By Hernando Téllez
Translated by Fausto Adams
He didn’t greet me when he came in. I was stropping my best razor on a leather strop. And when I recognized him, I started to tremble. But he didn’t notice. To hide my reaction, I continued stropping the blade. I tested it afterwards on the pad of my thumb and looked at it again against the light. At that moment he was unbuckling his bullet-studded belt from which the pistol holster hung. He hung it on one of the hooks in the wardrobe and placed his military cap on top of it. He turned his body completely to speak to me and, undoing his tie knot, said: “It’s hot as hell. Give me a shave.” And he sat down in the chair.
I estimated he had four days’ worth of beard. Four days from the last expedition in search of our men. His face appeared burned, weathered by the sun. I began to prepare the soap meticulously. I cut a few slices from the bar, dropped them into the cup, mixed it in some warm water, and started stirring with the brush. Soon the lather rose. “The boys in the troop must have as much beard as I do.” I kept beating the foam. “But it went well for us, you know? We caught the main ones. Some are dead and others are still alive. But soon they’ll all be dead.”
“How many did you catch?” I asked. “Fourteen. We had to go far inland to find them. But now they’re paying for it. And not one will be saved, not one.” He leaned back in the chair when he saw me with the brush in hand, overflowing with foam. I still needed to put the sheet on him. I was certainly dazed. I pulled a sheet from the drawer and tied it around my client’s neck. He didn’t stop talking. He assumed I was one of the supporters of the regime. “The town must have learned its lesson from what happened the other day,” he said. “Yes,” I replied as I finished tying the knot over his dark nape, which smelled of sweat. “It was good, wasn’t it?” “Very good,” I answered as I returned to the brush.
The man closed his eyes with a gesture of fatigue and waited for the fresh caress of the soap. I had never had him so close to me. The day he ordered the town to parade through the schoolyard to see the four rebels hanging there, I crossed paths with him for an instant. But the spectacle of the mutilated bodies prevented me from focusing on the face of the man who directed it all and who I was now going to take in my hands. It wasn’t an unpleasant face, certainly. And the beard, aging him a bit, didn’t look bad on him. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. A man with imagination, because who had thought before of hanging rebels naked and then practicing a certain kind of bullet mutilation on specific parts of the body?
I began to spread the first layer of soap. He kept his eyes closed. “I’d gladly go get some sleep,” he said, “but there’s a lot to do this afternoon.” I pulled back the brush and asked with falsely disinterested air: “A firing squad?” “Something like that, but slower,” he answered. “All of them?” “No. Just a few.” I resumed the task of lathering his beard. Once again, my hands trembled. The man couldn’t notice it, and that was my advantage. But I wished he hadn’t come. Probably many of our men had seen him enter. And the enemy in the house imposes conditions. I would have to shave that beard like any other, carefully, meticulously, like that of a good customer, making sure that not a single pore would release a drop of blood. Making sure that the blade wouldn’t veer off in the small whorls. Making sure that the skin would be clean, smooth, polished, and that when I passed the back of my hand over it, I would feel the surface without a single hair. Yes. I was a clandestine revolutionary, but I was also a conscientious barber, proud of the precision in my work. And that four-day beard lent itself to a good job.
I took the razor, raised the two handles at an oblique angle, freed the blade, and began the task, from one of the sideburns downward. The blade responded perfectly. The hair was unruly and hard, not very long, but compact. The skin began to appear little by little. The blade made its characteristic sound, and on it grew clumps of soap mixed with bits of hair. I paused to clean it, took the strop, and once again began to sharpen the steel, because I’m a barber who does things well.
