The peeping hero (1958) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Vladimiro couldn't believe that watching Damián—his bully—and Germán—the harasser of his nine-year-old sister—commit that monstrous aberration in that ruined corner of the school would excite him so much.

Damián and Germán gave themselves over to the heat of their bodies. They knew they were safe from any prying eyes, and that made the whole affair even more delicious. But Vladimiro, the scrawny, weakling teenager they harassed daily at school, had followed them stealthily and taken cover behind amorphous concrete blocks.

Warmed by what he saw, well hidden among the rubble, Vladimiro began to masturbate. The image of Germán spreading his accomplice's buttocks was powerful, overwhelming.

Feverish, Vladimiro kept working his dick. A moment later, he came.

His urges relieved, he coldly assessed the situation. What he had just witnessed meant the total destruction of Germán and Damián. If everyone found out, they wouldn't just have to change schools; they'd have to leave the planet.

Now, he had to find a way to prove to the world what those two did in secret. He was sure this wasn't their first encounter. It must have been one of many, part of a habit he would have to study patiently and stealthily to catch them in the act.

***

Did they bother you again? said Vladimiro. He handed a handkerchief to his sister. The girl was crying softly in a corner of the tiny living room. The family occupied what, in the opulent days of Grandfather Guillermo, had been the servants' shed. It was the only inheritance that had fallen to Pancho, their father.

The girl remained silent. Her sorrows choked her words.

Calm down, okay? Tell me, did Germán bother you again?

A whimpering tremor was her response.

Then, barely audible, she added: Germán and Damián. Both of them.

Vladimiro stifled a cry of rage.

Come on, let's go to the room. He held out the handkerchief. Here, dry your face. It's better if Francisco doesn't see you like this. When he comes home drunk, he'll take it out on you.

They took refuge in the room they shared with their three other siblings, in cramped bunks.

It's time to wipe them off the map, he told himself before sleeping. It's time to remove them from our lives.

***

He had them figured out. Every Thursday at noon, they'd vanish. No one missed them. They'd head to the vacant lot, to the same spot. They'd pull down their pants and start their filthy business.

This particular Thursday, Vladimiro came equipped with a tiny camera. An invention of his grandfather Guillermo's. The clarity of the reproduced images wasn't the best, but it was enough to recognize the faces of the depraved ones.

He overcame the urge to touch himself and focused on recording every position the camera's film allowed.

Enjoy your last days, he thought with every click of the machine. You have no idea what's coming.

***

Did you hear? she announced with a smile. She hadn't been this happy in a long time.

Hear what? he played dumb. Tell me, what did you hear? he smiled.

***

Separate envelopes arrived at the homes of Germán and Damián. Their parents opened them—men who were ruthlessly Catholic.

Upon discovering the contents of the packages, they beat their sons' backsides without an ounce of mercy.

A note accompanied the photos. It recommended withdrawing the boys from the school, or the photographs would be made public knowledge.

***

Were they expelled?

Yes, she said, happier than ever.

Why?

I don't know. I don't care either. She looked at the wall. She began to speculate. Surely, they finally found out they were evil. She locked eyes with her brother. The only thing that matters to me is that they won't bother us anymore. School will be a nice place. Today was a perfect day, for example. But how thoughtless of me, little brother, is your cough any better?

Yes, said Vladimiro, I'm fine now. But with the news you've given me, I'm much better. I wasn't able to give those scoundrels what they deserved, but God did it for us, little sister. He's on our side.

El héroe fisgón (1958) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Vladimiro no podía creer que el ver a Damián -su abusador- y a Germán -el acosador de su hermana de nueve años- cometiendo esa monstruosa aberración, en aquella zona ruinosa del colegio, lo excitara de ese modo.

Damián y Germán se entregaban al calor de sus cuerpos. Se sabían a salvo de cualquier mirada y, por eso, el asunto les resultaba aún más delicioso. Pero Vladimiro, el esmirriado y debilucho adolescente a quien ellos hostigaban a diario en el colegio, los había seguido con sigilo y se había parapetado detrás de amorfos bloques de concreto.

