The finger string {Story}

 

 

Giovanni Boccaccio

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In our city there was a very rich merchant named Arriguccio Berfinghieri, who foolishly, as merchants do nowadays, thought to ennoble himself for his wife and took a young noble lady (who was ill-suited to him) whose name was Lady Sismonda. Because, as merchants do, he traveled a lot and was rarely with her, she fell in love with a young man named Roberto who had long courted her. Having become intimate with him, and holding her less discreetly because she delighted him greatly, it happened (either because Arriguccio heard something or whatever it was) that he became the most jealous man in the world and stopped traveling and all his other business dealings. He put all his care into guarding her, and would never have gone to sleep if he had not first heard her go to bed. At this, the woman felt great grief, because there was no way she could be with her Roberto.

But having given much thought to finding some way of being with him, and being also much in his earnest, the thought came to her of doing it this way: since her bedroom faced the street, and she had often noticed that Arriguccio had great difficulty in falling asleep, but afterwards slept very soundly, she contrived to call Roberto to her house door at midnight, and to go and open it for him, and be with him while her husband was fast asleep. And in order to sense his arrival, so that no one would be aware of it, she contrived to throw a little cord outside the bedroom window, one end of which would reach close to the ground, and the other end down to the pavement, and bring it down to her bed, and put it under her clothes, and when she was in bed, tie it to her big toe. And then, sending word of this to Robert, she ordered him that when he came, he should pull the rope, and if her husband were asleep, she would let him go and open the door for him; and if he were not asleep, she would take him and pull him towards her, so that he would not have to wait. This pleased Robert; and having come many times, sometimes he happened to be with her, sometimes he did not.

Finally, continuing this artifice in this manner, it happened one night that, while the lady was asleep, Arriguccio was stretching his foot out on the bed and came across this cord; so, putting his hand to it and finding it tied to his wife's foot, he said to himself: "This must certainly be some trick."

And noticing that the cord was hanging out the window, he was certain it was true; so, quietly cutting it from the woman's finger, he tied it to his own, and listened to see what this meant. Not long after, Roberto came along, and pulling the cord as he was accustomed to, Arriguccio felt it; and since he didn't know how to tie it properly, and Roberto pulled too hard and was left holding the cord, he understood that he must wait; and so he did.

Arriguccio, rising quickly and seizing his weapons, rushed to the door to see who the man was and to strike him dead. Now, Arriguccio, though a merchant, was a fierce and strong man; and when he reached the door, and did not open it gently as the woman was accustomed to do, and Roberto, who was waiting, sensing it, realized who it was, that it was Arriguccio who opened the door; so he quickly began to flee, and Arriguccio to pursue him. Until at last, having fled a great distance, and not ceasing to pursue him, Roberto being also armed, drew his sword and turned toward him, and they began to seek to strike each other and defend themselves.

The woman, upon Arriguccio opening the bedroom, waking up and finding the cord on his finger cut, immediately realized that her deception was discovered; and feeling that Arriguccio had run after Roberto, she quickly rose, realizing what could happen, and called her maid, who knew everything, and begged her so much that he put her in her place on the bed, entreating her that, without revealing herself, she should receive any blows that Arriguccio gave her patiently, because she would return them with such a reward that she would have no reason to complain.

And when the light in the bedroom was extinguished, she left and, hiding in a corner of the house, waited for what was going to happen. Following the quarrel between Arriguccio and Roberto, the neighbors of the neighborhood, noticing it, rose up, and began to insult them. Arriguccio, fearing to be recognized, without being able to find out who the young man was or in any way injure him, angry and ill-tempered, leaving him alone, went home; and arriving at the bedroom, he angrily began to say:

"Where are you, wicked woman? You turned off the light so I wouldn't find you, but you're wrong!"

And going to the bed, thinking he had caught the woman, he seized the maid, and when he could move his hands and feet, he punched and kicked her so hard that her face was marked, and finally he cut off her hair, always hurling the worst insults that ever were uttered to a wicked woman. The maid wept a great deal, as if she had cause to weep, and though she occasionally said, "Oh! For the love of God!" or "Enough!" her voice was so broken with tears, and Arriguccio so blinded with fury that he could not distinguish that this was any other woman but his own.

