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Hernan Lara Zavala

Iguana HuntingIN THOSE DAYS we went into the wild tohunt. I had come from the city to stay withmy grandparents in Zitilchen for my holidays,and I'd already made some friends. From thelow hill that rises south of town, Chidra, thehalf-breed Mayan, would first go to call forCrispin. When he reached the house, he gave along whistle and out Crispin came: short,nervous, cunning. Then they came to fetch m e.On their way they collected the stones we wereto use. They were special stones, almost round,and they rattled in our pockets as wejourneyed on.

When they got to our farm Chidra whistledagain, and my grandfather would come to thedoor to let them in. Chidra lived in the wild,and had eaten no food. Not so Crispin. Helived a few streets away and I knew he had hada good breakfast. Both, however, accepted thehot chocolate and rolls my grandmotheroffered them. While we ate, my grandfather,tall but stooping, joked gravely with us, as washis manner. With Crispin particularly: the oldman was very fond of Crispin. He used to callhim "don Crispin" and every now and thenhe'd suggest jobs for him inspired by hisdiminutive stature and resilient character. Heasked him once: "How would you like to jointhe army when you grow up? Your heightwould be greatly in your favour." Crispinresponded with a dutiful chuckle, revealing thedough between his teeth. In the meantime,Chidra, his mind elsewhere, ate voraciously.My grandfather seldom addressed him. Irecall, however, one of his few observationsabout Chidra. He was talking to Crispin aboutPadre Garcia's extravagantly mystical ser-mons: "No", he said, "you're qualified for allsorts of job s but n ot that of a priest. You'retoo much of this world. I would have to thinkof somebody else for t h a t . . . 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 doorand saw us off: Chidra, the tallest, still in hiselder brother's old shorts; Crispin, theshortest, already in long trouse rs, both of themprovoking all sorts of witticisms as they went.

ALTHOUGH WE ACTUALLY PROPOSEDiguana hunting, our expeditions werelikely to involve anything. In our forays wespent our time looking for V-shaped branchesto make catapults with, or stealing wedges ofhone ycom b from the hives left out in the fields.Often, as we were walking out of town, wewould climb the wall of some orchard to stealoranges or to take a swim in the reservoir. Onsuch occasions I arrived home for dinnerclutching my damp underpants in my hand.As soon as my grandmother saw me she'dsay: "Have you been swimming in Tomas'reservoir again? The day he finds out you'll bein big trouble and it'll be no use coming tome."

Many were the times we went out to hunt,but it has to be adm itted that iguana s were noteasy prey. We'd occasionally catch oneandthen we'd sell it to a well-known iguana-eaterin townbut their natural colours servedthem all too well. We hunted turtle-doves,lizards, and, on one occasion even anarmadillo that Chidra grabbed by the tail. Assoon as we were on our own, shooting hereand there at the slightest movement in thebushes, Chidra, who in the presence of adultswas invariably silent and reserved, couldrestrain himself no longer. He would tell us thestrange occurrences that, according to him, heexperienced in his daily walk back home.

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Hernan Lara ZavalaThese tales always provoked Crispin's angerand contempt. Chidra spoke, for instance,about the afternoon when, returning homefrom town, he had seen a herd of elephants."I yelled out for help but nobody c a m e .. . . ""That was when you took coffee for the firsttime in your bloody life. I don't know howmany coffees you ha d, but it drove you craz y",said Crispin, annoyed.

Chidra, however, would not be swayed. Hetold us that sometimes when he was on hisway home towards midnight he could hearsomebody hissing insistently: "pssst. . .p ss st . . . . " But he never dared turn around tosee who it was because he was sure the noiseswere produced by Xtabay, the evil womanfrom Mayan mythology. He explained to usthat those who turned to see her could notresist her summons since, apart from her feet,her beauty was irresistible. She hid behind thetrunk of a ceybo tree and those who respondedto her charm s woke up next morning with theirbodies covered with tho rns.We knew the legend of course. But whenChidra talked about it, he was charged withsuch conviction that almost every boy intownCrispin exceptedlistened to himenthralled. H e told us about a cave in the heartof the wild that led directly to hell. He toldus about a wandering Indian, known asTzintzinito, who was condemned to roamendlessly through the wild.On one of those mornings Chidra told usthat while returning from the camp where hisfather worked collecting gum, he had seen anaked woman with beautiful long hair bathingin a deep pool. Half joking, half serious,Crispin said:"Of course you'll tell us she was Xtabay.""I don't know", answered Chidra. "Thewoman I saw in the pool had the whitest feet Iever saw. She had long golden hair.""H e's a liar."" N o , I'm not", said Chidra, crossing himself

