Obabakoak by Bernardo Atxaga

Author:Bernardo Atxaga
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55597-005-5
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Published: 2010-09-02T04:00:00+00:00

Regarding stories

AFTER LISTENING to the story about the servant, my friend grew thoughtful. He stared into his coffee cup like someone trying to extract some meaning from the dregs.

At last he said: “I agree with Boris Karloff. It really is an excellent story.” And, as happens in all late-night conversations worthy of the name, that remark brought with it a rather metaphysical question, not at all easy to answer:

“But why is it good? What makes a story good?”

“I know a much better story than that,” exclaimed someone sitting near us, a man with a foreign accent.

Surprised at the presence of that unexpected witness, my friend and I turned around.

“It’s me,” the man said.

But we’d never seen him before in our lives. He was an elderly man with white hair and beard. Although he was bending toward us, almost crouching, he seemed extremely tall to me. He must have been over six foot five.

“I know a much better story than that,” he said again. His breath smelled of whiskey.

“Tell it to us then,” we said at last. I wondered what country he came from. His clothes betrayed his foreignness.

He solemnly raised one hand and asked us to wait a moment. Walking over to the bar, he stood head and shoulders above the other customers. He really was very tall.

“We’d better go somewhere else,” I said to my friend, and added, to reinforce my decision, that otherwise we wouldn’t be able to talk about things in peace.

The white-haired old man seemed an interesting character, but he was also extremely drunk. Besides, we had to drive on to Obaba.

“Have you spoken to the uncle from Montevideo? Does he know I’m coming too?”

“Yes, I’ve warned him. He was thrilled when I told him that you’ll be reading something too. You know what he’s like. The more victims he has, the happier he is.”

“We’d best get to bed early then. We’ve got a hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Okay, let’s go,” I agreed, smiling.

But the tall man was back already. This time he was wearing a hat and carrying a glass of whiskey in one hand.

“My story really is very interesting,” he insisted. When he went to sit down, he tripped and fell on top of us.

“I’m so sorry.”

“We’re all ears,” said my friend. The old man took out a small tape recorder from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.

“The story is entitled ‘The Monkey from Montevideo,’” he said, pressing the Record button.

But he got no further. His tongue was thick with drink and he stumbled over his words, some of which were in English. With a sigh he switched off the tape recorder.

“It can’t be done,” he said apologetically, repeatedly covering and uncovering his ears with his hands.

“No, you’re right. It’s much too noisy in here,” said my friend, getting up, “and anyway we really must be going. Another time perhaps.”

“It’s a real pity,” he said, once all three of us were on our feet.

“It certainly is. But what can we do? Maybe we’ll meet again.

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