So, beating her and cutting her hair, as we say, he said:

"Bad woman, I don't understand touching you in any other way, except that I will go to your brothers and tell them of your good deeds; and then let them come for you and do what they think is fitting for their honor and take you from here, for you can be sure that you will never be in this house again."

And having said this, he left the chamber, locked it from the outside, and went off alone. When Donna Sismonda, who had heard everything, realized that her husband was gone, she opened the chamber and, having lit the light, found her maid all crushed and weeping aloud. She consoled her as best she could and carried her to her own chamber, where afterward, secretly, having her cared for and treated, she so rewarded her with Arriguccio's own actions that she considered herself content. And when she had brought the maid to her chamber, she quickly made her own bed and made everything ready and tidy, as if no one had slept there that night. She relit the lamp and dressed and dressed herself, as if she had not yet gone to bed. After lighting a lamp and taking her linens, she went and sat down at the top of the stairs and began to sew and wait for what would happen.

Arriguccio, leaving his house, went as quickly as he could to the house of the woman's brothers, and there he knocked so loudly that they felt him and opened the door. The woman's brothers, who were three in number, and her mother, sensing that it was Arriguccio, all rose, and having lit the lamps came to meet him and asked him what he was looking for at that hour and so alone. To whom Arriguccio, beginning with the cord he had found tied to the toe of Lady Sismonda and going down to the last thing he had found and done, he related; and to give them a complete testimony of what he had done, he placed in their hands the hairs he thought he had cut from his wife's head, adding that they should come for her and do to her whatever they thought was fitting for her honor, for he did not intend to have her in the house any longer.

The woman's brothers, greatly angered by what they had heard and believing it to be true, were enraged against her, had torches lit, intending to play a trick on her, and set out with Arriguccio to her house. Seeing this, their mother began to follow them weeping, now one and then the other, begging them not to believe such things so suddenly without seeing or knowing anything more, because the husband might for some reason be angry with her and have harmed her, and now tell them this as an excuse for himself, saying also that she marveled greatly at how this could have happened, because she knew her daughter well, as one who had brought her up from a young age, and many other such things.

Having arrived at Arriguccio's house and entered, they began to ascend the stairs; and when Lady Sismonda heard them coming, she said:

-Who's there?

To whom one of the brothers replied:

-You know very well, bad woman, who it is.

Then Doña Sismonda said:

-But what does this mean? Lord, help me!

And standing up, he said:

-My brothers, welcome; what are you three looking for in here at this hour?

They, having seen her sitting and sewing and without any mark on her face from having been beaten, when Arriguccio had said that he had left her beaten, were somewhat amazed at the first attack and restrained the impetus of their anger, and asked her how it had been that Arriguccio complained about her, threatening her greatly if she did not tell them everything.

The woman said:

-I don't know what I should tell you, or what Arriguccio has to complain about me.

Arriguccio, seeing her, stared at her as if stupefied, remembering that he had punched her perhaps a thousand times in the face, scratched her, and done all the evil things in the world to her, and now he looked at her as if none of it had happened. In short, the brothers told her what Arriguccio had told them about the rope and the blows and everything.

The woman, turning to Arriguccio, said:

"Oh, my husband! What am I hearing? Why do you make me look like a bad woman, to your great shame, when I am not, and you like a bad and cruel man, which you are not? And when were you in the house tonight, not with me? Or when did you hit me? As for me, I don't remember."

Arriguccio began to say:

"What, you wicked woman, didn't we go to bed together last night? Didn't I come back after you after running after your lover? Didn't I hit you many times and cut your hair?"

The woman replied:

"You didn't go to bed in this house last night, but let's leave that, since I can't bear any testimony other than my own true words, and come to what you say: that you hit me and cut my hair. You've never hit me, and everyone here, and you too, look at me and see if I have any marks of beating anywhere on my body. Nor would I advise you to be so bold as to lay your hand on me that, by the cross of Christ, I would slap you. Nor did you cut my hair, as far as I could have felt or seen, but perhaps you did it without my realizing it; let me see if they were cut or not."