The man who had kept his eyes closed opened them, pulled one hand out from under the sheet, felt the area of his face that was beginning to be free of soap, and said to me: “Come to the School at six this afternoon.” “The same as the other day?” I asked, horrified. “It might turn out better,” he responded. “What do you plan to do?” “I don’t know yet. But we’ll have fun.” Again, he leaned back and closed his eyes. I approached with the razor held high. “Are you planning to punish all of them?” I ventured timidly. “All of them.” The soap was drying on his face. I had to hurry. Through the mirror, I looked towards the street. The same as always: the grocery store with two or three shoppers in it. Then I looked at the clock: two-twenty in the afternoon. The razor kept descending. Now from the other sideburn downward. A thick, blue beard. He should let it grow like some poets or some priests do. It would look good on him. Many wouldn’t recognize him. And better for him, I thought, as I tried to smooth gently the entire area of the neck. Because there I really had to handle the blade skillfully, since the hair, though soft, tangled in small whorls. A curly beard. The pores could open, tiny, and release their pearl of blood. A good barber like me stakes his pride in that not happening to any client. And this was a quality client. How many of our men had he ordered killed? How many of our men had he ordered mutilated?… Better not think about it. Torres didn’t know I was an enemy. Neither he nor the others knew. It was a secret among very few, precisely so that I could inform the revolutionaries of what Torres was doing in the town and what he was planning to do each time he undertook an expedition to hunt revolutionaries. It was going to be very difficult to explain, then, that I had him in my hands and let him go peacefully, alive and shaved.
The beard had almost completely disappeared. He looked younger, with fewer years than he carried on his shoulders when he entered. I suppose that always happens with men who go in and out of barbershops. Under the stroke of my razor, Torres grew younger, yes; because I’m a good barber, the best in this town, I say without vanity. A little more soap, here, under the chin, over Adam’s apple, over this large vein. How hot it is! Torres must be sweating like I am. But he’s not afraid. He’s a serene man who isn’t even thinking about what he has to do this afternoon with the prisoners. On the other hand, I, with this razor in my hands, polishing and polishing this skin, preventing blood from sprouting from these pores, watching every stroke, cannot think serenely. Damn the hour he came, because I’m a revolutionary, but I’m not a murderer. And it would be so easy to kill him. And he deserves it. Does he deserve it? No, what the hell! No one deserves that others make the sacrifice of becoming murderers. What is gained by it? Nothing. Others come and others and the first ones kill the second and these kill the third and it goes on and on until everything is a sea of blood. I could cut this neck, like this, swish! I wouldn’t give him time to complain and since his eyes are closed he wouldn’t see the gleam of the razor or the gleam of my eyes. But I’m trembling like a real murderer. From that neck would gush a stream of blood onto the sheet, onto the chair, onto my hands, onto the floor. I would have to close the door. And the blood would keep running along the floor, warm, indelible, unstoppable, to the street, like a small scarlet stream. I’m sure that one strong blow, a deep incision, would spare him all pain. He wouldn’t suffer. And what to do with the body? Where to hide it? I would have to flee, leave these things, take refuge far away, very far away. But they would pursue me until they found me. “The murderer of Captain Torres. He slits his throat while shaving his beard. What cowardice.” And on the other hand: “The avenger of our people. A name to remember (here is my name). He was the town barber. No one knew he defended our cause…” And so, what? Murderer or hero? My destiny depends on the edge of this razor. I can tilt my hand a little more, press the blade a little harder, and sink it in. The skin will yield like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender than human skin and blood is always there, ready for spring forth. A razor like this doesn’t betray. It’s the best of my razors. But I don’t want to be a murderer, no sir. You came for me to shave you. And I carry out my work honorably… I don’t want to stain myself with blood. Lather and nothing else. You are an executioner, and I am nothing more than a barber. And each man in his place. That’s it. Each man in his place.
The beard was clean, polished, and smooth. The man sat up to look at himself in the mirror. He ran his hands over his skin and felt it was fresh and brand new.
“Thank you,” he said. He went to the wardrobe for his belt, pistol, and cap. I must have been very pale, and I felt my shirt soaked. Torres finished adjusting the buckle, corrected the position of the pistol in the holster, and after mechanically smoothing his hair, put on his cap. From his pants pocket he took out some coins to pay me for the service. And he began to walk toward the door. At the threshold he stopped for a second and turning to me he said:
“They had told me that you would kill me. I came to verify it. But killing isn’t easy. I know why I’m telling you this.” And he continued down the street.
Source: Hernando Téllez
Fair Use Disclaimer
This website publishes excerpts of content from other authors under the Fair Use doctrine as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Office (17 U.S.C. § 107) for educational, informational, commentary, and criticism purposes. All excerpted content is properly attributed to its original source and copyright holder. If you believe any content infringes on your copyright, please contact us immediately at admin@faustoadams.com
