Los Cisnes Feos: Mejor ciencia ficción soviética

Los Cisnes Feos

Arkadi y Boris Strugatski

UNO

Bónev. Entre familiares y amigos.

Cuando Irma salió (delgada, de piernas largas, sonriendo con su boca grande de labios brillantes como los de su madre), cerrando cuidadosamente la puerta a sus espaldas, Víktor se dedicó a encender un cigarrillo. «No es una niña —pensó, anonadado—. Los niños no hablan así. No se trata ni siquiera de una grosería, es crueldad, peor aún, a ella todo le da igual. Como si nos estuviera demostrando un teorema: lo ha calculado todo, lo ha analizado, comunica rápidamente el resultado y se va con absoluta tranquilidad, sacudiendo sus trencitas.» Sobreponiéndose a su incomodidad, Víktor miró a Lola: tenía el rostro cubierto de manchas rojas, le temblaban los labios como si estuviera a punto de llorar, pero por supuesto, ella no tenía la menor intención de llorar, mas hervía de rabia.

—¿Lo ves? —dijo, con voz chillona—. Esa mocosa... ¡Escoria! No respeta nada, cada palabra suya es una ofensa, como si yo no fuera su madre sino un trapo que sirve para limpiarse el fango de los zapatos. ¡Me avergüenza ante los vecinos! Canalla, miserable...

«Sí —pensó Víktor—, yo vivía con esta mujer, paseaba con ella por las montañas, le leía versos de Baudelaire, temblaba cuando tocaba su piel, recordaba su olor... Creo que hasta reñí por ella. Incluso hoy no entiendo qué pensaba ella cuando le leía a Baudelaire. Es simplemente asombroso que haya logrado escaparme de sus garras. No entiendo cómo me dejó ir. Seguramente yo tampoco era un regalo. Y ahora no lo soy, pero en aquella época yo bebía más que ahora, y para colmo me consideraba un gran poeta.»

—Por supuesto, a ti eso no te interesa en absoluto —decía Lola—. Vives en la capital, rodeado de actrices y bailarinas... Lo sé todo. No pretendas que aquí no sabemos nada de tu dinero loco, tus amantes, tus escándalos constantes... Si quieres saberlo, nada de eso me importa, nunca fui un obstáculo para ti, vivías como querías...

Lo que siempre la hunde es que habla demasiado. Cuando estaba soltera, era callada, tranquila, misteriosa. Hay chicas que saben cómo comportarse desde la más tierna infancia. Ella lo sabía. En general, todavía está bien cuando se sienta y enseña las rodillas... o se lleva la mano a la nuca y se estira. Eso debe de volver loco a un abogado de provincias. Víktor imaginaba una velada casera: la mesita junto al diván, la botella en una cubeta, el cava que burbujea en las copas, la caja de bombones atada con una cinta, y el abogado en persona, envuelto en tela almidonada y atado con un lacito negro. Como en las mejores familias, y de repente, entra Irma...

«Qué pesadilla —pensó Víktor—. Por supuesto, es una mujer desgraciada...»

—Debes entender que no se trata de dinero —seguía diciendo Lola—, el dinero no pinta nada aquí. —Se había serenado, las manchas rojas habían desaparecido de su rostro—. Sé que, a tu manera, eres un hombre honesto, algo desordenado, extravagante, pero sin maldad. Siempre nos has ayudado, en este sentido no tengo ninguna queja. Pero ahora necesito otro tipo de ayuda. No puedo decir que sea feliz, pero tampoco lograste hacerme una infeliz. Tienes tu vida, yo tengo la mía. A propósito, no soy una vieja, aún tengo mucha vida por delante...