And taking off the veils from her head, she showed that they were not cut, but whole; which things the brothers and the mother seeing and hearing, began to say to Arriguccio:

"What are you saying, Arriguccio? This isn't what you came to tell us you'd done; and we don't know how you can prove what's left."

Arriguccio was as if in a dream, and wanted to speak; but seeing that what he thought he could prove was not so, he dared not say anything.

The woman, turning to her brothers, said:

"My brothers, I see that he has been seeking to make me do what I would never have done, that is, to tell you of his miseries and his wickedness; and I will do it. I firmly believe that what he has told you has happened to him, and hear how. This man of integrity, whom I was given as a wife for my sake, who calls himself a merchant and who wants to be respected and who ought to have more temperance than a priest and more honesty than a maiden, there are few nights when he does not go around the taverns getting drunk, now with this wicked woman, now with that one, getting involved. Now it seems to me until midnight and sometimes until dawn, waiting for him the way you have found me. I am sure that, when he was quite drunk, he went to bed with some whore, and when she awoke, she found the cord around his foot and then did all those gallant things he describes, and finally he returned to her and beat her and cut her hair." And not having yet come to his senses, he believed, and I am sure he still believes, that he had done these things to me; and if you look closely at his face, he is still half drunk. But whatever he has said about me, I do not want it to be held against him except as a drunk; and as I forgive him, you may forgive him also.

His mother, hearing these words, began to get upset and say:

"By the cross of Christ, my child, that shouldn't have been done; that annoying and inconsiderate dog should have been killed, for he's not worthy of having a girl like you. He's fine! Not even if he had picked you up from the mud! Damn lightning strike him if you have to endure the rotten words of a little merchant in donkey dung, who comes from the country and comes out of the pigpens dressed like a scamp, with bell-bottom breeches and a feather up his arse, and as soon as they have three sous-pardons, they want the daughters of gentlemen and good ladies for wives, and they take up arms and say: 'I am one of those people,' and 'Those of my house did this.' I wish my sons had followed my advice, for they could have placed you so honorably in the house of the Counts Guido for a piece of bread. and in exchange they wanted to give you this valuable jewel, which, although you are the best and most honest girl in Florence, has not been ashamed to say at midnight that you are a whore, as if we did not know you; but by faith, if they listened to me, they would give him a damnable punishment.

And turning to his sons, he said:

"Children, I told you right now that this couldn't be. Have you heard how this brother-in-law treats your sister, that little merchant of no means? If I were you, having said what he said about her and doing what he's doing, I wouldn't be happy or satisfied until I got rid of him; and if I were a man instead of a woman, I wouldn't want someone else to do it in my place. Lord, make him feel bad, you filthy drunkard who has no shame!"

The young men, having seen and heard these things, turned to Arriguccio and said to him the greatest insults that had ever been said to any villain, and finally said:

-We forgive you for this because you are drunk, but be careful that from now on we don't hear any more news like this, because if any of this comes to our ears you will certainly pay us for this and that.

And with that, they left.

Arriguccio, who remained a fool, not knowing whether what he had done was true or whether he had dreamed it, without another word left his wife in peace; she not only escaped imminent danger with her sagacity but also opened the way for herself to be able to do whatever she wanted in the future without ever having to fear her husband again.

END

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Seventh Day, Eighth Narration,
The Decameron , 1353

THE MIRROR

 

 

 

Absolute calm reigned in the luxuriously furnished room.

In addition to the lit chandelier and the sconces attached to the wall and carrying numerous bulbs, the lamps shone a soft red under their shades.

Sitting near the fire burning in the hearth, Jordono chain-smoked. The large silver ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, and a fragrant cloud of tobacco smoke drifted slowly beneath the cream-colored ceiling.

The phone rang, but Jordon remained motionless. Only his jade-colored eyes turned, filled with concern, toward the noisy device.

After a few stubborn signals—Jordon mechanically counted eleven—the bell fell silent and the man began to breathe more deeply, as if the restored silence lightened his heart.

