Dance With Snakes

by Horatio Castellanos Moya

  I stayed frozen for several minutes, even after the sound of the helicopter had faded and I heard the radio I’d left on. Had they spotted us? Was their leaving just a strategy to get us to relax so they could launch a surprise attack?

  I sat up. My heart was pounding. I needed a drink. I searched fruitlessly in every corner. The alcohol reserves had been finished off. But I did find another bag of cocaine, though a little smaller – Raúl Pineda had been very obliging. I cut myself some lines while the ladies came out of their hiding places.

  “What was that?” Beti asked.

  “They’re looking for us,” I said. “They want to kill us.”

  “I’m scared,” Loli said.

  I picked up Aurora’s rolled-up letter to Don Jacinto and took a huge line. They begged to have some magic powder. They said the fright had left them completely crushed. I gave them enough to make Beti ask me to bring in the radio a few minutes later, so we could keep dancing, even if I had to do it on my knees inside the car. It was Jim Morrison’s powerful, twanging voice singing Riders on the Storm that calmed me and restored my energy, and later my happiness at being with them, at having Loli by my side. The three of them had that gleam in their eyes and that suggestive expression again. I was still naked, sitting on the car floor. The helicopter had taken away my erection and my desire to dance, and the last line of coke had only intensified my thirst for alcohol. I picked up my underwear, my shirt and my pants.

  “What are you doing?” Beti asked.

  “I’m getting dressed.”

  “Why?” Loli asked a little sadly, as if she were trying to win me over.

  I didn’t know how to answer her.

  “But I still want you,” she whispered pleadingly.

  I asked her to come closer. I took her by the head, face to face, and stared deep into her bright, unfathomable eyes. I kissed her on the mouth. She wasn’t expecting it. She coiled herself around my neck and torso, completely overjoyed, and slid down to rub herself against my penis, intensely and outrageously. Beti and Carmela couldn’t stand it either. They climbed on top of me so decisively and with such voracity that I had no choice but to let myself fall flat on my back, my arms open wide, while they began their lascivious feast between my pubic bone and my crotch – a feverish snake dance that quickly brought me to climax, spasms, howls and a gush of semen.

  I was exhausted, but my heart was pounding as if it would never go back to normal. I rested a while, nearly falling asleep. I sat up slowly. I lit a cigarette. I got dressed without their objections because they were dozing softly. I desperately needed something to drink, even if it was just a case of beer. I got out of the car. Soon dusk would be upon us, with its orange light. I walked over to the vacant lot to go out to the street. But I felt a sudden urge to shit. I decided it would be better to go over by the fence at the back of the scrapyard, the one next to the ravine. I was curled up and distracted, enjoying the act of defecation, when I felt a presence behind me. I turned around. It was Loli. She slithered calmly towards me. I was embarrassed that she’d seen me like that.

  “That was lovely,” she said.

  I agreed.

  I wiped myself with Don Jacinto’s letter. I pulled up my pants and looked for a hole in the chain link. We got out next to the ravine. The stream ran about thirty metres below. People swarmed around their hovels in a slum on the other side. I sat down on the very edge of the ravine, looking down into the emptiness, with her by my side.

  “Do you think the helicopter will come back?” she asked.

  Probably. The hunt had just begun and they weren’t going to give up until they got us.

  And what would we do if they cornered us in the scrapyard?

  “Try to escape,” I said.

  It was as though the clouds had been painted with orange and pink brushstrokes. A cool, nighttime breeze blew over our side of the ravine.

  “I think we’ll be all right until Monday morning,” I mumbled.

  I threw a rock into the ravine.

  “I love you,” she said. “I want to be with you. I don’t want anything to come between us.”

  I kept quiet, my gaze lost on the horizon. I put my hand on her back and caressed her tenderly.

  “I love you, too,” I finally said. “But I need a drink right now.”

  I stood up.

  We went back to the scrapyard.

  “I’m going to the store,” I said. “Stay alert. There must be a whole bunch of creatures like you hiding between all these cars and I don’t want you to get a nasty surprise.”

  “Be careful,” she said and blew me a kiss.

  I went back to the hole in the fence next to the vacant lot. I walked out to the street. The revelry was in full swing at the store; there were several groups of people drinking on the sidewalk. I tried to pass unnoticed, but a number of people looked over at me disgustedly. The two young men from the afternoon were still drinking. I asked for half a bottle of rum. I had just enough money left to cover it. The old woman recognized me from behind the counter.

  “It was a lie,” she snapped. “They haven’t got those snakes yet.”

  The people near the entrance went quiet and turned to look at me.

  “The journalist must have got it wrong,” I said to the old woman. “There have been so many false alarms.”

