Sometimes what is presented before our eyes, although
real, is false, that is, the work of a faker. This collection of short stories, The Fake,
is based precisely on characters, some taken from history,
others pure literary fiction (if history is not), whose behaviour does not
coincide with their external or internal reality.
The fake and those who fake are on instinct repugnant to
us. But we must bear in mind that not all those who present a false reality do
so of their own free will, nor are they aware of their falsehood, nor do they do it for no reason, but for
some motive which is superior, or which they consider superior, to the truth
itself.
Dealing with this subject, in this volume we Hind the traitor whose
betrayal, from another point of view, is loyalty; the condemned who knows he is
innocent but believes he is guilty, depending on the rational or emotional
basis on which he judges himself; the writer who lives in the unreality of his
words and finally has to face the reality of those same words; the Spanish
conquistador's wife in seventeenth-century Asuncion del Paraguay who discovers
her true self in a world that has nothing
to do with her;
the resurrected man who in his second chance finds himself a stranger
in a life that is also strange; the saint who is consumed by the remorse of knowing that he is a counterfeit of his own choosing; the
anonymous inpatient (recently identified) who is
granted a glimpse of the imposture he will turn into after his own death; the
swindler who simply cheats for money.
Ultimately, the fake are part of life, a necessity of life, a
consequence of life, because without their fakeness there could be no truth.
The ultimate truth of his life 1950s
Happiness is when what you
think, what you say and what you do are in harmony.
Mahatma Gandhi
…where he least expected it
he found his true self
R. Fernandez
Although many saw him and even heard him speak on more than one
occasion, not many knew him, and
today I am one of the few who still
remember Ricardo Garcia Mataga. Perhaps a succinct description and a few brief
facts will help to bring him to mind. He was that tall and lean man, with a
short moustache, who some decades ago frequented the Central Cafe in the mornings and Elizalde’s Tavern in the evenings. In him had converged our dark
brown of the south and the ungainly height
of the north, which explained
the Hispanicization of his surname, McTaggart, brought by a Presbyterian great-
great-grandfather who had come to our city in the mid-nineteenth century, according
to what he himself said in his more than frequent
discreet chats. You will have seen him more than once talking pompously in front of a cup of coffee, conjuring up the
attention of his companions, or leaning against the long wooden bar of the
famous wine shop he shared with illustrious citizens with sleepy eyes and
trembling legs. He gained a certain renown at one time thanks to a book of
poems and a novel with a gypsy setting in
which he claimed to have a deep knowledge of these people, their behaviour,
their customs. He boasted, above all, of being a skilled connoisseur of human
nature. I must admit that all those who treated him listened to him enraptured,
and when addressing him, despite his youth, they did not omit to put
"don" before his name.
Available
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