VENTO FERIDO


















O xogo da guerra



Botaron a sortes e tocoume a min. Eu penso que fixeron trampa, pero calei. Díxome o Rata: "Vai". Eu non quería ir, digo a verdade. Pero cando o Rata dicía vai, había que ir. O Rata estaba tolo, segundo a miña nai. Pero eu penso que non estaba tolo, que era atravesado e de mala lei. "Vai", dixo outra vez. E fun. A casa de don Domingo quedaba lonxe. Algo asó como a dous quilómetros. Tiven que dar un rodeo para non pasar por diante da zapatería do meu pai. Pensei:"escapo para a casa e xa está". Pero collín medo. Ademais ía calor e na casa no verán non se para coas moscas. 
Cheguei ao chalé de don Domingo e berrei:
 -¡Zalo...!
 Ladraron os cans. Agardei un pouco e volvín chamar:
 -¡Zalo..! 

Cando apareceu, de seguida me dei conta de que viña de durmir a sesta. Díxome: "¿Que pasa!? Eu díxenlle: "O Rata agárdate no río. Cazou unha bolboreta moi bonita. Di que vaias, que cha dá para a coleción". O Zalo era tolo polas bolboretas. E o Rata, que cabrón, cómo lle sabía dar co gusto á xente.
 -¿Onde está o Rata?
 -No campo da bomba. 
Saímos correndo. Cando chegamos, o Rata estaba bañandose no río. Ao nos ver, saíu. Mirou ao Zalo con cara de atravesado e díxolle: "Hola, "¿Queres a bolboreta?". O Zalo volveuse cara a min como preguntando. A verdade, eu non quería. O Rata asubiou e entre todos botáronse ao Zalo. Espírono e atárono a un amieiro. O Zalo choraba e a min déronme ganas de chorar. Eso non se lle fai a ninguén e menos a traición. O Rata chuspiulle alí, naquel sitio, e chamoulle caguetas. "Non se chora", dixo. Despois colleu un vimbio e pasoullo polas pernas o pola barriga sen lle dar. Botamos a sortes e tocoume a min. Quixen fuxir ou tirarme ao río, pero o Rata miroume así, como mira el, e collín o vimbio. "Veña"- Díxenlle que non. "Mira, Rafael, que te imos atar a ti". "Non", "Mira Rafael, que non me enchas". "Mira Rafael..." Pola voz souben que me ía dicir o da miña nai. Agarrei o vimbio e funme cara ó Zalo. Eu non quería, ben o sabe Deus. E deille no pescozo. Os outros berraron: "¡Máis!" E eu non vía. E daba. E sentía o sol dentro da cabeza e os chíidos do Zalo, que se me espetaban nos ouvidos. E daba. "¡Máis!" Doíame o brazo de tanto subir e baixar. "¡Máis!" Cando mirei para o Zalo gañei medo. Sangraba por todas partes e comíano as moscas. Estaba como morto. Non falaba. O Rata e os outros fuxiron. Eu tamén fuxín.        
Eu non quería, digo a verdade. Díxenllo a aquel señor, pero non me fixeron caso. Tamén lle dixen que fora por sortes, que em tocara a min. Pero non me escoitou. Faloume do inferno e entón calei. 

Agora estou neste colexio. Aquí levo un ano. É primavera e non podo saír. Ao mellor saio para xuño. Onte leváronme á sala de castigos. Din que non se pode andar sós, que hai que xogar. Tampouco se pode andar de dous an dous. A puta que os pariu a todos. Eu quero andar só para pensar. A min non me gusta xogar ao fútbol nin ao frontón. Gústame xogar no labavo. E non se pode. Está prohibido. Pero polas noites, cando todos dormen, érgome e vou aos lavabos e xogo á guerra. Pollo día collo moscas e gárdoas nunha caixa de mistos. Pola noite meto as moscas na pileta e ábrolle á billa, pouquiño a pouco, paseniño. As moscas soben, foxen pola pileta enriba, pero eu doulles para abaixo cunha paliña e afogan. É a guerra. Un día colléronme e leváronme á sala de castigos. E chamáronme marrán por andar coas moscas nas mans. ¿E que? Se non fose pola guerra, podrecía de noxo. No inverno, como non había moscas, xogaba cos cachiños de papel, pero non é tan bonito. 

Para xullo din que saio. O Rata, ao mellor, pensa que me esquecín. Estache bon. Estache bon. Heino arranxar ben arranxado. El ha pensar que somos amigos. Estache bon ¡Ai, Rata! “¿Vés ao río?” El vén, que lle gusta moito. “¿Xogamos aos submarinos?” El xoga, que lle gusta moito xogar aos submarinos. Primeiro paso eu. Paso dúas ou tres veces. Despois que pase el. Eu escarránchome e el pasa por debaixo da auga entre as miñas pernas. E así dúas ou tres veces, para que se confíe. Pouquiño a pouco. Paseniño. E entón, hala, cando pase, pecho as pernas e queda preso polo pescozo. Pouquiño a pouco. Paseñino. Como as moscas da pileta.