Calentado por lo que veía, muy bien oculto entre los escombros, Vladimiro empezó a masturbarse. La imagen de Germán abriéndole las nalgas a su compinche era poderosa, arrolladora.

Enfebrecido, Vladimiro continuó agitándose la pinga. Un momento después, eyaculó.  

Aliviados sus ímpetus, aquilató con frialdad la situación. Lo que acababa de ver significaría la destrucción total de Germán y Damián. Si todo el mundo se enteraba, no solo tendrían que cambiarse de colegio; tendrían que irse del planeta.  

Ahora, debía buscar el modo de probarle al mundo lo que esos dos hacían a escondidas. Estaba seguro de que ese encuentro no era el primero. Debía de ser uno de tantos que obedecían a una costumbre que tendría que estudiar con paciencia y sigilo para sorprenderlos en pleno acto.

***

¿Otra vez te molestaron?, dijo Vladimiro. Le acercó un pañuelo a su hermana. La niña lloraba quedamente en una esquina de la diminuta sala de la casa. La familia ocupaba lo que, en los opulentos tiempos del abuelo Guillermo, fue el galpón de los sirvientes. Era lo único que le había tocado en herencia a Pancho, el padre.

La niña seguía en silencio. Las penas le sofocaban las palabras.

Tranquila, ¿ya? Dime, ¿otra vez te molestó Germán?

Un temblorcillo gemebundo fue la respuesta.

Después, apenas dejándose oír, agregó: Germán y Damián. Los dos.

Vladimiro contuvo un grito de rabia.

Ven, vamos al cuarto. Le extendió un pañuelo. Ten, sécate. Es mejor que Francisco no te vea así. Cuando llegue borracho, se la agarrará contigo.

Se refugiaron en la habitación que compartían con sus otros tres hermanos en camarotes apretujados.

Ya es tiempo de borrarlos del mapa, se dijo antes de dormir. Ya es tiempo de sacarlos de nuestras vidas.

***

Los tenía estudiados. Todos los jueves al mediodía, se hacían humo. Nadie los echaba de menos. Iban a parar al descampado, en el mismo sitio. Se bajaban los pantalones y empezaban sus cochinadas.  

Este jueves en particular, Vladimiro iba premunido de una diminuta cámara fotográfica. Un invento de su abuelo Guillermo. La nitidez de las imágenes reproducidas no era la mejor, pero sí la suficiente para reconocer los rostros de los depravados.

Venció el impulso de tocarse y se enfocó en registrar todas las posturas que la cinta de la cámara le permitió.

Aprovechen sus últimos días, pensó con cada clic de la máquina. No se imaginan lo que se les viene.

***

¿Te enteraste?, le anunció con una sonrisa. Hacía tiempo no estaba tan contenta.

¿De qué?, se hizo el loco. Dime, ¿de qué te has enterado?, sonrió.

***

Sendos sobres llegaron a las casas de Germán y Damián. Las abrieron sus padres, unos hombres católicamente despiadados.

Tras descubrir el contenido de los envíos, les partieron las nalgas a sus hijos sin ningún tipo de misericordia.

Una nota acompañaba a las fotos. Recomendaba retirar a los muchachos del colegio o las fotografías serían del conocimiento general.

***

¿Los expulsaron?

Sí, dijo ella, alegre como nunca.  

¿Por qué?

No lo sé. Tampoco me interesa. Miró a la pared. Echó a andar conjeturas. Seguro por fin descubrieron que eran unos malvados. Clavó los ojos en los de su hermano. Lo único que me importa es que ya no volverán a molestarnos. El colegio será un lindo lugar. Hoy fue un día perfecto, por ejemplo. Pero qué desconsiderada que soy, hermanito, ¿ya estás mejor de tu tos?

