Hernan Lara Zavala

Iguana Hunting
I
N THOSE DAYS we went into the wild to
hunt. I had come from the city to stay with
my grandparents in Zitilchen for my holidays,
and I'd already made some friends. From the
low hill that rises south of town, Chidra, the
half-breed Mayan, would first go to call for
Crispin. When he reached the house, he gave a
long whistle and out Crispin came: short,
nervous, cunning. Then they came to fetch me.
On their way they collected the stones we were
to use. They were special stones, almost round,
and they rattled in our pockets as we
journeyed on.
When they got to our farm Chidra whistled
again, and my grandfather would come to the
door to let them in. Chidra lived in the wild,
and had eaten no food. Not so Crispin. He
lived a few streets away and I knew he had had
a good breakfast. Both, however, accepted the
hot chocolate and rolls my grandmother
offered them. While we ate, my grandfather,
tall but stooping, joked gravely with us, as was
his manner. With Crispin particularly: the old
man was very fond of Crispin. He used to call
him "don Crispin" and every now and then
he'd suggest jobs for him inspired by his
diminutive stature and resilient character. He
asked him once: "How would you like to join
the army when you grow up? Your height
would be greatly in your favour." Crispin
responded with a dutiful chuckle, revealing the
dough between his teeth. In the meantime,
Chidra, his mind elsewhere, ate voraciously.
My grandfather seldom addressed him. I
recall, however, one of his few observations
about Chidra. He was talking to Crispin about
Padre Garcia's extravagantly mystical ser-
mons: "No", he said, "you're qualified for all
sorts of jobs but not that of a priest. You're
too much of this world. I would have to think
of somebody else for t hat . . . Chidra, for
instance." I don't remember Chidra's reaction.
We always set off later than we expected.
My grandfather walked with us to the door
and saw us off: Chidra, the tallest, still in his
elder brother's old shorts; Crispin, the
shortest, already in long trousers, both of them
provoking all sorts of witticisms as they went.
A
LTHOUGH WE ACTUALLY PROPOSED
iguana hunting, our expeditions were
likely to involve anything. In our forays we
spent our time looking for V-shaped branches
to make catapults with, or stealing wedges of
honeycomb from the hives left out in the fields.
Often, as we were walking out of town, we
would climb the wall of some orchard to steal
oranges or to take a swim in the reservoir. On
such occasions I arrived home for dinner
clutching my damp underpants in my hand.
As soon as my grandmother saw me she'd
say: "Have you been swimming in Tomas'
reservoir again? The day he finds out you'll be
in big trouble and it'll be no use coming to
me."
Many were the times we went out to hunt,
but it has to be admitted that iguanas were not
easy prey. We'd occasionally catch oneand
then we'd sell it to a well-known iguana-eater
in townbut their natural colours served
them all too well. We hunted turtle-doves,
lizards, and, on one occasion even an
armadillo that Chidra grabbed by the tail. As
soon as we were on our own, shooting here
and there at the slightest movement in the
bushes, Chidra, who in the presence of adults
was invariably silent and reserved, could
restrain himself no longer. He would tell us the
strange occurrences that, according to him, he
experienced in his daily walk back home.
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Hernan Lara Zavala
These tales always provoked Crispin's anger
and contempt. Chidra spoke, for instance,
about the afternoon when, returning home
from town, he had seen a herd of elephants.
"I yelled out for help but nobody came. . . . "
"That was when you took coffee for the first
time in your bloody life. I don't know how
many coffees you had, but it drove you crazy",
said Crispin, annoyed.
Chidra, however, would not be swayed. He
told us that sometimes when he was on his
way home towards midnight he could hear
somebody hissing insistently: "pssst . . .
pssst . . . . " But he never dared turn around to
see who it was because he was sure the noises
were produced by Xtabay, the evil woman
from Mayan mythology. He explained to us
that those who turned to see her could not
resist her summons since, apart from her feet,
her beauty was irresistible. She hid behind the
trunk of a ceybo tree and those who responded
to her charms woke up next morning with their
bodies covered with thorns.