«Tendré que llevarme conmigo a la niña —pensó Víktor—. Se ve que ya lo ha decidido todo. Si dejo a Irma aquí, esto será el infierno. Bien, ¿y dónde la meto? Sé honesto —se dijo—. Basta con ser honesto. No se trata de un juguete. —Recordó con total honestidad su vida en la capital—. Muy mal —pensó—. Claro, siempre puedo contratar a una institutriz. Lo que significa alquilar un piso permanentemente. Pero no se trata de eso, la niña debe estar conmigo y no con una institutriz. Dicen que los mejores hijos son los que han sido educados por sus padres. Además, ella me gusta aunque sea una niña muy rara. Y, en general, es mi deber. Como persona honesta, como padre. Y soy culpable ante ella. Pero todo esto no es más que literatura. ¿Honestamente? Honestamente, tengo miedo. Porque ella se parará delante de mí como un adulto, sonriendo con su boca grande, ¿y qué podré decirle? Lee, lee más, lee todos los días, no tienes que dedicarte a nada más, simplemente lee. Ella lo sabe, sin necesidad de que yo se lo diga. Por eso tengo miedo... Pero no estoy siendo totalmente honesto. El problema es que no lo deseo. Estoy acostumbrado a vivir solo. Me encanta vivir solo. No quiero cambiar. Honestamente, ésa es la cuestión. Como todas las verdades, tiene un aspecto repelente. Es algo miserable, egoísta, cínico. Honestamente.»

—¿Por qué callas? —preguntó Lola—. ¿Pretendes quedarte callado?

—No, te escucho —se apresuró a decir Víktor.

—¿Qué es lo que escuchas? Llevo media hora esperando a que tengas la bondad de reaccionar. A fin de cuentas, no es hija mía solamente...

«¿Y debo ser honesto con ella? —pensó Víktor—. No tengo el menor deseo de ser honesto con ella. Me parece que cree que puedo resolver el problema aquí mismo, sin moverme del lugar, entre dos cigarrillos.»

—Entiéndeme —proseguía Lola—, no estoy diciendo que te hagas cargo de ella. Yo sé que no lo harás, y le doy gracias a Dios por ello, no sirves para eso. Pero tienes relaciones, conocidos, eres una persona bastante famosa, ¡ayúdame a meterla en alguna parte! Hay institutos de primera, internados, escuelas especiales. Ella es una niña inteligente, tiene talento para los idiomas, las matemáticas, la música...

—Un internado —repuso Víktor—, sí, claro... Un internado. Un orfanato... No, perdona, estoy bromeando. Vale la pena pensar en ello.

—¿Y qué hay que pensar? Cualquier persona estaría satisfecha de poder matricular a su hijo en un buen internado o en una escuela especial. La esposa de nuestro director...

—Escúchame, Lola, es una buena idea e intentaré hacer algo. Pero no es tan sencillo, se necesita tiempo. Por supuesto, voy a escribirles.

—¡A escribirles! Es lo único que sabes hacer. No se trata de escribir, sino de ir personalmente, de solicitar, de hacer antesala. De todos modos, aquí no estás haciendo nada. No me digas que te resulta tan difícil, para tu hija...

«Demonios —pensó Víktor—, intenta explicárselo ahora.» Encendió otro cigarrillo, se levantó y comenzó a pasearse por la habitación. Tras la ventana se hacía de noche y seguía cayendo la lluvia, una lluvia densa, pesada, lenta, una lluvia considerable que no se apresuraba a cesar.

—¡Ay, qué harta estoy de ti! —dijo Lola con rabia inesperada—. Si supieras cuan harta estoy de ti...

«Es hora de irse —pensó Víktor—. Comienza la sagrada ira materna, la furia de la mujer que ha sido abandonada, etcétera. De todos modos, hoy no le voy a responder nada. Ni le voy a prometer nada.»

—No se puede contar contigo para nada —seguía diciendo ella—. Inútil como marido, una nulidad como padre, ¡vaya, un escritor de moda! No ha sido capaz de educar a su hija. ¡Cualquier paleto entiende a las personas mejor que tú! ¿Qué puedo hacer ahora? No es posible esperar nada de ti. Estoy sola, agotada, soy incapaz de emprender nada. Para ella soy un cero, para ella cualquier mocoso es cien veces más importante que yo. ¡Pero no importa, ya te arrepentirás! ¡Si no la educas tú, ellos la educarán! Llegará el momento en que ella te escupirá a la cara, como a mí...

