a balada do café triste

The town itself is dreary; not much is there except the cotton mill, the two-room houses where the workers live, a few peach trees, a church with two colored windows, and a miserable main street only a hundred yards long. On Saturdays the tenants from the from the near-by farms come in for a day of talk and trade. Otherwise the town is lonesome, sad, and like a place that is far off and estranged from all other places in the world. The nearest train stop is Society City, and the Greyhound and White Bus Lines use the Forks Falls Road which is three miles away. The winters here are short and raw, the summers white with glare and fiery hot.

If you walk along the main street on an August afternoon there is nothing whatsoever to do. The largest building, in the very center of the town, is boarded up completely and leans so fat to the right that it seems bound to collapse at any minute. The house is very old. There is about it a curious, cracked look that is very puzzling until you suddenly realize that at one time, and long ago, the right side of the front porch had been painted, and part of the wall – but the painting was left unfinished and one portion of the house is darker and dingier than the other. The building looks completely deserted. Nevertheless, on the second floor there is one window which is not boarded; sometimes in the last afternoon when the heat is at its worst a hand will slowly open the shutter and a face will look down on the town. It is a face like the terrible dim faces known in dreams – sexless and white, with two gray crossed eyes which are turned inward so sharply that they seem to be exchanging with each other one long and secret gaze of grief. The face lingers at the window for an hour or so, then the shutters are closed once more, and as likely as not there will not be another soul to be seen along the main street. These August afternoons – when your shift is finished there is absolutely nothing to do; you might as well walk down to the Forks Falls Road and listen to the chain gang.

However, here in this very town there was once a café. And this old boarded-up house was unlike any other place for many miles around. There were tables with cloths and paper napkins, colored streamers from the electric fans, great gatherings on Saturday nights. The owner of the place was Miss Amelia Evans. But the person most responsible for the success and gaiety of the place was a hunchback called Cousin Lymon. One other person had a part in the story of this café – he was the former husband of Miss Amelia, a terrible character who returned to the town after a long term in the penitentiary, caused ruin, and then went on his way again. The café has long since been closed, but it is still remembered.

The place was not always a café. Miss Amelia inherited the building from her father, and it was a store that carried mostly feed, guano, and staples such as meal and snuff. Miss Amelia was rich. In addition to the store she operated a still three miles back in the swamp, and ran out the best liquor in the country. She was a dark, tall woman with bones and muscles like a man. Her hair was cut short and brushed back from the forehead, and there was about her sunburned face a tense, haggard quality. She might have been a handsome woman if, even then, she was not slightly cross-eyed. There were those who would have courted her, but Miss Amelia cared nothing for the love of men and was a solitary person. Her marriage had been unlike any other marriage ever contracted in this country – it was a strange and dangerous marriage, lasting only for ten days, that left the whole town wondering and shocked. Except for this queer marriage, Miss Amelia had lived her life alone. Often she spent whole nights back in her shed in the swamp, dressed in overalls and gum boots, silently guarding the low fire of the still.

With all things which could be made by the hands Miss Amelia prospered. She sold chitterlings and sausage in the town near-by. On the autumn days, she ground sorghum, and the syrup from her vats was dark golden and delicately flavored. She built the brick privy behind her store in only two weeks and was skilled in carpentering. It was only with people that Miss Amelia was not at ease. People, unless they are nilly-willy or very sick, cannot be taken into the hands and changed overnight to something more worthwhile and profitable. So that the only use the Miss Amelia had for other people was to make money out of them. And in this he succeeded. Mortgages on crops and property, a sawmill, money in the bank – she was the richest woman for miles around. She would have been rich as a congressman if it were not for her one great failing, and that was her passion for lawsuits and the courts. She would involve herself in long and bitter litigation over just a trifle. It was said that if Miss Amelia so much as stumbled over a rock in the road she would glance around instinctively as though looking for something to sue about it. Aside from these lawsuits she lived a steady life and every day was much like the day that had gone before. With the exception of her ten-day marriage, nothing happened to change this until the spring of the year that Miss Amelia was thirty years old.

It was towards midnight on a soft quiet evening in April. The sky was the colour of a blue swamp iris, the moon clear and bright. The crops that spring promised well and in the past weeks the mill had run a night shift. Down by the creek the square brick factory was yellow with light, and there was the faint, steady hum of the looms. It was such a night when it is good to hear from faraway, across the dark fields, the slow song of a Negro on his way to make love. Or when it is pleasant to sit quietly and pick a guitar, or simply to rest alone and think of nothing at all. The street that evening was deserted, but Miss Amelia's store was lighted and on the porch outside there were five people. One of these was Stumpy MacPhail, a foreman with a red face and dainty, purplish hands. On the top step were two boys in overalls, the Rainey twins - both of them lanky and slow, with white hair and sleepy green eyes. The other man was Henry Macy, a shy and timid person with gentle manners and nervous ways, who sat on the edge of the bottom step. Miss Amelia herself stood leaning against the side of the open door, her feet crossed in their big swamp boots, patiently untying knots in a rope she had come across. They had not talked for a long time.

