Streetcorner Man by Jorge Luis Borges — Read

To Enrique Amorim

Fancy your coming out and asking me, of all people, about the late Francisco Real. Sure, I knew him, even though he wasn't from around here. He was a big shot on the Northside-that whole stretch from the Guadalupe pond to the old Artillery Barracks. I never laid eyes on the guy above three times and these three times were all the same night. But nights like that you don't forget. It was when La Lujanera got it in her head to come around to my shack and bed down with me, and Rosendo Juárez took off from the Maldonado for good. Of course, you're not the kind that name would mean much to. But around Villa Santa Rita, Rosendo Juárez-the Slasher we called him-had a reputation for being pretty tough. He was one of don Nicolás Paredes' boys, the same as Paredes was one of Morel's gang, and he'd earned respect for the way he handled a knife. Sharp dresser too. Always rode up to the whorehouse on a dark horse, his riding gear decked out with silver. There wasn't a man or dog around didn't hold him in regard-and that goes for the women as well. Everybody knew he had at least a couple of killings to his name. He'd have on one of those soft hats with a narrow brim and tall crown, and it would sit there kind of cocky on his long thick hair he wore slicked straight back. Lady luck smiled on him, like they say, and around Villa all us younger guys used to ape him even to the way he spit. But then one night we got a good look at what this Rosendo was made of.