—Basta, Lola —dijo Víktor, con el ceño fruncido—. De todos modos, tú siempre... Es verdad que soy el padre, pero tú eres la madre. Para ti, todos a tu alrededor tienen la culpa...

—¡Lárgate!

—Bueno. No tengo la intención de discutir contigo. Lo pensaré. Y tú...

Ella estaba ahora de pie, muy erguida, temblando casi, saboreando por adelantado los reproches, dispuesta a lanzarse a la pelea con pasión.

—Y tú, intenta no ponerte nerviosa —prosiguió él—. Algo se nos ocurrirá. Te llamaré.

Pasó al vestíbulo y se puso el impermeable, que aún estaba mojado. Metió la cabeza en la habitación de Irma para despedirse, pero la niña no estaba. La ventana se encontraba abierta de par en par, y la lluvia repiqueteaba en el antepecho. De la pared colgaba una tela, donde estaba escrito, con letras hermosas: ruego no cerrar nunca la ventana. La tela estaba arrugada, mostraba agujeros y manchas oscuras, como si la hubieran arrancado y pisoteado varias veces. Víktor cerró la puerta.

—Hasta la vista, Lola —dijo, pero Lola no le respondió.

La calle estaba totalmente a oscuras. La lluvia le golpeaba los hombros y el capuchón. Víktor se encogió y metió las manos en los bolsillos.

«En esta plazuela nos besamos por primera vez —pensó—. Entonces, ese edificio no existía, había un terreno baldío, y más allá un basurero, allí cazábamos gatos con tirachinas. En la ciudad había una cantidad exagerada de gatos, pero ahora no veo ninguno... En aquellos tiempos no leíamos nada, sin embargo Irma tiene su habitación llena de libros. En mis tiempos, ¿cómo eran las niñas de doce años? Seres patilargos, que soltaban risitas por cualquier cosa, llenos de cintas, muñecas, cuadros con liebres y florecitas blancas, que andaban en grupos de dos o tres, susurrando, con caramelos en el bolso y dientes echados a perder. Limpias, quejicas, y las mejores entre ellas eran exactamente como nosotros: las rodillas llenas de arañazos, ojos salvajes, como de lince, aficionadas a poner zancadillas. ¿Será que han llegado los nuevos tiempos? No —se respondió—. No se trata de los nuevos tiempos. Bueno, estos tiempos tienen algo que ver... ¿No será que Irma es una niña prodigio? Existen los niños prodigio. Yo soy padre de una niña prodigio. Algo honroso, pero complicado, no tan honroso como complicado, a fin de cuentas, de honroso no tiene nada... Y siempre me ha gustado esta callejuela porque es la más estrecha. Un tropezón, y comenzaba la pelea. Es así, no podemos vivir sin eso, de ninguna manera. Desde el inicio de los tiempos. Y dos contra uno...»

En la esquina había una farola. Al borde del espacio iluminado se empapaba un coche con techo de lona, y junto al coche, dos tipos que llevaban impermeables brillantes retenían en el suelo a otro, empapado, de negro. Los tres se revolvían sobre los adoquines, con esfuerzo, trabajosamente. Víktor se detuvo, y a continuación se aproximó.

[Queridos lectores. Por desgracia, un pequeño (pero muy importante) fragmento más abajo, falta en la traducción española. Así lo ponemos aquí en Inglés. Usted puede utilizar el traductor en Internet (Google Translator, por ejemplo) para traducirlo. Disculpe las molestias.]

It wasn't clear exactly what was going on. It didn't look like a fight—no one was throwing any punches. Even less did it look like a scuffle from an excess of youthful energy—there was no wild whooping and braying. Suddenly the one in black, trying to tear himself free, fell on his back. The pair in raincoats jumped on top of him. Victor noticed that the doors of the car were wide open; either they had just dragged the one in black out of it, or they were trying to shove him in.

Victor went up close to them and barked, Stop!

The pair in raincoats turned. For a split second they stared at Victor from under their pulled-up hoods.

