Heart of Scorpio Read online

  And Efraim: “One, two, oofff, oofff.”

  But when I would get home I would imagine him snorting more and more and I’d break out in an ear-to-ear smile. Milton was like a statue and I was blowing him up into a thousand pieces and I was blowing up with him.

  And Efraim: “One, two, oofff, oofff.”

  And after, when he lost the title and he cried on my shoulder and I cried too, but from joy, because I had finally put out the fire after nine years, the constant burning. When he lost the title I started smoking and I stopped training. I was free.

  And Efraim: “One, two, oofff, oofff.”

  Julián

  I’m going to Media Luna street. I’m going to Media Luna street. I’m going to Media Luna street. I’m going to Media Luna street. Lucero doesn’t answer the telephone. Nobody wants to hit the sheets with a person who doesn’t have money, not even Lucero. I smoke and smoke. I didn’t want to hit her. I did want to hit Papa because he yelled I’m the world champion no shit and what he is was champ for a little while no shit I’m the most valuable black man in this country no shit but he wasn’t world champion anymore and we were rich and the women wanted to hit the sheets with me and Mama was praying and Papa was telling her to shut up and Papa was all bloody all over because he had been fighting in the bar and they had broken a bottle on his head and Mama was praying and asking him what happened and Papa didn’t answer until a neighbor told me that they had broken a bottle on his head and Mama was praying and Papa was telling her to shut up and that the world champion was ordering her and Mama was praying and Papa started to yell at her why are you praying if it was because she thought she was better than the champion and Mama wasn’t saying anything but kept praying and Papa was telling her not to think she was better than him and Mama praying and Papa was yelling at her You’re not better than me You’re not better than me You hear me You’re not better than me and Mama doesn’t stop praying Blessed spirits of purgatory Most Holy Virgin Saint Judas Tadeo Sacred Heart of Jesus and Papa You’re not better than me You understand You’re not better than me You’re not better than the champion and Mama kept on praying and Papa yelled at her to shut up and Mama praying and Papa Shut up I tell you I want you to shut up and Mama doesn’t quit praying Blessed spirits of purgatory Saint Judas Tadeo Blessed blood of the Sacred Heart and Papa yells at her to stop praying that she’s not better than him and Mama Merciful Jesus free my husband from this spirit that possesses him and Papa Shut up I’m telling you for the last time and Mama, Lord enter into the body of my husband and give him your infinite peace Make him feel . . . and Mama fell and her nose was bleeding but she didn’t say anything and kept praying and crying and I wanted to hit him and I hit him and I said you’re not world champion anymore, you’re not shit and he yelled at me to respect the champion and Mama yelled at me not to hit him that he was my father and I had to respect him and that she was his wife and that’s why he could hit her but I didn’t want to respect him and we grabbed and hit each other and Mama yelled Blessed spirits of purgatory Most Holy Virgin Saint Jude Tadeo Sacred Heart of Jesus don’t let them kill each other don’t let them hit each other and since that day if Papa comes home violent I know it’s the last way to deal with him, with punches, like dogs, like animals. But I don’t want to hit Lucero, lucero no lucero no lucero no lucero no.

  I call her but she doesn’t answer. She asked me to never do those things but now it’s not my fault, she doesn’t answer. While I call Lucero again I look at Papa. I hide so he doesn’t see me. I smoke. He went into the bar where he was going to meet with the reporter: the shirt with blood all over it, the swollen lip. He looks like a dead man. He’s dead anyway, it seems to me.

  I go into the place. I’d rather not drink anything, I just want to smoke. I look at one of the women and I choose one. I go up with her to hit the sheets. I don’t want to hit her I don’t want to hit her I don’t want to hit her. I smoke.

  * * *

  “It was luck that the punch didn’t connect,” thought Olivella. He wasn’t feeling any pain and the stinging in his ribs had subsided. The shouts of the crowd could be heard like the deafening roar of the rotors of a helicopter. “It was my best time,” thought Olivella and he set himself adrift in remembrance.

  There was a time when opponents went down like bugs sprayed with insecticide. The last few minutes before a fight Olivella would be more worried about having to interrupt the conversation about politics with Andres Pastrana, the son of the President, than about the fists of his rival.

  In those days Milton had asked President Misael Pastrana to put electricity in San Basilio de Palenque, his home town, and the president had responded with a non-committal answer about the strategic development plan that the country was implementing and that it would be inconvenient to modify the program. Nevertheless he concluded that the program was viable and that he’d take it into consideration. The days passed and Palenque continued in the governmental neglect that had been in force since 1901, the year that General Jaramillo’s troops, in the name of President José Manuel Marroquín, burned the town as punishment for having provided three hens and a pot of soup to General Robles and his battalion in rebellion against the government.

