Guillermo Rose

Until the night that my PC froze so unexpectedly, I had never made the connection between Juan’s death and my sudden interest in writing. At that moment I didn’t understand why such a crazy notion would occur to me, more than seven years after he had disappeared from the planet, until I began to feel so easily, powerfully and, above all, suddenly inspired to write.

Juan and I, although we were blood relatives, had only ever exchanged a few words once many years ago, when I learned that he was writing for a newspaper and decided I needed to talk to him. On that occasion, the only time when our paths briefly crossed, we spoke little, without ever touching the matter that interested me most about him: literature, or, more precisely, his literature. He had a mature smile. I recall him now as a young man – he would have been about 38 years old at the time – with a sports jacket that didn’t match his pants or his little bow tie. A Bohemian, I thought, and although I had read and admired his work so much, I spoke to him as a distant relative seeking out the father he hadn’t seen since he was seven years old. He was very amicable and explained to me exactly how to get to the Ministry, which I did with the mistaken haste of one who believes he is on his way to find a treasure that will be lost if he doesn’t hurry. Juan seemed to understand all this and his smile and his kindhearted slanting eyes told me so. After that I never heard from him again, except for the occasional article of his in highbrow literary journals. Some time later, when he died, I scolded myself for having missed my only chance to establish contact with him, to ask him about trivial things that were nevertheless important to me. I had read and re-read his poems so many times that I felt that I knew him personally.

Ten years ago I moved to Caracas to take up a fantastic job opportunity resulting from the huge need for systems analysts in so many Venezuelan companies. Settling in another country was far from easy, but the pay was good and the demand for people in data processing was strong enough to enable me to earn some really good money and, after a while, to return to Lima with enough cash for an apartment and, also, to further my career. But it was an empty life there. Single, with a unique knack for striking out with every woman I found attractive, in my forties, with no family left on my father’s side and all of my mother’s family gone as well, my only interests were my job and my co-workers at the office. In the beginning they invited me to some of their social gatherings, but they grew tired of inviting me as they all had families of their own, which left us with no real common ground, as I was not just a foreigner, but also a solitary man. Disillusioned, I thought constantly about returning to Lima, but when I remembered the many reasons I had for leaving the country, I settled for going on with my safe albeit boring life.

That was about three years ago. I had just bought myself a new PC. One night I had just finished writing a letter to a friend at the Banco de Crédito when the terminal began acting strangely. The keyboard froze. It wasn’t just that the keys didn’t work; they were actually like ice. I withdrew my hands in fright, while the letter disappeared from the screen to give way to total blankness. I touched the keyboard with the utmost caution, surprised to discover that it had gone from extreme cold to a perfectly pleasant temperature. My lamplight went out. Contrary to what many might think, I was not the least bit frightened. Without shuddering, quite naturally, I noted a change in my hands. Not only in their appearance, suddenly slimmer, more agile; I looked at them and they didn’t seem to be mine; they didn’t obey me. I began to write with ease, and I realized as I did that I wasn’t thinking. The sensation of pleasure was proportionate to the joy of being able to write without thinking, as in my mind it was obvious that Juan, desperate to continue his literary career, had taken me over in an unexpected and almost monstrous way. Since that moment, our collaboration has been flawless. Some critics who seem to recognize his style simply label me a good imitator, without ever suspecting that from my very first literary success, all my writings have been no more or less than the continuation of his unfinished work. What frightens me is that, sometimes, I seem to sense the presence of others who have also passed on, who seem to suggest lines, changes to titles, new themes and poetic turns of phrase that are strange to me. I even believe I’ve heard a voice that sounds like Borges, and friendly comments and laughter that I’m tempted to believe truly belong to Julio Ramón Ribeyro.

My mother has asked me if something is wrong with me, which troubles me as she is an old woman and worries about me as if I were still teenager. I hope that this collaboration of ours, this literary secret that takes hold of me more fervently every day, over which I sometimes lose control, doesn’t end up turning me into a mere continuation of Juan. And that the doctors will come to understand – more from my writing style, I hope, than from my own claims – that what I have told them over and over again is the simple truth, and that some day they will let me out of this private clinic where I’ve been writing for more than two years now.

Guillermo Rose is a Peruvian writer residing in Markham, Ontario, and without doubt one of the most important figures in Hispanic-Canadian literature. His articles, poems and short stores have appeared in various Hispanic publications in Toronto, Montreal and Ottawa and he has won first prize in literary contests in Canada, Peru and the United States. He is also the creator, director and organizer of the annual short story competition “Nuestra palabra”, the most widely recognized Spanish language literary contest in Canada. The short story “Secreto literario” won third prize in the 1,000-word short story contest held by the Peruvian magazine Caretas in June 2012. To contact Guillermo, email:[email protected]

Translated by Martin Boyd