Thick velvet curtains hung from the windows, blocking out even the slightest ray of the abundant light outside and, at the same time, drowning out the noise of the street.

Assuming, of course, that any noise could be heard from that deserted alley, since Jordon lived in a very remote part of Stokes-Newington , where only a few newly built houses stood, most of them still waiting for prospective tenants.

His own home was new, too. Only the rooms in which he lived were furnished; the rest of the building was completely bare of all furnishings.

The small copper plaque attached to the door bore a very common name: Ph. Jones . And no one, in Stoke-Newington or London, could have guessed that hidden beneath that vulgar patronymic lay the famous Jordon.

Jerry —as his friends called him—had been a true celebrity in the largest cities in the United States. At the head of a prominent gang of gangsters, he had established a true reign of terror there.

Robbery, armed robbery, blackmail, kidnapping, arson, murder… There wasn't a crime he hadn't savored.

He deserved the electric chair a hundred times over. However, the avenging arm of justice had never been extended to him, so feared was its power. Jerry was, above all, very well protected.

Then he had abruptly disappeared from that ambiguous world. They had never found him again anywhere in America. They believed him dead, the victim of some settling of scores.

In reality, he had expatriated himself to Europe and was now living as a peaceful bourgeois in a remote corner of the English capital.

He could rest easy. None of his former friends or accomplices would have been able to identify him. Thanks to a painful but perfectly executed surgical procedure, his facial features had been completely transformed.

However, he had not found the peace he had hoped for; he felt a mysterious and alarming threat hanging over him.

Where could the danger come from?

He was unaware of it, but he nevertheless perceived it clearly and that was enough for him.

He had the telephone installed, but since no one in the country knew him, they never called him. But that afternoon, it rang three times in a row.

"They've located me," he growled, when the doorbell rang for the third time.

The anguish he experienced caused all kinds of disturbing and ghostly images to emerge around him: enormous hands wielding daggers or revolvers, electric chairs, gigantic gallows and sinister guillotines.

Weren't those footsteps echoing in the deserted house? Didn't the staircase creak? And what invisible hand was manipulating the front door lock at that moment?

No, it was nothing more than the insidious wind brushing against the walls outside. The staircase groaned because it was new and still damp. As for the door, it couldn't stop groaning under the brutal buffeting of the draft that made the newly built house shudder.

He went back to smoking cigarette after cigarette and emptied the bottle of whiskey.

Suddenly, a light shadow crossed the room. Jordon began to tremble.

But there was no reason. It was simply a light bulb that, when it burned out, had created a small, dark spot on the wall.

"Nonsense!" he muttered. "No more, no less!"

Still, he couldn't help but slip his hand under the silk cushion of his chair to check if the loaded pistol was still there.

"Why have I retreated to this cursed place?" he asked himself bitterly. "Solitude serves no purpose. It would be better for me to lose myself in the crowd. In movie theaters, dance halls, and nightclubs, there's no risk of encountering ghosts. Whereas here... I must abandon this sinister refuge."

For the fourth time, the phone started ringing. The bell rang stubbornly. Now, nothing seemed able to stop it.

As if pushed by a mysterious force, Jordon placed his hand on the receiver, picked it up, and strained to listen.

The line was clearly broken, as all he heard was a series of frantic crackling sounds. Finally, he heard an unfamiliar voice.

Although someone on the other end of the line was speaking very voluble, he could only catch two or three frequently repeated words:

-The mirror…

Then the communication was abruptly interrupted.

"The mirror? What's wrong with the mirror?" Jordan growled.

There was only one mirror in the house, a magnificent piece that she had bought when she moved into her new home.

It was firmly fixed in a splendid frame, and the slightly greenish glass must have been of Venetian origin.

Jordano turned his eyes toward his acquisition.

It was a superb mirror, of course, in which the light was reflected perfectly, without a single shadow coming to stain it.

But why did he suddenly feel attracted to him?

Trembling with an anxiety he could not explain, he left his seat and approached the mirror, which immediately returned his image.

He bent down, horrified: in the glaucous depths of the glass a shadowy and threatening figure had just appeared.

Fiery eyes shone in their sockets and a grimace of ferocity disfigured their features.