Sí, dijo Vladimiro, ya estoy bien. Pero con la noticia que me has dado, estoy mucho mejor. No fui capaz de darles su merecido a esos bribones, pero Dios lo hizo por nosotros, hermanita. Él está de nuestro lado.

Nitrous oxide addict - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Book of Short Stories by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - 12

 

The nang’s first conquest was my arms. I discovered it the moment I tried to grab a piece of toilet paper. Not only was I unable to perform such a simple and routine movement, but a horrendous pain also assaulted my muscles.

I wanted to scream, but I held back. I wasn’t the only person in the bathroom; through the cubicle door, I could hear the presence of at least a couple of other office workers.

***

They call them nangs and they contain laughing gas, which is actually nitrous oxide. If you inhale it, you’ll feel the barriers that limit your mind crumble. You’ll be able to express yourself freely and laugh at the world’s seriousness.

And if you get hooked on that feeling, so free of prejudice and so sensorially light, your body will end up trapped right in the same barriers you thought you had torn down. Your muscles will become soft, whiny nuisances, and your brain will wander among swirling dizzy spells that push it towards an extreme lightness until it settles into an absolute numbness.

This last part, however, I’m not going to tell you because I don’t know it. I’m just a salesman. My display window overflows with products and I don’t have the time—nor the intention—to get to know them all in detail. My job isn’t to warn; it’s to sell. So you won’t hear that last part from my mouth. I just offer you the product.

Nangs are available in some Australian shops like this one. And for a modest price, I can sell you the nangs along with some cigarettes and mints to make your trip more pleasant. Are you game?

***

The nang’s second conquest was my legs. When I tried to get up from the toilet bowl, I felt a burning tingling in them.

After giving up on the attempt due to the intense pain, I sank into the bowl. My backside ended up partially submerged in the dirty water. I couldn’t do anything to get out of the jam. Any muscular movement, no matter how small, triggered a criminal pain.

At that moment, stuck in the toilet bowl, feeling the edges of the hole compress my legs and back, I sank slowly and inexorably. I had my entire backside sunk in the cesspool. I didn’t know what or who had left me in such a state of muscular helplessness. An alienating dizziness was the cherry on top.

The cause of this condition is the nang you’ve been inhaling non-stop, the doctor who attended to me and provided first aid at the hospital informed me, after they got me out of the mess.

Who got me out? The office workers from the bathroom and the onlookers who gathered after I, with my last strength, called for help and wished, at the same time, that my whole life would go down the drain of that bowl, disappearing forever.

***

The nang’s final conquest was my will to live.

Vicioso del óxido nitroso - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Libro de Cuentos de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - 12

 

La primera conquista del nang fueron mis brazos. Lo descubrí en el momento en que intenté coger un pedazo de papel higiénico. No solo no pude efectuar tan simple y rutinario movimiento, sino que me asaltó un dolor horrendo en los músculos. 

Quise gritar, pero me contuve. No era la única persona en el baño; podía escuchar, a través de la puerta del cubículo, la presencia de por lo menos un par de oficinistas más.

***

Los llaman nang y contienen gas de la risa, que, en realidad, es óxido nitroso. Si lo inhalas, sentirás que las barreras que limitan tu mente se derrumban. Serás capaz de expresarte libremente y de reírte de la seriedad del mundo.

Y si te enganchas a esa sensación, tan libre de prejuicios y tan sensorialmente liviana, tu cuerpo acabará atrapado justo en las mismas barreras que creíste haber derribado. Los músculos se volverán estorbos blandengues y quejumbrosos, y el cerebro vagará entre mareos arremolinados que lo empujarán hacia una liviandad extrema hasta fijarse en un adormecimiento absoluto.

Esto último, sin embargo, no te lo voy a decir porque no lo sé. Yo solo soy un vendedor. Mi vitrina rebosa de productos y no tengo el tiempo -ni la intención- de conocerlos a todos en detalle. Mi tarea no es advertir; es vender. Así que eso último no lo oirás de mi boca. Yo solo te ofrezco el producto.