and kissing his thum b."W hen w as this?", I asked."Yesterday afternoon.""Th at 's hardly the time Xtabay would comeout.""We'll get him now", said Crispin. "Proveit.""If you want. But I'd better tell you it's along wa y.""He's afraid", said Crispin.

"Let's go", answered Chidra. "If you'rewilling, let's go ."

CHIDRA KNEW THE AREA well. Not Onlybecause he lived in the wild but becauseof his father's work. Chidra was responsiblefor bringing him food and other necessitiesevery so often. Once in the wild he was theofficial guide. We left town. We passed theorchards, we passed the hives, we penetratedthe wild. We struggled through theundergrowth, parting bushes and tramplingweeds. Chidra, confident of his capabilities,moved his head restlessly like a wild animal ona fresh scent.

There was something uncanny about thewhole affair. In Zitilchen days are usually hotand cloudless. That day, however, was humidand grey. When we were in the thickest andmost tangled part of the wild we suddenlycame across some ancient ruins. Crispin and Iwere stunned. It was a small abandonedMayan village but so well kept that it seemedinhabited. We were silent, looking around inawe. After a while Chidra said, "This way.We're nearly there now." Crispin stared at me.I could sense that, likemyself, he was afraid aswell as fascinated.

Chidra moved forward again, parting thescrub that stood in our way. Nobody thoughtabout the iguanas. Our sole concern wasfinding out the truth about Chidra's tale.Finally we came to the edge of a large pool. Itwas a transparent green and its waters wereunusually quiet and still. There was nobodyaround. We found a clearing and hid behindsome mangrove trees while we tried to agreewhat to do. Perhaps there never had beenanyone around, except in Chidra's imagina-tion. Crispin wanted to go back to town andrepeated constantly that Chidra was a liar. Abloody liar. They had a long argument andwere about to come to blows when I sawsomebody moving on the other side of thepool. We quickly fell silent, curious to see whoit was. A bearded man appeared. We could seehim clearly: he was dressed for the bush. Hewore glasses and was smoking a pipe. He hada saucepan and as he came to the edge of thepool, he put some soil in the pot and sank itin the water, emptying it some moments later.He was about to leave when a woman, dressed

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Iguana Huntingjust like him, appeared, bringing a few moreutensils to be washed. We couldn't hear whatthey were saying."The re she is", said Chidra slowly.And it was true, she was just as Chidra haddescribed her: a tall, blonde woman. We sawthem for just a few minutes; as soon as theyfinished their washing they left the pool. Westayed on, still waiting, when Crispin brokeour silence. He stood up and said, "Sh it I'vegot a dreadful itching. What the hell is it?" Helifted up his shirt to show u s his back ."Ticks", said Chidra."Blast " said Crispin as he took off isshirt."We must be covered in them too", Chidrasaid to me, looking at his ankles, scratchinghimself and standing up to take off his ownshirt. I did the same. We undressed ourselvesin order to shake off the ticks from our clothes.Chidra even had ticks in his armpits, entangledin the wispy hair. We were covered in them.We were still naked when Chidra began to talkabout the woman we had briefly seen, full ofthe fact that this proved he was no liar. He toldus again how, the day before, as he waswandering around the mangroves, he had seena tall, blonde, white woman bathing in thepool. He described her meticulously. He hadseen here in her entirety: feminine, naked,almost divine. He was enraptured. Carriedaway by Chidra's description, I noticed, at

first with alarm and then with relief, that allthree of us were experiencing the very samesensation.