Victor noticed only that they were both young and that they were panting from the strain. Then with unbelievable speed they dove into the car, slammed the doors, and sped off into the darkness. The man in black slowly lifted himself up. Victor looked at him and took a step backward. It was a patient from the leprosarium (esp. la leprosería )—a "slimy (más abajo en el texto: un mohoso) , or four-eyes (más abajo en el texto: un gafudo) " as they were sometimes called because of the yellow circles that rimmed their eyes like eyeglasses. The lower half of his face was completely covered by a black bandage.

He was breathing heavily and painfully; vestiges of eyebrows were raised in a look of suffering. Water streamed down his bald head.

What happened? said Victor.

The four-eyes wasn't looking at him, but past him. His pupils widened. Victor wanted to turn around, but at that moment something hit him in the back of the head.              When he came to, he found himself lying face up under a drain pipe. Water was gushing into his mouth; it was warm and tasted rusty. Spluttering and coughing, he moved away and sat up with his back against the brick wall. Water that had collected in his hood poured under his collar and trickled down his body.

Bells, horns, and drums reverberated in his head. Through the noise, Victor made out a thin, dark face in front of him. A boy's face. Familiar. I've seen him somewhere. Before my jaws got smashed together.

He moved his tongue around and shifted his jaw. His teeth were okay. The boy collected a handful of water from the pipe and splashed him in the face.

Thanks, pal, said Victor. That's enough.

I thought that you still hadn't regained consciousness, the boy said seriously.

Carefully, Victor placed his hand under his hood and felt the back of his head. There was a lump—nothing terrible, no shattered bones, not even any blood.

Who got me? he asked, thoughtfully. Not you, I hope.

Will you be able to walk by yourself, Mr. Banev? the boy asked. Or should I call someone? The truth is, you're too heavy for me.

Victor remembered who it was.

I know you, he said. You're Bol-Kunats, my daughter's friend.

Yes, said the boy.

Fine. No need to call anyone and no need to say anything to anyone. Let's just sit here for a minute and pull ourselves together.

Now he could see that Bol-Kunats wasn't completely all right either. There was a fresh gash on his cheek, and his upper lip was swollen and bleeding.

I think I'd better call someone, said Bol-Kunats.

Why should you?

The truth is, Mr. Banev, I don't like the way your face is twitching.

Really? Victor felt his face. It wasn't twitching. It just seems that way to you. So. Now we're going to get up. What is essential in order to get up? In order to get up, it is essential to pull your feet in under you.

He pulled in his feet, which did not quite seem to belong to him. Next, moving slightly away from the wall, shift the center of gravity in the following manner. He couldn't manage to shift his center of gravity; something was holding him back. How did they do it? he thought. A good job, really.

You're stepping on your raincoat, the boy offered, but Victor had already unraveled the mysteries of his arms, his legs, his raincoat, and the orchestra under his skull. He stood up. At first he had to support himself against the wall, but then it got better.

Aha, he said. So you pulled me over here, up to the pipe. Thanks.

The streetlight was still there, but the car and the four-eyes were gone. Everybody was gone. Only little Bol-Kunats was carefully stroking his cut with a wet hand.

Where could they have gone? asked Victor.

The boy didn't answer.

Was I here by myself? asked Victor. Nobody else was around?

Let me accompany you, said Bol-Kunats. Where would you prefer to go? Home?

Wait, said Victor. Did you see how they wanted to make off with that four-eyes?

I saw someone hit you.

Who did it?

I couldn't tell. His back was to me.

And where were you?

The truth is, I was lying there around the corner.

I don't get it, said Victor. Or maybe it's my head. What were you doing lying around the corner? You live there?

The truth is, I was lying there because they got me even before they got you. Not the same one that got you; another one.

The four-eyes?

They were walking slowly, trying to keep to the roadway and avoid the runoff from the roofs.

N-no, said Bol-Kunats, thinking. I don't think any of them were wearing glasses.

Oh, God, said Victor. He put his hand under his hood and felt his lump. I'm talking about the lepers, people call them four-eyes. You know, from the leprosarium? Slimies—

I don't know, said Bol-Kunats shortly. In my opinion they were all perfectly healthy.

Come on, said Victor. He felt a little uneasy and even stopped. Are you trying to convince me that there wasn't a leper there? Wearing a black bandage, dressed all in black?

