TRELLIS PEACE ISAAC 
Lima, 1977. He studied Communication Sciences at the University of Lima, specializing in film and journalism. A doctorate in American literature from the University of Austin, Texas. He is the author of the book of accounts Hudson redeemer (and other uplifting stories about the failure) (2001), the plaquette Borges in Austin (2004), and the novel The circle of writers murderers (Barcelona, \u200b\u200b2005) to be translated Italian in 2009. His stories have appeared in anthologies digital flashes. Peruvian writers in the United States (New York, 2005), Small resistors 4. Anthology of new American story and the Caribbean (Madrid, 2005) and Born to lose (2008). A foreword written by him appeared in the anthology The ark. Bestiary and fictions of thirty-one Hispanic narrators (Santiago de Chile, 2008). As an anthologist, is responsible for the project The future is not ours. Latin American storytellers, electronic displays (63 authors, 2008) and paper (20 authors, 2009) which brings together tales of storytellers in the region born between 1970 and 1980. He currently serves as professor in the Department of Romance Languages \u200b\u200b& Literatures at the University of Binghamton in New York.
Section surreal Harry Ransom Center
A Ida Vitale and Enrique Fierro
Like you guys, I did not believe in ghosts and if I had heard some of the stories I tell now Mario, my psychologist, no doubt would have said poor guy and then convencidísimo, he added: he went mad or becomes insane, or better yet, just go crazy or plane and went wild , and the world, guys, listen that well, the world is an endless black joke but at least I do not know if you but me, the officer Supte Warren, a former night watchman of the glorious Harry Ransom Center at the University of Austin, here, in my forty-odd years and always ready to call the order, even me are safe.
Safe from whom or what? Oh for fuck that right now do not quite understand. Either now or before. And, before, what is said makes a shitload of years, I did not speak well. For example, just six months will, joke for me was synonymous with a joke or joke or jest, and black prohibited was a little word that I had not ever been able to use the never to talk, for example, the black fucking. (Mario my psychologist, I tell you and quietly call them 'African American' and if Chinese are called 'Asians' and Latinos if they are called 'Hispanic' and if they are Indians called 'Hindu', and so he doing very well in this business of networking because it says so right in a musical and it costs me when I corrected imitate the accent and the warmth of white Texan who actually is not).
says, moreover, two great things about ghosts. The first, Warren looks at me, I hear, is that they seem very real but are the product of a delirium, a mental abnormality it is perfectly manageable if one accepts it and, of course, Mario, last straw, I accept it and that I have left is very clearly all fucking ghosts. The second is to talk to them not necessarily to be understood as a psychotic behavior because there are a number of obscurantist science with theories not entirely crazy about it. This, of course, reassuring. I have not been quiet since I ran the museum. Sometimes I enter panic attacks. Sometimes I get to mourn long and hard until I fall asleep. The days that does not go neither one nor the other, I have a sick desire to wear the blue uniform and return to the Harry Ransom Center to wake up and Antonin André and Louis and Paul to talk more.
If not for my poor old woman, who suffers as anyone when I say these things, I would have. old say and you probably think I talk about my mom but they are wrong. My mom is my wife, Leonora Campos Eulalia Santos, wife and mother of my little bugger, great Mickey Thomas Sutpen Campos. This is my family and I am Warren Sutpen and declare right now that I owe in heart, body and soul to her and Trilce, our beautiful Labrador dog, a German shepherd who called Spooky Miguelito with a stubbornness that will soon if he wants to succeed acabársele in life. Sure, I slouch is that when I'm not, Leonora also called Spooky because, he says, Trilce is not healthy for a pet name. My poor mother. Not even know what it means and you're fucking. I've said a thousand times that Spooky is a name for dogs gringos and queers and ours is well Mexican, if they had not cut the balls, Big Ones would like the bulls.
Of course, I do not put Trilce I came because I did not know what the hell does that mean and I never take for me the complex. The idea was for the Peruvian. My friend, the Peruvian fucking bad milk that I brought up everything off the night. The thing, Mario, goes like this: there comes a day the pig and asks me about the dog and I will answer if it relates to Spooky and he tells me what Spooky color and before I could answer that if he is black adds, Warren, black and death can not be called Spooky. Ah what Peruvian butcher, I think, is destined to witch. Spooky is black as in the movie Cujo. The Peruvian laughs and ordered me (because I felt like a nice order) to honor the brave Afghan Miguelito Trilce the name and when asked why, talk of the great Caesar, and I imagine a just like a Red Indian exterminate those who do a shitload of years in this damn country and hateful.
