Just Lather, That's All Hernando Téllez

Just Lather, That's All Hernando Téllez Translated by Donald A. Yates Tellez, a Columbian journalist and writer, world known for his Spanish short story - “espuma y nada más” (Just Lather That’s All). The story depicts civil wars and dictatorship in Columbia. I was influenced by this story, since I too hail from sensitive communal area. It’s about an inner conflict of a barber who is shaving the captain of a military unit which has tracked, imprisoned and killed some of his comrades. The barber vacillates between thoughts of slitting the captain's throat with his razor and giving him the expert shave. The question is does he kill his enemy who is at the edge of his razor. He said nothing when he entered. I was passing the best of my razors back and forth on a strop. When I recognized him I started to tremble. He didn't notice. Hoping to conceal my emotion, I continued sharpening the razor. He took off the bullet-studded belt that his gun holster dangled from. He hung it up on a wall hook and placed his military cap over it. Then he turned to me, loosening the knot of his tie, and said, "It's hot as hell. Give me a shave." He sat in the chair. I estimated - a four-day beard. The four days taken up in search of our troops. Carefully, I began to prepare the soap. Immediately the foam began to rise. "The other boys in the group should have this much beard, too." I continued stirring the lather. "But we did all right, you know. We got the main ones. We brought back some dead, and we've got some others still alive. But pretty soon they'll all be dead." "How many did you catch?" I asked. "Fourteen. We had to go pretty deep into the woods to find them. But we'll get. Not one of them comes out of this alive, not one." He leaned back on the chair. I still had to put the sheet on him. No doubt about it, I was upset. I took a sheet out of a drawer and knotted it around his neck. He wouldn't stop talking. He probably thought I was in sympathy with his party. "The town must have learned a lesson from what we did the other day". "Yes," I replied. "That was a fine show, eh?" "Very good," I answered, turning back for the brush. The man closed his eyes and sat waiting for the cool caress of the soap. I had never had him so close to me. The day he ordered the whole town to file into the patio of the school to see the four rebels hanging there, I came face to face with him for an instant. But the sight of the mutilated bodies kept me from noticing the face of the man who had directed it all, the face I was now about to take into my hands. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. A man of imagination, because who else would have thought of hanging the naked rebels and then holding target practice on certain parts of their bodies? I began to apply the first layer of soap. With his eyes closed, he continued. "Without any effort I could go straight to sleep," he said, "but there's plenty to do this afternoon." I stopped the lathering and asked with a feigned lack of interest: "A firing squad?" "Something like that, but a little slower." My hands started trembling again. I would have preferred that he hadn't come. It was likely that many of our faction had seen him enter. And an enemy under one's roof imposes certain conditions. I would be obliged to shave that beard like any other one, carefully, gently, like that of any customer. Yes, I was secretly a rebel, but I was also a diligent barber, and proud of my profession. I took the razor and began the job. Bit by bit the skin emerged. The man, who had kept his eyes closed, opened them now, removed one of his hands from under the sheet, felt the spot on his face where the soap had been cleared off, and said, "Come to the school today at six o'clock." "The same thing as the other day?" I asked horrified. "It could be better," he replied. "What do you plan to do?" "I don't know yet. But we'll amuse ourselves." Once more he leaned back and closed his eyes. I approached him with the razor poised. "Do you plan to punish them all?" I ventured timidly. "All." In the mirror I looked toward the street. Then I glanced at the clock: two-twenty in the afternoon. The razor continued. A curly beard. One of the tiny pores could be opened up and issue forth its pearl of blood. A good barber such as I prides himself on never allowing this to happen to a client. And this was a first-class client. Torres did not know that I was his enemy. It was a secret shared by very few, precisely so that I could inform the rebels of what Torres was doing in the town and of what he was planning each time he undertook a rebel-hunting excursion. So it was going to be very difficult to explain that I had him right in my hands and let him go peacefully—alive and shaved. How easy it would be to kill him….. Damn him for coming, because I'm a revolutionary and not a murderer. How easy it would be to kill him….. And he deserves it. Does he? No! What the devil! No one deserves to have someone else make the sacrifice of becoming a murderer. What do you gain by it? Nothing. Others come along and still others, and the first ones kill the second ones and they the next ones and it goes on like this until everything is a sea of blood. I could cut this throat just so, zip! zip! I wouldn't give him time to complain and since he has his eyes closed he wouldn't see the glistening knife blade or my glistening eyes. But I'm trembling like a real murderer. Out of his neck a gush of blood would spout onto the sheet, on the chair, on my hands, on the floor. I would have to close the door. And the blood would keep inching along the floor, warm, ineradicable, uncontainable, until it reached the street, like a little scarlet stream. I'm sure that one solid stroke, one deep incision, would prevent any pain. He wouldn't suffer. But what would I do with the body? Where would I hide it? I would have to flee, leaving all I have behind, and take refuge far away, far, far away. But they would follow until they found me. "Captain Torres' murderer. He slit his throat while he was shaving him - a coward." On the other side. "The avenger of us all. A name to remember. He was the town barber. No one knew he was defending our cause." And what of all this? Murderer or hero? My destiny depends on the edge of this blade. I can turn my hand a bit more, press a little harder on the razor, and sink it in. The skin would give way like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender than human skin and the blood is always there, ready to pour. A blade like this doesn't fail. It is my best. But I don't want to be a murderer, no sir. You came to me for a shave. And I perform my work honorably.... I don't want blood on my hands. Just lather, that's all. You are an executioner and I am only a barber. Each person has his own place in the scheme of things. That's right. His own place. The man sat up and looked into the mirror. He rubbed his hands over his skin and felt it fresh, like new. Paying me he said "Thanks”. He headed towards the door. In the doorway he paused for a moment, and turning to me he said: "They told me that you'd kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn't easy. You can take my word for it."