That's no leper! said Bol-Kunats with unexpected vehemence. He's healthier than you are.

For the first time, something boyish had appeared in him. It disappeared immediately.

I don't quite understand where we're going, he said after a short silence, in his former serious, almost impassive tone. At first it seemed as though you were going home, but now I see that we're walking in the opposite direction.

Victor was still standing in place, looking down at him. Two peas in a pod, he thought. He made his calculations, completed his analysis, but decided not to communicate the results. So he's not going to tell me what happened. I wonder why not. Was it a crime? No, not likely. But maybe it was? Times have changed, you know. Nonsense, I know what criminals are like nowadays.

Everything is under control, he said and started walking. We're going to the hotel, I live there.

The boy walked next to him, stiff, severe, and wet. Victor overcame a certain indecisiveness and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. Nothing special happened; the boy tolerated it. Although, most likely, he'd simply decided that his shoulder was needed for utilitarian purposes, to hold up someone in shock.

I must say, remarked Victor in his most confiding tone, that you and Irma have a very strange way of expressing yourselves. When we were kids we didn't talk that way.

Really? said Bol-Kunats politely. And how did you talk?

Well, for example, with us your question would have sounded something like this: Whaaa?

Bol-Kunats shrugged his shoulders. Do you mean to say that it would be better like that?

God forbid! I only meant that it would be more natural.

It is precisely that which is most natural, Bol-Kunats observed, that is least fitting for man.

Victor felt a chill deep inside himself. An uneasiness. Or even fear. As if a cat had laughed in his face.

The natural is always primitive, Bol-Kunats continued. But man is a complex being, and naturalness is not becoming to him. Do you understand me, Mr. Banev?

Yes, said Victor. Of course.

There was something incredibly false in the fatherly way he had placed his hand on the shoulder of this boy, who wasn't a boy. His elbow even began to ache. He carefully removed his hand and put it in his pocket.

How old are you? he asked.

Fourteen, said Bol-Kunats absentmindedly.

Oh.

Any ordinary boy in Bol-Kunats's place would have certainly been intrigued by the irritatingly indefinite oh, but Bol-Kunats was not an ordinary boy. He said nothing. Intriguing interjections left him cold. He was reflecting on the interrelationship of the natural and the primitive in nature and society. He regretted having come upon such an unintelligent companion, the more so one who'd just been hit over the head.

They came out onto the Avenue of the President. Here there were many streetlights, and pedestrians, men and women hunched up under the incessant rain, hurried past. Store windows were lit up, and under an awning by the neon-bathed entrance to a movie house stood a crowd of young people of indeterminate sex, in shining raincoats down to their heels. And above everything, through the rain, shone incantations in blue and gold: Our President is the Father of His People, The Legionnaire of Freedom is the True Son of the President, The Army is Our Awesome Glory.

Out of inertia they continued to walk in the roadway. A passing car honked and chased them back onto the sidewalk, splashing them with dirty water.

And I thought you were about eighteen, said Victor.

Whaa? asked Bel-Kunats in a repulsive voice, and Victor laughed, relieved. All the same, this was a boy, one of your ordinary prodigies who had devoured Geibor, Zurzmansor, Fromm, and maybe even coped with Spengler.

When I was a kid, said Victor, I had a friend who got the idea of reading Hegel in the original. He did it, but he turned into a schizophrenic. At your age, you undoubtedly know what a schizophrenic is.

Yes, I know, said Bol-Kunats.

And you're not afraid?

No.

They reached the hotel.

Maybe you'll come up to my room and dry off? proposed Victor.

Thank you. I was just about to ask your permission to come up. First of all, there is something I have to tell you, and second, I have to make a telephone call. You don't object?

Victor didn't object. They went through the revolving door past the doorman, who took off his cap to Victor, past the sumptuous statues with their electric candelabra, and into the completely empty vestibule, permeated with odors from the restaurant. Victor felt a familiar excitement. He anticipated the coming evening, when he would be able to drink and shoot his mouth off irresponsibly and shove off onto tomorrow all of today's leftover irritations.

He