Read Online Inez: A Novel by Carlos Fuentes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carlos Fuentes
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do, losing all your memories the more you begin to imagine that one day you will be a different age, you will be small like those dead little fish, you will live close to a protective woman, all that you will forget, fem, at times you will believe that you have done all these things this very minute on this rocky beach, that you will not do anything before or after this moment—it will take a great effort for you to imagine “before” or “after”—but this dark morning with an opaque sun, you will watch the large white fish leap, see them frolic in the sea after killing their offspring and abandoning them on the beach, and for the first time you will tell yourself that this cannot be, this will not be, feeling something flooding inside you like the waves where the lighthearted, murderous fish will be playing.
Then something within you will drive you to move along the beach, twisting and writhing, lifting your arms, clenching your
fists, shaking your breasts, parting your legs, squatting as if you were going to give birth, or urinate, or let yourself be loved.
You will cry out.
You will cry out because you will feel that what your body wants to say here by the sea and the game of the white fish and the death of the slaughtered fish will be too violent and impulsive if you do not express it somehow. You will feel this: you will rage explosively while summing up what must happen to you—the monkey will again kill the serpent, the serpent will again be devoured by the porcupine, you will climb down from the tree and you will cross the river; panting, you will fall asleep, and you will wake on the drum of the plain, where the herds of hairy aurochs will scatter and the deer will skirmish to establish their territory and mount their females, and you will wake by the sea watching the fish fight each other and kill their offspring and then happily play—if you do not cry like the bird that you will never be, if you do not give voice to a strange song, throaty and guttural, if you do not cry out to say that you are fem, alone, that the movements of your dance will not be enough, that you will long to go beyond your gestures and say something, shout something beyond your instantaneous gestures by the shore, that you want to shout and sing passionately something that says you will be here, present, available, you …
For a long time, alone, you will wander across the solitary land fearing that no one is like you, fem …
“Long time” is very difficult to think, but when you say those two words you will always see yourself living beside the immobile woman, in one place and in one moment.
Now, as soon as you begin to walk, you will feel bad that you are not with anyone, and this will fall into your life with the
force of brutal abandonment, as if everything you see, feel, or touch is not true.
Now there will be no protective woman. Now there will be no warmth. Now there will be no food.
You will look about you.
There will be only what surrounds you, and that will not be you, because you will be only what you would like to be again.
You will go back toward the trees, because you will be hungry. You will understand that need brought you from the jungle to look for sustenance, and that now the same need will send you back into the thicket with empty hands. You will be thirsty, and you will have learned that the sea where the lighthearted fish will always be playing does not calm you. You will return to the muddy river. On the way you will find blood-colored fruit that you will devour, and then later you will find your hands stained. You will realize that you will walk, eat, stop, and sleep in silence.
You will not understand why you repeat the dance by the sea now, the impetuous movement of body, hips, arms, neck, knees, fingertips …
Who will see you? Who will pay attention to you? Who will send the anguished call, the call that will finally be torn from your throat when you run to plunge again among the trees? You
Then something within you will drive you to move along the beach, twisting and writhing, lifting your arms, clenching your
fists, shaking your breasts, parting your legs, squatting as if you were going to give birth, or urinate, or let yourself be loved.
You will cry out.
You will cry out because you will feel that what your body wants to say here by the sea and the game of the white fish and the death of the slaughtered fish will be too violent and impulsive if you do not express it somehow. You will feel this: you will rage explosively while summing up what must happen to you—the monkey will again kill the serpent, the serpent will again be devoured by the porcupine, you will climb down from the tree and you will cross the river; panting, you will fall asleep, and you will wake on the drum of the plain, where the herds of hairy aurochs will scatter and the deer will skirmish to establish their territory and mount their females, and you will wake by the sea watching the fish fight each other and kill their offspring and then happily play—if you do not cry like the bird that you will never be, if you do not give voice to a strange song, throaty and guttural, if you do not cry out to say that you are fem, alone, that the movements of your dance will not be enough, that you will long to go beyond your gestures and say something, shout something beyond your instantaneous gestures by the shore, that you want to shout and sing passionately something that says you will be here, present, available, you …
For a long time, alone, you will wander across the solitary land fearing that no one is like you, fem …
“Long time” is very difficult to think, but when you say those two words you will always see yourself living beside the immobile woman, in one place and in one moment.
Now, as soon as you begin to walk, you will feel bad that you are not with anyone, and this will fall into your life with the
force of brutal abandonment, as if everything you see, feel, or touch is not true.
Now there will be no protective woman. Now there will be no warmth. Now there will be no food.
You will look about you.
There will be only what surrounds you, and that will not be you, because you will be only what you would like to be again.
You will go back toward the trees, because you will be hungry. You will understand that need brought you from the jungle to look for sustenance, and that now the same need will send you back into the thicket with empty hands. You will be thirsty, and you will have learned that the sea where the lighthearted fish will always be playing does not calm you. You will return to the muddy river. On the way you will find blood-colored fruit that you will devour, and then later you will find your hands stained. You will realize that you will walk, eat, stop, and sleep in silence.
You will not understand why you repeat the dance by the sea now, the impetuous movement of body, hips, arms, neck, knees, fingertips …
Who will see you? Who will pay attention to you? Who will send the anguished call, the call that will finally be torn from your throat when you run to plunge again among the trees? You
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