There’s a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It makes exactly five years today that he’s been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn’t stand it; now I’m used to it.
I don’t know his name. I know he’s average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I’m writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn’t even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn’t exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don’t feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.
Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so, that I thought if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.
That’s why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, “Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella.” It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers, and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.
I got off—we got off—at Pacífico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, “What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?” But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn’t happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.
Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I’ve asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even—God forgive me—umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.
Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don’t know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn’t live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.
What if the man who was hitting him was GOD? Could you explain it for me, please? Thank you,
This story made me laugh so hard that it hurt my stomach. However, the ending was ludicrous. Sorrentino has an extreme talent for humor.
I liked it very much. The interest is increasing in spite of the repetition of the facts. It happens the same thing from the very beginning to the very end and nevertheless the progression is constant and the incertitude sure. So, my congratulations.
I think this is a cute story, very funny. I would have liked it more with stronger verbs and less "ly" words. Good writer!
I didn't really understand the whole point of the story, until it came to the end. The one thing I find really hard to understand is, who is the man that is hitting the man on the head without stopping.
Excellent story... you wonder what the poor man is going through and how as you read it you can find his plight humorous. Is it a medical condition, is he mentally unstable, or are we as readers being cold to the fact that the man has a condition that is driving him crazy? Good read and very entertaining.
C'est un très joli récit. J'ai aimé beaucoup. Je crois que je vais acheter certains contes de l'auteur. Merci à Badosa.
Me gusta el texto. Tiene un tono surrealista muy interesante. Muy buen trabajo.
Se ganó un paraguazo (suave) en la cabeza.
No voy a hacer comentarios exagerados, pienso que es una obra entretenida, que más que tener un carácter cómico tiene una hermosa metáfora. Supongo que, si lo lee, me entenderá...
Muy buen cuento.
Meciéndose entre Ionesco y Kafka el autor lo divierte y cautiva con una metáfora interesante.
Muy divertido. No para uno de reír cuando imagina la desesperación primero, luego el hábito y finalmente el apego hacia su verdugo paragüero. Bien por Badosa y sus autores.
Pasando la misma idea a refrán: "Lo poco espanta y lo mucho amansa".
Bien narrado. Pero un poco pesado.
Es un relato algo desorientador. No sabes como puede terminar, ni lo quieres saber. Se nota que la intriga está dominada. Pero al final he pensado en el significado que supongo que el autor quería darle al texto y me he parado a pensar: Primero nos ocurre una situación "dañina" para nosotros, luego nos quejamos, pero viendo que no vale de nada quejarnos, simplemente nos acomodamos a lo que nos molesta sin tratar de encontrar una solución... ¡Cuánta razón tiene! Y, ¡qué triste que sea así! No seamos conformistas...
El cuento es muy bueno, una mezcla entre Michaux, Ionesco, Alfred Doblin y las obsesiones del propio autor, supongo. Lo he leído en francés, y suena muy bien. Soy de la teoría de que un texto es bueno si logra sobrevivir -su calidad- a la traducción.
Muy buen cuento. Una metáfora de las muchas situaciones que pasamos en nuestra vida.
(This opinion is about Fernando Sorrentino, not about a particular work.) Creo que estamos ante un escritor carismático, fresco, que posee sin duda una prosa atrapante y que transmite de una forma muy clara la esencia del pensamiento propio de mi cultura.
Una vez más, gracias Fernando Sorrentino por divertirnos y recordarnos quienes somos!
(This opinion is about Fernando Sorrentino, not about a particular work.) Mr. Fernando Sorrentino is a master of words, ideas, grotesque and actuality.
(This opinion is about Fernando Sorrentino, not about a particular work.) Los textos publicados aquí de Fernando Sorrentino son de excelente factura poética, originales y de aconsejable lectura.
(This opinion is about Fernando Sorrentino, not about a particular work.) Pondero su imaginación aliada al sentido del humor, la gracia casi grotesca de Por culpa del doctor Moreau; en Lectura y comprensión de textos me hizo reír recordando las clases de Lingüistica y me arrancó la carcajada Una cruzada psicológica. No es éste el único mérito, toda la obra es un cruce de fantasía y realidad dejando el sabor de haber leído algo inteligente. Es un regalo para el espíriru. Gracias.
(This opinion is about Fernando Sorrentino, not about a particular work.) Excelente manejo de los temas, con aire novedoso, atrapa al lector. Felicitaciones de parte de una venezolana que lo ha seguido, por casualidad, en otros sitios web donde ha publicado. Mera sugestión es un crimen perfecto del alter ego.
(This opinion is about Fernando Sorrentino, not about a particular work.) I think Fernando Sorrentino is one the great masters of satire in our time. I have translated some of his works into Farsi. I am an Iranian translator living in Tehran. I recommend to tell your friends to know him in his life time.
(Esta opinión se refiere al conjunto de la obra de Fernando Sorrentino.) Creo que sí hay que seguir publicando la obra de F. Sorrentino. Es interesante, aguda y ayuda a reflexionar sobre el otro lado de las relaciones humanas y las creencias sobre el propio yo. Pienso que a pesar de la evolución de la psicología, la gente aún sigue siendo hipócrita y poco transparente. En ese sentido la obra de Sorrentino es un aporte al desenmascaramiento de ciertas conductas sociales que poco ayudan a las relaciones auténticas. Hay mucha histeria en nuestro país y es totalmente relevante comenzar a detenernos en sus orígenes, causas y motivaciones. Saludos a Sorrentino y adelante,
(Esta opinión se refiere al conjunto de la obra de Fernando Sorrentino.) Un escritor que acude, que instala las voces que narran lo que creemos nuestra verosimilitud, como un adivino propietario de nuestra incredulidad. Además, ¡es alegre! Un abrazo para él, de parte de los alumnos de la Escuela Media 6 1º 4ª de Mar del Tuyú.
It was a great story that makes me feel so sad about the people like that poor man. Of course it was a deep story about people who can't get rid of the conditions that have imposed to them, but also in the end they may can't live without a punishing hand up their life. It wasn't humorous at all but also a very deep story that can make any open-minded person sad. Thanks for your story,
This reveals so much about addiction. Great and ludicrously funny story.
Muy interesante y alucinante me parecio estar ahi en ese momento.
Es un cuento que a pesar de las sospechas constantes del desenlace, no nos atrevemos a dejar por su calidad narrativa, también por llegar a la comprobación misma de esa sospecha, y para saber si el autor nos sorprende por un atajo distinto al predecible. ¡Qué buen cuento! ¡Muchas gracias!
Muy bueno. Hay que tener cuidado cuando vemos venir a alguien con un paraguas.
Me quedé leyendo los comentarios. Entiendo que de literatura y géneros nada sé. No me disgustó ni me morí de risa como comentan.
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