Surreal (and Other Stories)

By Luis G. de Felipe Vila

"Surreal" has been the author's most ambitious and dear story to date, but not the best.  The stories that were selected for this book are the fruit of the work of many years.  They come from years of learning throughout which the author has accumulated them. They contain different stories written at one time or another.  He felt the need to tell, in the form of stories, micro-reports or travel journals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Oct 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393315841

Book preview

The Old Cheetah

Over the years, the albino cheetah had lost its devilish speed and fine hearing that characterizes its species. He would really know hunger: many of his prey managed to escape before a paw stopped them. There were even nights when it dreamed of the intense taste of fresh meat. Its strengths abandoned him, as his passage slowed through the plains of the Serengeti.

However, he resisted leaving the world. Perhaps, in a way, he sensed that he was unique among his own kind, a rarity that would not be repeated in a long time. It is much more likely that it was only hunger, and the blind impulse of life to carry out the labors a thousand times repeated, which led him to keep walking, searching, sniffing...

He spotted the antelope long before the old hunter and grandson saw it. He began the approach cautiously, putting the experience of his scars at the service of his stomach. He'd have to get very close, risk everything to secure a short-distance race. This time, the dam couldn't escape. He hadn't eaten for many days.

The old hunter held the rifle to his shoulder. He focused on the albino cheetah through the telescopic lens, calculated the distance and wind speed, corrected the sight and remained attentive to the animal's evolutions.

As he strained like a piano string to jump over the antelope, he fired.

The cheetah was forced to run. He didn't hear the shot, but saw the antelope take the bullet in the hind limbs, preventing it from fleeing. He covered the distance between them, preyed on the flesh with his claws, and closed his teeth around his unprotected neck. Fresh meat, at last.

The grandson looked at his grandfather with his eyes wide open. Satisfied, the old hunter pulled back the lock of the gun and a steaming cap flew through the air. Then, seeing his grandson's expression, he said with a smile:

Sometimes old hunters have to help each other.

Secrets Drowned in the Sea

Humidity and a sticky feeling of heat on a Summer afternoon.

Núria, a dark-eyed young woman, stopped at the foot of the cliff, at the entrance of the hidden cove that for years only the villagers knew about. That took place when the waters were cold and dark. Now, in summer, they became tainted from tourists who swam naked.

In 1939, there were Republicans in those waters, pushing boats which they used intending to flee to France.

They were hunted by the Nationals from above, with their rifles. Her paternal great-grandfather was the one who shot the most, due to the sun behind his back. He never regretted it.

Many years later, her grandparents conceived her mother in those waters. Under the protection of the rocks, in broad daylight: a dangerous event in those times. They could have been imprisoned or, even worse, excommunicated as fornicators. Her grandfather’s eyes always lit up when he returned to the cove, but never said a word.

Before Núria was born, a graceful young man from the village nearly drowned in those waters, by trying to impress a girl. It was about her father: youthful evenings on a sunny summer day. He became incredibly wise for someone in his twenties, and always told Núria to be careful in the sea, but he never explained why.

The sea. The cold, dark waters of the sea. As if she were just one more outsider, Núria floated naked on the surface on her back, with her eyes riveted to the sky as she thought. The sun always shines on these waters, she heard her family say, even when it rains. It was a shared secret between everyone, and everybody’s connections always kept quiet. Even on a rainy spring day, years ago, when she ceased to be a virgin in a small, dark hole near the shore, no one in her family knew.

Gas light

I go through a dark tunnel, and the only thing that keeps me from getting lost is the gas flame of a lighter. It's so cold, I can barely feel my fingers. I only have my voice for telling stories, and it sounds strange bouncing off the tunnel wall, while the faint light that shines on my hand makes out shapes from the shadows, the angles of the bricks, the eternal line that draws the ground towards... my salvation, I hope? And I raise my voice:

Many years ago, in a very distant kingdom, lived a king who had a daughter, Princess Muyalto, who always had his head in the clouds...