Jordon let out a scream and tried to leap back, but his limbs refused to obey his will. He stood there, petrified, staring into the mirror, where his image grew ever more hideous.

The eyes went dark, the nose was erased. All that remained was an open mouth, with white, pointed teeth. An indescribable horror seized Jordon, who recognized the face of Death.

"Help!" he shouted.

The abominable head made a wild gesture that soon turned into a Homeric laugh, although inaudible.

"No, I don't want to!" Jordon howled. "I don't want to! Justice has never caught me, and neither will you! No!"

Desperate, he threw himself against the mirror with his fists clenched.

The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. Stupefied, Jordon stared in disbelief at the work of art he had just destroyed, his arms raised in the air.

He gave a stupid smile as he watched the blood gushing from the open veins of his torn wrists.

A few moments later he collapsed on the carpet, dead…

"It was a rare piece," lamented the antique dealer Boles , "what was once called a magic mirror , one of those curious objects of purely Venetian origin, a marvelous piece of glass which, when intensely illuminated, deforms the face in a strange way... I called him three times to tell him that it was no ordinary mirror, since it was my employee who sold and delivered it to him."

But I haven't received any answers to my calls. The fourth time, he picked up the receiver, but apparently the line was out of order, because it was almost impossible to understand each other.

 

END

Posted by Paya Frank, Freelance Writer and Editor, at 7:38 AM

Tags: B-013 Stories and Tales
Salt Lake City, Utah Provo, Utah, USA

EL ESPEJO

 

 

En la estancia lujosamente amueblada reinaba una calma absoluta.

Además de la araña encendida y de los candelabros pegados a la pared y portadores de numerosas bombillas, las lámparas brillaban bajo sus pantallas un rojo suave.

Sentado cerca del fuego que ardía en el hogar, Jordono fumaba cigarrillo tras cigarrillo. El gran cenicero de plata estaba lleno de colillas, y una nube aromática de humo de tabaco flotaba lentamente bajo el techo color crema.

El teléfono sonó, pero Jordon permaneció inmóvil. Únicamente sus ojos de jade se volvieron, llenos de inquietud, hacia el ruidoso aparato.

Tras algunas señales obstinadas -Jordon contó maquinalmente once-, el timbre enmudeció y el hombre empezó a respirar más profundamente, como si el restablecido silencio le aligerara el corazón.

De las ventanas colgaban espesos cortinajes de terciopelo que no dejaban filtrar el menor rayo de la abundante claridad exterior y que, sin duda, ahogaban al mismo tiempo el rumor de la calle.

Suponiendo, desde luego, que pudiera elevarse algún ruido de aquel callejón desierto, ya que Jordon vivía en un lugar muy apartado de Stokes-Newington, en el cual sólo se erguían algunas casas recién construidas y que en su mayor parte continuaban esperando a unos hipotéticos inquilinos.

Su propia morada era nueva, también. Sólo estaban amuebladas las habitaciones en las cuales vivía; el resto del inmueble se hallaba completamente desprovisto de todo mobiliario.

La pequeña placa de cobre fijada a la puerta llevaba un nombre muy corriente: Ph. Jones. Y nadie, en Stoke-Newington o en Londres, podía adivinar que bajo aquel patronímico vulgar se ocultaba el famoso Jordon.

Jerry -como le llamaban sus amigos- había sido una verdadera celebridad en las mayores ciudades de los Estados Unidos. Al frente de una importante pandilla de gangsters, había implantado allí un auténtico régimen de terror.

Robo, asalto a mano armada, chantaje, rapto, incendio voluntario, asesinato… No había un crimen que él no hubiera saboreado.

Merecía cien veces la silla eléctrica. Sin embargo, el brazo vengador de la justicia no se había tendido nunca hacia él, hasta tal punto era temido su poder. Jerry estaba, sobre todo, muy bien protegido.

Luego había desaparecido bruscamente de aquel mundo equívoco. No habían vuelto a encontrarle en ninguna parte de América. Le creyeron muerto, víctima de algún ajuste de cuentas.

En realidad, se había expatriado a Europa y vivía ahora como un pacífico burgués en un rincón perdido de la capital inglesa.

