The Polish Boxer Read online

  How are you, Eduardo? She was clasping her books to her chest, like a life vest, I thought, and she asked if we were busy. I said we were, a little. Oh well, I just wanted to thank you in person for answering my e‑mail. No need, Annie. And to say that maybe one day, if you’re free, we could meet up and talk, she murmured, blushing. I said of course, I’d love to, and she smiled nervously. Let’s arrange a time by e‑mail, then, she said, holding out a hand that was long and thin and far too cold.

  After I sat back down, I lit another cigarette and noticed that as Annie walked away, Juan Kalel seemed particularly focused as he gazed at her ass.

  Nothing happens in this story, declared an emaciated boy whose last name was Arreola. What, so some guy has a few drinks with an old friend and then he goes home. I mean, what’s so great about that? he scoffed, same thing I do every Friday. A few students laughed awkwardly.

  I told them Joyce had to be read much more carefully. They had to know a little about the history of Ireland, the religious conflict. They had to grasp the context of each story, its structure and rich symbolism. But more than anything, they had to get a feel for his epiphanies.

  Anyone know what epiphany means? A cat-like girl said it was sort of like the epiphany of Jesus. Pretty much, but what does that mean? Oh, I don’t remember, she said. All right, pay attention. Rustling of papers, readying of pencils. In Greek theater, the epiphany is the moment when a god appears to impose order on the scene. In the Christian tradition, the Epiphany refers to the revelation of Jesus’ divinity to the Magi. So, it’s a moment of clarity. And in the Joycean sense, an epiphany is an unexpected revelation had by one of his characters. A sudden spiritual manifestation, as he himself called it. I enunciated slowly. Does everyone get that? Absolute silence, which of course meant no.

  Let’s start with the title. In Spanish, it’s called “Una nubecilla”—a small cloud, almost a cloudlet—but that’s a terrible translation, I said. None of the story’s Spanish translators, including the great Cuban writer Cabrera Infante, did a good job on that. The original title is “A Little Cloud,” which we know Joyce took from the Bible, Book of Kings. Anybody remember what happened in the Book of Kings? One girl started to say something and then faltered, stopped. I explained in very general terms that the people of Israel had been led away from God. Elijah prophesied a drought that would last until the people stopped worshiping false prophets and returned to Jehovah. And after two years without so much as a drop of rain, after the fall of Ahab and the false prophets, the people of Israel returned to God, and Elijah’s servant proclaimed: Behold, there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man’s hand. In other words, ladies and gentlemen: Watch out, it’s about to rain. Think about it. Not a small cloud, but a little cloud. Why is that distinction so important in the context of the story? Pause. Why am I insisting that Cabrera Infante and company not only did a poor job translating the title, but actually translated it in a way that leads the reader astray, further from what the story really means?

  Juan Kalel raised his hand and said that there could be some sort of relation between the optimism of the approaching cloud in the Bible and the false optimism of Chico Chandler, as he was called in Spanish. Because in English, he continued, it would be Little Chandler and Little Cloud, right? Which in Spanish should have been Pequeño Chandler and Pequeña Nube. The repetition draws a parallel that we miss in the Spanish, he said. Quite pleased, I walked back to the desk for my coffee. What I mean is, Juan went on, Chandler is all talk. He talks about all the things he’s going to do, all the poems he’s going to write, and how one day he’s going to get out of Dublin, too, and live as free and fully as his friend Gallagher. But then when he gets home all he can do is yell at his son and make him cry. It’s sort of pathetic. And ironic too. The relationship between the story’s two littles, the cloud and Chandler, is ironic, because it’s obvious that he’s never going to do the things he wants to do. Unlike the biblical cloud, he’s hopeless. It’s as though he’s paralyzed, Juan said, gazing at me absently, as if something much more personal, but equally unattainable, had dawned on him.

