Till Death
[translated text]
Everything proceeded normally. As normal as possible, anyway. It didn’t rain. The sermon was okay. I had a room filled with gifts. The plane left on time. Since I’d been warned so often not to get excited, I didn’t.
The first time it happened, we were on a cliff. We went for a walk along the narrow paths of the rugged coast. Far below, the waves were crashing. When we got to the highest point, I thought I could push him off. I could push him and there would be no way he’d survive. His body would fall all the way down onto the rocks into the ocean. It would be impossible for him to get out of the water. But what if he survived? What if he fell where there were no rocks, and a wave, instead of drowning him, pushed him out unharmed? Or what if he had excellent reflexes, and he managed to grab my hand or my ankle, and the two of us fell together? Or what if a branch or something stopped his fall? It seemed so easy to push him; I imagined doing it with both hands, perhaps after faking hugging him from behind. But then he would reach out and grab my waist. I wasn’t sure how much strength I would need or if I needed to get a running start. He was so close to the abyss that I could make him fall just by blowing. I blew.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to whistle, to see if there’s an echo.”
“You think the open sea would give you an echo? Besides, you don’t know how to whistle.”
I blew again, but no sound came out.
The second time, we were in a kayak. I was making calculations… how hard would I have to hit him with the paddle to break his neck? It would be easiest to use the paddle like a spear and stab the back of his neck with it, but I’d have to know the precise spot, and I didn’t know where it was. Besides, the forensic examiners would see the wound. Unless there were sharks—then the evidence would disappear. I looked for fins, but there weren’t any. How long does it take for a body to sink? I might have to weigh it down with rocks to keep it from washing up on the beach. Why do dead bodies float if everything else sinks? To frame the murderer. It’s a moral matter, not a scientific one. It had to be a fatal blow. But would it be enough to knock him down? I remembered that in The Talented Mr. Ripley, he had to strike the victim repeatedly before he fell. I couldn’t stand it if he looked at me; he had to die almost without noticing. There was no room for error.
Maybe it was best to wait till we got back to Mexico. Detectives there are a little scattered. He could drink a lot; he could drink until he collapsed. A pillow, then. Does the pillow thing work? And if it does, why don’t people do it more often? It looks so easy. In the movies, it takes only a moment––the victim would grunt a bit, kick a few times, and then go stiff. I decided to wait until we got home. It wasn’t that urgent to get rid of him. I just had that “till death do us part” thing in mind and wanted to keep my options open.
[original text] Hasta que la muerte
Todo transcurió con normalidad. Bueno, tan normal como fue posible: no llovió, el sermon estuvo bien, tenía una habitación llena de regalos, el avion salió a tiempo. Como tanto me habían advertido que no me entusiasmara, no me entusiasme.
Sucedió la primera vez en un acantilado. Salimos a caminar por los senderos de la costa rugosa, eran estrechos, sobre altos precipicios donde las olas rompían con fuerza. Cuando llegamos a la cima más alta, pensé que lo podría empujar por el despeñadero. Lo podría empujar y no había forma de que sobreviviera. Su cuerpo caería hasta las rocas ––entre las rocas y el mar. Imposible salir nadando. Pero, ¿qué si sobrevivía?, ¿qué si caia justo donde no había piedras y la ola en lugar de ahogarlo lo sacaba ileso?, ¿o qué si tenía excelentes reflejos y lograba atraparme de la mano o del tobillo y nos ibamos los dos por los aires, o si encontraba una roca o un palo y detenía la caída? Parecía tan fácil empujarlo; imaginaba hacerlo con mis dos manos, quizás luego de fingir abrazarlo de espaldas. Pero entonces él extendería sus brazos para tomar mi cuntura. No podía calculator cuánta fuerza necesitaría, si era necesario impulsarme, tomar vuelo. Estaba tan cerca del abismo que con solo soplar podía hacer que cayera. Soplé.
––¿Qué haces?
––Intento chiflar, a ver si hay eco
––¿Eco frente al mar abierto? Además no sabes chiflar.
Soplé de nuevo, pero no salió ningún silbido.
La segunda vez fue en el kayak. Calculé qué tan fuere debía de ser el golpe con el remo para desnucarse. Lo más fácil sería encajar el remo por detras del cuello, como si fuera una lanza, pero tendría que conocer el punto preciso, y no sabía cual era. Ademas los forenses podrían ver el golpe. Al menos que hubiera tiburones, entonces la evidencia desaparecería. Busqué aletas en el mar, pero no había. ¿Cuánto tarda un cuerpo en hundirse? Tendría que anclarlo o hundirlo con rocas, si no flotaría y flotaría hasta llegar a la arena en la playa. ¿ Por qué flotan los cuerpos muertos, si todo lo demás se hunde? Para inculpar al asesino. Una cuestión de moral y no de ciencia. Tendría que ser un golpe fulminante. ¿Cómo se administraba un golpe mortal para que cayera inconsciente? Recordé la película del talentoso señor Ripley, donde le tuvo que dar repetidos golpes antes de que cayera. No soportaría que él me mirara: debía morir casi-casi sin darse cuenta, sin que hubiera lugar para el error.
Quizá lo mejor era esperar a que volviéramos a México. Los detectives ahí no son rigurosos. El podía beber mucho, podía llegar a beber tanto como para caer tumbado. Una almohada, entonces. ¿Funciona lo de la almohada? ¿Y si sí, por qué no se hace con más frecuencia? Eso parecía tan fácil. En las películas solo era cuestión de tiempo; después de un rato la víctima gruñia un poco, daba unas pataditas y quedaba tiesa. Decidí esperar hasta llegar a nuestro hogar. No me urgía deshacerme de él. Solo tenía muy presente eso de “hasta que la muerte nos separe” y quería mantener mis opciones abiertas.
Translator’s Statement
Note to the reader: I recommend returning to this statement after finishing the story so as to not spoil the ending.
In this flash fiction piece, we are pulled into the stream of consciousness of a newlywed wife who, on her honeymoon, begins to fantasize about killing her husband. While the premise may sound grim, the story unfolds with subversive humor. Its comedy arises from the sharp contrast between the narrator’s elaborate murderous calculations and the equally absurd pitfalls she imagines along the way.
The main challenge in translating the translation was related to the length of the short story, which, as it only comprises two pages, meant that I had to maintain the comedic-dramatic tension in the same way the source text did. It felt similar to telling a long joke and making sure that the punchline was worth it.
I hope you enjoy the story and that you laugh (or scoff) at least once. Then I’ll know I did my job right.
Lorea Canales is the author of the novels Becoming Marta (Amazon Publishing), an Amazon Best Seller, and Los Perros (Random House Mexico). Her short story collection, Mínimas Despedidas, was published by Dharma Books in 2019. Born and raised in Mexico, she holds an LLM from Georgetown and an MFA from NYU. Canales has worked as a lawyer, a journalist for Reforma, and an editor for The New York Times’ Spanish news service. Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in various publications and anthologies.
Lia Galván is an emerging translator from Mexico City. She earned her BA in English from UNAM and her MFA in literary translation from Boston University. As a translator, she is interested in exploring the works of contemporary Mexican writers in hopes of preserving and disseminating her home country’s literary voices, particularly those penned by women. Her work has appeared in Words Without Borders, Lunch Ticket, and AGNI.
