“There I was, hunched over, my eyes fixed on the banana. And I didn’t eat it. I was going to sleep without a dessert I wanted badly. This time, when they placed the humiliating fruit before me, I commended myself to the Three Marys and let a stream of spittle pour out. I beat my chest, I sniffed the banana exaggeratedly, I made befuddled faces, I rubbed it all over my body as if it were soap, I tried to eat it unpeeled, and I made fierce squeals of disgust. Finally, I peeled it and studied the yellowish flesh, in a trance, as if I were seeing God Himself. I stuck my tongue out as far as it would go, I licked my lips, I bit, and chewing with the greatest pleasure, I fell back on the tabletop, scratching my rear.
“The entire orphanage roared with laughter and applause. I’d won my first battle. From that moment on, I would be more monkey than any monkey. After many, many hours of practice, I learned to use my feet in the same way as people who’ve lost their hands. One day, I could eat the banana using only my lower extremities. What a triumph! To see me repeat the trick, the boys gave me their desserts. I could enjoy myself to the fullest and eat as many as I wanted, the only price being occasional indigestion.
Soon I had to expand my repertoire — every day I had to eat the banana a different way. With rage: I bit ferociously, interrupting myself to chew with a big grin. This mixture of hate and pleasure won over the audience. With anguish: after hiding the banana, apparently without realizing it, under my napkin, I howled as I looked everywhere for it, even between my legs. My wailing broke their hearts, and when I finally lifted the napkin and squealed with joy, everyone applauded. But the number that was most popular, that I had to repeat innumerable times, accepting not only desserts but also marbles, tops, cup-and-ball games, and picture cards, was the poisoned banana act. I’d gobble it down like a starving man, overwhelmed to have something sweet into my mouth, a nip to catch a teeny-tiny chunk between my teeth (laughter) and then chew it for a long time as if it were huge (more laughter), swallow it to the tune of a satisfied belch and, a second later, to clutch my stomach as if attacked by an atrocious pain, then twisting up, screaming my lungs out. Overcoming my suffering, I’d drool again, smile, and take another bite. So from piece to piece, from belch to belch, from cramp to cramp, I increased the intensity of the attacks until I died. A highly celebrated death because, in the greatest pain, with my muscles tense, with my eyes rolled back, and with a horrible expression on my face, I would take one final bite of the murderous banana before bashing it majestically against my forehead. So, my popularity grew right along with my alienation. All human gestures were prohibited. Everyone thought that, by giving me little bags of peanuts, they were making me happy.
“One afternoon, the director of the orphanage had dinner with us, an obligation stated in some paragraph in the rules and regulations. He saw me perform. The number he caught was ‘The Bitter Banana.’ In this one, I, the poor, naïve monkey, hungry, deluded, thought I’d found the sweetest banana of all. I peeled it enthusiastically and raised it to my lips. Yuck! What a letdown! It tasted like bile! Then I walked around the tables, picking up as many sugar bowls as I could carry. I went back to my seat and began to pour sugar on the banana, a little, a lot, a ton, rivers of it, but no matter how much I sweetened its surface, it stayed bitter inside. I ended up, helpless, howling not like a monkey but like a whipped dog. Thanks to a little slice of onion I kept hidden in the palm of my hand, I could cry real tears whenever I rubbed my eyes.
“Amid the guffaws and whistles that cheered my misfortune, there was someone else weeping: the director. My act had touched a nerve. He got up from the table, called me over, and in a friendly way led me by the hand to his office, a mysterious, terrible, sacred place where no orphan ever set foot. The room, painted dark green, was Spartan: a filing cabinet, some diplomas displayed on a wall, a picture of the president of the Republic, a metal desk, a vase with white roses, three leather armchairs, and, on a small side table, the photograph of a young woman wearing a wedding dress. Her skin was transparent, almost luminous, and her blonde curls peeked out from beneath her white veil.
“The director asked me: ‘What’s your name, my boy?’
“‘Seraphim, sir.’
“‘Why? That name doesn’t go well with you.’
“‘I was given that name so that in my ugliness there would be at least one beautiful thing.’
“‘I understand. Seraphim, I hope you know you have a great talent. You are a real artist. What you did in the dining room has a deep meaning. It is, neither more nor less than, the picture of the life lived by all of us poor mortals. We try to sweeten it, but the agreeable part stays on the outside because life is always bitter within. Look at that photograph. She was my wife. I loved her as only a man thirty years older than his wife knows how to love. I was forty-seven, and she seventeen. To say I idolized her is to say nothing. She agreed to marry me; the great number of years that separated us mattered not a bit to her. She made me young again, I assure you of it. Every caress took years off me. Everything was sweet until reality revealed its bitter innards. Three days after our wedding, Rocío, in a fit of joy, started to dance. She tripped and fell out the window. We were living in an apartment on the tenth floor. An idiotic tale, a small slip, and an ocean of gall. I’ve spent years trying to get over it, trying to have fun, to love again. Impossible. Like you, I have nothing left but to howl at the fruit that can never satisfy me.’
“‘I’m very sorry for you. The lady was very pretty. Given my situation, I envy you, Mr. Director. Those three days will be eternal in your memory. I’ll never live anything like that, not even three minutes.’
“‘There’s another lesson you’ve taught me, Seraphim: things can always get worse. I like you and I’m going to do something for you. I think you have a profession. You’re a good clown. You can make a living from your jokes. I’m going to give you a wagon and two horses so you can wander the roads. By making faces, you’ll earn money. Tell me how you’d like to decorate the wagon and what name you’d like to have painted on it. I’ll have the workshop people do the job.’ He pulled a bottle of pisco out of one of the desk drawers. ‘Get out of here, Seraphim, I’m going to get drunk.’
“And that’s exactly what happened. He gave me this wagon. I never saw him again, but I found out he’d committed suicide by jumping out of the same window. I’ve been traveling the roads for many years now, just as he wanted. People are poor. When I pass the hat around, I pick up, along with a few pennies, a carrot, a fresh egg, a couple of pears. And that’s how I’ve been living. Once the show was over, no one ever came over to talk to me. Why would they? I had to content myself with exchanging whinnies with my faithful Whitey and Blacky. I really suffered when they died of old age, but the love I had for them didn’t keep me from slicing up their meat to dry in the sun to make jerky. My stomach was their grave.
“Luckily, I’d saved some money and replaced them with another pair of horses of the same colors. Putting on shows in Valparaíso, I realized that in the red-light zone there were sailors of all nationalities walking around not knowing a word of Spanish. They stood there, mute, getting drunk with the prostitutes. Sometimes they showed snapshots of women, children, dogs, and they’d wave them around, letting out alcoholic hiccups. That’s where I found another opportunity to get a bit of human warmth: I became an interpreter. I prayed to the Three Marys to help me find an instructor who could teach me lots of languages. The miracle happened: I found the Anarchist, a wise and generous man who taught me quickly and for nothing.