“The Jockey” by Carson McCullers

de El aliento del cielo
Carson McCullers, 2007
Traducción: José Luis López Muñoz & María Campuzano

El jockey llegó a la puerta del comedor; después de un momento entró y se puso a un lado, quieto, con la espalda apoyada contra la pared. El local estaba lleno; era ya el tercer día de la temporada y todos los hoteles de la ciudad estaban repletos. En el comedor, unos ramitos de rosas de agosto habían dejado caer pétalos sobre los manteles blancos y desde el bar cercano llegaba un sonido de voces cálido y ronco. El jockey esperaba con la espalda pegada a la pared y observaba el comedor con ojos apretados, rugosos. Examinó la habitación y su mirada llegó hasta una mesa de la esquina de enfrente en la que estaban sentados tres hombres. Observando, el jockey levantó la barbilla y echó la cabeza hacia un lado; su cuerpo de enano se irguió rígido y apretó las manos con los dedos curvos hacia dentro como garfios de hierro. Así, en tensión, contra la pared del comedor, miraba y esperaba.
Aquella tarde llevaba un traje de seda china verde bien cortado a medida y del tamaño de un disfraz de niño. La camisa era amarilla; la corbata a rayas, de colores pastel. Iba sin sombrero y llevaba el pelo cepillado hacia la frente en una especie de flequillo mojado y tieso. Su rostro era chupado, gris y sin edad. Había hoyos de sombra en sus sienes y sus labios se crispaban en una sonrisa forzada. Después de un rato se dio cuenta de que le había visto uno de los tres hombres que él había mirado. Pero el jockey no saludó con la cabeza, levantó más la barbilla y metió el pulgar de su mano rígida en el bolsillo del chaleco.
Los tres hombres de la mesa de la esquina eran un entrenador, un corredor de apuestas y un hombre rico. El entrenador era Sylvester, un sujeto grandote, desgarbado, de nariz brillante y lentos ojos azules. El de las apuestas era Simmons. El hombre rico era el dueño de un caballo que se llamaba Seltzer, con el que el jockey había corrido aquella tarde. Los tres bebían whisky con soda, y un camarero uniformado con chaqueta blanca acababa de traer el plato principal de la cena.
Fue Sylvester el primero que vio al jockey. Desvió la vista en seguida, dejó su vaso de whisky y se frotó nervioso la punta de la nariz enrojecida.
—Es una pena —dijo el hombre rico.
—Sí. Eran muy amigos —dijo Sylvester—. Estaba siempre en el hotel en el cuarto de Bitsy. Solían jugar al póquer o se tumbaban en el suelo a leer juntos la página de deportes.
—Bueno, son cosas que pasan —dijo el hombre rico.
Simmons cortaba su filete. Tenía el tenedor sobre el plato y amontonaba cuidadosamente sobre él las setas con la hoja del cuchillo.
—Está loco —repetía—. A mí me pone nervioso.
Estaban ocupadas todas las mesas del comedor. En la mesa del centro había un grupo de fiesta y las mariposas blancas y verdes habían entrado desde la noche y revoloteaban alrededor de las llamas claras de las velas. Dos chicas con pantalones de franela y chaquetas sueltas entraron del brazo y fueron al bar. De la calle principal llegaban los ecos de la histérica barahúnda de la gente en vacación.
—Aseguran que Saratoga es en agosto la ciudad más rica del mundo por cabeza —dijo Sylvester dirigiéndose al hombre rico—. ¿A usted qué le parece?
—No sé —dijo el hombre rico—. Podría serlo muy bien.
Simmons se limpió cuidadosamente la boca grasienta con la punta del índice:
—¿Y qué pasa con Hollywood? ¿Y Wall Street?
—Calla —dijo Sylvester—. Viene hacia acá.
El jockey había dejado la pared y se acercaba a la mesa de la esquina. Andaba pavoneándose, presumido, lanzando las piernas en un semicírculo a cada paso, taconeando viva y petulantemente sobre la alfombra de terciopelo rojo. Al andar se dio contra el codo de una mujer gorda vestida de satén blanco, que estaba en la mesa del banquete; el jockey retrocedió y se inclinó con cortesía estudiada, los ojos bien cerrados. Cuando hubo cruzado el comedor, acercó una silla y se sentó en una esquina de la mesa, entre Sylvester y el hombre rico, sin hacer el menor saludo ni cambiar en lo más mínimo su rostro gris e inmóvil.
—¿Has cenado? —preguntó Sylvester.
—Algunos lo llamarían cenar —la voz del jockey era alta, clara y amarga.
Sylvester puso el cuchillo y el tenedor cuidadosamente sobre el plato. El hombre rico cambió de postura, poniéndose de lado en la silla y cruzando las piernas. Llevaba pantalones grises de montar, las botas sucias y una chaqueta marrón muy estropeada. Ése era su atuendo día y noche durante las carreras, aunque nadie le había visto nunca a caballo. Simmons siguió con su cena.
—¿Quieres un poco de selt—preguntó Sylvester —. ¿O algo por el estilo?
El jockey no contestó. Sacó una petaca de oro del bolsillo y la abrió de golpe. Dentro había algunos pitillos y una navajita de oro minúscula. Usaba la navaja para cortar en dos los cigarrillos. Cuando hubo encendido el pitillo, levantó la mano llamando al camarero que pasaba junto a la mesa.
—Un whisky, por favor.
—Mira, chico —dijo Sylvester.
—No me llame chico.
—Sé razonable. Sabes que tienes que ser razonable.
El jockey hizo una mueca rígida con el extremo izquierdo de la boca. Bajó los ojos mirando la comida que había encima de la mesa, pero los levantó en seguida. Delante del hombre rico había una cazuelita de pescado asado con salsa de crema y adornado con perejil. Sylvester había pedido unos huevos «Benedict». Había espárragos, maíz tostado con mantequilla y un platito con aceitunas negras. Había una fuente de patatas fritas en la esquina de la mesa, delante del jockey. No miró más la comida. Fijaba sus ojos apretados en el centro de mesa con rosas abiertas.
—Me figuro que no se acordarán de cierta persona que se llamaba McGuire —dijo.
—Oye, mira, —dijo Sylvester.
El camarero trajo el whisky y el jockey se sentó acariciando el vaso con sus manos pequeñas, fuertes y callosas. En la muñeca llevaba una cadena de oro que golpeaba contra el borde de la mesa. Después de dar vueltas al vaso entre las palmas de las manos, se bebió de pronto el whisky en dos tragos. Dejó el vaso con aire decidido.
—No, no creo que su memoria sea tan larga y amplia —dijo.
—Claro que sí, Bitsy —dijo Sylvester—. Pero, ¿por qué haces estas cosas? ¿Has tenido hoy noticias del chico?
—He tenido una carta —dijo el jockey—. A esa persona de la que hablábamos la han quitado del personal el miércoles. Tiene una pierna dos centímetros más corta que la otra. Eso es todo.
Sylvester chasqueó la lengua y movió la cabeza.
—Me hago cargo de lo que sientes.
—¿Sí? —El jockey miraba los platos de la mesa. Su mirada iba de la cazuelita de pescado al maíz y, finalmente, se fijó en la fuente de patatas fritas. Apretó la cara, y levantó la mirada rápidamente. Deshojó una rosa y cogió uno de los pétalos, lo estrujó entre los dedos y se lo metió en la boca.
