with a long wail.
The guards on duty woke from the riot.
—Go get him, the new guy’s acting out. Quick, before he hangs himself.
But when the guards on duty looked through the bars, they didn’t see the prisoner. The lock was still locked. The only thing in the cell was a snake that glittered like a cowboy belt.
—Look, partner. A snake.
—Kill it, kill it. Shoot it, you dummy. It’s a Masticophis flagellum. They nest in houses.
They pulled out their guns and opened fire on the snake that slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled, slithered and crawled. When they were sure it was dead, the opened the cell door, but there was absolutely no trace of the creature. In its place they found only a piteado belt shot through with bullet holes.
Epilogue I
Emilio says to The Cowboy Bible, You can consider this goodbye. With what’s due you, you can restart your life. I’m going to San Francisco, with the one who’s everything to me.
Four shots were heard. The Cowboy Bible had killed Emilio. The police found only a discarded gun. No one heard anything ever again about the money or The Cowboy Bible.
Epilogue II
Later, at dawn, she told me:
—You’re a loser, Old Paulino. You’re not at all affectionate. You know who was sweet to me?
—Who?
—The Cowboy Bible. He really knew how to make love.
About the Author
Born in Coahuila, Mexico, in 1978, CARLOS VELÁZQUEZ is the author of story collections Cuco Sánchez Blues (2004), La Biblia Vaquera (named one of the books of the year by Reforma in 2009), and La marrana negra de la literatura rosa (2010). He received the Premio Nacional de Cuento Magdalena Mondragón and has been anthologized in El Fondo de Cultura Económica’s Anuario de poesia mexicana 2007 .
About the Translator
Born in Havana, Cuba, ACHY OBEJAS has written fiction, poetry, and journalism. She is the author of five books, including three novels: Days of Awe , Memory Mambo , and Ruins . Her poetry chapbook, This Is What Happened in Our Other Life , was both a critical favorite and a bestseller. She is trained as a journalist and has worked in the alternative press, including In These Times , where she writes a monthly column, and the Chicago Tribune . A translator between Spanish and English, she translated into Spanish
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