  Smiling, I asked them if they’d understood. Annie Castillo raised her hand. Well, I think there’s something more to it, she murmured. I said that there was, that of course there was something more. I mean, she began, I don’t know, but I don’t think the irony in the title is gratuitous. And then she fell silent. Precisely, I replied, but why not? Why isn’t it? What other irony do we get a glimpse of in the story, Annie? But she simply shook her head and shrugged. I turned to Juan, hoping to prod him into bailing her out, but he was engrossed in his notebook, scribbling furiously. A poem, perhaps. I don’t know, Annie hesitated, I guess Chandler’s attitude itself is ironic. Why? I probed. Well, she went on, because Chandler envies all the wrong things, all the immoral things, for want of a better expression, that Gallagher represents. And there’s irony in that.

  Without another word, I picked up a piece of chalk and wrote a Joyce quotation on the board: My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the center of paralysis.

  So, I said with my back still to them, where in all this beautiful Joycean mess is the epiphany?

  The following week, they read two Hemingway stories: “The Killers” and “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.” I talked about Hemingway’s style, so sparse, so direct, so poetic. I talked about Nick Adams. I talked about the three waiters, who become two, who become one, who become nothing. I had them write a brief essay on the points of reference in the two titles: What have they killed? And whom? Is there really a clean, well-lighted place, or is it a metaphor for something else? And as they wrote, I watched them, pretending to read the newspaper. Juan Kalel didn’t show up that day, but I didn’t give it much thought.

  Annie Castillo and I had arranged to have a midmorning coffee in the faculty lounge. When she approached, I was smoking a cigarette and goading a neoliberal economics professor with Marxist gibes. Excuse me, I said, but this young lady has come to see me, and he immediately stood up and left.

  Annie sat down. I asked her if she’d cut her hair. A little, she said, fiddling with her bangs. Should we get some coffee? I asked. All right, she said, and we walked together to the coffee machine. I saw that not only had she changed her hair but she was also wearing more makeup than usual. And she had on a tiny turquoise blouse that revealed her belly button and boldly accentuated her breasts and shoulders. Sugar? Please, she replied, and lots of cream.

  Once we’d sat back down, we chatted about her other classes and, of course, the predictable uncertainty about her professional future. Her way of staring directly into my eyes made me so self-conscious that, from time to time, I was the one who had to glance down into my coffee or look for another cigarette or a piece of paper. She said she’d been thinking about the Joyce story. She said that a lot of the things he was pointing out about Dubliners, she found to be true of Guatemalans too. She said she’d never really liked literature, but that my class wasn’t bad. Well, thank you, I said, and then asked her why she identified so strongly with Maupassant’s narrator. I’m not sure, she replied after pausing to concentrate, as if trying to recall a memorized answer. I surround myself with people in order not to feel alone, Eduardo. But whether they’re there or not, I always feel alone. Like the protagonist, I suppose. It’s almost unbearable, you know? And she didn’t say any more. And I decided not to ask any more.

  Seeing the time, she said she was late. Algebra, she confided almost frantically. We both stood and I asked if she knew why Juan Kalel hadn’t come to our last class. Who’s Juan Kalel? she asked, and I just smiled. Annie stood there quietly but nervously, books clutched to her chest, eyes darting around. I asked her if she was all right. Of course, she replied. Why do you ask? I said nothing, toying with my cigarette, and she opened her mouth slightly, as though she were about to say something important or at least revealing, and then didn’t.<
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  Who can tell me what an “artificial nigger” is? I asked, in reference to the Flannery O’Connor story they’d read. Juan Kalel’s seat was vacant again. A very tall girl’s cell phone rang and, without my having to say anything, she picked up her things and left. What does the term “artificial nigger” actually refer to? I repeated, slightly irked. I was just about to explain that this was what those black lawn jockeys used to be called, and that they were very common in the South, and an unequivocal symbol of racism and slavery, when from the back row came perhaps the most or least literary response any of them could have given me. A kid with a shaved head called out: It refers to Michael Jackson.