—Bueno, son cosas que pasan —dijo el hombre rico.
El entrenador y el de las apuestas habían terminado de comer, pero quedaba comida en las fuentes. El hombre rico se lavó los dedos grasientos en el vaso de agua y se secó con la servilleta.
—¡Vaya! —dijo el jockey—. ¿No quieren que les traiga algo? ¿O quizá desean repetir? ¿Otro filete, señores, o…?
—Por favor —dijo Sylvester—. Sé razonable. ¿Por qué no te vas arriba?
—Sí, ¿por qué no me voy? —dijo el jockey.
Su voz aflautada era todavía más alta y tenía algo del plañido agudo de la histeria.
—¿Por qué no me voy a mi maldito cuarto y le doy vueltas y escribo unas cartas y me voy a la cama como un buen chico? ¿Por qué no…? —Empujó su silla hacia atrás y se levantó—. ¡Oh, al cuerno! —dijo—. Váyanse al cuerno. Quiero algo de beber.
—Lo que te digo es que esto es tu funeral —dijo Sylvester—. Tú ya sabes el mal que esto te hace. Lo sabes de sobra.
El jockey cruzó el comedor y se acercó a la barra. Pidió un Manhattan y Sylvester le miró, de pie con los talones juntos, apretados, el cuerpo tieso como un soldado de plomo, con el meñique separado del vaso, y bebiendo despacio.
—Está loco —dijo Simmons—. Ya lo dije.
Sylvester se volvió al hombre rico:
—Si se toma una chuleta de cordero, se le ve la forma en el estómago una hora después. No digiere ya las cosas. Pesa cincuenta y un kilos. Ha engordado un kilo y medio desde que dejamos Miami.
—Un jockey no debe beber —dijo el hombre rico.
—La comida no le satisface como antes y no la digiere. Si se toma una chuleta de cordero, se la puede ver saliendo de punta en el estómago y no le baja.
El jockey terminó su Manhattan. Tragó y aplastó la cereza del fondo del vaso con el dedo pulgar, y la apartó luego lejos de él. Las dos chicas en pantalones estaban de pie a su izquierda, mirándose, y al otro lado del bar dos chicos habían empezado una discusión sobre cuál era la montaña más alta del mundo. Todos estaban acompañados; no había nadie solo aquella noche. El jockey pagó con un billete nuevo de cincuenta dólares y no contó el cambio.
Volvió al comedor, a la mesa en la que estaban sentados los tres hombres, pero no se sentó.
—No, no me atrevería a pensar que la memoria de ustedes es tan buena —dijo. Era tan bajo que el borde de la mesa le llegaba casi al cinturón y cuando agarró la esquina con sus manos nervudas no tuvo que doblarse—. No, ustedes están demasiado ocupados en tragar cenas en restaurantes. Están demasiado…
—De veras —rogó Sylvester—. Tienes que ser razonable.
—¡Razonable! ¡Razonable! —El rostro gris del jockey tembló, luego se detuvo en una sonrisa helada y desagradable. Sacudió la mesa hasta que los platos se tambalearon, y por un momento pareció que la iba a volcar. Pero de pronto lo dejó. Alargó la mano a la fuente que estaba a su lado y se metió deliberadamente en la boca un puñado de patatas fritas. Masticaba despacio, con el labio superior levantado, se volvió y escupió la masa pastosa sobre la suave alfombra roja que cubría el suelo—. ¡Depravados! —dijo. Y su voz sonaba delgada y rota. Saboreó la palabra como si tuviera un sabor que le gustara—. ¡Depravados! —repitió, y volviéndose se marchó del comedor con su rígido pavoneo.
Sylvester encogió uno de sus hombros pesados y caídos. El hombre rico secó un poco de agua que se había vertido sobre el mantel, y no hablaron hasta que vino el camarero a recoger los platos.