Los nangs se consiguen en algunas tiendas australianas como esta. Y, por un módico precio, puedo venderte los nangs con unos cigarrillos y unas mentas para que tu viaje sea más placentero. ¿Te animas?

***

La segunda conquista del nang fueron mis piernas. Cuando intenté levantarme de la taza, sentí un hormigueo calcinante en ellas.

Tras desistir del intento por el intenso dolor, me hundí en la taza. El trasero me quedó parcialmente sumergido en el agua sucia. No pude hacer nada para salir del atoro. Cualquier movimiento muscular, por mínimo que fuese, desencadenaba un dolor criminal.

En ese momento, atorado en la taza del water, sintiendo los bordes del agujero comprimir mis piernas y espalda, me hundía lenta e inexorablemente. Tuve todo el trasero hundido en el estercolero. Desconocía qué o quién me había dejado en tal estado de indefensión muscular. Un mareo enajenante fue la cereza del pastel.

El causante de este cuadro es el nang que has estado inhalando sin parar, me informó el doctor que me atendió y procuró los primeros auxilios en el hospital, luego de que me sacaron del atolladero.

¿Quiénes me sacaron? Los oficinistas del baño y los curiosos que se acercaron luego de que, con mis últimas fuerzas, pedí auxilio y deseé, al mismo tiempo, que toda mi vida se fuese por el drenaje de esa taza, desapareciendo para siempre.

***

La última conquista del nang fueron mis ganas de vivir.

A Star is Born (1945) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" Novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

From today onward, little one, I will be your intellectual father, your guide. I will shield you from the foolishness of my brother, who, unfortunately, is your real father, said Alfonso, holding his nephew in his arms in one of the wards at the Goyeneche Hospital in Arequipa. It was Sunday, May 20, 1945. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, and the cold was stealthily setting in.

Your father couldn't have done more to ruin your life. Standing by a window, the baby staring fixedly at him as if understanding every word, Alfonso established a connection far above the prosaic uncle-nephew bond. Even though I set him straight in time, your father still managed to get another poor woman pregnant—this time, a destitute girl from a village. Just imagine: a Montesinos tied to someone who grew up in a shack.

The child’s mother was recovering in another room. She was asleep. Unaware that her newborn was receiving a brief but damning summary of his life story from the very mouth of his influential uncle.

Will you ever amount to anything in this life, having that good-for-nothing father of yours as your role model? I doubt it. That idiot couldn’t even become a lawyer, even though we gave him all our support. With just one year left to finish his degree, he had the brilliant idea that there was no point in going to classes anymore. He said he earned enough doing the odd jobs I got him at notary offices. And that’s what he became—a shoddy notary. The first Montesinos scribbler. A fraud, nothing more and nothing less. Will you turn out like him? If you follow my advice, I’ll spare you that fate.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings.

The lady just woke up and wants to see her baby, announced the nurse, her gaunt figure appearing as he opened the door.

I’ll take my nephew to her, said Alfonso, swallowing a protest at the discourteous treatment he had received. These cholas don’t even say hello anymore, he told the baby after closing the door. Give them some insignificant little position, and suddenly they think they’re above everyone. And it’s these ignorant cholos and serranos who now feel entitled to get involved in politics. And do you know which movement welcomes them? The only one their brains can grasp: communism. Take from the rich and give to you, the poor. Easy. Simple to understand, but capable of making the losers who follow that way of thinking even poorer. Get this straight: in communism, the only ones who achieve equality in wealth are the leaders who herd those sheep; and those sheep are the only ones who achieve equality in poverty.

The newborn’s body pressed against the cigar in the lawyer’s chest pocket, annoying him. He took it out and lit it. After exhaling a calm puff of smoke, he continued the conversation. The baby, eyes wide open, followed the oscillating movements of the cigar in his uncle’s mouth.

