Stories

  Willy was peculiar. He was a man who always seemed sad, ashamed, and deeply pessimistic. Every evening, he used to dine at a highly popular restaurant in the center of the city. Between 6:00 PM and 9:00 PM, the place was so packed that getting a table was nearly impossible. Those who arrived alone were usually forced to sit wherever they could find an open chair. Laughter, loud voices, live music, and the constant rattling of plates and cutlery filled the crowded air. Some diners, like Willy, came early and stayed late; apparently, they deeply enjoyed the music and the vibrant hustle and bustle. Willy always sat alone at a table for two right near the front door. However, his melancholic expression and downcast eyes rarely invited anyone to sit with him. But one day, a stranger walked in, caught Willy's eye, and smiled warmly. Willy, despite his usual dark mood, found himself smiling back. The man sat down across from him, and for the first time in years, Willy was able to exchan...

 I did not visit Elba as a tourist. I went there to search for my wife Emma’s grandfather’s birth certificate. Together with our daughter, Laura, we visited Poggio, the mountain town of her ancestors. The island cast a spell on us as we toured it, yet I could not help feeling a strange, heavy sadness while walking those ancient streets. At the town’s San Defendente church, the wooden pews bore small metallic tags engraved with the surnames of the families who had donated them. Looking closely, I gasped; I recognized many of those names as the exact surnames of my childhood classmates back in my Venezuelan hometown. Today, Romans and Milanese own most of those ancestral houses, using them as seasonal holiday homes. Emma's grandfather had once owned a vineyard in the vicinity, but the phylloxera epidemic and cryptogamic blights decimated the vines. Left with nothing, he sold the ruined farm and migrated to the Venezuelan highlands to cultivate coffee. Because he died as an Italian ci...

  Priming the irrigation pump could be a nuisance. After many unsuccessful tries, he finally achieved the desired effect. With suction restored, a torrent of brown water from the Zulia River rushed from the outlet, flowing through the loose furrows and toward the waiting seeds. He would harvest in three months, but storing the grain would require dozens of steel barrels—and barrels were in short supply. Ever since the government had ousted the foreign oil companies, smuggling Colombian gasoline had become a thriving business. Empty barrels were at a premium. The value of a single empty container surpassed that of three barrels of maize, and they could be re-used indefinitely. "By harvest time, I will have no barrels left; they will steal or seize the few I have," Ricardo reflected silently. The government's desertion had created a lawless void, quickly filled by sullen-faced Colombian guerrillas. They protected the small farmers, providing them with food and shelter. Howe...

  Ricardo hated everything about dining at Major Morales’ "headquarters." The Major had confiscated the estate from a wealthy merchant who had escaped to Colombia, and the atmosphere inside was suffocating. Two scared-looking maids, their eyes fixed firmly on the floor, served the meal. The food was both abundant and varied—a lavish display that made Ricardo sick to his stomach as he thought of the starving families in the neighborhood. Throughout the evening, Morales was intensely obsequious toward Elsa. It was glaringly evident that he was attracted to her. He took it upon himself to give her a personal tour, showing her the various rooms of the house. To the quiet astonishment of both Ricardo and Paco, Elsa chatted amiably with him, playing the part of an interested guest with perfect poise. When the meal ended, Morales pressed them to remain longer, but Ricardo managed to weave together enough polite excuses to finally get his family home. The next morning, the reality of...

That afternoon, Major Morales arrived accompanied by a large, dark-skinned soldier carrying a massive iron pot. Morales promptly dismissed the soldier, explaining with a polite smile that it was a special roast he had brought as a dinner contribution. Ricardo asked the Major to wait in the main room while his mother and Elsa finished grinding corn in their pilón —a rustic, hollowed-tree trunk they used with a heavy wooden pestle. Freshly ground cornmeal was the essential ingredient for preparing arepas , the absolute staple of the local cuisine. A short while later, Ricardo’s mother brought a steaming tray to the table. "Here are the arepas, Major." Morales reached out to take one, but it was the last thing he ever did. The heavy wooden pestle struck him squarely across the temple with a sickening crack, and he collapsed instantly to the floor. Before he could even register the blow, Elsa struck him again. The Major's legs stretched out, went limp, and he moved no more. R...