VI PREMIO INTERNACIONAL DE CUENTO “LAS DALIAS” THE VI “LAS DALIAS” INTERNATIONAL SHORT STORY AWARD LACED-UP TO THE SKY

Translation: Ben Clark

He painted the snow with the blood that ran down his index finger. It annoyed him that the lines weren’t strait on account of the uncontrollable trembling of his hand. His ears picked up the grinding of boots, fused with the constant howling of a vaguely Antarctic wind.

«It’s coming», he thought, and he continued to scar the immaculate white with lines and squiggles that quickly revealed the figure of that dear old character of his childhood fantasies: Señor Torcaza, the man with a dove face he had created when he was a little over eight. Truth be told, the point there wasn’t really the quality of the drawing itself or its detail but doing something he loved at a dreadful time: to draw in the centre of war.

He sighed. His breath slipped through the thin scarf, diving into the unmerciful gale, leaving his terrified chest, to never return. Breath never returns. He knew that now, lying face down on the ice and the dust, with a bullet in his shoulder. His finger stopped. Señor Torcaza was finished. He smiled.

–Does he look good, Ma? –he whispered to the wind. He thought he heard his mother say: «You drew him very well, mijito».

–I’m gonna be the next Quino! The next Fontanarrosa!

–You’ll be whoever you want to be, mi amor.

His eyes peered again, with a glassy burn, through that melancholy kaleidoscope that a tear creates when it sits between retina and reality. He saw himself as a child again, back in Colón, where he was born. He was wandering down the hallway of the Casa de los Jazmines, on his way to the Art Room. He felt fear and distrust encroaching upon his small face as he encountered the tall, slender art teacher whose curly hairs seemed engaged in a battle of their own.

He saw himself hesitating, then dropping the white sheets of paper and the satchel on the ground. He saw himself turn to run back to the safe arms of this mother. He remembered vividly the unexpected fear he felt on that day, the corrosive shame burning in his gut. Perhaps he is still too small, wouldn’t you say so, Román? Yes, perhaps he is, Cristina. Bring him back in July and we’ll see if he’s up to it. I’ll bring him then, yes… Thank you very much, we do apologize. No need, please, these things happen, don’t they?

Only now, having celebrated his eighteenth birthday, did he understand his fear of being left alone with strangers. That was, ironically enough, exactly what was about to happen during his last moments on Earth.

–Can you see him?

–Yes, Sir! He’s right here!