OUR BODIES full of ti cks , very tired, we g otback to Zitilchen well after dark. Wereached my grandfather's farm. I waved good-bye to Crispin and Chidra. My eyelids wereheavy. My friends walked down the street. Ithought about the blonde woman. I felt theticks all over my body. Thorns. I wasexhausted yet Chidra had a long way to go.Once in the house I went straight to mygrandmother."I'm covered in ticks", I said. "Help me getrid of them.""What's a few ticks?", she answered."They're not black widows. Come on then, offwith your clothes and lie down in bed while Iwarm up some wax."Feeling her press me all over with the hotwax, I heard her ask:"For heaven's sake, there's thousands ofthem Where on earth have you been?""Today we met Xtabay", I answered,satisfied.

Translated fromthe Spanishby theauthorincollaboration with ndrewC Jefford

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Alexander Zinoviev

The Radiant FuturePages from a New NovelW HERE TH E Avenue of Marxism-Leninismmeets Cosmonaut Square, a great per-manent slogan was erected read ing: "Long LiveCommunismThe Radiant Future of AllMankind " The slogan was erectedatthe requestofthe workers. It was a long time in the building,mainly in winter, when costs are higher. A hugeamount ofmoney waspoured into itno less it isrumoured) than wasinvested in the whole of ouragriculture duringthefirst five-year plan. But toda ywe are very rich, and such expenses are a merenothing. Wehave spent even m ore on the Arabswithout breaking ourselves. What wespent on theArabs was a complete waste, whiletheSloganis asourceofund oubte d benefit.

As might have been expected,theSloganwas ofvery shoddy construction. Thepaint began to peeleven before the Slogan was put to use. Theindividual letters became progressively coveredin asort of grey grime, and fell to bits. Therefore theSlogan had to be completely repaired at least threetimes a year: once for the May Daycelebrations,oncefor the November celebrations,and oneveryoccasion when Moscow entered for the All-Unioncontest for the model communist city, and themulti-million army of Moscow office workerswasdrivenout on to thestreetstocleanup therubbish.As a result them aintenance of the Slogan costtheState several times more than its initial construc-tion. And to judge by the vulgar graffiti whichadorn the supports of the letters, the educationaleffect of theSlogan has not yet achieved eventhehalfof its planned potential.

Asthe 25th Congress of the CPSU drew near,itwas decided to put an end to this outrage.Newlettersfor the Slogan were cast in stainless steelatthe Brewery named inhonourofthe21stCongressof the CPSU (formerly the Marshal BudyonnyBrewery). They were cast by theshock-workersofcommunist labour in their overtime. The letterswere madeofbee. . . ,forgive me, metal, whichhad

been specially saved up by theworkers in honourof the forthcoming Cong ress. The letters weremounted on a mighty concrete pedestal. The con-crete itself had been saved up by the constructionworkers of Moscow inhonourof the forthcomingCongress. So, on this occasion, not only wasnothing spent on the Slogan, there was even aprofit, as thebuildersof the Slogan had savedupmore thantenmillion rou blesinhonour of the forth-coming Congress. It was decided to spend thesecarefully garnered resourceson theconstructionofpermanent reinforced concrete frames tocarrytheportraits of the members of the Politburo, thusputting the crowning glory as the newspaperssaid) to the splendid architectural ensemble ofCosmonaut Square and thewastegroun d adjoiningit. Defending his idea about the portraits to theCentral Committee,thechief city arch itect assertedfrankly thatbythis mea ns we wouldbeabletocon-ceal theuglinessof the wasteground from theeyesof the foreigners. For after all, we cannot ridourselves completely of foreigners at the presenttime

THE OFFICIAL OPENING of the Slogan was a mostsolemn occasion. The Avenue was resurfaced.There were many foreign journalistsanddiplomaticrepresentatives. Countless guests came from thefriendly parties of Africa and South America,andthere were also delegations from all the countriesofthe Socialist camp. There were also guests ofhonour from the lands of capitalismthe Italianactress Sophia Bordobrigida, that personal friendof the Soviet Union the American millionaireHamson, the farmer Z drast, the French singerGeorges Ivanov, and many others . Theceremonywas filmed. To the accompaniment of tempes-tuous applause from the representatives of theworkers who crammed the Avenue, the Squarean d thewasteground, an Honorary Presidiumwas