One of the twins, who had been looking down the empty road, was the first to speak. 'I see something coming,' he said.

'A calf got loose,' said his brother.

The approaching figure was still too distant to be clearly seen. The moon made dim, twisted shadows of the blossoming peach trees along the side of the road. In the air the odour of blossoms and sweet spring grass, mingled with the warm, sour smell of the near-by lagoon.

'No. It's somebody's youngun,' said Stumpy MacPhail.

Miss Amelia watched the road in silence. She had put down her rope and was fingering the straps of her overalls with her brown bony hand. She scowled, and a dark lock of hair fell down on her forehead. While they were waiting there, a dog from one of the houses down the road began a wild, hoarse howl that continued until a voice called out and hushed him. It was not until the figure was quite close, within the range of the yellow light from the porch, that they saw clearly what had come.

The man was a stranger, and it is rare that a stranger enters the town on foot at that hour. Besides, the man was a hunchback. he was scarcely more than four feet tall and he wore a ragged, rusty coat that reached only to his knees. His crooked little legs seemed too thin to carry the weight of his great warped chest and the hump that sat on his shoulders. He had a very large hear, with deep-set blue eyes and a sharp little mouth. His face was both soft and sassy - at the moment his pale skin was yellowed by dust and there were lavender shadows beneath his eyes. He carried a lopsided old suitcase which was tied with a rope.

'Evening,' said the hunchback, and he was out of breath.

Miss Amelia and the men on the porch neither answered his greeting nor spoke. They only looked at him.

'I am hunting for Miss Amelia Evans.'

The Ballad of the Sad Café

Carson McCullers

1951 Houghton Mifflin

a balada do café triste

traducido por Salomé Rodríguez Vázquez

Barbantesa

A vila en si é ben triste; non ten moito á parte da fábrica de algodón, as casas de dous cuartos onde viven os obreiros, uns poucos pexegueiros, unha igrexa con dúas vidreiras e unha miserable rúa principal de apenas cen metros de longo. Os sábados os granxeiros dos arredores chegan para parolar e facer as compras. Fóra diso, a vila é solitaria, triste, coma un lugar afastado e separado do resto do mundo. A estación de tren máis próxima é Society City, e as liñas de autobuses Greyhound e White Bus pasan pola estrada de Forks Falis, que está a tres millas. Os invernos son curtos e duros, os veráns resplandecentes de luz e dunha calor atroz.

Se un vai pola rúa principal nunha tarde de agosto non atopa nada en absoluto que facer. O edificio máis grande, no centro mesmo da vila, está completamente pechado con táboas cravadas e inclínase tanto á dereita que semella condenado a derrubarse en calquera intre. A casa é moi antiga. Ten un aire curioso e ruinoso que desconcerta ata que, de súpeto, un se dá de conta de que algún día, hai moito tempo, se pintou o lado dereito do soportal e parte da fachada; mais o traballo quedou sen rematar e unha metade da casa é máis escura e lóbrega cá outra. O edificio semella completamente abandonado. Aínda así, na segunda planta hai unha fiestra que non está apuntalada; ás veces, á tardiña, cando a calor é sufocante, vese unha man abrir as contras e un rostro que mira a rúa. É un deses terribles rostros difusos que aparecen nos soños: asexuado e pálido, con dous ollos grises birollos, tan inclinados para dentro que semellan estar intercambiando unha longa e secreta mirada apesarada. Ese rostro queda mirando pola fiestra durante unha hora; logo, as contras féchanse outra vez e o máis seguro é que non se vexa unha alma ao longo da rúa principal. Estas tardes de agosto, despois de traballar, non hai nada que facer; un podería, como moito, ir á estrada de Forks Falls e escoitar os condenados a traballos forzados.

Así e todo, nesta mesma vila houbo unha vez un café. E aquela casa pechada non se semellaba a ningunha outra en moitas millas á redonda. Había mesas con manteis e panos de papel, ventiladores eléctricos con cintas de cores prendidas e grandes xuntanzas os sábados á noite. A propietaria do local era a señorita Amelia Evans. Pero o mérito do éxito e da animación do local era maiormente dun chepudo ao que chamaban o curmán Lymon. Hai outra persoa que participou na historia deste café: o ex-marido da señorita Amelia, un personaxe terrible que volveu á vila despois de cumprir unha longa condena no cárcere, provocou desastres, e logo marchou por onde viñera. O café leva xa moito tempo pechado, pero aínda o lembran.

Aquilo non sempre fora un café. A señorita Amelia herdara o edificio do seu pai como un almacén de penso, guano e produtos de primeira necesidade, como comestibles e tabaco. A señorita Amelia era rica. Ademais do almacén dirixía unha destilería a tres millas da vila, no pantano, e vendía o mellor alcol do condado. Era unha muller morena, alta, con osamenta e musculatura de home. Tiña o cabelo curto, peiteado para atrás, e a súa cara queimada polo sol tiña un aire tenso e consumido. Puido ser unha muller bonita se non fose un pouco birolla. Non lle faltaran pretendentes, pero á señorita Amelia traíaa sen coidado o amor dos homes; era unha persoa solitaria. O seu casamento foi unha cousa excepcional no condado: foi un matrimonio estraño e perigoso que durou só dez días e deixou toda a vila asombrada e escandalizada. A parte dese raro enlace, a señorita Amelia sempre vivira soa. Pasaba con frecuencia noites enteiras no seu alpendre do pantano, vestida cunha funda de faena e botas de goma, vixiando en silencio o lume lento da destilería.