I will make sure you loathe that ideology, that you know money is earned through hard work, not by taking it from those who have more. Those are childish nonsense, you hear?

As he spoke, Alfonso didn’t bother keeping some of the smoke escaping his mouth from drifting into the baby’s face.

You must already know that your foolish father is going to name you Vladimiro—a clear and ridiculous tribute to that communist Lenin, a madman who had the audacity to put Marx’s ravings into practice, managing to murder a large part of Russia with hunger and tyranny.

The door sounded again, this time louder. Alfonso fell silent and whispered to the baby: Even if you’re named after that nefarious man, you will be a democratic, capitalist leader, the owner and driver of markets. Trust me.

The knocks continued, insistent. Alfonso managed to recognize the voice of the person calling. Still whispering, he continued speaking to his nephew: The one knocking gave you that name just to spite me, even though I’ve been his main benefactor and guide.

Have you been smoking?, said Francisco after Alfonso finally opened the door.

Yes, said Alfonso, without the slightest remorse. Just as Francisco intended to screw the family by naming his offspring the hideous name Vladimiro, why couldn’t he screw the future communist’s lungs a little? I’ve been smoking and I’ve been talking with my nephew. I’ve been telling him a bit about life—the good, the bad—and looking at his brother with some contempt—and the nefarious.

Leave, Alfonso. I’m going to take Vladimiro to see his mother. I want to be with my family—the family I truly care about.

As you wish, Francisco. You’ve chosen your path, and that’s fine, but I want to make sure Vladimiro doesn’t follow in your footsteps.

 

That will depend on me and on him, Francisco concluded. Above all, on him. So I’m asking you not to meddle too much in his life or ours.

Fine, Alfonso feigned resignation. Then his eyes turned marble-serious: Remember, you have work at the office tomorrow. I need you to stamp the paperwork for the four pending cases. Don’t think that just because you’re my brother and just had a child, I’m going to give you days off. Family is one thing, work is another.

Francisco, holding the baby in his arms, stood staring resentfully at the doorframe through which his brother—whom he bitterly nicknamed "Black Soul"—had just left.

Nace una estrella (1945) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Desde hoy te digo, pequeñín, que yo seré tu padre intelectual, tu guía; te cuidaré de las estupideces de mi hermano, quien, lamentablemente, es tu verdadero padre, dijo Alfonso, sosteniendo en brazos a su sobrino en una de las salas del hospital arequipeño Goyeneche. Era un domingo veinte de mayo de 1945. El sol, afuera, empezaba a ocultarse y el frío arreciaba sigilosamente.

Tu padre no pudo haber hecho más para arruinarte la vida. De pie, enfrente de una ventana, el bebé mirándolo fijamente como si comprendiera cada una de sus palabras, Alfonso establecía una conexión superior a la prosaica de tío-sobrino. A pesar de que le enderecé el camino a tiempo, tu padre se las arregló para embarazar a otra pobre mujer; esta vez, a una pobretona de caserío. Imagínate, un Montesinos enlazado con alguien que creció en una chabola.   

La madre del niño se recuperaba en otra sala. Dormía. Desconocía que su recién nacido estaba recibiendo una sumaria, pero contundente exposición de sus antecedentes vitales de la mismísima boca de su influyente tío.

¿Podrás ser algo en esta vida teniendo como ejemplo al bueno para nada de tu padre? No lo creo. El idiota ese no logró ser abogado, a pesar de que le dimos todo nuestro apoyo. A un año de terminar la carrera, se le ocurrió la brillante idea de que no tenía sentido continuar asistiendo a clases. Decía que ganaba lo suficiente haciendo el tipo de trabajitos menores que yo le conseguía en las escribanías. Y en eso se convirtió, en un escribano de pacotilla. El primer Montesinos tinterillo. Un embaucador, ni más ni menos. ¿Serás tú igual a él? Si sigues mis consejos, te evitaré ese destino.

Unos golpes en la puerta interrumpieron sus reflexiones.