The flame flickers, stirred by a gust of air, which cuts off my inspiration.  Where did it come from? Am I near an exit? Then I run out of breath, I forget the princess, and I head toward the direction of the gust. However, the road becomes long. It's not long before it hears me say again:

Once upon a time, on an island where entire families of fishermen lived, a young orphan lived in an isolated hut. He was the son and grandson of fishermen, and a fisherman himself...

Will I get my bearings, and find the way out? I can't finish any of my stories. It'll be the cold that won't let the magic fly. It will be my fingers to earth, as I approach the flame. My little blue fairy of oxygen and gas, how long are you going to last? How long will you stay with me? I'll tell another story:

In a faraway country, a girl was born on a starry night between spring and summer. Her parents were two poor peasants, who barely managed to bring a piece of hard bread and a litre of milk to the table day after day. But when the girl was born, the house was filled with laughter, and life seemed more bearable to them. Look what a gift the heavens have given us, she would tell her husband. The echo of my voice bounces up and down, side to side. Like the girl’s laughter, space was filled that once seemed empty. No heat, no light. Will I be able to light up this place with my stories? I hope there's enough gas to find the way out. And as I arrive, my voice keeps ringing, and my words fly. My stories remain along the way, and I don't know if I'll be able to finish one, without being interrupted. What a strange voice telling stories through a tunnel. How strange is the troubadour, lost and armed with a simple lighter, with a faint gas light for a spear and banner. Where's the exit?"

I'm Not Quite Concerned Why

The white mark on his eyebrow was left by a club in a riot, at a demonstration that became complicated years ago. Anybody else would have worn it with pride. He enjoyed showing off another scar from a knife that was thrown at him by the brother of an old girlfriend. He drew an irregular line over his ribs.

That night, inside the pub, he held a small bottle of beer in one hand and cursed because of the anti-smoking law. She came and his hard heart fell apart, melted by that look.

I'll buy you a cigarette, he said, let's go outside. She turned and walked to the door, followed by his eyes, unable to turn away from her ass as he followed her.

What are you doing here tonight? I thought you weren't going out, she said with a smile while offering him a cigarette.

That's what I thought too, he answered, forcing a fierce gesture that could pass for a smile. Being ugly was what he was, even his smiles looked horrible.

They smoked and chatted for a while, telling each other the latest developments in their lives. She told him, Do you know you've never shown me the scar?

I don't mess around with the cold out here? he said with a squeaky voice.

She laughed, Well, I'll see it some other time. You're right, it's cold as shit. Shall we go back in?

Sure, he answered, wanting to stare at her back again, to enjoy watching her hips a while longer.

The scar theme did not come up again until almost an hour later, when they swapped beer for rum and coke.

And what about the stab? she asked interested. But I told you, he reminded her with a surprised face.

I mean, she clarified, why weren’t you  killed? Didn't it go to your heart?

He laughed. Maybe, but it punctured a hole in my lung. It goes this way, he explained, tracing the scar line on his sweater with his finger.

To enter the heart, you have to see it from the bottom up, behind the sternum. It's not so easy to make me pop like a grape. This old muscle already carries a lot of mili on its back. And I only feel stupid and inexperienced when you stare at me.

He thought all about it, but he didn't say anything. It was she who spoke, her eyes lit by the drink. You don't know how lucky you are, I can't show off scars, she said with a laugh. My scars are all open.

Princess of this hole, queen of this city, he kept thinking silently, and remembered a song by Barricada, and told her, with that horrible smile which hid both affection and experience, I don’t know why, and she said, neither do I. So, I'd like to have a scar like that, she said pointing to his eyebrow.

I'm not quite sure why, he repeated.

Grey walls

There was no love between them. Maybe some love, and, of course a lot of understanding, but no love. That's why she wasn't surprised when, one afternoon, he came home, left the keys on the dresser, put his hands across his face and then looked at her. He was sad and sorry.

I met another woman, he confessed. I think I'm in love.

