ENtities. Diego Maenza

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      ENtities

      Diego Maenza

      Translation by Elizabeth Pickwell

      Original title in Spanish:

      ENtidades

      © Diego Maenza, 2021

      © Translation by Elizabeth Pickwell

      © Tektime, 2021

      www.traduzionelibri.it

      www.diegomaenza.com

      CONTENTS

       Family History

       The Toad Who Was a Poet

       The Cave

       The Man in the Mirror

       Dawn

       The Dream

       Inner Monsters (or Fable in One Act)

       The Night Walk

       The Avaricious Man

       Ants

      Family History

      All my life I have suffered because of my physical appearance. It has been a curse that I have endured since my childhood and so ashamed have I been that I have rarely left my home.

      I am afraid that people will look at me. I dread it. It makes me tremble. Some kind doctor once diagnosed me with agoraphobia, but I knew that that mild struggle was a minor tickle compared to my actual condition. I can’t stand people looking at me. I feel stigmatized.

      As a result of my deformities, I have become a dishonour to my family which has been the cause of my misfortune and deepest traumas. I must stress: I am the embarrassment of my family. I am the black sheep in my genealogical tree, not because of my actions, but because of the way I am.

      To give you an idea, my arms are disproportionate to my body because they are not at the height that would be considered normal. My head is too big. Oh, but my father’s cranial cavity was perfect! It was the pride of his career after becoming a much-recognised public figure in almost the entire nation; women stared and marvelled at him. They went crazy at his presence; the effect he caused within them was almost devastating. I am not exaggerating when I say that upon catching a glimpse of my father as he walked by, they came out in goose bumps, but by hugging their husbands closer and sweet-talking to them, they hid the fact that deep down, they were moaning with pleasure.

      I was born with very little hair. Still, my mother loved me. A mother will always love her children, no matter how deformed they are. It infuriates me that I have such a meagre head of hair. My mother’s hair, in contrast, was generous, dense like an untouched jungle, and she showed it off shamelessly every weekend, moving in time to the rhythmic sound of some cabaret music. She always won the sincere applause of the masculine half of the audience who were hypnotised by her sensual movements. The little hair I have, on the other hand, is dull. And it pains me not to have inherited my mother’s beautiful hair.

      I never knew my grandmother, but my mother always told me that she had a special, loving, and hypnotic look. As if telling me some forbidden legend, she whispered secretly to me that there was no man who could resist her imposing gaze. About my grandfather, however, she would tell me fascinating stories out loud of the artisan wonders he made with his fantastical arms. He was a fully-fledged artist.

      Sometimes I fell in love, several times with two girls at the same time, but my distorted attempts at showing it were never picked up, and so I concluded that those beautiful girls never noticed me because of my disfigurement. I have uncles and cousins who were born with their organs in the correct position. None of them with my shortcomings.

      I look at the family album with nostalgia and pride. There was a photo of my father in the Birdmink circus, with a beautiful tiny head devoid of hair, except for a few fine golden strands adorning his microcephalus like a rising sun and with his albino, new-born eyelashes. A little less and he would have been born completely bald, handsome like no other. The photo of my mother showed her with skin covered in brown hair, her downy neck like a matriarchal lioness and her woolly arms like an Angora rabbit. The photographer captured her at her best, most radiant, when her body hair covered her entire anatomy, and nobody was allowed to overshadow her luminous show nights as a werewolf. I was captivated by the photo of my grandfather. If he were alive today, he would hug me with his six-inch upper limbs and his minuscule fingers which had transformed into crippled stumps. And I know that he would hug me, despite feeling embarrassed at the thought of my perfectly proportioned arms. My grandmother, with her one eye in the middle of her forehead, would have shed a stream of tears if she had met me at birth, when she noticed my two perfectly aligned hazel-coloured eyes. But my mother would have always loved me, despite me having this horrible smooth skin.

      I was born like that, deformed, and they will never know the shame I feel. When my parents died and I was fifteen, the elephant man and the bearded woman exiled me from the circus, claiming that there was nothing special about me. They said that I did not possess any particular characteristic to justify my staying with them, because as I grew older, I looked more and more like a common spectator. When I was expelled from the big top, I resigned myself to the realisation that I would never conquer the double heart of the Siamese twins. That certainty is the most unpleasant part of my condition. Yes, I am a freak and it’s exhausting. It is a curse that I must bear until the last of my days.

      The Toad Who Was a Poet

      and yet I love you toad,

      how that woman from Lesbos loved the early roses

      but more and your smell is more beautiful because I can smell you

      Juan Gelman, Lament for the toad by stanley hook

      It was never a secret to anyone, that from a very young age, Toad loved to frequent the ponds. When he was just an infant, Toad discovered an indescribable pleasure in being splattered with mud. It was something that made him feel unique, special, different, empowered, especially considering that the mothers of the other boys did not allow their offspring to bathe in the filth of the swampy pools. So, when Toad returned home from the swamps, smeared with dried mud and the remains of water lilies on his only overalls, in the sight of his pubescent friends, he was like an anonymous hero returning from his fight against the incarnation of evil. The boys had a secret admiration for him. The same could not be said for their mothers, for whom Toad represented the personification of filth and neglect. They were disgusted and fearful, feelings disguised, of course, as a supposed look of pity.

      In spite of everything, the boys were always attentive to him, and when they noticed that Toad was prowling around with the intention of joining in with their games, the boys, counting on his friendship, revelled in the commotion he brought to the group. This way, the next day they would have a very important topic of conversation at the school gates. They threw the ball at him, and as always, Toad stopped it with his robust vocal sac that forced him to emit a loud and healthy croak.

      In ball games, Toad was always the goalkeeper, as his powerful legs allowed him to give the necessary momentum to guide his heavy body towards the ball and stop it with his webbed fingers. Toad would then adopt a smile of complacency and happiness and the boys would