O grande pecador

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Meu avó ten un corte na perna. Unha chaga profunda.

Hai na outra beira do océano, quizais preto de Maine, nunha casa de madeira comida polo

sal, un home coa mesma ferida ca meu avó. Na mesma perna. Unha profunda ferida de

guerra. Restos de metralla.

Ves, por aquí me van cortar a perna, por aquí, di meu avó. E sinala co índice por debaixo

do xeonllo.

Eu sento diante e asinto. Recoñezo a ferida. Distribúo o medo nos ollos de meu avó. Tan

profundo.

Meu avó teme a morte. Fuma e teme a morte.

Dorme a maior parte do día. Di que non descansa, que por iso se deita e tenta durmir.

Ás veces pregúntome se non será que meu avó ensaia a morte preparando o seu corpo para

a quietude. Todas esas horas aí tendido sen durmir: O ruído dos coches. O aire do cuarto

que se vicia.

Deita e trata de sentir a erosión. E non dorme porque sabe que morre un pouco cada

segundo que pasa. E por iso fuma.

Meu avó ten un corte na perna. Unha chaga profunda.

En opinión de miña avoa, meu avó porta un estigma.

Eu penso, en cambio, que el sería algo máis parecido ao grande pecador. A dor de meu avó

servindo como exemplo. O seu medo.

Pero as curas fainas ela. Así que imaxino a miña avoa metendo dous dedos na ferida.

Despois a man. Imaxino a man impoluta de miña avoa. O puño pechado de miña avoa.

Máis fondo. O cheiro a alcohol. As gasas. Máis fondo. Imaxino, impoluta, a verdade nas mans

de miña avoa.

A verdade é que o corpo de meu avó é a súa propia vítima, o seu sacrificio. Un cuarto

pechado.

Inventamos o pecado para dar sentido a este tipo de cousas.

E se quedo durmido e non esperto nunca máis? Que pasaría entón? Imaxinas?

Eu non o podo imaxinar.

Hai quen di que son hipocondríaco porque me parezo a meu avó.

Meu avó cre no pecado para ter algo que temer: O medo manteno con vida.

Miña avoa fai as curas e reza cada noite.

Van xuntos visitar lugares sagrados, igrexas pequeniñas nas que lavan a cara ou bican

reliquias. Mantéñense a salvo.

O corpo de meu avó é a verdade. Din que o meu se parece ao del. Eu sei que non, que o

corpo de meu avó é santo.

The Great Sinner

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My grandfather has a cut on his leg. A deep wound.

On the other side of the ocean, near Maine maybe, in a saltbitten house, there’s a man with

the same wound as my grandfather. On the same leg. A deep old war wound. Shrapnel.

Look here, here’s where they’re going to cut off my leg, my grandfather says. And his

finger points just below the knee.

I sit in front of him and nod. I recognize the wound. I measure the fear in my grandfather’s

eyes. So deep.

My grandfather fears death. He smokes and fears death.

He sleeps most of the day. He says he can’t get any rest, that’s why he lies down and tries

to sleep.

Sometimes I wonder if my grandfather might not be rehearsing death, preparing his body

for stillness. All those hours lying there sleeplessly. The sound of cars. The air in the room

growing stale.

He lies down and tries to feel himself eroding. And he doesn’t sleep because he knows that

he is dying a little with every passing second. And so he smokes.

My grandfather has a cut on his leg. A deep wound.

According to my grandmother, my grandfather is the bearer of a stigma.

I think, however, that he is more like the great sinner. My grandfather’s pain serving as an

example. His fear.

But she’s the one who tends the wound. So I imagine my grandmother sticking two fingers

into the gash. Then her hand. I imagine my grandmother’s immaculate hand. My

grandmother’s closed fist. Deeper. The smell of alcohol. Gauze. Deeper. I imagine the

truth, unblemished in my grandmother’s hands.

The truth is that my grandfather’s body is its own victim, its sacrifice. A closed room.

We invented sin to make sense of this sort of thing.

And what if I fall asleep and don’t wake up again? What would happen then? Can you

imagine?

I can’t imagine.

Some people say I’m a hypochondriac because I look like my grandfather.

My grandfather believes in sin so that he will have something to fear. Fear is keeping him

alive.

My grandmother tends to him and every night she prays.

Together they go to visit sacred sites, little churches where they wash their faces or kiss

relics. They’re keeping themselves out of harm’s way.

My grandfather’s body is the truth. They say that mine is like his. I know it’s not, that my

grandfather’s body is holy.