By
Eduardo Halfon
Guest Columnist
Lincoln, Nebraska, USA
Guest Columnist
Lincoln, Nebraska, USA
Deleted Scene From Mourning:
In English
My father opened a bottle
of wine, filled two glasses halfway and asked me why I wanted to know so much
about the death of his brother. In recent years, my father had become a wine connoisseur and
collector. He went to tastings. Bought by the case.
Had a mahogany wine rack built to store his best bottles. He kept in his wallet
—
in case of emergency, he said —
a small laminated card listing the best years, the best harvests. He’d described
to me the characteristics of the bottle we were about to drink, but I hardly
paid attention. We toasted in silence. The wine was very good and I told him so
and my father’s face lit up with pride, as though he himself had planted,
harvested and stomped the grapes. I don’t understand why you want to know so
much about my brother, he said again. You have to let the dead rest in peace,
he said, and I didn’t understand how my curiosity could possibly disturb the peace
or the memory of his brother. You won’t write anything about this, my father
asked or said, index finger raised, his tone somewhere
between a plea and a commandment. I thought about replying that a writer never
knows what he’ll write about; that a writer doesn't choose his stories, they
choose him; that a writer is but a dry leaf in the breeze of his own narrative.
But fortunately all I did was finish the wine in three long swallows.
You won’t write anything about this, my father repeated, his tone more forceful
now, almost authoritarian. I smelled the alcohol on his
words. Of course not, I said, perhaps sincere, or perhaps already knowing that
no story is imperative, no story is necessary, except the one we’re forbidden from
telling.
In Spanish
Mi papá abrió una botella
de vino y llenó las dos copas a la mitad y me preguntó por qué quería saber
tanto de la muerte de su hermano. En los últimos años, mi papá se había
convertido en bebedor y coleccionista de vinos. Iba a catas. Compraba por
mayor. Había hecho construir un armario de caoba para almacenar sus mejores
botellas. Mantenía siempre en la cartera —en caso de emergencias, decía— un
pequeño cartón laminado con una guía de los buenos años, de las buenas
cosechas. Me había explicado las características de esa botella de vino que
estábamos por tomar, pero yo apenas le puse atención. Brindamos en silencio. El
vino estaba muy bueno y se lo dije y el rostro de mi papá se iluminó de
orgullo, como si él mismo hubiese sembrado, cosechado y machacado las uvas. No
entiendo para qué quiere saber tanto de mi hermano, dijo de nuevo. Hay que
dejar a los muertos descansar en paz, dijo, y yo no entendí cómo mi curiosidad
pudiese molestar el reposo o la memoria de su hermano. Usted no escribirá nada
sobre esto, me preguntó o me ordenó mi papá, su índice elevado, su tono a medio
camino entre súplica y mandamiento. Pensé en responderle que un escritor nunca
sabe de qué escribirá, que un escritor no elige sus historias sino que éstas lo
eligen a él, que un escritor no es más una hoja seca en el soplo de su propia
narrativa. Pero por suerte sólo me terminé el vino en tres grandes tragos.
Usted no escribirá nada sobre esto, repitió mi papá, su tono ahora más fuerte,
casi autoritario. Sentí el alcohol en sus palabras. Por supuesto que no, le
dije, quizás sincero, o quizás ya sabiendo que ninguna historia es imperativa,
ninguna historia necesaria, salvo aquellas que alguien nos prohíbe contar.
_______________________________________________
Bellevue Literary Press published the
English-language edition, Mourning,
in May 2018. The original Spanish edition, Duelo, was published by Libros del Asteroide in 2017. Copyright © 2018 by Eduardo Halfon. Translation
Copyright © 2018 by Lisa Dillman and Daniel Hahn.
NB: This scene did not appear in either edition.
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