by Édgar Omar Avilés (translated by Toshiya Kamei)
A man was cleaning his mouth. That morning he was brushing his teeth with such mastery that he began to create sublime music. All of a sudden the doors and windows of his house broke: he realized right away that he stood in front of three taxmen, seven extraterrestrials, two gods, a pair of hippos, and his dead brother. He got scared: he had a score to settle with each of them. Confused, he stopped brushing. His visitors became puzzled and began to make nervous, threatening noises. The man quickly resumed brushing his teeth, and his creditors fell silent to listen to the toothy melody and follow it, if necessary, to the end of the earth.
Without knowing what to do, he left his house, filled with the fear of the strange entourage. At dusk, his bleeding gums and tired arms made it impossible to continue scrubbing, a sensual murmur. But three months went by. The man, now skinny, had traveled through villages, plains, and cities.
A large crowd followed the man. Some of them were in a festive mood. Others were absorbed in the music. Others were captivated by the characters who led the crowd.
Then the man, now fainting, received new brushes from master violinists. Animal lovers lubricated the hippos’ bluish-gray skin. Devotees whipped themselves. Civil servants fixed their ties. Ufologists filmed. Gravediggers cursed.
Inspired artists poked their neighbors in the ribs to produce musical notes, depending on the intensity and location. Those who died used their windpipes and guts. They formed an orchestra, led by the toothbrush.
Millions joined the procession.
The man’s teeth, now worn out, produced an even more exquisite melody. Beads of cold sweat seeped from his nerves and bones. The sun had lost control over the planets, because they also wanted to follow the dental music.
His last tooth at last crumbled into dust.
Era un hombre, y su cepillo de dientes, lavando su boca. Tallaba esa mañana sus dientes con tal maestría, que empezó a crear música sublime. De forma abrupta la puerta y las ventanas de su casa se rompieron: al instante se percató que tenía frente a él a tres recaudadores de impuestos; siete extraterrestres; dos Dios; una pareja de hipopótamos y a su hermano muerto. Se asustó: con todos tenía cuentas pendientes. Confundido dejó de cepillarse: los otros se desconcertaron y empezaron a emitir nerviosos, amenazantes ruidos. Presto el hombre prosiguió con el tallar de sus dientes, y sus acreedores callaron para oír la dentífrica melodía y seguirla, si era preciso, a una esquina del mundo.
Sin saber que hacer salió de su casa, invadido de horror por el extraño séquito. Al atardecer, sus sangrantes encías y cansados brazos se negaban a proseguir con aquel murmullo restregante, sensual. Pero aún transcurrieron tres meses: el hombre, flaco ya, había recorrido pueblos, llanuras, ciudades.
El grupo que lo seguía era inmenso: algunos regocijados en la fiesta; otros absortos con la música; unos más por las personalidades que encabezaban.
Entonces el hombre, desfalleciente, recibía nuevos cepillos de manos de doctos violinistas; los amantes de los hipopótamos lubricaban las pieles azules; devotos se flagelaban; burócratas anudaban sus corbatas; ufólogos filmaban; enterradores blasfemaban.
Artistas inflamados de originalidad picaban las costillas de sus vecinos en la procesión para así, dependiendo de la intensidad y el lugar, lograr una nota; y de los que fenecían se usaban sus traqueas e intestinos: de tal modo se conformó la orquesta, donde el cepillo primaba.
Y eran millones…
Los dientes del hombre, muy delgados ya, producían una música aún más exquisita; y de sus nervios y huesos nacían heladas perlillas de sudor. El sol para los planetas había dejado de importar, ellos también querían seguir la música dental.
Su último diente se terminó de convertir en polvo.
Édgar Omar Avilés was born in 1980 in Morelia, Michoacán. He is the author of several books, including the story collections Cabalgata en duermevela (2011) and No respiramos: Inflamos fantasmas (2014), as well as the novels Guiichi (2008) and Efecto vudú (2018). His short stories have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including The Airgonaut, New Flash Fiction Review, and Queen Mob’s Teahouse.
Toshiya Kamei holds an MFA in Literary Translation from the University of Arkansas. His translations of Latin American literature include books by Claudia Apablaza, Carlos Bortoni, and Selfa Chew.