La señora acaba de despertarse y quiere ver a su bebé, le anunció la enfermera cuya figura escuálida descubrió tras abrir la puerta.

Ya le llevo a mi sobrino, dijo Alfonso, ahogando una protesta por el trato descortés que había recibido. Estas cholas ya ni saludan, le dijo al bebé luego de cerrar la puerta. Apenas les dan un carguito insignificante y ya se creen por encima de cualquiera. Y son estos cholos y serranos ignorantes los que ahora se sienten con las ínfulas de participar en política. ¿Y sabes qué movimiento los acoge? El único que sus cerebros son capaces de entender: el comunismo. Le quito a los ricos para darles a ustedes, los pobres. Fácil. Simple de entender, pero capaz de empobrecer aún más a los perdedores que siguen como corderos ese modo de pensar. Entiende bien esto: en el comunismo, los únicos que alcanzan la igualdad en la riqueza son los jefes que arrean a esos borregos; y esos borregos son los únicos que alcanzan la igualdad en la pobreza.

El cuerpo del recién nacido presionaba el puro que llevaba el abogado en el bolsillo pechero de su saco, incomodándolo. Lo extrajo y lo encendió. Tras expulsar una sosegada bocanada de humo, continuó la conversación. El bebé seguía, con los ojos muy abiertos, los movimientos oscilantes del puro en la boca de su tío.

Yo me voy a encargar de que detestes esa ideología, de que sepas que el dinero se consigue con esfuerzo y no quitándole a los que tienen más. Esas son pendejadas, ¿oíste?

Mientras hablaba, Alfonso no evitaba que parte del humo que huía de su boca fuese a dar a la cara del bebé.

Ya te debes de haber enterado de que el necio de tu padre te va a llamar Vladimiro, en claro y ridículo homenaje al comunista ese de Lenin, un loco que tuvo la temeridad de llevar a la práctica las locuras de Marx, logrando asesinar a gran parte de Rusia con el hambre y la tiranía.  

La puerta volvió a sonar; esta vez más fuerte. Alfonso guardó silencio y le susurró al bebé: Aunque te llames como ese nefasto, serás un líder democrático, capitalista, dueño e impulsor de mercados. Confía en mí.

Los golpes en la puerta continuaron, insistentes. Alfonso logró percibir el tono de la voz de la persona que llamaba. Siempre susurrando, continuó hablándole a su sobrino: Ese que está tocando, te ha puesto ese nombre solo por fregarme, pese a que he sido su principal benefactor y guía.

¿Has estado fumando?, dijo Francisco luego de que Alfonso por fin abrió la puerta.

Sí, dijo Alfonso, sin el menor escrúpulo. Así como Francisco pretendía joder a la familia poniéndole a su engendro el horroroso nombre de Vladimiro, ¿por qué él no podía joderle un poquito los pulmones al futuro comunista? He estado fumando y he estado conversando con mi sobrino. Le he estado hablando un poco de la vida, de lo bueno, de lo malo -y mirando a su hermano con cierto desprecio-, y de lo nefasto.

Vete, Alfonso. Voy a llevarme a Vladimiro a ver a su madre. Quiero estar con mi familia, con la familia que quiero de verdad.

Como gustes, Francisco. Ya elegiste tu camino y está bien, pero quiero asegurarme de que Vladimiro no siga tus pasos.

Eso va a depender de mí y de él, zanjó Francisco. Sobre todo, de él. Así que te voy a pedir que no te metas mucho en su vida o en las nuestras.

Está bien, fingió resignación Alfonso. Luego, sus ojos adoptaron una seriedad marmórea: Recuerda que mañana tienes trabajo en la oficina. Necesito que me selles el papeleo de los cuatro casos pendientes. No creas que por ser mi hermano y porque acabas de tener un hijo te voy a dar días libres. La familia es una cosa y el trabajo, otra.

Francisco, con el bebé en brazos, quedó mirando con resentimiento el marco de la puerta por donde se acababa de retirar su hermano, a quien apodaba con rencor Almanegra.  