  “I just heard that the snakes tried to attack the funeral home where they’re showing Dr. Ferracuti and his family’s remains,” she said.

  “I don’t believe it,” I exclaimed.

  I opened the bottle and took a drink right there in the store.

  “It’s true,” the old woman insisted. “It happened about an hour ago. He had to escape with his snakes because the police who were guarding the place surprised him.”

  The drink made me feel wonderful.

  One of the people drinking said the President was going to give a public address at eight o’clock that night.

  “They scared that fat bastard,” another drinker said gleefully, referring to the President.

  They guffawed and toasted one other.

  I came over to them.

  The clean-shaven young guy who had said he hoped they’d kill the man with the snakes that afternoon came to join us, swaying, completely drunk.

  “This goddamn bum has gotta be Jacinto Bustillo,” he mumbled, slapping me hard on the back.

  Everyone cheered.

  I started to perk up.

  “If I were him, you’d have to be careful,” I warned jokingly. “Because the snakes would get you, even in your dreams.”

  There was a burst of laughter, whistles and jeers.

  The clean-shaven guy didn’t find it funny, but caught something in my look that made him go back to where he’d come from, telling me to take my stink somewhere else.

  “Don’t listen to him, man,” said the guy who’d made fun of the President. “You have your drink in peace. You know what? I’ll buy you a beer. Niña Tila,” he shouted, raising his arm towards the old woman, “a beer for the gentleman, please. If you were the guy who’s screwing with those rich assholes and those piece-of-shit politicians, I’d carry you out of here on my shoulders.”

  There were more cheers and whistles.

  I took the beer.

  Everyone was talking about the same thing: the chaos caused by the snakes in the Chevrolet.

  The guy with the sunglasses yelled over from another group of drinkers that we should start a committee to “show solidarity with Jacinto Bustillo and his avenging snakes,” and that I, as head of all the bums in the city, should start an underground support network for Bustillo and his snakes.

  We nearly pissed ourselves laughing.

  But it was starting to get dark and I remembered that the ladies were all alone, waiting for me, especially Loli, who could get quite anxious.

  I finished my beer, said thanks, told them I’d be back in a little while, and left. I limped over to the phone booth, my pocketknife with the bone-coloured handle rubbing
against my thigh. I wondered whether it was worth it to call Rita Mena back to explain something to her that I wasn’t even clear about. She’d probably already contacted the police and Deputy Commissioner Handal had probably had her phone line tapped, just like on television, waiting for my call so he could sic his hounds on my ladies and my poor bones.

  I sat down on the curb next to the telephone. A teenage girl with meaty calves had the receiver stuck to her ear, laughing. I took another sip from my bottle, lit a cigarette and listened to her conversation. A little fat guy with a kind face lined up behind the girl.

  “I’m next,” I warned him so he wouldn’t cut in line.

  The fat guy said yes, of course. Nothing short of courteous.

  Now the girl was talking about a friend from school named Gerardo who’d died last night during the snake attack at the Esso station.

  I shamelessly looked at the dark hair on her fleshy calves. She looked uncomfortable and turned her back to me. The fat guy smiled at her.

  “Listen, I’ll call you later,” she said. “There’s a bunch of people waiting for the phone.”

  She hung up and crossed the street.

  I got up slowly. The fat guy moved back a bit to get away from my stink. I took out the clipping with the newspaper office’s phone number and dialled.

  I asked to speak to Rita Mena.

  The operator asked me who was calling, but there was a trembling in her voice that made me think she already knew, and was waiting to raise the alarm.

  I said I was a friend, that it was personal.

  She let her phone ring five times, as if she were waiting for them to be able to trace the call.

  I turned to look at the fat guy and smiled.

  “It’s me again,” I said.

  But she didn’t let me continue. She started asking a million questions, trying to confuse me and stall for time, like a real cop. I put my hand in my pocket and stroked the bone-coloured handle of my pocketknife.

  “I told you not to ask me any questions,” I said when she needed to take a breath. “I called you because I was surprised that your newspaper devoted so much space to the ladies’ work. This is the first time you’ve talked about me, and you haven’t even met me. But something tells me you aren’t being honest with me.”

  I hung up, because I sensed my time was running out.

  I said goodbye to the fat guy, who immediately grabbed the phone. I walked normally for about five metres and then started to run along the street parallel to the store, as fast as I could, as if I’d never had a limp, as if I’d never been Jacinto Bustillo.

  I hadn’t yet reached the vacant lot when the whirring of the helicopter blades and wailing of the sirens began to shake the neighbourhood.

  The shots were terrible, heavy, very powerful. I pictured the terrified look on the fat man’s face, destroyed by the impact without even knowing what was going on. I went into the vacant lot, crossed the fence, and ran to the yellow Chevrolet.