We knew the legend of course. But when
Chidra talked about it, he was charged with
such conviction that almost every boy in
townCrispin exceptedlistened to him
enthralled. He told us about a cave in the heart
of the wild that led directly to hell. He told
us about a wandering Indian, known as
Tzintzinito, who was condemned to roam
endlessly through the wild.
On one of those mornings Chidra told us
that while returning from the camp where his
father worked collecting gum, he had seen a
naked woman with beautiful long hair bathing
in a deep pool. Half joking, half serious,
Crispin said:
"Of course you'll tell us she was Xtabay."
"I don't know", answered Chidra. "The
woman I saw in the pool had the whitest feet I
ever saw. She had long golden hair."
"He's a liar."
"No, I'm not", said Chidra, crossing himself
and kissing his thumb.
"When was this?", I asked.
"Yesterday afternoon."
"That's hardly the time Xtabay would come
out."
"We'll get him now", said Crispin. "Prove
it."
"If you want. But I'd better tell you it's a
long way."
"He's afraid", said Crispin.
"Let's go", answered Chidra. "If you're
willing, let's go."
C
HIDRA KNEW THE AREA well. Not Only
because he lived in the wild but because
of his father's work. Chidra was responsible
for bringing him food and other necessities
every so often. Once in the wild he was the
official guide. We left town. We passed the
orchards, we passed the hives, we penetrated
the wild. We struggled through the
undergrowth, parting bushes and trampling
weeds. Chidra, confident of his capabilities,
moved his head restlessly like a wild animal on
a fresh scent.
There was something uncanny about the
whole affair. In Zitilchen days are usually hot
and cloudless. That day, however, was humid
and grey. When we were in the thickest and
most tangled part of the wild we suddenly
came across some ancient ruins. Crispin and I
were stunned. It was a small abandoned
Mayan village but so well kept that it seemed
inhabited. We were silent, looking around in
awe. After a while Chidra said, "This way.
We're nearly there now." Crispin stared at me.
I could sense that, like myself, he was afraid as
well as fascinated.
Chidra moved forward again, parting the
scrub that stood in our way. Nobody thought
about the iguanas. Our sole concern was
finding out the truth about Chidra's tale.
Finally we came to the edge of a large pool. It
was a transparent green and its waters were
unusually quiet and still. There was nobody
around. We found a clearing and hid behind
some mangrove trees while we tried to agree
what to do. Perhaps there never had been
anyone around, except in Chidra's imagina-
tion. Crispin wanted to go back to town and
repeated constantly that Chidra was a liar. A
bloody liar. They had a long argument and
were about to come to blows when I saw
somebody moving on the other side of the
pool. We quickly fell silent, curious to see who
it was. A bearded man appeared. We could see
him clearly: he was dressed for the bush. He
wore glasses and was smoking a pipe. He had
a saucepan and as he came to the edge of the
pool, he put some soil in the pot and sank it
in the water, emptying it some moments later.
He was about to leave when a woman, dressed
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Iguana Hunting
just like him, appeared, bringing a few more
utensils to be washed. We couldn't hear what
they were saying.
"There she is", said Chidra slowly.
And it was true, she was just as Chidra had
described her: a tall, blonde woman. We saw
them for just a few minutes; as soon as they
finished their washing they left the pool. We
stayed on, still waiting, when Crispin broke
our silence. He stood up and said, "Shit! I've
got a dreadful itching. What the hell is it?" He
lifted up his shirt to show us his back.
"Ticks", said Chidra.
"Blast!" said Crispin as he took off his shirt.
"We must be covered in them too", Chidra
said to me, looking at his ankles, scratching
himself and standing up to take off his own
shirt. I did the same. We undressed ourselves
in order to shake off the ticks from our clothes.
Chidra even had ticks in his armpits, entangled
in the wispy hair. We were covered in them.
We were still naked when Chidra began to talk
about the woman we had briefly seen, full of
the fact that this proved he was no liar. He told
us again how, the day before, as he was
wandering around the mangroves, he had seen
a tall, blonde, white woman bathing in the
pool. He described her meticulously. He had
seen here in her entirety: feminine, naked,
almost divine. He was enraptured. Carried
away by Chidra's description, I noticed, at
first with alarm and then with relief, that all
three of us were experiencing the very same
sensation.