Journey to Mars - Story 11 - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" - Short Story Book by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

He was only hours away from touching the surface of Earth’s sea, after three years of having remained suspended around the planet Mars. And although the longing to reunite with his loved ones was immense and impossible to postpone, he knew that the time his descent would take would coincide with the final hours of his life.

Television cameras, eager and unblinking, traced the trajectory of the capsule, awaiting the decisive instant: to find out whether the astronaut’s body would disintegrate or not as soon as it exited the capsule.

Despite the insistence of science that current technology still could not guarantee the survival of any astronaut subjected to the environmental conditions of Mars, the president of the country leading the mission had ordered that the journey to the red planet be carried out under his administration. I don’t want everything my administration has invested in technology to be capitalized on by another president—much less if he’s a socialist, as my intelligence service warns me my successor might be.

The order was given, and panic spread among the members of the mission, who, fully aware of the mortal risk of orbiting Mars for three years—that is, the progressive and irreversible loss of bone mass—chose to resign from the mission and take shelter in academic teaching at whatever universities were willing to take them in.

As long as that loudmouth remains president, we will not set foot on that space station again, the former crew members told their closest relatives, since a public declaration of that magnitude would have earned them the president’s unchecked wrath.

But there was one who accepted the challenge. Only one. He was the sole Australian in the group. His name was Larry Nolan, from Kalgoorlie, the same town that saw the birth of the physician Barry Marshall, whom Larry had admired since his youth. A devoted reader, he had been fascinated to discover that in 1984 Marshall infected himself with Helicobacter pylori in order to prove, in his own body, that stomach ulcers had a bacterial origin and not a psychological one, as was believed at the time.

That radical act of scientific commitment caused him severe gastritis, which he later managed to cure with antibiotics. But the most important consequence was another: medical doctrine was transformed forever. Thanks to that reckless and profoundly human gesture, ulcers ceased to be a surgical sentence and became treatable worldwide, saving millions from chronic pain.

 

Humanity, through the Swedish Academy, recognized that brave and almost romantic act by awarding him the Nobel Prize in Medicine in 2005.

Larry decided to become the Barry Marshall of astronautics. He would be the living—or dying—proof that exploration cannot be improvised, that even in the face of glory-hungry leaders it is necessary to respect the timing, the processes, and the limits of science.

And so he volunteered as the sole crew member of that mission to Mars which, after three years and several months, was returning to Earth. And there was the capsule, detached from the spacecraft, held aloft by several parachutes that made it sway and descend with the delicacy of a feather, carving its way down to the sea.

A boat sped at full speed toward the exact point of splashdown. The timing was millimetric. Everything was calculated—just as calculated as what scientists had anticipated would happen the moment the capsule opened and Larry re-entered Earth’s atmosphere.

For a barely perceptible instant, a gloved hand emerged, like a salute directed at millions of invisible eyes, or perhaps like a mute signal that the mission had been accomplished. The next second, that same hand deflated and fell, vanishing from sight.

The occupants of the boat could not hide their surprise or their terror before the cameras. Though they looked like tiny ants in the vastness of the shot, the emotion was transmitted intact to the entire world.

That hand, suspended in the air for less than a second, was enough to show that human resilience can be unpredictable when it sets its mind to it—that even if life expectancy upon re-entering the atmosphere was technically zero seconds, those milliseconds aloft were enough.

But the authoritarian president, deaf to any technical warning, remained in power and in public favor when, shortly thereafter, he announced that he had just appropriated the oil of a country invaded under cover of night.

Larry’s gesture was relegated to the footnotes of the newspapers. The next day, it was nothing more than a forgettable anecdote.

One year later, someone resurrected the episode as a meme: at children’s parties and bachelor parties alike, a hand-shaped balloon was released, which had to be popped in less than a second.

Neither the winners nor the losers of the challenge ever knew who Larry Nolan had been.