The Jockey

The jockey came to the doorway of the dining room, then after a moment stepped to one side and stood motionless, with his back to the wall. The room was crowded, as this was the third day of the season and all the hotels in the town were full. In the dining room bouquets of August roses scattered their petals on the white table linen and from the adjoining bar came a warm, drunken wash of voices. The jockey waited with his back to the wall and scrutinized the room with pinched, crêpy eyes. He examined the room until at last his eyes reached a table in a corner diagonally across from him, at which three men were sitting. As he watched, the jockey raised his chin and tilted his head back to one side, his dwarfed body grew rigid, and his hands stiffened so that the fingers curled inward like gray claws. Tense against the wall of the dining room, he watched and waited in this way.

He was wearing a suit of green Chinese silk that evening, tailored precisely and the size of a costume outfit for a child. The shirt was yellow, the tie striped with pastel colors. He had no hat with him and wore his hair brushed down in a stiff, wet bang on his forehead. His face was drawn, ageless, and gray. There were shadowed hollows at his temples and his mouth was set in a wiry smile. After a time he was aware that he had been seen by one of the three men he had been watching. But the jockey did not nod; he only raised his chin still higher and hooked the thumb of his tense hand in the pocket of his coat.

The three men at the corner table were a trainer, a bookie, and a rich man. The trainer was Sylvester — a large, loosely built fellow with a flushed nose and slow blue eyes. The bookie was Simmons. The rich man was the owner of a horse named Seltzer, which the jockey had ridden that afternoon. The three of them drank whiskey with soda, and a white-coated waiter had just brought on the main course of the dinner.

It was Sylvester who first saw the jockey. He looked away quickly, put down his whiskey glass, and nervously mashed the tip of his red nose with his thumb. “It’s Bitsy Barlow,” he said. “Standing over there across the room. Just watching us.”

“Oh, the jockey,” said the rich man. He was facing the wall and he half turned his head to look behind him. “Ask him over.”

“God no,” Sylvester said.

“He’s crazy,” Simmons said. The bookie’s voice was flat and without inflection. He had the face of a born gambler, carefully adjusted, the expression a permanent deadlock between fear and greed.

“Well, I wouldn’t call him that exactly,” said Sylvester. “I’ve known him a long time. He was O.K. until about six months ago. But if he goes on like this, I can’t see him lasting another year. I just can’t.”

“It was what happened in Miami,” said Simmons.

“What?” asked the rich man.

Sylvester glanced across the room at the jockey and wet the corner of his mouth with his red, fleshy tongue. “A accident. A kid got hurt on the track. Broke a leg and a hip. He was a particular pal of Bitsy’s. A Irish kid. Not a bad rider, either.”

“That’s a pity,” said the rich man.

“Yeah. They were particular friends,” Sylvester said. “You would always find him up in Bitsy’s hotel room. They would be playing rummy or else lying on the floor reading the sports page together.”

“Well, those things happen,” said the rich man.

Simmons cut into his beefsteak. He held his fork prongs downward on the plate and carefully piled on mushrooms with the blade of his knife. “He’s crazy,” he repeated. “He gives me the creeps.”

All the tables in the dining room were occupied. There was a party at the banquet table in the center, and green-white August moths had found their way in from the night and fluttered about the clear candle flames. Two girls wearing flannel slacks and blazers walked arm in arm across the room into the bar. From the main street outside came the echoes of holiday hysteria.

“They claim that in August Saratoga is the wealthiest town per capita in the world.” Sylvester turned to the rich man. “What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said the rich man. “It may very well be so.”

Daintily, Simmons wiped his greasy mouth with the tip of his forefinger. “How about Hollywood? And Wall Street –”

“Wait,” said Sylvester. “He’s decided to come over here.”

The jockey had left the wall and was approaching the table in the corner. He walked with a prim strut, swinging out his legs in a half-circle with each step, his heels biting smartly into the red velvet carpet on the floor. On the way over he brushed against the elbow of a fat woman in white satin at the banquet table; he stepped back and bowed with dandified courtesy, his eyes quite closed. When he had crossed the room he drew up a chair and sat at a corner of the table, between Sylvester and the rich man, without a nod of greeting or a change in his set, gray face.

“Had dinner?” Sylvester asked.

“Some people might call it that.” The jockey’s voice was high, bitter, clear.

Sylvester put his knife and fork down carefully on his plate. The rich man shifted his position, turning sidewise in his chair and crossing his legs. He was dressed in twill riding pants, unpolished boots, and a shabby brown jacket — this was his outfit day and night in the racing season, although he was never seen on a horse. Simmons went on with his dinner.

“Like a spot of seltzer water?” asked Sylvester. “Or something like that?”

The jockey didn’t answer. He drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket and snapped it open. Inside were a few cigarettes and a tiny gold penknife. He used the knife to cut a cigarette in half. When he had lighted his smoke he held up his hand to a waiter passing by the table. “Kentucky bourbon, please.”

“Now, listen, Kid,” said Sylvester.

“Don’t Kid me.”

“Be reasonable. You know you got to behave reasonable.”

The jockey drew up the left corner of his mouth in a stiff jeer. His eyes lowered to the food spread out on the table, but instantly he looked up again. Before the rich man was a fish casserole, baked in a cream sauce and garnished with parsley. Sylvester had ordered eggs Benedict. There was asparagus, fresh buttered corn, and a side dish of wet black olives. A plate of French-fried potatoes was in the corner of the table before the jockey. He didn’t look at the food again, but kept his pinched eyes on the center piece of full-blown lavender roses. “I don’t suppose you remember a certain person by the name of McGuire,” he said.

