In the Meantime
In the Meantime
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DOI：
10.1080/08905762.2013.780910
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发表时间：
2013-05
期刊：
影响因子：
--
通讯作者：
H. Abad;C. Winks
中科院分区：
文献类型：
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作者：
H. Abad;C. Winks
埃克托尔·阿巴德（Héctor Abad，1958年生于哥伦比亚麦德林）是多本书的作者，包括畅销书《Angosta》（2004年）和《El olvido que seremos》（2006年;《遗忘：回忆录》，2012年），该书讲述了他父亲的生活，他父亲是一名医生，也是一名人权活动家，1987年被准军事组织杀害。他们会用大锤砸门，就像他们对隔壁邻居做的那样，他们会在我在浴室刮胡子的时候用大锤把门弄平，我甚至没有时间穿裤子。就像这样，毛巾缠在我的腰上，他们会带着墨镜进来，他们紧张的表情，他们发痒的手指，他们会把子弹射进我温暖的身体。他们会回到他们来的地方，甚至不跑，几乎平静地他们会爬回他们的巨大吉普车，防弹窗户和灯光亮着，他们会把角落真实的缓慢，他们会消失在大街上，没有人会知道他们是谁，游击队，准军事人员，警察，佩佩或马贾卡团伙，普通罪犯，民兵，毒枭，军队，一些政客的雇佣杀手，地主，商人，走私者，无论什么，任何人，不管是谁，他们都在同一时间，从一边到另一边的叛徒，杀手，雇佣兵，刺客，由统治和杀害我们的许多恐怖支付。都是一样的也许不会很痛我的心会在胸口拼命地跳动几秒钟，我会设法尖叫，请不要这样做，一个懦夫，在死亡面前，我们都是懦夫，我们依附于存在的甜蜜气味，希望继续呼吸，直到一些疾病淹没我们在床上，但这些话会一直卡在我的喉咙里，我只是我温暖的身体旁边的一条血迹，当我的女儿来看我时，当我的儿子来看我时，他们两个
Héctor Abad (Medellın, Colombia, 1958) is the author of many books, including the bestsellers Angosta (2004) and El olvido que seremos (2006; Oblivion: A Memoir, 2012), which recounts the life of his father, a medical doctor and a human rights activist, killed by a paramilitary group in 1987.Sooner or later they’ll come for me too. They’ll bash in the door with a sledgehammer, like they did the next-door neighbor, they’ll flatten the door with the blow of a sledgehammer while I’m shaving in the bathroom and I won’t even have time to put on my pants. Like that, the towel wrapped around my waist, they’ll come in with their dark glasses, their nervous looks, their itchy fingers, and they’ll let loose a shower of bullets into my warm body. And they’ll go back where they came from, not even running, almost calmly they’ll climb back in their huge jeeps, with bulletproof windows and the lights lit, they’ll turn the corner real slow and they’ll vanish down the avenue and no one will know who they were, guerrillas, paramilitaries, cops, the Pepe or Majaca gangs, common criminals, militiamen, narcos, the army, some politician’s hired killers, landowners, businessmen, smugglers, whatever, anyone, doesn’t matter who, all of them at once, turncoats from one side to the other, hit men, mercenaries, assassins paid by the many terrors that rule and kill us. It’s all the same. Maybe it won’t even hurt much. My heart will beat desperately in my chest for a few seconds, I’ll manage to scream please don’t do it, a coward in the way we’re all cowards in the face of death, attached as we are to the sweet smell of existence, hoping to keep breathing until some illness drowns us in our bed, but the words will stay stuck in my throat and I’ll just be a trail of blood next to my warm body and when my daughter comes to see me and when my son comes and the two of them