  Except for another city-wide fire the inhabitants of Palenque didn’t expect anything from the central government. The one from whom they did expect something was Milton, who was venerated almost like a saint. Milton’s answer to the presidential inaction was public:

  “If you’re not going to put electricity in my town do me the courtesy of telling it to my face,” he said in front of the television cameras.

  For many, this was the sign that Palenque would never have electricity. However important Milton was, this was an open challenge to the President and on those terms it couldn’t result in anything else but disapproval of the proposal. Two days later an armed forces helicopter landed at Palenque. The inhabitants came out of their houses and gathered in the packed dirt plaza to see the novelty of the machine. At the same time, out of the rotorwash stepped down Milton Olivella and President Misael Pastrana. Milton was dressed in a pinstriped suit, a white turtleneck sweater, and platform shoes. The President, who looked like Olivella’s advisor for the occasion, was dressed in turquoise trousers and a sky blue shirt. Behind them came a bevy of reporters in charge of showing the public that the President’s promises are never in vain. The President gave a little speech in which he talked about the installation of electricity as the first of many projects planned for Palenque. The people of Palenque didn’t pay attention to the President’s speech because they were all trying to touch Milton Olivella to see with their own hands if he was real.

  * * *

  Olivella was the first champion in a country of losers. Up until the moment when Milton won the world title Colombia still celebrated the 4 – 4 tie with the Soviet Union in the World Cup of 1962 as a win. The rest, the real victories, came after: Miguel “Happy” Lora and his thirty-seven wins in forty fights. Lucho Herrera, Fabio Parra, Atlético Nacional, Once Caldas, and the Copa América - all after the great Milton Olivella; before him, nothing, the desert.

  The cult of Olivella turned him into an omnipresent being, an obligatory theme at every table, the only national reference along with coffee. The myth grew larger than the man, who, for his part, disappeared a little more every day in a cloud of crack smoke. The country accustomed to losing fell in love with the Colombian who learned to win. But Milton only knew how to lose in life what he won in the ring. When he ran out of opponents to inoculate him Milton fell victim to his own poison, like a scorpion in a ring of fire.

  Olivella was sitting in his corner being attended to by his seconds. When he woke up someone was wringing out a sponge with cold water on his head and they were fanning him with a towel. He realized that his gloves were off and his mouthpiece was out. He looked up to see King was being carried on the shoulders of his seconds. From the shouting of the crowd he could only make out the insults hurled at him. He got up, left t
he ring, and headed for the locker room.

  “Let’s go,” he said to his seconds, “I don’t want them to see me crying like that Argentine Marturet.”

  Having finished telling the story of the fight Olivella excused himself and said that he had to leave because he had another commitment. He asked Avski to hurry on the book because he wanted it in time to celebrate the anniversary of his world title and he said goodbye with a hug. The patrons at the nearby tables stood and applauded, sending him off with fighting poses and fists in the air. A local prostitute put her hand to her mouth and blew him a kiss. “I love you, champ!” shouted the woman.

  Olivella gave her a sly wink and raised his hands as if he were stepping down from the ring as the victor. Joseph Avski saw him exit the door of the bar into the blackness of a long night, where Kalb al-Akrab shined majestically. He also went into another time; an age where the kingdom of his fists was untouchable.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Born in 1980 in Medellín, Colombia, Joseph Avski graduated with a degree in Physics from the Universidad de Antioquia (Colombia) and an MFA in Creative Writing from University of Texas at El Paso. He has published poetry and short stories in Colombia, Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, Spain, Mexico, and the USA; and has won short story contests in Colombia, Uruguay, and the USA. In 2009, he won the IX annual National Novel Award from the Medellín Chamber of Commerce with his opera prima El corazón del escorpión (Heart of Scorpio). In 2010, he was the finalist in the XII Novel Biennial “José Eustasio Rivera” with his novel El libro de los infiernos (The Book of Infernos). He is currently earning his Ph.D. in Hispanic Studies from Texas A&M University.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR: After a twenty-year career as a Marine Corps infantry officer that included service in thirty-five countries, Mark David McGraw entered the doctoral program in Hispanic Studies at Texas A&M University in 2009. He has translated poetry, academic articles and literary works from Spanish to English for anthologies, journals and magazines. He currently resides in College Station, Texas with his family.

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  [1] The main venue for big events in Buenos Aires, Argentina.