But I'm wrong, of course, the great Caesar is not Indian and has streaks of blood on her cheeks. He was a man poor poet and wrote a book very cult that nobody understands. I worship here say no? and the fucking crazy Peruvian comes and I get to that painful , Warren, putting constipated face, as if someone were to read the mother starting at the same time. The day appears, I get up early, give him a kiss on the forehead Miguelito and then to throw me out the chorizo \u200b\u200band egg tacos that my mom prepares me, I go with my lunch box to take the bus. Regular days are just that: a bed-kiss-bus-museum and then back, museum-bus-kiss-bed. I'm happy. Leonora is happy. Miguelito is happy. What more do to be happy? Not much. On weekends we go to the movies or we lay down some tacos and pozole leg Giant in Arandas or we go to the lake and make a BBQ listening to the live CD Tigres del Norte. If my mom is encouraged in the night when Mickey and is Jeton, close the door and jumped on him with care and close my eyes for my Leonora for a while to become one of those girls I who clean the museum at the turn night. Since then, Leonora does not like working at night, Taruga is not. You know Mario, beyond everything and everyone, I am a gringo and the chamba only mismito speak English and there are these girls that are neither good gringo-friendly and are thinking about green card happy I would give them only click for a kiss. That I'm telling you and I repeat myself knowing that I'll never do it because I am a poor fool.
I speak, then, now, only now because before I was happy and was happy and Miguelito Leonora was happy and it was not difficult to get from home to the museum and the museum on the house. But then comes the son of a bitch Peruvian dwarf hocicón shit, and I ground up ahead as if I should be wool. "Do you know who the Sutpen, sir?" He said in English, as if I were testing. "You mean my family?" I reply pissed, without subtlety putting my hands in the case of 45. "The Sutpen are a family, right ..." adds suddenly, staring at the ceiling of the museum with an air of absent philosopher, and I'm almost over the entire chingadera ugly, when I hear you ask me, "Thomas Sutpen, is related to you?" Oh fuck no, I say This asshole knows me so without hesitation, I answered that my father and for a second, Mario, no, for five seconds, I see the old bastard lying on the porch of my house there in El Paso, completely drunk, with vomited all her clothes and dirty face fat, and my mother asking, Warren, take your father's sick room and me and whoever I pick it up from the floor I said "you do not touch me, puto" but that English: " Warren, you son of a bitch, you're a disgrace to this family! Do You Understand ... ? Do not dare put your nasty-fagot-hands on me! "he said and laughed and I knew, Mary, who was his own wickedness by my friends in the border: Mexican as I though I was a gringo and Thomas Sutpen, my father, felt all the contempt and anger of this land for them and for their parents and parents of their parents and the whole Mexico.
"Thomas Sutpen there" he says, then the Peruvian smiling and I do not understand anything but I feel a desire to crack his sick mother. I do not. In fact, do just the opposite: I'm sorry, I cross my hands and I listen carefully. "Never mind, please: The other day I came to the museum and while you kept my backpack, I saw your name on the uniform and I remembered" Do not say anything. "Sutpen, you know?, General Thomas Supte, comes to Mississippi after the civil war and established a dynasty damn, a caste incestuous bastard, half white half black, you know what I'm talking about? ... Absalom, Absalom !, Sir, your father ... his father is named after a character in Faulkner, and I've discovered. " Ah, but what Peruvian butcher. Just look at the very asshole, come to me with their stories of people miserable and stirring with your fucking life worth matches dick. That precisely is the day when everything is over, Mario. The night falls hit me and I do not notice anything until the very sucker back smiling with the novel supposedly to lend it. And what is the fucking Warren? Nothing, nothing says "thanks, I'll read" and instead of closing the mouth, starts talking about the son of a bitch from his father who must have died in the street because a shitload of years ago who knows nothing him.
So what guys?, See, guess. Warren opens the book by Mr. Faulkner and read and read and read it entirely spent two nights at the museum like a madman. My mom does not understand what happens. A Miguelito had better mothers, he still stuck as a Mens to the TV. I say to Leonora that I am informing about our ancestors and also talk about our origins bloody and for the first time in our fifteen years of marriage, I call my father by name and she looks at me with eyes of someone who and afraid. My poor old, understands nothing. Want to read the novel but does not speak English and every time I speak of General Supte and how their children are killed because of an incestuous love of which they know nothing, she starts to babble something demonic and the Virgin of do not know which goddamn town, and begins to mourn his knees and asked me to go to church, Warren, to pray for your soul. And, of course, Mario, I go and I kneel and cross myself and will do everything off the Leonora mimic but not prayer or mothers because I can not.
