THE WATER THAT STIRS THE SILENCE
Translation by C.M. Mayo
Today thunderclaps woke me, although it wasn’t raining. I know this because I did not hear the patter of rain, that sound that cleans the glass when the sun comes off the sea. From my room I can hear Mother’s cries; I hear my father talking on the phone. His voice sounds strange. It slips through the keyhole and hits my stomach like a whirlpool. There is something I don’t like; a bubbling of adrenaline rushes through my veins. I feel as if I’ve swallowed a whole table and the wood is in the hollows of my bones. Mother shouts at me to get away from the window but the wood won’t let me bend my knees.
Have they found out already? Perhaps Ismael’s mother is the one who is talking with my papa, perhaps that’s why he sounds so upset. Surely he is furious, that’s why his voice lights and crackles like the end of his cigarette.
On the floor upstairs, sounds of confused footsteps and bumping into furniture. Outside, people make similar haste. Some are crowded around. Others scatter in all directions. I feel that I am dreaming, my eyes glued like chewing gum to the window. My mother calls me and Simon; she doesn’t want us in the bedroom. Her voice is so sharp it pierces my lungs, and it escapes from my ears and nose and mouth...
Read the rest of the story in the Spring 2015 issue of Origins Journal.
C.M. MAYO is the author of several works on Mexico, most recently, Metaphysical Odyssey into the Mexican Revolution: Francisco I. Madero and His Secret Book, Spiritist Manual. A noted literary translator, she is editor of a collection of 24 Mexican writers in translation, Mexico: A Traveler's Literary Companion.
EL AGUA QUE MECE EL SILENCIO
por Rose Mary Salum
Hoy me despertaron los truenos aunque no estaba lloviendo. Lo sé porque no escuché el sonsonete de la lluvia, ese sonido que limpia los cristales cuando el sol se desprende del mar. Los gritos de mamá se escuchan hasta mi cuarto y oigo a mi padre hablar por teléfono. Su voz suena alterada, se cuela por el ojillo del cerrojo y se mete como un remolino en mi estómago. Algo no me gusta porque brotan burbujas de adrenalina a lo largo de mis venas. Siento como si me hubiera tragado una mesa entera y la madera se hubiera metido por el hueco de mis huesos. Mamá grita que me aleje de la ventana pero la madera no me deja doblar las rodillas.
¿Se habrían enterado ya? Quizá la madre de Ismael es quien está hablando con mi papá, tal vez por ello se le oye tan descompuesto. Seguramente está furioso, por eso su voz se prende y se quiebra como la colilla de su cigarro.
En el piso de arriba también resuenan carreras indecisas que tropiezan con los muebles. Afuera, la gente lleva la misma prisa. Algunos se arremolinan. Otros se dispersan en todas direcciones. Siento que estoy soñando, tengo los ojos pegadizos, como dos chicles adheridos a la ventana. Mi mamá nos llama a Simón y a mí, no nos quiere en la recámara. Su voz es tan aguda que me pincha los pulmones y el aire se me escapa por sus orificios...
Read the rest of the story in the Spring 2015 issue of Origins Journal.
ROSE MARY SALUM is a Mexican writer who lives in Houston, Texas. She is founding editor of the bilingual magazine, Literal: Latin American Voices and the editor of the anthology Delta de las arenas, cuentos árabes, cuentos judíos, a collection of Arab and Jewish stories from Latin America. Her books include Entre los espacios and Vitrales, and her essays and stories have been published in various anthologies including Beyond Borders, Cruce de fronteras: Antología de escritores en Estados Unidos and Raíces latinas. For her literary and editorial work she was named Author of the Year by the Hispanic Book Festival in 2008.