Salió el número de Zoetrope dedicado a los latin wrtitters y en que Alejandro Zambra participa con un cuento llamado Fantasía.Es posible aceder online a la revista por lo que aquí va sólo el comienzo del cuento y si quieren proseguir su lectura, hay que clikear e ir a la revista Zoetrope:
"1.
It was in 1996, four or five months after my father's death. Perhaps it's better to begin with that death, with that ending. I don't know. At that time my father was my enemy. I was twenty years old and I hated him. Now I think that hating him was unfair. My father didn't deserve that hatred. I don't know whether he deserved love, but I'm sure he didn't deserve that hatred.
He had just bought a truck, with the last of his savings, a white 1988 Ford in good condition. The day it was delivered he parked it two blocks from home, but the next morning he died—he died of a heart attack, just like his father and his father's father—so the truck stayed there for several weeks, exposed to the elements, obstructing traffic. After the funeral, my mother decided to head south; she returned south, in reality, as if obeying a long-premeditated plan. She didn't want to tell me she was leaving for good. She didn't ask me to accompany her. So I ended up with the house and the truck, which one morning, emboldened by loneliness, I drove carefully through outlying streets until I found a place to leave it.
I spent the days half-drunk, watching movies in the big bed and sullenly receiving the neighbors' condolences. I was, at last, free. That this freedom was so similar to abandonment seemed like nothing more than a detail. I dropped out of the university, without giving it much thought, since I couldn't see myself studying for the Calculus I exam again, for the third time. My mother sent me enough money to get by on, so I forgot about the truck until Luis Miguel came to ask me for it. I remember that I opened the door with fear, but Luis Miguel's kindness immediately eased my suspicions. After introducing himself and apologizing for the late hour, he said he'd heard I had a truck and he wanted to propose I rent it to him.
I could drive it and pay you a monthly fee, he said. I responded that I had little or no interest in the truck, that it would be better for me to sell."
It was in 1996, four or five months after my father's death. Perhaps it's better to begin with that death, with that ending. I don't know. At that time my father was my enemy. I was twenty years old and I hated him. Now I think that hating him was unfair. My father didn't deserve that hatred. I don't know whether he deserved love, but I'm sure he didn't deserve that hatred.
He had just bought a truck, with the last of his savings, a white 1988 Ford in good condition. The day it was delivered he parked it two blocks from home, but the next morning he died—he died of a heart attack, just like his father and his father's father—so the truck stayed there for several weeks, exposed to the elements, obstructing traffic. After the funeral, my mother decided to head south; she returned south, in reality, as if obeying a long-premeditated plan. She didn't want to tell me she was leaving for good. She didn't ask me to accompany her. So I ended up with the house and the truck, which one morning, emboldened by loneliness, I drove carefully through outlying streets until I found a place to leave it.
I spent the days half-drunk, watching movies in the big bed and sullenly receiving the neighbors' condolences. I was, at last, free. That this freedom was so similar to abandonment seemed like nothing more than a detail. I dropped out of the university, without giving it much thought, since I couldn't see myself studying for the Calculus I exam again, for the third time. My mother sent me enough money to get by on, so I forgot about the truck until Luis Miguel came to ask me for it. I remember that I opened the door with fear, but Luis Miguel's kindness immediately eased my suspicions. After introducing himself and apologizing for the late hour, he said he'd heard I had a truck and he wanted to propose I rent it to him.
I could drive it and pay you a monthly fee, he said. I responded that I had little or no interest in the truck, that it would be better for me to sell."
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