Á señorita Amelia dábanselle ben tódolos traballos manuais. Vendía miúdos e salchichas na vila do lado. Nos días solleiros do outono plantaba sorgo, e o xarope que tiña nos toneis era dunha cor dourada escura e de delicado recendo. Construíra o retrete de ladrillo detrás do almacén en só dúas semanas e era mañosa tamén coa carpintería. Soamente coa xente non estaba a gusto. A xente, a non ser que sexa completamente parva ou estea moi enferma, non se pode coller e transformar dun día para outro en algo máis interesante e útil. Así pois, a única utilidade que a señorita Amelia vía na xente era poder sacarlle cartos. E iso dábaselle ben. Hipotecas sobre colleitas e propiedades, un serradoiro, cartos no banco, ... Era a muller máis rica en varias millas á redonda. Podería ser tan rica coma un congresista se non fose por unha gran debilidade; a súa paixón polos preitos e os tribunais. Enredábase en longos e amargos litixios por calquera minucia. Dicíase que ata cando a señorita Amelia tropezaba cunha pedra na rúa miraba decontado ao seu redor coma se buscase quen demandar. A parte dos preitos, levaba unha vida tranquila na cal os días non se diferenciaban uns dos outros. A excepción do seu matrimonio de dez días, nada aconteceu que cambiase isto, ata a primavera en que fixo trinta anos.

Eran preto das doce dunha tranquila e fresca noite de abril. O ceo estaba azul coma os lirios do pantano, a lúa clara e brillante. Esa primavera a colleita prometía, e a fábrica traballaba día e noite dende había semanas. Abaixo, onda o regato, a fábrica de ladrillo estaba iluminada e oíase o leve e constante rumor dos teares. Era unha desas noites en que dá gusto escoitar ao lonxe, a través dos campos escuros, a lenta canción dun negro que vai facer o amor. Tamén é agradable sentar tranquilamente e coller unha guitarra, ou simplemente descansar e non pensar en nada en absoluto. A rúa estaba deserta esa noite, pero había luz no almacén da señorita Amelia e fóra, no soportal, había cinco persoas. Unha delas era Stumpy MacPhail, un capataz de rostro colorado e mans delicadas e moradas. No chanzo de arriba había dous rapaces vestidos con fundas de faena, os xemelgos Rainey, ámbolos dous desgairados e lentos, de cabelo moi louro e de ollos verdes somnolentos. O outro home era Henry Macy, unha persoa tímida e retraída de maneiras delicadas e xestos nerviosos, que estaba sentado no bordo do chanzo máis baixo. A señorita Amelia estaba apoiada na porta, de pernas cruzadas e con botas de auga, desfacendo pacientemente os nós dunha corda que atopara. Levaban moito tempo calados.

Un dos xemelgos, que estivera mirando para a estrada deserta, foi o primeiro en romper o silencio.

-Aí vén algo -dixo.

-Un xato que fuxiu -dixo seu irmán.

A figura que se achegaba aínda estaba demasiado lonxe para que a visen con claridade. A lúa proxectaba as sombras difusas e tortas dos pexegueiros en flor que había ao longo da estrada. Mesturábanse no ar o aroma das flores e a herba fresca da primavera co cheiro quente e acedo da lagoa próxima.

-Non, é algún raparigo -dixo Stumpy McPhail.

A señorita Amelia miraba en silencio para a estrada. Pousara a corda e estaba enredando cos tirantes da funda de faena coa súa man morena e osuda. Engurrou o cello e un guecho de cabelo escuro caeulle sobre a fronte. Mentres estaban alí agardando, o can dunha das casas da estrada empezou a ouvear cun son salvaxe e ronco que só cesou cando un berro o mandou calar. Ata que a figura estaba bastante preto, na franxa de luz amarela do soportal, non viron con claridade o que chegara.

Era un forasteiro, e raramente un forasteiro entraba a pé na vila a aquelas horas. Ademais, o honre era un chepudo. Medía pouco máis dun metro vinte e levaba un abrigo roído que só lle chegaba aos xeonllos. As súas perniñas arqueadas semellaban demasiado delgadas para soportar o peso do seu longo peito deforme e da chepa que destacaba entre os ombros. Tiña unha cabeza mol grande, cuns ollos azuis afundidos e unha boca pequena e definida. O seu rostro semellaba ao mesmo tempo doce e descarado. Naquel momento tiña a pel amarela do po e sombras azuladas baixo os ollos. Levaba unha maleta vella toda torta atada cunha corda.

-Boas -dixo sen folgos o chepudo.

A señorita Amelia e os honres que estaban no soportal non responderon ao seu saúdo nin dixeron unha palabra. Limitáronse a ollar para el.

-Ando a buscar a señorita Amelia Evans.