A story by a Latin-American writer. One of the best in world literature.
Enjoy.
Hernando Tellez (1908 - 1966) (Columbian writer)
L A T H E R A N D N O T H I N G E L S E
Hernando Téllez
He came in without a word. I was
stropping my best razor. And when I recognized him, I started to shake. But he
did not notice. To cover my nervousness, I went on honing the razor. I tried
the edge with the tip of my thumb and took another look at it against the
light.
Meanwhile, he was taking off
his cartridge-studded belt with the pistol holster suspended from it. He put it
on a hook in the wardrobe and hung his cap above it. Then he turned full around
toward me and, loosening his tie, remarked, “It’s hot as the devil. I want a
shave.” With that he took his seat.
I estimated he had a four-days’
growth of beard—the four days he had been gone on the last foray after our men.
His face looked burnt, tanned by the sun. I started to work carefully on the
shaving soap. I scraped some slices from the cake, dropped them into the mug,
then added a little lukewarm water, and stirred with the brush. The lather soon
began to rise.
“The fellows in the troop
must have just about as much beard as I.” I went on stirring up lather. “But we
did very well, you know. We caught the leaders. Some of them we brought back
dead; others are still alive. But they’ll all be dead soon.”
“How many did you take?” I
asked.
“Fourteen. We had to go pretty
far in to find them. But now they’re paying for it. And not one will escape;
not a single one.”
He leaned back in the chair
when he saw the brush in my hand, full of lather. I had not yet put the sheet
on him. I was certainly flustered. Taking a sheet from the drawer, I tied it
around my customer’s neck. He went on talking. He evidently took it for granted
that I was on the side of the existing regime.
“The people must have gotten a
scare with what happened the other day,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, as I finished
tying the knot against his nape, which smelt of sweat.
“Good show, wasn’t it?”
“Very good,” I answered,
turning my attention now to the brush. The man closed his eyes wearily and
awaited the cool caress of the lather.
I had never had him so close
before. The day he ordered the people to file through the schoolyard to look
upon the four rebels hanging there, my path had crossed his briefly. But the
sight of those mutilated bodies kept me from paying attention to the face of
the man who had been directing it all and whom I now had in my hands. It was
not a disagreeable face, certainly. And the beard, which aged him a bit, was
not unbecoming. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. I started to lay on
the first coat of lather. He kept his eyes closed.
“I would love to catch a nap,”
he said, “but there’s a lot to be done this evening.”
I lifted the brush and asked,
with pretended indifference: “A firing party?”
“Something of the sort,” he
replied, “but slower.”
“All of them?”
“No, just a few.”
I went on lathering his face.
My hands began to tremble again. The man could not be aware of this, which was
lucky for me. But I wished he had not come in. Probably many of our men had
seen him enter the shop. And with the enemy in my house I felt a certain
responsibility. I would have to shave his beard just like any other, carefully,
neatly, just as though he were a good customer, taking heed that not a single
pore should emit a drop of blood. Seeing to it that the blade did not slip in
the small whorls. Taking care that the skin was left clean, soft, shining, so
that when I passed the back of my hand over it, not a single hair should be
felt.
Yes. I was secretly a
revolutionary, but at the same time I was a conscientious barber, proud of the
way I did my job. And that four-day beard presented a challenge. I took up the
razor, opened the handle wide, releasing the blade, and started to work,
downward from one sideburn. The blade responded to perfection. The hair was
tough and hard; not very long, but thick. Little by little the skin began to
show through. The razor gave out its usual sound as it gathered up layers of
soap mixed with bits of hair. I paused to wipe it clean, and taking up the
strop once more went about improving its edge, for I am a painstaking
barber.
The man, who had kept his eyes
closed, now opened them, put a hand out from under the sheet, felt of the part
of his face that was emerging from the lather, and said to me, “Come at six
o’clock this evening to the school.”
“Will it be like the other
day?” I asked, stiff with horror.
“It may be even better,” he
replied.
“What are you planning to
do?”
“I’m not sure yet. But we’ll
have a good time.”
Once more he leaned back and
shut his eyes. I came closer, the razor on high. “Are you going to punish all
of them?” I timidly ventured.
“Yes, all of them.”
The lather was drying on his
face. I must hurry. Through the mirror, I took a look at the street. It
appeared about as usual: there was the grocery shop with two or three
customers. Then I glanced at the clock: two-thirty.
The razor kept descending. Now
from the other sideburn downward. It was a blue beard, a thick one. He should
let it grow like some poets, or some priests. It would suit him well. Many
people would not recognize him. And that would be a good thing for him, I
thought, as I went gently over all the throat line. At this point you really
had to handle your blade skillfully, because the hair, while scantier, tended
to fall into small whorls.