The war game

They decided it by lot and I drew the short straw. I think they cheated, but I kept quiet. The Rat said, 'Off you go.' I didn't want to go, and that's the truth. But when the Rat said off you go, off you went. The Rat was mad, to my Mum's mind. But I think he wasn't mad, I think he was crooked and evil. 'Off you go', he said again. And off I went. Don Domingo's house was far away. About two kilometres away. I had to go the long way round so as not to pass my Dad's cobbler's shop. I thought, 'I'll run off home and that'll be that.' But I grew afraid. And anyway it was hot and you can't stop at home in the summer for the flies.
I reached Do Domingo's villa and shouted:
'Zalo...!'
The dogs barked. I waited a bit again and shouted again:
'Zalo...!'

When he showed I saw at once he'd been having a sesta. He said, 'What's up?' I said, 'The Rat's waiting at the river. He's caught a lovely butterfly. He says you must go, he'll let you have it for your collection.' Zalo was mad about butterflies. An the Rat, what a bastard, he knew how to tickle people's fancy all right.
'Where's the Rat.?'
In the Bomba field.'
We set off running. When we arrived, the Rat was having a swim in the river. On seeing us he got out. He looked at Zalo with a crooked look and said, 'Hullo, do you want the butterfly?' Zalo turned towards me, questioning. The truth is, I didn't want to. The Rat whistled and they all fell on Zalo. They stripped him and tied him to and alder tree. Zalo was cryng and I felt like crying. You don't do that to anybody and even less in such an underhand way. The Rat spat on him here, down here, and called him a shit-scared coward. 'Boys don't cry, he said, Then he cut a willow cane and brushed it over his legs and his belly without hitting him. We decided it by lot and I drew the short straw. I wanted to run away or jump into the river, but the Rat looked at me in that way, that way he looks at people, and I took the cane. 'Come on.' I said I wouldn't. 'Look Rafael, you drew the short straw.' I said no. 'Look, Rafael, it'll be you we tie up.' 'No .' 'Look, Rafael, don't make me cross.?' 'Look Rafael...' From his voice I could tell he was going to say that thing about my mother. I grabbed the cane and walked towards Zalo. God knows I didn't want to. And I hit him on his neck. The others shouted, 'More!' I clenched my teeth and I felt my eyes filling with tears and I couldn't see. And I hit him on his legs, on his shoulders, in his face, on his chest. He was bleendig and screaming. And the others were saying, 'More!' And I couldn't see. And I keep hitting.'More' My arm hurt from going up and down so much. 'More!' When I looked at Zalo I grew scared. He was bleeding everywhere and the flies were swarming all over him. He looked as if he was dead. He wasn't speaking. The Rat and the others ran away. I ran away too.
I didn't want to, and that's the truth. I told that gentleman so, but he didn't take any notice. I also told him it had been done by lot and I'd drawn the short straw. But the wouldn't listen. He talked about hell and the I kept quiet.

Now I'm at this school. I've been here a year. It's been here a year, It's spring and I can't get. I might get out in July. Yesterday they took me to the punishment room. They say you can't go around on your own, you've got to play. You can't go around in twos, either. Bugger the lot of them. I want to go around on my own to think.  I don't like playing football or pelota. I like playing in the bogs. And you can't. It's forbidden. But at night, when everybody's asleep, I get up and go to the bogs and play at wars. In the daytime. I catch flies and keep them in matchbox. At night I put the flies in the sink and turn on the tap, little by little, slowly. The flies crawl up, they try to scape, up the sides of the sink, but I push them down with a straw and they drown. This is war. They drown little by little. It´s the war game. One day they caught me and took me to the punishment room. And they called me a dirty pig for going around touching flies. So what? If it wasn't for the war, I'd die of boredom. In the winter, as there weren't any flies. I used to play with little bits of paper, but it isn't so good.

They said I'll get out in July. As for the Rat, maybe he thinks I've forgotten. He's got another think coming. Oh, Rat! Hes got another think coming. I'm going to sort him out good and proper. He'll think we're friends. He's got another think comig. Oh, Rat! 'Are you coming to the river?'  And he'll come, he loves it. 'Shall we play submarines?' And he'll play, he loves playing submarines. First I go through. I go through two or three times. Then he can go through. I open my legs and he swims between them under water. And we go on like this two or three times, for him to get more sure of himself. Little by little. Slowly. And then, gotcha, when he goes through, I close my legs and he's trapped by the neck. Little by little. Slowly. Like the flies in the sink.


Translation by Rosa Rutherford







Vento ferido (1967)
Carlos Casares 

Logo da Fundación Carlos Casares con motivo das Letras Galegas deste ano
Capa e contrapa pa primeira edición de Vento Ferido (1967) Editorial Galaxia
Debuxo en O xogo da guerra, de Xulio Maside
Cartel da serie para televisión de Vento Ferido (2015)








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