La Negrita
Army
Old Mecca
"Ya que la hizo negra, hágala trompuda."
Prov.16:23
"The heart of the wise teacheth his mouth, and addeth learning to his lips."
Old Mecca
ARMY: La Negrita
Ragnarök
Jorge Luis Borges : El Hacedor
Jorge Luis Borges : El Hacedor
En los sueños (escribe Coleridge) las imágenes figuran las impresiones que pensamos
que causan; no sentimos horror porque nos oprime una esfinge, soñamos una esfinge
para explicar el horror que sentimos. Si esto es así, ¿cómo podría una mera crónica de
sus formas transmitir el estupor, la exaltación, las alarmas, la amenaza y el júbilo que
tejieron el sueño de esa noche? Ensayaré esa crónica, sin embargo; acaso el hecho de
que una sola escena integró aquel sueño borre o mitigue la dificultad esencial.
El lugar era la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras; la hora, el atardecer. Todo (como suele
ocurrir en los sueños) era un poco distinto; una ligera magnificación alteraba las cosas.
Elegíamos autoridades; yo hablaba con Pedro Henríquez Ureña, que en la vigilia ha
muerto hace muchos años. Bruscamente nos aturdió un clamor de manifestación o de
murga. Alaridos humanos y animales llegaban desde el Bajo. Una voz gritó: "¡Ahí
vienen!" y después "¡Los Dioses! ¡Los Dioses!" Cuatro o cinco sujetos salieron de la
turba y ocuparon la tarima del Aula Magna. Todos aplaudimos, llorando; eran los
Dioses que volvían al cabo de un destierro de siglos. Agrandados por la tarima, la
cabeza echada hacia atrás y el pecho hacia adelante, recibieron con soberbia nuestro
homenaje. Uno sostenía una rama, que se conformaba, sin duda, a la sencilla botánica
de los sueños; otro, en amplio ademán, extendía una mano que era una garra; una de las
caras de Jano miraba con recelo el encorvado pico de Thoth. Tal vez excitado por
nuestros aplausos, uno, ya no sé cuál, prorrumpió en un cloqueo victorioso,
increíblemente agrio, con algo de gárgara y de silbido. Las cosas, desde aquel momento,
cambiaron.
Todo empezó por la sospecha (tal vez exagerada) de que los Dioses no sabían hablar.
Siglos de vida fugitiva y feral habían atrofiado en ellos lo humano; la luna del Islam y la
cruz de Roma habían sido implacables con esos prófugos. Frentes muy bajas,
dentaduras amarillas, bigotes ralos de mulato o de chino y belfos bestiales publicaban la
degeneración de la estirpe olímpica. Sus prendas no correspondían a una pobreza
decorosa y decente sino al lujo malevo de los garitos y de los lupanares del Bajo. En un
ojal sangraba un clavel; en un saco ajustado se adivinaba el bulto de una daga.
Bruscamente sentimos que jugaban su última carta, que eran taimados, ignorantes y
crueles como viejos animales de presa y que, si nos dejábamos ganar por el miedo o la
lástima, acabarían por destruirnos.
Sacamos los pesados revólveres (de pronto hubo revólveres en el sueño) y alegremente
dimos muerte a los Dioses.
Ragnarök :: J. L. Borges
In our dreams (writes Coleridge) images represent the sensations we think they cause; we do not feel horror because we are threatened by a sphinx ; we dream a sphinx in order to explain the horror we feel. If this is so, how could a mere chronicle of its forms transmit the stupor, the exaltation, the alarm, the menace and the jubilance which made up the fabric of that dream that night? I shall attempt such a chronicle, however; perhaps the fact that the dream was composed of one single scene may remove or mitigate this essential difficulty.
The place was the School of Philosophy and Letters; the time, toward sundown. Everything (as usually happens in dreams) was somehow different; a slight magnification altered things. We were electing officials: I was talking with Pedro Henríquez Ureña, who in the world of waking reality died many years ago. Suddenly we were stunned by the clamor of a demonstration or disturbance. Human and animal cries came from the Bajo. A voice shouted “Here they come!” and then “The Gods! The Gods!” Four or five individuals emerged from the mob and occupied the platform of the main lecture hall. We all applauded, tearfully; these were the Gods returning from a centuries-long exile. Made larger by the platform, their heads thrown back and their chests thrust forward, they arrogantly received our homage. One held a branch which no doubt conformed to the simple botany of dreams; another, in a broad gesture, extended his hand which was a claw; one of the faces of Janus looked with distrust at the curved beak of Thoth. Perhaps aroused by our applause, one of them — I know longer know which — erupted in a victorious clatter, unbelievably harsh, with something of a gargle and of a whistle. From that moment, things changed.
It all began with the suspicion (perhaps exaggerated) that the Gods did not know how to talk. Centuries of fell and fugitive life had atrophied the human element in them; the moon of Islam and the cross of Rome had been implacable with these outlaws. Very low foreheads, yellow teeth, stringy mulatto or Chinese mustaches and thick bestial lips showed the degeneracy of the Olympian lineage. Their clothing corresponded not to a decorous poverty but rather to the sinister luxury of the gambling houses and brothels of the Bajo. A carnation bled crimson on a lapel and the bulge of a knife was outlined beneath a close-fitting jacket. Suddenly we sensed that they were playing their last card, that they were cunning, ignorant and cruel like old beasts of prey and that, if we let ourselves be overcome by fear or pity, they would finally destroy us.
We took out our heavy revolvers (all of a sudden there were revolvers in the dream) and joyfully killed the Gods.
Translated by J. E. I.
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