  After class, I went to the economics department and asked the secretary if something had happened to Juan Kalel, because he hadn’t been to class in two weeks. She frowned and said she didn’t know who Juan Kalel was. I nearly shouted that he was not only a first-year scholarship student but also a true poet. Juan Kalel has left the university, I heard the dean say from his office. Tell Eduardo to come in.

  I was about to call you, he said as he shuffled some papers. Please, take a seat. He answered a phone call while responding to an e‑mail, and told the secretary to give us a few minutes, that they’d talk a little later. How’s your course going? he asked, signing something. I said fine. I was about to call you, Eduardo, he repeated. I’m afraid Juan Kalel has left the university. I asked if he knew why. Personal problems, I believe, he said, and it was obvious that he was going to give no more away. We were both silent, and I thought, stupidly, of some sort of tribute or homage to a fallen soldier. We got this a few days ago, he said, handing me an envelope. It came in the mail and I gave it to my secretary to pass on to you, but I imagine she simply hasn’t had the time. The envelope was a grubby white. There was no return address, though the purple postmark was, of course, from Tecpán. I slipped it into my inside jacket pocket and stood up, thanking him. A real shame, the dean said, and I agreed, yes, a real shame.

  Saturday, I climbed into my car at 7:00 A.M. and set off for Tecpán. I had Juan Kalel’s letter and his notebook of poems with me, and nothing more. I’d sent him an e‑mail to let him know I was coming, but it bounced back immediately. At the university, they’d refused to give me his actual address or his phone number, claiming that, officially, he was no longer a student and therefore his information had been, officially, deleted from the files. It was as though, officially, Juan Kalel had never existed.

  On the way, I decided to stop for breakfast at my brother’s house. He lived in San Lucas Sacatepéquez, some twenty kilometers from the capital, in a small village with the poetic-sounding name of El Choacorral.

  I rang the bell for so long that he finally woke up. What are you doing here? he asked, propped in the doorway, still half-asleep. I told him I’d brought sweet rolls and champurradas and that I was on my way to Tecpán. He looked confused or maybe annoyed, and stepped aside to let me in. Still in robe and slippers, he showed me a few sculptures he was working on, in white marble, and then a plaster-cast mural he was planning to exhibit. Are you going to paint it? I asked, and he said yeah, maybe. I’m not really sure yet. He made a pot of coffee and we sat down to have breakfast on his terrace. It was cold, but mountain cold, which is different from a leaden, city cold. More chaste. More radiant. The air smelled clean, naked. I felt warmth on my face and saw that the sun was just beginning to peek out timidly from behind a green crag. I said I was on my way to Tecpán to try and find a student. Well, ex-student. Why’s that? he asked, refilling my coffee. He dropped out. First year? Yeah, I said, and I was going to add that he was an economics major who wrote poetry, but then I thought better of it. Why did he drop out? I said I didn’t know but that this was exactly what I wanted to find out. I’m guessing he’s not just any student, he observed discreetly. No, I said, he’s not. And we finished our coffee in silence.