O
UR BODIES full of ticks, very tired, we got
back to Zitilchen well after dark. We
reached my grandfather's farm. I waved good-
bye to Crispin and Chidra. My eyelids were
heavy. My friends walked down the street. I
thought about the blonde woman. I felt the
ticks all over my body. Thorns. I was
exhausted yet Chidra had a long way to go.
Once in the house I went straight to my
grandmother.
"I'm covered in ticks", I said. "Help me get
rid of them."
"What's a few ticks?", she answered.
"They're not black widows. Come on then, off
with your clothes and lie down in bed while I
warm up some wax."
Feeling her press me all over with the hot
wax, I heard her ask:
"For heaven's sake, there's thousands of
them! Where on earth have you been?"
"Today we met Xtabay", I answered,
satisfied.
Translated from the Spanish by the author
in collaboration with Andrew C.Jefford
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Alexander Zinoviev
The Radiant Future
Pages from a New Novel
W
HERE THE Avenue of Marxism-Leninism
meets Cosmonaut Square, a great per-
manent slogan was erected reading: "Long Live
CommunismThe Radiant Future of All
Mankind!" The slogan was erected at the request of
the workers. It was a long time in the building,
mainly in winter, when costs are higher. A huge
amount of money was poured into itno less (it is
rumoured) than was invested in the whole of our
agriculture during the first five-year plan. But today
we are very rich, and such expenses are a mere
nothing. We have spent even more on the Arabs
without breaking ourselves. What we spent on the
Arabs was a complete waste, while the Slogan is a
source of undoubted benefit.
As might have been expected, the Slogan was of
very shoddy construction. The paint began to peel
even before the Slogan was put to use. The
individual letters became progressively covered in a
sort of grey grime, and fell to bits. Therefore the
Slogan had to be completely repaired at least three
times a year: once for the May Day celebrations,
once for the November celebrations, and on every
occasion when Moscow entered for the All-Union
contest for the model communist city, and the
multi-million army of Moscow office workers was
driven out on to the streets to clean up the rubbish.
As a result the maintenance of the Slogan cost the
State several times more than its initial construc-
tion. And to judge by the vulgar graffiti which
adorn the supports of the letters, the educational
effect of the Slogan has not yet achieved even the
half of its planned potential.
As the 25th Congress of the CPSU drew near, it
was decided to put an end to this outrage. New
letters for the Slogan were cast in stainless steel at
the Brewery named in honour of the 21st Congress
of the CPSU (formerly the Marshal Budyonny
Brewery). They were cast by the shock-workers of
communist labour in their overtime. The letters
were made of bee . . . , forgive me, metal, which had
been specially saved up by the workers in honour
of the forthcoming Congress. The letters were
mounted on a mighty concrete pedestal. The con-
crete itself had been saved up by the construction
workers of Moscow in honour of the forthcoming
Congress. So, on this occasion, not only was
nothing spent on the Slogan, there was even a
profit, as the builders of the Slogan had saved up
more than ten million roubles in honour of the forth-
coming Congress. It was decided to spend these
carefully garnered resources on the construction of
permanent reinforced concrete frames to carry the
portraits of the members of the Politburo, thus
putting the crowning glory (as the newspapers
said) to the splendid architectural ensemble of
Cosmonaut Square and the wasteground adjoining
it. Defending his idea about the portraits to the
Central Committee, the chief city architect asserted
frankly that by this means we would be able to con-
ceal the ugliness of the wasteground from the eyes
of the foreigners. For after all, we cannot rid
ourselves completely of foreigners at the present
time!
THE OFFICIAL OPENING of the Slogan was a most
solemn occasion. The Avenue was resurfaced.
There were many foreign journalists and diplomatic
representatives. Countless guests came from the
friendly parties of Africa and South America, and
there were also delegations from all the countries of
the Socialist camp. There were also guests of
honour from the lands of capitalismthe Italian
actress Sophia Bordobrigida, that personal friend
of the Soviet Union the American millionaire
Hamson, the farmer Zdrast, the French singer
Georges Ivanov, and many others. The ceremony
was filmed. To the accompaniment of tempes-
tuous applause from the representatives of the
workers who crammed the Avenue, the Square
and the wasteground, an Honorary Presidium was
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