Thereafter, the days seem different bus trips are long and tedious, people watching me, and click the Texas heat makes me an idiot. Do you know what I do? Not only do I read the novel again, Mr. Faulkner, but I like the library thirsty for more. The Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, Sanctuary, Light in August all, I read them all looking for more clues and Peruvian click does not appear by accident. One day I'm convinced that I imagined all, I see your fucking smile on my face and voice that says "Warren, do you like the book?" and I'm back to about a mother, however answer yes. Since that day, he says we are friends and I did not say anything. I have no courage to kick out at the museum. It gets worse when I asked about the poets of the Harry Ransom and right there I realize that three years Supte Warren is the night watchman at a museum that has never seen.
In this I am thinking when suddenly, without any come to mind, the Peruvian begins with the stories of those dead people, "the surreal", he says, with a mysterious anger, and I automatically think of those bands chingonas of Mexican corridos as I like. But no. Am I wrong, Mario. What the hell are surreal? I do not know, I never understood. Peruvians say they are here at the Harry Ransom, as if they were sleeping on the second floor of the bastards. My silence encourages and, therefore, begins to bring me rare books of poems left on the table. At night I read them looking for more clues, but now I can not understand mothers and for the first time, I feel that the Peruvian click is cheating me. I say nothing. I read, I think for inertia. One night I come home from work and when I try to sleep, a curious thing happens to me, Mario: I can not. I have a shitload of words that give me around in my head. Words are like voices of women and children in unison. Words that make a sentence that says anything but I know I've heard before. "It's like a nightmare but I'm awake," I say in the morning to Leonora and she immediately without tears, about a rosary in my hands and began to pray. Then I asked
desperate to stop reading. He says that reading is blasphemous and that only brings pain. I asked to do so by Miguelito and I say "Do not worry, old lady, by Miguelito and for you" but I swear that bastard Miguelito not aware of anything and continues as message in front of the TV. That night, when all employees of the museum are gone, I'm staring at the backs of books and discover, with surprise, that there is a new one. Nadja is the title and author is André Breton and I remember clearly that this idiot is one of the dead poets who spoke Peru. I guess then that is another book unreadable, but then, when opened, give me that there is a story as Mr. Faulkner but this time with photos and cartoons and thirsty again, I devour the book and looking forward more keys. Nadja a woman is elusive and seems to be crazy. Is poor, beautiful, prostitutes and the narrator wants to save her. That is what I mean. However, Mario, what makes me get out early are not strange noises began to rumble in the halls of the museum, but the underlined sentence at the end of the text.
"Beauty will be convulsive or not. "
I can not believe it. I like violent twenty: that was the phrase that echoed the voices in my dream, Mario! I knew then and in that moment, when I encountered in the main hall, I see all four feet, looking straight ahead and click with the same smile I had seen him before the Peruvian bad milk. André and Louis and Paul and Antonin. Dead Poets Society. They are presented with finesse. I approach them without fear and talked and talked and talked, and that's all we do until dawn. The rest you know. I know what you're going to say now because I have said before. I've seen the surveillance video many times and understand that shirtless man talking and gesturing to the walls of the museum, I am.
What I was told the ghosts I have not told hardly anyone. Once I told my poor old and started with a desmayadera which was never finished. The thing is, more or less well: the day I leave the hospital, took the phone and call my brother joto (because I have a brother that it is fucking serious) and then to throw a few lies, it a vague sign of where I can find. I get the truck of my old Miguelito tell we're going for a ride. When Mickey asked me if we are to take I say nothing, the place is an hour, near San Antonio, and I know Miguelito Jeton will stay on the back of the dog in less than five minutes.
When I put my hand on my mouth babeada poor bastard, Thomas Supte is less than twenty yards away, with a cardboard sign in your lap and moving between cars on his wheelchair. Miguelito I asked whether we, and I answer yes and he pointed in silence to this sick lady who begs on the track. Took out a wad of bills from his pocket and put it in his hand Miguelito. "Give and returns. Take a Trilce you "I say and my bastard nods. And, then, boys, just when I see my Guachito walking toward the old man, who understand everything that has happened and I know that I'm safe. I do not mind Thomas Supte will drink those bills in less than a day. I do not care that my son will be giving my money to his grandfather without both know. When Mickey comes back and asks me why I'm crying, I tell him no and tried without success to smile.
I would watch TV with you, says Warren Supte then, before starting the car and start back.
*