  Guatemalan place names never cease to amaze me. They can be like gentle waterfalls, or beautiful cats purring erotically, or itinerant jokes—it all depends. Back on the road, I drove through Sumpango, and every time I drive through Sumpango I feel obliged to read aloud the sign that says Sumpango, I don’t know why. I went through El Tejar, which means place of roof tiles (where, unsurprisingly, they make a lot of roof tiles), and through Chimaltenango and then through Patzicía, which I also feel obliged to say aloud. All of these names are like charms; they cast some sort of linguistic spell, I thought as I drove, and I recited them like little prayers. Perhaps my favorites are the tenangos: Chichicastenango, Quetzaltenango, Momostenango, and Huehuetenango. I love them as words, as pure language. Tenango, I’ve been told, means place in Cakchikel, or maybe Kekchí. Then there’s Totonicapán, whose heavy rhythm makes me think of an old warship, and Sacatepéquez, which sounds like the Spanish for take out your little thing, and makes me think of a woman masturbating. And I love Nebaj and Chisec and Xuctzul, so clipped and so raw, almost violent, though I’ve never been to any of them and would be hard-pressed even to find them on a map. But there are also towns with rustic, common names, names that have been put into a prosaic Spanish so they mean something to those who don’t speak indigenous languages: Bobos is fools, Ojo de Agua means eye of water, and Pata Renca is lame foot. And in what’s now a dangerous, war-torn area is Sal Si Puedes, get out if you can. But in my opinion, the Guatemalan town with the most characteristic and most (or perhaps least) creative name has got to be El Estor, located on the edge of Izabal Lake, where a couple of centuries ago a foreign family owned land and ranches and a famous store that all the locals called El Store, imitating the English. But of course they pronounced it El Estor, hence its current name. I suppose Guatemalan place names are the same as Guatemalans, when it comes down to it: a mix of delicate indigenous breezes and coarse Spanish phrases used by equally coarse conquistadors whose draconian imperialism is imposed in a ludicrous, brutal way.

  When I reached Tecpán it was almost noon. I parked the car and walked into a place called Tienda Lucky. A plump woman was patting tortillas onto an enormous comal, but they were purple, or maybe deep blue. She must have noticed the look on my face because immediately she whispered that they were called black tortillas. Ah, I said, and took a seat.

  A ranchera song could be heard in the distance. On the walls were three framed photos: what looked to be a Swiss cottage, a couple of white horses on a lawn, and a blond cop standing beside his shiny cruiser, complete with German shepherd at his side and a huge caption that read BEVERLY HILLS POLICE DEPARTMENT.

  Out of nowhere, there appeared a girl who looked about ten, had beautiful features, and was decked out from head to toe in traditional clothing. She said hello. I ordered a beer and was about to light a cigarette when she tsked and pointed to a sign that said no smoking. But I can ask my aunt, she said in heavily accented Spanish, as though each word took a huge effort to pronounce. No, no, that’s fine, and I put my cigarettes away.

  At another table, a man in a hat and boots was drinking a bottle of India Quiché cola. He wore a piece of black cloth, a sort of apron-looking thing, hanging from his belt. He waved at me, but without looking.

  The girl returned with my beer. I asked her name. Norma Tol, she said, smiling. That’s pretty. How do you spell Tol? Tee, oh, el, she responded, drawing each letter in the air with her index finger. Tell me, Norma, is your aunt here? Yes, she said, and she didn’t say any more. Could you call her over for me? I asked, and she ran to a door leading to the back. To the kitchen, I supposed. A bus overflowing with people crossed the road, leaving a thick trail of dust and noise in its wake. Good morning, said a very short woman dressed in black, and I saw that Norma was directly behind her, barricaded, protected. I said pleased to meet you, and apologized for troubling her. It’s no trouble, she said in an accent even thicker than her niece’s. Her hands were covered in some type of red sauce and she wiped them repeatedly on her skirt, rubbing hard. You must be Doña Lucky, I guess. That’s right, muchacho, how can I help you? I explained that I
was from the capital and that I was in Tecpán looking for a student. I’m his professor, well, I was his professor. Ah, she said, frowning, I see. And your student lives here? Yes, in Tecpán. And what’s his name? His last name is Kalel. Juan Kalel is his name. She thought for a moment and then told me that there were a lot of Kalels in Tecpán, that it was a very common last name. I know his father is in charge of an orchard in Pamanzana, I continued, but she shook her head. And his mother works in a textile factory. Doña Lucky turned to the man in the hat and boots and asked him something in Cakchikel. I was going to say that Juan had a big scar on his right cheek, but I decided not to. Go to Pamanzana, the man told me. Yes, you go there, muchacho, Doña Lucky echoed. It is close and I think they will know him there. And then with some difficulty the two of them gave me directions.