The Storyteller

By Daniel Indalecio Guzman

(originally published in Rosebud)

He walks slowly through our town. Do you not see him there? He has a face that is a menagerie of violence. His eye is swollen shut. Perhaps this is from a fight. Perhaps this is from a woman. I am not certain which of these possibilities is keeper of the truth.

He is always wearing the same filthy suit, even in this most terrible of weather that we frequently experience. His feet slip over the cobblestone, and his odor is much like in the manner of drunkards (or perhaps in the manner of one that has forgotten to stay buried, yes?).

He enters the town plaza, followed immediately by his pack of dogs. Always with the dogs! I will now beg your forgiveness for their smell, which I am sure is offensive to you. These creatures are like the rats. They come from nowhere. They rise from the dust and the shadows to follow him, that old fool.

It is hard to imagine this man as having once been young. He has been old for such a very long time. He is the old idiot with his old idiot dogs. It has always been like this, every morning for years and years. Always before I can enjoy my first cup of coffee. I wake up and open all the windows and doors and I sweep the entrance and I see him walking to the center of town. To the statue. Do you see it there? That is the statue of our founder. What do you think? We are a very old town. Much older than any other place you have encountered, I am confident in that certainty.

Oh, look at the idiot now. He is climbing the face of the statue. What a fool. No, he doesn’t have a name. Not a real name like yours or mine. He is known only as the Storyteller. This is a joke, you see. His name. I am making a joke when I call him the Storyteller. This is because he never talks. He has never spoken, not in all my days in this town. It is we, the people, who speak. We have spoken of him and his dogs since when I was little more than a girl on my mama’s lap. It is we who tell the stories, not him. This is like a joke, yes?

I don’t know if he was born in this town or not. No one is alive to tell us. We have many people like him in our town. This is a most unfortunate matter of discussion. Over the years, I have watched many of these variety of people walking about, sleeping, eating, pissing, always moving, always walking, until one day they walk out of our memories and disappear. The town has forgotten about them. I, however, have not. I always observe them from here, from my little window. I sit here and watch. It is good to sit here.

Look now, I think the idiot wants to speak. I have never seen that before. You have come on a very special morning. You are witnessing the greatest of wonders ever to happen in our town. There will be a new story to speak of after today. And look at that woman over there. I recognize her from the marketplace. She is a vendor there. I think she is listening to him. And look at that man beside her. He is a good man. I know him from my church. He is stopping, too.

I have never seen anything quite like this. This is the most amazing of things, yes? The Storyteller is telling his first story. Look at that young lady. She too has stopped to listen. I took care of her once, several years ago when I was much healthier and could tolerate the abnormal minds of children. I remember that she was a very sad girl. A congregation of doctors of every variety always engaged her house. I quit my post with her family two weeks after because of my fears concerning what diseases might have lurked in every blanket I turned over, or every bowl of soup I prepared. And look there, that businessman, I know him, too. He is always in a hurry, always going from place to place. He owns a store full of antiques. We don’t speak much, although I’ve known him since we were little schoolchildren, since the time he tried to reveal the interior landscape of my dress for his own wicked fascination. But, now, he is too busy to even say so much as a “hello” to me. I thought for certain that he of all people would keep walking, but those words must have struck him with a great complication, yes?

And look there, look at that police officer. His is a perversion of a quality more severe than that of my dearest old schoolmate. Look at him on his knees and crying. Look at his face. I can hear his moaning all the way from here. He weeps like the others, but in truth, he is even less than the dogs, nothing more than a pig. He and his kind are as the nature of animals to the people in this town. Where were the tears when they shot our so-called “radicals”? Where were the moans when our sons and daughters were buried one on top of the other? Who was listening when my husband was taken away, bound and blindfolded?

I am sorry for my exclamations. I beg for your forgiveness. This is all too ridiculous for me to understand completely. Ridiculous, yes? That is the proper word? I apologize for this occurring while you are enjoying your breakfast. Please forgive my fellow townsfolk. This is all like a joke. Nothing of this abnormal nature has ever occurred before. Why, look at how large the crowd is getting! Maybe I will get closer. Truly, this is becoming something worth remembering. I will hear the words, but I will not cry like the others. I will not.

Just look at him. Filthy. That suit. Those scars. And that face of his. Disgusting. And those dogs!

Ah, look there. I knew that not everyone would be listening to the old idiot. Look over at that group of young men. Do you see them? They are laughing at the Storyteller. They think it is all like a joke. I can tell by their faces. I’ve seen them before. They are the children of bastards. Pardon the perverted use of your language, but they are truly of that orientation. It is obvious from their behavior. They are always causing trouble whenever I pass by. Always calling me names, as if it is I who should be ashamed of walking the streets to go about my business as I please. As if it was I, and not they, who should be apologizing for making myself visible in public.

Yes, I have a story about them, too. I know everyone in this town. No, I have not considered writing any of these stories down. I am always quite busy here with my work. Writing requires concentration, and a quiet room. Yes, I have plenty of rooms here. But those are reserved only for guests such as yourself. There is a difference existing between the nature of the first topic and the nature of the second. I am certain that you understand with great satisfaction my belief in this matter of discussion.

Oh, this weather is truly becoming quite unbearable. The sun is rising out from behind the clouds, and the heat from the cobblestone is burning my skin in a most unpleasant way. The air all around is becoming very much visible to my eyes. It is curious how the heat is making the people over there appear somewhat like the steam from a boiling pot, don’t you agree?

That is strange. I don’t understand what is happening. Look at the woman and the man that I have told you of. Look at the light that is visible on their faces. I don’t understand what is happening. Look at the businessman. Look at his clothes. And look at the girl. Why, look at her smiling. I have never seen that. Look at all the people over there. I can hardly see any of them now because of the sun within my eyes.

They are all so radiant, like something made completely of jewels. And the Storyteller. I don’t think I have ever seen anything like it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a face. He is very beautiful. Has this always been like this? No, don’t look at him. I don’t want to look. My god, it is like he is becoming the light. Something is happening to the bodies of the people. Like gold. Yes that is what they look like. Like their bodies were made of gold.

I don’t think I have ever witnessed anything that was both equally wonderful and equally terrible in my whole life. Have they always looked like this? Did I just notice these things for the first time? Tell me, what do you see? This is all too brilliant now for my perception. Oh, this light is far too overwhelming. It is a most serious complication. What a most abnormal of mornings this is becoming, yes?

It is so quiet, much so that I am becoming concerned as to what has occurred to the people. Wait, I believe that I am beginning to hear something now. I am hearing something that is of the faintest quality. Is it a voice? Yes, it is a voice. I can hear it closer now. It is The Storyteller. It is the voice of the old man. He is talking. Do you not hear him? His voice is so clear. He is telling me his story. I can hear it now. He is speaking to me.

Oh, I never knew. I never knew.

© 2009 daniel indalecio guzman, all rights reserved.