She stopped at the kitchen door, leaning on the jamb separating her from the hall. She thought he was still quite handsome, but her lover, a seductive young man she had known for a few years, found him more attractive. However, she wasn’t in love with either of them. She felt a certain envy.

Does that mean we're getting divorced? she asked. He didn’t expect such a direct response, nor one so quiet. He certainly would have preferred a scene of tears and screams, to feel less guilty. But for her, that didn't make sense. She was too sure that he didn’t love her, because the two only tolerated each other due to custom, and partly because there was no outside passion, until that day, to turn it all upside down in their little ordered microcosms of coexistence. The loss of some security didn’t seem to be reason enough to mount a scandal.

I don't know, he answered, it's still too early to decide something like that.

Now don't be a coward, she told him, you've never been one.

She was right about that, he decided. When he was younger, he never doubted but was always sure of himself. He didn't mind saying nice things in doing so. Where was that security? Maybe in the closet, in the sock drawer, next to the old photos they had of their dating trips.

I've gotten older, he justified.

Is it like when you and I were together? Then she let go. I don't remember what it's like anymore.

Yes, it's like as we were back then, he realized.

They knew time would put things in place. His love would be extinguished, and she would fall in love again. They felt alone in a strange place, separated by an abyss. He went to the living room, and she soon heard the television. She understood him. Deep down she understood.

The military

He closed his jacket over his chest with an elegant gesture. With two jolts, he put it on the exact spot on her shoulders and then looked into the full-length mirror that presided over the bedroom. The gray hairs traced his temples, but the blue cloth on the uniform maintained its velvety touch. He was amazed that he continued to serve even after all these years. With a tap of his heel, he stood in a firm position. At least he still had a straight back. He adjusted his cap and gave a general review to his appearance. Impeccable. How an air officer should be.

The parade started at five. He had plenty of time to get there by walking. He went down the stairs with an agile trot, whistling an old ditty. It made him feel like the times he was a waiter and went to the dances. He stopped on the second floor and knocked on a door. It was opened by another man, about his own age. He looked up and down and smiled at him, nodding.

You're going to the parade, right? he said, You always look so handsome in uniform.

The soldier greeted him with a heel tap, raising his gloved hand to the visor of his cap. Then he took it off and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking it around a bit. The other one bit his lower lip.

Then I’ll come back for you, he said, It's worth it, I’ll take off my uniform to go out to dinner...

He stepped forward just enough to be able to plant a kiss on his lips, tender and affectionate. It barely lasted a few seconds: although they were too old enough to unleash passion, they liked to kiss but it was unbecoming of the uniform to do it passionately on a stair landing.

Well, it's a shame, the man who lived on the second floor, said, because look how handsome you are in uniform.

Unhurried

The knots that formed the tendons with the blood vessels were bulging under the hair that had already grayed, covering the skin. The backs of his hands were a vital map full of sensations. He moved across them with the rough surface of an age-deformed index finger.

What day is it today, old woman? He inquired in a raven's voice.

Tuesday, his wife replied, Why aren’t you dressed yet?

The index finger went up the cardboard skin, yellow like parchment, hard as leather, forearm up. The aged biceps were still outright. The firm shoulder, which retained the pain of an old injury. The chest was decrepit. His whole anatomy was a triumph of time over matter.

I'm coming...

He closed his shirt and started buttoning it with great care. He still had nimble fingers, but he didn't like performing certain rituals done too hastily. One of them was buttoning up his shirt.

As he left the bathroom, he rediscovered that he had become extremely sensitive to natural light. He squinted his eyes and put a hand over them like a visor. The window that opened over the inner courtyard turned the house into a light party, which he enjoyed as a young man. Now, sometimes he wanted to cover it up.

Who am I seeing today? He entered the kitchen and underwent the scrutiny of a sergeant whose wife was always excusing him. A smile confirmed to him that his appearance was most appropriate.

The urologist. How handsome you've become....

Leave it, he took the cup of coffee and brought it to his lips. "Don't