Stories

  C'era una volta a Tacoma un uomo che aveva una figlia, il dono più prezioso che sua moglie gli avesse mai fatto. Per uno dei suoi compleanni, quando era ancora una bambina, la figlia gli regalò una splendida teiera di ceramica Rosenthal. Passarono gli anni e sua moglie la esponeva con orgoglio sulla mensola del camino, proprio accanto alla cucina, come il centro della loro vita familiare. Con il passare del tempo, però, le illusioni dell'infanzia svanirono. Diventando adulta, la figlia si rese conto che suo padre non era l'uomo meraviglioso che aveva amato così tanto, ma un uomo fragile, molto al di sotto di quell'idolo che aveva adorato da bambina. Un giorno, nel bel mezzo di una violenta discussione piena di vecchi rimproveri e risentimenti, la tensione si spezzò. In un impeto di rabbia, la figlia afferrò la teiera e la gettò sul pavimento, riducendola in mille pezzi. Poco tempo dopo quel giorno drammatico, la ragazza trovò lavoro dall'altra parte del mondo, in ...

                                                                         Había una vez en Tacoma un hombre que tenía una hija, el regalo más precioso que su esposa le había dado jamás. Para uno de sus cumpleaños, cuando la niña aún era joven, ella le regaló una hermosa tetera de cerámica marca Rosenthal. Pasaron los años y la madre la exhibía con indiscutible orgullo en la repisa sobre la chimenea, justo al lado de la cocina, como el centro de su vida familiar. Sin embargo, el tiempo tiene una forma implacable de desmantelar las ilusiones. A medida que la hija crecía y se hacía adulta, comenzó a darse cuenta de que su padre no era el hombre maravilloso e infalible que ella tanto había amado en su infancia. Era, en realidad, un hombre lleno de grietas y defectos, alguien que estaba muy por debajo del ídolo...

                                                                    There was once a man in Tacoma who had a daughter—the most precious gift his wife had ever given him. For one of his birthdays, when the girl was still young, she gave him a beautiful Rosenthal ceramic teapot. As the years passed, his wife proudly displayed it on the mantelpiece just off the kitchen, a centerpiece of their shared life. But time has a way of dismantling illusions. As the daughter grew into adulthood, she gradually realized that her father was not the wonderful, infallible man she had adored so much as a child. He was, in reality, a flawed man who fell far below the pedestal where her childhood memories had placed him. One afternoon, in the middle of a bitter argument filled with years of accumulated resentments and sharp reproaches, the ...

  The bus stopped before Santa Clara prison, a massive Spanish colonial building from the early 1900s. Its broad central courtyard, nine-foot ceilings, weathered clay roof, and long rooms facing the yard divided the compound into distinct cellblocks. After passing through the main gates and guarded checkpoints, the prisoners were led into the central courtyard, where the guards unlocked the heavy chain binding them together. The young bootblack who had struck a policeman with a paving stone received only a swift kick in the backside, sending him stumbling into his assigned cellblock. He vanished into the shadows, surrounded by hostile, leering faces. The other newcomer needed no shove toward the larger political cellblock; the guards merely spoke to an inmate by the iron grate door and signaled him inside. From his bunk near the entrance, Antonio watched the new prisoner cross the threshold. Twenty-two or twenty-three, Antonio guessed, studying the man's features. He looked like a...

  The insects crawling over the leaves above sounded to me like a thundering herd of buffalo. Overhead, one or two birds dove sharply to catch prey or fallen fruit, the feathers of their wings whistling as they descended. No other animals were visible. Walking through the brush, I found myself longing for a friendly face—even the faces of those who had warned me against my current choice of housing. I meticulously avoided dry twigs and dead foliage; in this stillness, the noise of a single snap would carry a great distance. I stooped low, ensuring my shadow and profile would not give me away. The silence reassured me, yet I dreadfully feared their return. As I made my way back to our home, I carefully scanned the space closest to the entrance. The knot of fear in my chest did not abate until I finally slipped past the threshold, squeezing my body through the narrow opening. The sharp, tight bend in the key passage was a deliberate design; it successfully foiled the access of anyone...