“Now, listen,” said Sylvester.

The waiter brought the whiskey, and the jockey sat fondling the glass with his small, strong, callused hands. On his wrist was a gold link bracelet that clinked against the table edge. After turning the glass between his palms, the jockey suddenly drank the whiskey neat in two hard swallows. He set down the glass sharply. “No, I don’t suppose your memory is that long and extensive,” he said.

“Sure enough, Bitsy,” said Sylvester. “What makes you act like this? You hear from the kid today?”

“I received a letter,” the jockey said. “The certain person we were speaking about was taken out from the cast on Wednesday. One leg is two inches shorter than the other one. That’s all.”

Sylvester clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I realize how you feel.”

“Do you?” The jockey was looking at the dishes on the table. His gaze passed from the fish casserole to the corn, and finally fixed on the plate of fried potatoes. His face tightened and quickly he looked up again. A rose shattered and he picked up one of the petals, bruised it between his thumb and forefinger, and put it in his mouth.

“Well, those things happen,” said the rich man.

The trainer and the bookie had finished eating, but there was food left on the serving dishes before their plates. The rich man dipped his buttery fingers in his water glass and wiped them with his napkin.

“Well,” said the jockey. “Doesn’t somebody want me to pass them something? Or maybe perhaps you desire to re-order. Another hunk of beefsteak, gentlemen, or –”

“Please,” said Sylvester. “Be reasonable. Why don’t you go on upstairs?”

“Yes, why don’t I?” the jockey said.

His prim voice had risen higher and there was about it the sharp whine of hysteria.

“Why don’t I go up to my god-damn room and walk around and write some letters and go to bed like a good boy? Why don’t I just –” He pushed his chair back and got up. “Oh, foo,” he said. “Foo to you. I want a drink.”

“All I can say is it’s your funeral,” said Sylvester. “You know what it does to you. You know well enough.”

The jockey crossed the dining room and went into the bar. He ordered a Manhattan, and Sylvester watched him stand with his heels pressed tight together, his body hard as a lead soldier’s, holding his little finger out from the cocktail glass and sipping the drink slowly.

“He’s crazy,” said Simmons. “Like I said.”

Sylvester turned to the rich man. “If he eats a lamb chop, you can see the shape of it in his stomach a hour afterward. He can’t sweat things out of him any more. He’s a hundred and twelve and a half. He’s gained three pounds since we left Miami.”

“A jockey shouldn’t drink,” said the rich man.

“The food don’t satisfy him like it used to and he can’t sweat it out. If he eats a lamb chop, you can watch it tooching out in his stomach and it don’t go down.”

The jockey finished his Manhattan. He swallowed, crushed the cherry in the bottom of the glass with his thumb, then pushed the glass away from him. The two girls in blazers were standing at his left, their faces turned toward each other, and at the other end of the bar two touts had started an argument about which was the highest mountain in the world. Everyone was with somebody else; there was no other person drinking alone that night. The jockey paid with a brand-new fifty-dollar bill and didn’t count the change.

He walked back to the dining room and to the table at which the three men were sitting, but he did not sit down. “No, I wouldn’t presume to think your memory is that extensive,” he said. He was so small that the edge of the table top reached almost to his belt, and when he gripped the corner with his wiry hands he didn’t have to stoop. “No, you’re too busy gobbling up dinners in dining rooms. You”re too –”

“Honestly,” begged Sylvester. “You got to behave reasonable.”

“Reasonable! Reasonable!” The jockey’s gray face quivered, then set in a mean, frozen grin. He shook the table so that the plates rattled, and for a moment it seemed that he would push it over. But suddenly he stopped. His hand reached out toward the plate nearest to him and deliberately he put a few of the French-fried potatoes in his mouth. He chewed slowly, his upper lip raised, then he turned and spat out the pulpy mouthful on the smooth red carpet which covered the floor. “Libertines,” he said, and his voice was thin and broken. He rolled the word in his mouth, as though it had a flavor and a substance that gratified him. “You libertines,” he said again, and turned and walked with his rigid swagger out of the dining room.

Sylvester shrugged one of his loose, heavy shoulders. The rich man sopped up some water that had been spilled on the tablecloth, and they didn’t speak until the waiter came to clear away.