It was a curly beard. The pores
might open, minutely, in this area and let out a tiny drop of blood. A good
barber like myself stakes his reputation on not permitting that to happen to
any of his customers. And this was indeed a special customer. How many of ours
had he sent to their death? How many had he mutilated? It was best not to think
about it.
Torres did not know I was his enemy.
Neither he nor the others knew it. It was a secret shared by very few, just
because that made it possible for me to inform the revolutionaries about
Torres’ activities in the town and what he planned to do every time he went on
one of his raids to hunt down rebels. So it was going to be very difficult to
explain how it was that I had him in my hands and then let him go in peace,
alive, clean-shaven.
His beard had now almost
entirely disappeared. He looked younger, several years younger than when he had
come in. I suppose that always happens to men who enter and leave barbershops.
Under the strokes of my razor Torres was rejuvenated; yes, because I am a good
barber, the best in this town, and I say this in all modesty.
A little more lather here under
the chin, on the Adam’s apple, right near the great vein. How hot it is! Torres
must be sweating just as I am. But he is not afraid.
He is a tranquil man, who is
not even giving thought to what he will do to his prisoners this evening. I, on
the other hand, polishing his skin with this razor but avoiding the drawing of
blood, careful with every stroke—I cannot keep my thoughts in order.
Confound the hour he entered my
shop! I am a revolutionary but not a murderer. And it would be so easy to kill
him. He deserves it. Or does he? No, damn it! No one deserves the sacrifice
others make in becoming assassins. What is to be gained by it? Nothing. Others
and still others keep coming, and the first kill the second, and then these
kill the next, and so on until everything becomes a sea of blood. I could cut
his throat, so, swish, swish! He would not even have time to moan, and with his
eyes shut he would not even see the shine of the razor or the gleam in my
eye.
But I’m shaking like a regular
murderer. From his throat a stream of blood would flow on the sheet, over the
chair, down on my hands, onto the floor. I would have to close the door. But
the blood would go flowing, along the floor, warm, indelible, not to be
stanched, until it reached the street, like a small scarlet river. I’m sure
that with a good strong blow, a deep cut, he would feel no pain. He would not
suffer at all.
And what would I do then with
the body? Where would I hide it? I would have to flee, leave all this behind,
take shelter far away, very far away. But they would follow until they caught
up with me. “The murderer of Captain Torres. He slit his throat while he was
shaving him. What a cowardly thing to do!”
And others would say, “The
avenger of our people. A name to remember”—my name here. “He was the town
barber. No one knew he was fighting for our cause.”
And so, which will it be?
Murderer or hero? My fate hangs on the edge of this razor blade. I can turn my
wrist slightly, put a bit more pressure on the blade, let it sink in. The skin
will yield like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender
than a man’s skin, and the blood is always there, ready to burst forth. A razor
like this cannot fail. It is the best one I have.
But I don’t want to be a
murderer. No, sir. You came in to be shaved. And I do my work honorably. I
don’t want to stain my hands with blood. Just with lather, and nothing else.
You are an executioner; I am only a barber. Each one to his job. That’s it.
Each one to his job.
The chin was now clean, polished,
soft. The man got up and looked at himself in the glass. He ran his hand over
the skin and felt its freshness, its newness. “Thanks,” he said. He walked to
the wardrobe for his belt, his pistol, and his cap. I must have been very pale,
and I felt my shirt soaked with sweat.
Torres finished adjusting his
belt buckle, straightened his gun in its holster, and, smoothing his hair
mechanically, put on his cap. From his trousers pocket he took some coins to
pay for the shave. And he started toward the door.
On the threshold he stopped for
a moment, and turning toward me he said: “They told me you would kill me. I
came to find out if it was true. But it’s not easy to kill. I know what I’m
talking about.”
Questions
1. In what narrative point
of view is this story told? What evidence in the story tells you so? What
effect does use of this point of view have on readers?
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
2. What does Captain Torres
do for a living? (What is his job?) Is he good at it? What evidence in the
story tells you so?
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
3. At the end of the
story, Torres says: “They told me you would kill me.” Who are the “they” that he
is referring to? Why do you think so? (Explain.)
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
4. The barber/narrator is thinking about using his
razor to slit Torres’ throat. Why might he want Torres dead? Why doesn’t he kill
Torres? What does his explanation for his own actions tell you about the barber’s
character? Explain.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
5. What is going to
happen to the barber in the hours after this story ends? Why do you think so?
Explain the reasoning that led you to this conclusion.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
6. The title of this
story is very ironic. Why can we say so? Explain.
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
