Short Story from Had Other Plans by Jorge Majfud

On the morning of July 27th, the newspapers and television reported a strange crime committed in Sayago. Two homeless men had killed a third, likely the night before. Though not alarming, the news surprised many. The reasonable thing, and what is most common, is to kill for money, pride, or some family passion. And none of these things could apply to a half-man who lived in the city’s garbage dumps.

The exact reason for the beating was never known; and no one wanted to know more once the judge sentenced the killers to ten years in prison. But I, the judge, never entirely forgot the case, and some years later, I visited the prisoners in jail. I did it almost in secret, as with everything, because people liked to say that I favored criminals over victims. Now, if I had to pass sentence again, I would give them another ten years in prison; not for justice, but out of compassion. I believe I can explain myself.

The dead homeless man was Dr. Enríquez, who had lived without a home for the last six months. Eusebio Enríquez was a surgeon and had lost his eldest daughter in an operating room on January 24th, where he himself had intended to relieve her of an incurable illness. The surgeon had no reason to blame himself for his daughter’s death, but reasons mattered little because, suddenly, he went mad and one night left his home. He crossed the city in the January rain and abandoned himself by the railroad tracks in Sayago. He let his beard grow, dirtied and faded his clothes; he quickly lost weight, and his face grew darker and more sunken, giving him the unfamiliar appearance of a Hindu sannyasin. He became so marginalized from society that he ceased to exist for the government and for society; and that is why they could never find him. Soon after, he met Facundo and Barbarroja, the two men who would later beat him to death with iron bars.

Neither Facundo nor Barbarroja were criminals, but people feared them or, rather, avoided them, as if poverty were contagious. While there were people who believed in God or in Hell, there were alms. But, little by little, good conscience and the tax on evil diminished, and these wretched men became part of the national unconscious, the hidden shame of a prosperous or pretentious economy.

The two men lived a nearly nomadic life. They inhabited any and all corners of the old train station, always avoiding the guard who might catch them sleeping in an abandoned train car or in the iron storage shed where they took refuge on rainy days. «This place is sad,» Enríquez would say to himself, «the good thing is that they don’t know it.»

But, I repeat, neither of them was capable of killing a bird. It is also true that during those six months of living together, Enríquez spoke to them only once. Still, the beggars held no grudge against him. They knew he was a poor madman who had once lived like ordinary people, who must have had a house and a car and even a family, because they had seen him flee from an elegant woman in clean clothes. They had learned to live with him like a family that has a mute or disabled member. Once, when the cold was unbearable and their jaws began to tremble, they brought him a can of boiling herbs. And he did not refuse it.

But that winter was one of the worst the beggars could remember. Temperatures dropped below zero; puddles froze over by morning, and the grass turned white with frost. It became increasingly difficult, if not impossible, to find glass bottles, much less sell them. Because people avoided those men whose beards and clothes worsened with each year. And so, little by little, they lost the little oral contact that connected them to the world.

Barbarroja fell ill from hunger, and Facundo began to complain all night about rheumatism or some other indecipherable ailment. The illnesses and sufferings piled up until they blended into a single hell. Yet, the two beggars continued to wait for spring and the summer heat, which each day seemed further away. Enríquez knew it. He knew this could be the last winter for his companions: their feet were swollen and purple, their faces pale and sunken, their hands useless. Only a depressing optimism kept them going, according to him.

One morning, Enríquez opened his mouth to read them their death sentence. That day was the only time the three of them spoke, and they talked for hours. Facundo and Barbarroja learned who the madman was and almost confirmed what they had imagined. In reality, the madman was, or had been, a rich man. A petty bourgeois, to his acquaintances, but a rich man to those outcasts.

The conversation ended with a proposal from the madman.

«It will get colder,» he told them, «and you will die. You no longer have defenses, and your bodies are failing. The suffering will last until September. Or, in the worst case, until October. But you will die. And if you’re lucky enough to survive this year, you’ll die next year, after suffering twice as much as you will this winter. But you are so poor that you don’t even have ideas. You won’t know how to escape this hell. Not even in the easiest way. You are so poor that you haven’t even thought of going to prison, where inmates enjoy a bed with blankets and a roof and where they eat almost every day. You are so poor that you won’t even have the strength to rob a market, because if you try, they’ll kick you out and you’ll end up with your forehead bleeding on the pavement. And if they jail you for theft, they’ll release you back to the street in two days, because the prisons are full and even the judge will take pity on two miserable, starving men. But since I’m a doctor, I’m going to tell you what you must do to save yourselves.»

The beggars exchanged glances, unsure of what to think. They even began to doubt the story he had told them earlier about his family and his former life.

«To go to prison for many years, you have to kill me. Don’t look at me like idiots. Hide that honest stupidity you’ve been carrying around, stinking in your clothes.»

Facundo and Barbarroja knew or imagined that the madman was worse than ever that day. But he kept insisting, with fanatical realism, on the convenience of sacrificing one of the three.

«God will punish us,» said Barbarroja.

«God has already punished you. Can you imagine a Hell worse than this? Do you see what I’m saying? You are so poor that you have no ideas. You no longer reason. Do I have to come and tell you what to do? Besides, why would God punish someone who kills a murderer? The Bible says, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ I killed a child, my own daughter. Do you feel sorry for me?»

The beggars stood up and retreated, frightened. The madman was beginning to truly scare them. Time passed, a week or two, and they didn’t speak again. They didn’t even approach him and avoided looking at him. On the 24th, it rained heavily. Facundo and Barbarroja moved to the abandoned shed at the station. As I said before, they only went there on rainy days because the guard would hassle them if he found them inside. On the other hand, I think they preferred the roofless train car because it was more discreet and the dark void of the shed’s height didn’t bother them. (Despite living on the street, I discovered that both suffered from a strange form of agoraphobia.)

That day, the madman didn’t enter the shed. He stayed out in the rain all night, like a ghost with his hands in his pockets, sometimes looking up at the sky, which outlined him with lightning and erased him with the dark rain.

On the 25th, the madman, exhausted by hunger, cold, and a lack of will to live, fell unconscious. On the 26th, the beggars decided to bring him a can of boiled herbs, but he no longer responded. His gaze was lost, and he could barely move his eyelids. His skin was white and cold, with no reaction or sensitivity of any kind. Facundo pressed his ear to the madman’s chest and confirmed that his heart was barely beating. Throughout the night of that day, the two men silently monitored the almost imperceptible beats of the madman’s heart. They waited or cared for him with fear and anxiety. Barbarroja began to tremble as never before, his shoulders hunched, unable to control his lips, which seemed to recite a voiceless speech.

On the 27th, the madman’s heart could no longer be heard, and by nightfall they thought he was dead. But he wasn’t. Therefore, the coroner’s conclusion was correct: Eusebio Enríquez did not die of cold or hunger; he was beaten to death by two beggars who confessed to the crime and were saved from a certain lynching outside the courthouse because the police dragged them to a van where they were dumped like trash.

Montevideo, 1996

From Had Other Plans by Jorge Majfud

Ideology and Intervention: A Critical Review of Jorge Majfud’s The Wild Frontier