Podía estar tranquilo. Ninguno de sus antiguos amigos o cómplices hubiera podido identificarle. Gracias a una intervención quirúrgica dolorosa, pero perfectamente lograda, los rasgos de su rostro habían sido completamente transformados.

Sin embargo, no había encontrado la paz que esperaba; sentía gravitar sobre él una amenaza misteriosa y alarmante.

¿De dónde podía venir el peligro?

Lo ignoraba, pero no obstante lo percibía claramente y eso le bastaba.

Había hecho instalar el teléfono, pero dado que nadie le conocía en el país no le llamaban nunca. Pero aquella tarde había sonado tres veces seguidas.

-Me han localizado -gruñó, cuando por tercera vez enmudeció el timbre.

La angustia que experimentaba hacía surgir a su alrededor toda clase de imágenes turbadoras y fantasmagóricas: enormes manos empuñando puñales o revólveres, sillas eléctricas, gigantescos patíbulos y siniestras guillotinas.

¿No eran unos pasos los que resonaban en la casa desierta? ¿No crujía la escalera? ¿Y qué mano invisible manipulaba, en aquel momento, en la cerradura de la puerta principal?

No, no era más que el viento insidioso que rozaba las paredes, en el exterior. La escalera gemía porque era nueva y todavía estaba húmeda. En cuanto a la puerta, no podía dejar de quejarse bajo los brutales bofetones de la corriente de aire que hacía estremecer a la vivienda recién construida.

Volvió de nuevo a fumar cigarrillo tras cigarrillo y vació la botella de whisky.

Súbitamente, una sombra ligera cruzó la estancia. Jordon se echó a temblar.

Pero no había motivo. Se trataba simplemente de una bombilla que, al fundirse, había hecho nacer en la pared una pequeña mancha oscura.

-¡Tonterías! -murmuró-. ¡Ni más ni menos!

De todos modos, no pudo evitar el deslizar la mano debajo del almohadón de seda de su sillón para comprobar si la pistola cargada continuaba allí.

-¿Por qué me he retirado a este maldito lugar? -se preguntó amargamente-. La soledad no sirve para nada. Sería preferible que me perdiera entre la multitud. En los cines, los teatros, los dancing y los clubs nocturnos no se corre el peligro de encontrar unos fantasmas. Mientras que aquí… Es preciso que abandone este funesto refugio.

Por cuarta vez, el teléfono empezó a llamar. El timbre resonaba con obstinación. Ahora, nada parecía poder pararlo.

Como empujado por una fuerza misteriosa, Jordon puso la mano sobre el aparato, descolgó y tendió el oído.

La línea estaba sin duda descompuesta, ya que sólo oyó una serie de crujidos frenéticos. Finalmente percibió una voz desconocida.

Aunque en el otro extremo del hilo alguien hablaba con una gran volubilidad, sólo pudo captar dos o tres palabras que se repetían con frecuencia:

-El espejo…

Luego, la comunicación se interrumpió bruscamente.

-¿El espejo? ¿Qué pasa con el espejo? -gruñó Jordan.

En la casa sólo había un espejo, una pieza magnífica que había comprado en el momento de instalarse en aquella nueva vivienda.

Estaba sólidamente fijado a un marco espléndido, y el cristal, ligeramente verdoso, debía ser de origen veneciano.

Jordano volvió los ojos hacia su adquisición.

Era un espejo soberbio, desde luego, en el cual se reflejaba la luz a la perfección, sin que una sola sombra viniera a mancharla.

Pero, ¿por qué se sentía súbitamente atraído hacia él?

Temblando con una ansiedad que no hubiera podido explicarse, abandonó su asiento y se acercó al espejo, el cual le devolvió inmediatamente su imagen.

Se inclinó, horrorizado: en la glauca profundidad del cristal acababa de aparecer una figura sombría y amenazadora.

Unos ojos de fuego brillaban en sus órbitas y rictus de ferocidad desfiguraban sus facciones.

Jordon profirió un grito y quiso dar un salto hacia atrás, pero sus miembros se negaron a obedecer a su voluntad. Permaneció allí, petrificado, mirándose fijamente en el espejo, donde su imagen se hacía cada vez más espantosa.

Los ojos se apagaron, la nariz se borró. No quedaba más que una boca abierta, de dientes blancos y puntiagudos. Un horror indescriptible se apoderó de Jordon, que reconoció el rostro de la Muerte.

-¡Socorro! -gritó.

La abominable cabeza hizo un gesto salvaje que no tardó en trocarse en una risa homérica, aunque inaudible.

-¡No, no quiero! -aulló Jordon-. ¡No quiero! ¡La justicia no ha conseguido atraparme nunca, y tú tampoco lo conseguirás! ¡Noooo!

Desesperado, se precipitó contra el espejo con los puños cerrados.

El espejo voló en mil pedazos. Estupefacto, con los brazos levantados, Jordon contempló con aire de incredulidad la obra de arte que acababa de destruir.

Esbozó una estúpida sonrisa, mientras contemplaba la sangre que salía a borbotones de las venas abiertas de sus muñecas desgarradas.

Unos instantes después se desplomó sobre la alfombra, muerto…

-Era una pieza rara -se lamentaba el anticuario Boles-, lo que en otros tiempos se llamaba un espejo mágico, uno de esos curiosos objetos de origen puramente veneciano, un cristal maravilloso que, intensamente iluminado, deforma el rostro de un modo extraño… Le he llamado tres veces por teléfono para decirle que no era un espejo ordinario, ya que fue mi empleado quien se lo vendió y entregó.

Pero no he recibido respuesta a mis llamadas. La cuarta vez descolgó el receptor, pero por lo visto la línea estaba descompuesta, porque resultaba casi imposible entenderse.

 

FIN

 

Relato traducido del Ingles al Castellano

por Paya Frank

Theodor Herzl´s Jewish State

 

 

Theodor Herzl's Jewish State : Utopia, Politics, and Prophecy

Published in 1896, The Jewish State ( Der Judenstaat ) is much more than a political treatise: it is the founding manifesto of modern Zionism and a work that encapsulates the dreams of a people dispersed for centuries. Theodor Herzl, a Viennese journalist of Jewish origin, wrote this text in response to the rising tide of antisemitism in Europe, convinced that the solution was not assimilation, but the creation of a sovereign state for the Jewish people.

Herzl doesn't appeal to emotion or biblical nostalgia: his approach is rational, legal, and pragmatic. He proposes the founding of a Jewish state as a modern enterprise, with economic, legal, and diplomatic structures. The text is presented as an action plan, with details on migration, financing, the organization of a "Jewish Society" and a "Jewish Company" that would manage resources and colonization.

But beyond its technical nature, The Jewish State vibrates with a visionary energy. Herzl writes with the conviction that he is sowing an idea that will germinate in future generations. His phrase, "If you want it, it will not be a dream," became the motto of the Zionist movement, and his vision, though utopian at the time, materialized decades later with the creation of the State of Israel in 1948.

📚 Why read it today ?

• Because it is a window into 19th-century political thought, where the ideas of nation, self-determination, and modernity are intertwined.

• Because it allows us to understand the origin of one of the most complex geopolitical conflicts of the 20th and 21st centuries.

• Because it's a work that, although brief, raises profound questions about identity, belonging, and the right to a home.

Herzl was neither a theologian nor a historian, but an intellectual who knew how to translate the pain of his time into a concrete proposal. His style is clear, direct, unadorned, yet charged with urgency. For readers interested in history, politics, or the literature of ideas, The Jewish State is essential reading.

 Historical context: Europe, antisemitism and the birth of political Zionism

At the end of the 19th century, Europe was undergoing a profound transformation. The Industrial Revolution had reconfigured cities, social classes, and political systems. Nationalism was consolidating its dominant force, and modern nation-states were beginning to define their cultural and ethnic boundaries. In this climate of emerging identities, European Jews, despite having achieved certain levels of integration and legal emancipation, continued to be subject to discrimination, exclusion, and violence.

Antisemitism was not new, but it took on modern forms: pseudoscientific, political, and media-based. In France, the Dreyfus Affair (1894–1906), in which a Jewish official was falsely accused of treason, unleashed a wave of hatred that shook public opinion. Herzl, who covered the trial as a journalist, was deeply shocked. Although he initially believed in assimilation as a path to integration, this episode convinced him that Jews needed their own state to guarantee their safety and dignity.

At the same time, the Ottoman Empire was beginning to lose influence over Palestine, and European interest in the region was growing. Herzl saw Palestine as a viable option for Jewish settlement, although he also considered Argentina as an alternative. His proposal appealed not to religion or messianism, but to political logic: if European peoples could have sovereign states, why not the Jewish people?

The Jewish State was published in 1896, at a time when Zionism had not yet emerged as an organized movement. A year later, Herzl convened the First Zionist Congress in Basel (1897), where the foundations were laid for the political project that would culminate in the creation of the State of Israel in 1948.

This context makes the work a key historical document: not only does it anticipate a geopolitical shift of enormous magnitude, but it also reflects the ideological, social, and cultural tensions of a Europe torn between modernity and prejudice.

📖 Literary and political perspective: between manifesto and metaphor

🏛️ From a political perspective: a manifesto of self-determination

The Jewish State is inscribed in the tradition of great founding texts: it is neither a novel nor a speculative essay, but a political manifesto with a transformative vocation. Herzl articulates his proposal with Cartesian clarity, appealing to logic, economics, and international law. His tone is sober, almost technical, yet charged with moral urgency. The author does not seek to convince with emotional rhetoric, but with rational arguments that respond to the European context of exclusion and violence.

Politically, the work represents a radical shift: it proposes that the Jewish people cease to be an object of tolerance or persecution and become a political subject with the power to make decisions. Herzl anticipates contemporary debates about national identity, migration, sovereignty, and collective rights. His vision, although controversial at the time, became the linchpin of a movement that transformed the landscape of the 20th century.

✍️ From a literary perspective: clarity, vision, and symbolism

Although not a literary work in the strictest sense, The Jewish State possesses a narrative force that brings it close to the utopian genre. Herzl constructs a vision of the future, a "possible place" that does not yet exist, but that can be achieved through determined action. This dimension connects it to works such as Thomas More's Utopia or Plato's Republic , where political thought is expressed as imagined architecture.

His style is direct, unadorned, but not devoid of symbolism. The idea of ​​the "national home" functions as a metaphor for belonging, refuge, and dignity. Herzl writes like someone drawing a map: each chapter delineates functions, structures, and paths. And yet, there are moments where his prose soars, as in his famous phrase: "If you want it, it will not be a dream ," which encapsulates the power of collective will.

For the literary reader, the work offers a different experience: it doesn't seek to move, but to mobilize. But in that mobilization lies a poetics of desire, a narrative of return, an epic without individual heroes, where the protagonist is an entire people.

 Conclusion : a text that projects territory and soul

The Jewish State is not only the seed of a nation; it is also the portrait of a collective consciousness seeking to take root. Herzl, with his journalistic eye and political architect's pen, offers us a work that transcends paper: it is a map, a manifesto, and a mirror. His proposal, although written with the precision of a logistical plan, vibrates with the intensity of a shared vision, as if each line traced not only geographical borders but also emotional contours of belonging.

From your perspective as a literary and photographic curator, this book can be read as a latent image: a negative that reveals a people's desire to rebel, to imprint itself on history with its own light. Just as a photograph captures the instant and transforms it into memory, The Jewish State captures a moment of urgency and transforms it into a legacy.

Reading it today is like returning to a crossroads where words become action, and where political literature merges with the poetics of destiny. Herzl doesn't write to entertain, but to summon. And in that summoning, each reader becomes a witness to an idea that, like any powerful image, continues to resonate long after it has been revealed.

Theodor Herzl's The Jewish State (1896) is not just a political plan: it is the founding dream of modern Zionism. In the midst of anti-Semitic Europe, Herzl proposed a sovereign state for the Jewish people, with a rational vision and utopian force. "If you want it, it will not be a dream." A brief, clear, and prophetic text that changed history.