  The din had already alerted the ladies.

  “Quick!” I shouted. “Go out by the ravine!”

  They hurried out. Loli turned around as if she were going to wait for me.

  “Hurry!” I yelled in the midst of the deafening noise and the searchlights that danced wildly from the sky.

  I ran after them and, before I made it to the ravine, a light nearly hit my back.

  Everything happened in an instant – the shots, the flames, the explosions.

  I slid through the hole in the chain-link fence and fell, tumbling down the ravine below. I landed in the filthy stream, completely dazed and worn out.

  I had to get up right away, before another searchlight spotted me, before the tracer bullets combed the area.

  The din from above was terrifying. The explosions lit up the sky so it looked like daytime.

  I managed to sit up. I left in the direction of the stream, hidden on the shore, grabbing onto bushes, moving forward with great difficulty.

  I couldn’t see the ladies anywhere. I didn’t even know if they’d fallen all the way down to the stream.

  “Loli!” I screamed, but there was no answer.

  I continued to wade through the ford until I found a path covered with enough vegetation for me to risk it.

  The police were setting cars on fire indiscriminately. It was the only explanation for the thundering noise and the blaze. The helicopters were still in position, flying low and lighting up the scrapyard, the vacant lot, and the ravine.

  I reached the edge of the slum. I passed through the outskirts, trying to avoid the people staring stupefied at the assault on the scrapyard. I took a dirt road that led to a busy street. I staggered around as if I were completely drunk to throw off the people worriedly going back to their homes, trying to get away from the kind of racket they hadn’t heard since the grim days of the war.

  I stumbled along, talking to myself, gesturing at the night, babbling. I called out to Loli. My love, my beautiful girl, come with me. I called out to Beti and Carmela, my princesses who had loved me so. Don’t leave me, my darlings, what will I do without you, where have you gone? An hour later, exhausted, craving a drink, and weepy because I thought I’d never see them again, I spotted Niña’s Beatriz’s store. It was still open. I saw the spot where Don Jacinto’s yellow Chevrolet had been parked with the ladies inside. It made me think about coincidences, because three days ago at the same hour, I’d approached the beggar walking back to his car, and at this time just two days ago, thanks to my pocketknife with the bone-coloured handle, I had turned into the filthy old snake charmer.

  I climbed the staircase, took out my keys and opened the door to my sister Adriana’s apartment.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  Adriana jumped off the couch to kiss me, crying and pestering me with questions: what happened to me, where had I been, how did I end up in such a sorry state? Damián was also happy I’d returned.

  I said I needed to take a shower, shave, and change before I told them anything. I went into the bathroom. She called Deputy Commissioner Handal to tell him I’d come home, but he was away at the moment, extremely busy looking over the rubble of a scrapyard where Jacinto Bustillo, the snakes, and the yellow Chevrolet had been burned to ashes by flamethrowers and incendiary bombs.

  San Pedro de los Pinos, D.F.,

  September-October, 1995.

  Translator’s Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Marjorie Ratcliffe, Rafael Montano, Hugh Hazelton, Stephen Henighan, Christopher Bavota, my friends and family, and above all, Horacio Castellanos Moya.

  About the Author

  Horacio Castellanos Moya was born in 1957 in Honduras, but grew up in El Salvador. He has lived in Guatemala, Canada, Costa Rica, Mexico, Spain and Germany. His work has been translated into German, French, Italian, and Portuguese. His novel Senselessness was published in English to universal critical acclaim in 2008 by New Directions. He has published eight novels and is now living in exile as part of the City of Asylum project in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

  About the Translator

  Lee Paula Springer works as a freelance translator and copy editor. She lives in Montreal. Her website is www.leepaulaspringer.com

  1 “You don’t know how much I want you, you don’t know how much I’ve dreamed of you.”

  2 “You hypnotize me . . .”

  3 “Listen, my love, don’t say no . . .”

  Copyright © Horacio Castellanos Moya, 1996, 2009 Translation Copyright © Lee Paula Springer, 2009

  Originally published as Baile con serpientes, El Salvador, 1996. © Horacio Castellanos Moya, 2001, first published by Tusquets Editores 2002. By arrangement with Literarische Agentur Mertin Inh. Nicole Witt e. K., Frankfurt am Main, Germany.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Castellanos Moya, Horacio, 1957-

  Dance with snakes / Horacio Castellanos Moya ; translated from the Spanish by Lee Paula Springer.

  Translation of: Baile con serpenties.

  eISBN : 978-1-926-84503-6

  I. Springer, Lee Paula II. Title.

  PQ7539.2.C34B3413 2009

  863’.64

  C2009-904018-2

  Edited by Stephen Henighan

  PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA