Read Online The Shadow of the Shadow by Paco Ignacio Taibo II - Free Book Online
Authors: Paco Ignacio Taibo II
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hand up to my throat and
undid the rope around my neck.lhen I started to cry. Only, without
making a sound. Like a man who can't talk would cry. Not a sound,
just these big fat tears rolling down my cheeks, and me, that is the
other me, the new me, the survivor, not even trying to stop them.
That's the first thing I remember about myself, about my new
life. That, and the feeling that this new life came complete with
memories of the old one. Those memories were my reward-the
feeling that even though I'd been so close to death I still hadn't
managed to leave behind the baggage I'd meant to take along with
me when I went. That's when I told myself: "If you want to go on
living, then you're just going to have to put up with yourself."
Ever since then I've been easier on myself, more forgiving of
my faults, the master of my own misery, you could say, more tolerant
of this nearly forty-year-old man who keeps on with his stubborn
fight with the minutes and the hours... With this time that's been
graciously loaned to me, or perhaps I should say: returned.
THEY CLOSED OFF ROSARIO STREET, parking a car
at one end and camouflaging it with a few clay flower pots for
appearances' sake. Then they fenced off the other end of the block
and set up the security team, revolvers showing in the men's back
pockets. Banners hung on the walls with the emblems of the CGT
(General Workers Confederation) and the Textile Federation.
Security wore red arm bands, the reception committee wore
green ones. Fry stands bloomed all along the block. There were
literature tables and, in the middle of the street, a small stage for
the orchestra, the singers, and the speakers. At eight o'clock the
people started to arrive.
They came from San Angel, Contreras, Chalco, Tlalpan,
Doctores, San Antonio Abad, and Tacubaya, dressed in their
Sunday best but without the slightest air of pretension, worn-out
vests over clean white shirts, buttons polished to a shine, their
distinctive wide-brimmed hats freshly brushed. Under their vests
they carried their iron,.22 revolvers, Browning automatics, Belgian
pistols bought off the docks in Veracruz, short-barreled Colts,
knives. Theirs was a festive force in a state of war. Red ribbons
hung from their buttonholes with slogans inscribed in golden
letters: NEITHER GOD NOR MASTER. SON OF THE EARTH. FREE OF
CHAINS. PARIAH.
The Barrio Rosales Orchestra arrived shortly after eight and
stormed the bandstand.
Jacinto Huitron was scheduled to speak following the overture
(Wagner, oh well). The skinny anarchist scrambled onto the stage
as the last notes faded away, and opened fire with the following
words:
"Let us invoke the emancipating spirit of Spring! Now is the
time for Jupiter to obliterate the steps of the tyrant's throne, for
Mars to shatter his weapons of war and devour himself, for Janus
to cast down the naves of the temple and crush the worshipers
within, and for Croesus to consummate his union with Temis the
concubine and cut off his own head with his double-edged sword.
Long live Anarchy!"
Fermin Valencia, professional poet, stood in the crowd, cozying up to Odilia the munitions factory worker. But he couldn't keep
his eyes off the lay-poet improvising on stage. What drove these
crazy anarchists to embellish their political message with thirdrate poetry? The band struck up a tango, wild and melancholy, and
the workers danced.
By the time Pioquinto Manterola arrived arm in arm with
the lawyer Verdugo, the orchestra had switched gears and was
sounding off on a lively polka.
Manterola was radiant. It was just his kind of thing. The
noise, the gaiety, were like the gloved hands of a thousand fairies
caressing his senses. He loved to watch the solemn faces of the
textile workers, the men and women with their open, tired smiles,
the girls from the Palacio de Hierro sweatshops, the seamstresses
from the Nueva Francia bonnet factory, the hatmakers, the young
men
undid the rope around my neck.lhen I started to cry. Only, without
making a sound. Like a man who can't talk would cry. Not a sound,
just these big fat tears rolling down my cheeks, and me, that is the
other me, the new me, the survivor, not even trying to stop them.
That's the first thing I remember about myself, about my new
life. That, and the feeling that this new life came complete with
memories of the old one. Those memories were my reward-the
feeling that even though I'd been so close to death I still hadn't
managed to leave behind the baggage I'd meant to take along with
me when I went. That's when I told myself: "If you want to go on
living, then you're just going to have to put up with yourself."
Ever since then I've been easier on myself, more forgiving of
my faults, the master of my own misery, you could say, more tolerant
of this nearly forty-year-old man who keeps on with his stubborn
fight with the minutes and the hours... With this time that's been
graciously loaned to me, or perhaps I should say: returned.
THEY CLOSED OFF ROSARIO STREET, parking a car
at one end and camouflaging it with a few clay flower pots for
appearances' sake. Then they fenced off the other end of the block
and set up the security team, revolvers showing in the men's back
pockets. Banners hung on the walls with the emblems of the CGT
(General Workers Confederation) and the Textile Federation.
Security wore red arm bands, the reception committee wore
green ones. Fry stands bloomed all along the block. There were
literature tables and, in the middle of the street, a small stage for
the orchestra, the singers, and the speakers. At eight o'clock the
people started to arrive.
They came from San Angel, Contreras, Chalco, Tlalpan,
Doctores, San Antonio Abad, and Tacubaya, dressed in their
Sunday best but without the slightest air of pretension, worn-out
vests over clean white shirts, buttons polished to a shine, their
distinctive wide-brimmed hats freshly brushed. Under their vests
they carried their iron,.22 revolvers, Browning automatics, Belgian
pistols bought off the docks in Veracruz, short-barreled Colts,
knives. Theirs was a festive force in a state of war. Red ribbons
hung from their buttonholes with slogans inscribed in golden
letters: NEITHER GOD NOR MASTER. SON OF THE EARTH. FREE OF
CHAINS. PARIAH.
The Barrio Rosales Orchestra arrived shortly after eight and
stormed the bandstand.
Jacinto Huitron was scheduled to speak following the overture
(Wagner, oh well). The skinny anarchist scrambled onto the stage
as the last notes faded away, and opened fire with the following
words:
"Let us invoke the emancipating spirit of Spring! Now is the
time for Jupiter to obliterate the steps of the tyrant's throne, for
Mars to shatter his weapons of war and devour himself, for Janus
to cast down the naves of the temple and crush the worshipers
within, and for Croesus to consummate his union with Temis the
concubine and cut off his own head with his double-edged sword.
Long live Anarchy!"
Fermin Valencia, professional poet, stood in the crowd, cozying up to Odilia the munitions factory worker. But he couldn't keep
his eyes off the lay-poet improvising on stage. What drove these
crazy anarchists to embellish their political message with thirdrate poetry? The band struck up a tango, wild and melancholy, and
the workers danced.
By the time Pioquinto Manterola arrived arm in arm with
the lawyer Verdugo, the orchestra had switched gears and was
sounding off on a lively polka.
Manterola was radiant. It was just his kind of thing. The
noise, the gaiety, were like the gloved hands of a thousand fairies
caressing his senses. He loved to watch the solemn faces of the
textile workers, the men and women with their open, tired smiles,
the girls from the Palacio de Hierro sweatshops, the seamstresses
from the Nueva Francia bonnet factory, the hatmakers, the young
men
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