cuentos de barro - DSpace Universidad Don Bosco

Los ramazales emergían del agua
purísima como inmensas arañas negras.
Dos, tres, cuatro..., quedaban atrás.
Al pasar rondando un tronco, el raizal
projundo barzonió el bote, afligiéndolo.
Con hábil punteo, salieron del paso.
—¡No se arrime mucho, mano!
Torcieron hacia el sur; a poca distancia
del ramazal echaron el fondo y
quedaron inmóviles. Poco tiempo
después arrojaban los anzuelos. Con
rápido ademán los lanzaban al aire.
La pita hacía una larga parábola, y el
plomo se hundía allá, con un ligero
“chukuz”. Luego el cordel se quedaba
ondulando encima y poco a poco se
abismaba. Quedaban a la expectativa.
Habían encendido los puros y jumaban,
acurrucados.
—¿Pican, mano?
—No quieren picar.
—Ya me punteyan, vos.
—¿Eh...?
—Es bagre, de juro. Estos chingados
sian de ber llevado la chimbera.
La chimbera era el cebo. El indio sacó
el anzuelo, de jalón en jalón. Por fin
sobreaguó el plomo negruzco. Se
habían llevado el bocado.
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The branches were emerging from the
clear water like immense black spiders.
Two, three, four... were left behind.
When the boat passed around a trunk,
the deep mangrove roots bumped the
boat, frightening it. Skillfully they were
able handle the situation.
“Man, don’t get too close to them
roots!”
They turned south. They anchored
their boat a short distance away from
the knots of the roots and remained
motionless. They cast their fishhooks
rapidly into the air. The fishing line
arched into a long parabola, and the
lead sinkers hit the surface with a quick
choo-kuz. Then the line ondulated and
plunged little by little. All curled up they
waited. Having lit cigars, they smoked.
“Is dey bitin’, man?”
“Dey ain’t wanna.”
“Hey, I got somethin’.”
“What?”
“I swear it’s a catfish. That stupid fish
took the mackerel for sure.”
What he called mackerel was nothing
more than fake bait. The peasant took
out the hook, pulling now and again.
He finally saw the blackish lead. The
fish had taken the bait.