None of the guests, including the host, knew much about the art of carving, which is why most everyone these days chooses to serve their birds pre-sliced. But on that day, in order to honor the rigor of the culinary ceremony, and to make sure that everyone present knew without a shadow of a doubt that the turkey was definitely a turkey, it seemed fitting that the bird come out in one piece. Perhaps due to an oversight by the cook, or for another reason that we shall never know, the little animal in question appeared before us integral and unbroken, begging for a knife with which to attack it. I decided to be the one to do it, and putting my faith in God, I tried to remember The Book of Etiquette and Manners which I studied in high school, where—among other, no less useful things—I was taught something of this difficult art. I took up the meat fork in one hand, brandished the knife in the other, and, come what may, I gave the turkey a vigorous stab.
The knife penetrated all the way to the most remote hidden regions of the plucked biped; my readers will be amused to know the extent of my surprise when I realized that the blade, deep within the turkey, had hit upon something solid.
“What the hell does this animal have inside?” I exclaimed with a gesture of astonishment, fixing my eyes on the party’s host.
“What should it have?” my friend answered me most naturally. “It is stuffed, of course!”
“Stuffed with what?” I persisted, struggling to describe the cause of my stupefaction. “By the look of it, it must be papers. To judge by how it resists the knife and the special kind of noise it makes when the knife touches it, this animal seems to carry official documents in its belly.”
The guests laughed loudly at my observation.
A bit miffed by my friends’ incredulity, I hurried to open the turkey, and when I had done so, not without great effort, I said triumphantly, like the Savior to Saint Thomas:
“Look, and believe!”
Finally, the others could participate in my astonishment. The two meaty portions of turkey breast, and the broken skeleton of bones and cartilage that once united them, were separated on each side of the platter, between which everyone could see a roll of papers occupying the place where the entrails once were, and where we all had the right, to a certain extent, to expect to find a stuffing that was a little tastier and more digestible. The host furrowed his brow. The joke, if there was one, could only have come from the cook, and a joke such as this from the domestic staff would have signified quite a dark turn of events.
The rest of those present exclaimed in chorus, after the initial moment of stupefied silence:
“Let’s look! Let’s see what it says on the papers!” The papers were indeed covered in writing.
I, at the risk of staining my fingers, as the papers were quite greasy, extracted them from where they were located, and holding them up to the nearest candle, I was able to decipher the manuscript, which until today I have preserved in its entirety:
Impressions, Notes, and Philosophical Reflections of a Turkey (to be used in the composition of his memoir)
I am not cognizant of who my parents were, the place where I was born, nor the mission that I am called to carry out in this world. I know neither where I come from nor where I am going.
Neither past nor future exists for me; that which was I do not remember; that which will be does not worry me. My existence, reduced to the present moment, floats in the ocean of creation like a luminous speck of dust that swims in a ray of sunlight. Without asking for it, without being able to explain to myself why, I find myself alive, and—just as they say you should not look a gift horse in the mouth—without discussing it, without analyzing it, I shall endeavor to enjoy as much as possible this gift called life.
Because the truth is that in the warm days of spring, when the mind is full of dreams and the heart of desires, when the sun appears to shine more brightly and the sky is bluer and deeper than ever before, when the lazy lukewarm air roams around us, redolent of perfumes and the notes of faraway music, when one can drink from the air a sweet and subtle liquid that enters into the bloodstream and lightens its work, one feels a certain je ne sais quoi of diaphanous and agreeable feeling, inside oneself and in all of one’s surroundings, and one cannot help but admit that life is not all bad.
Mine, at least, is quite acceptable, as far as the life of a turkey is concerned. Each morning before the sky is even light, a rooster, my farmyard companion, announces that it is time for me to go out into the countryside and procure some food. I slowly open my sleepy eyes, shake out my feathers, and me voilà, dressed and ready to start my day. The first rays of sun slip over the line of mountains on the horizon, turning golden the smoke that rises in rosy spirals from the red chimneys of the village, shining on the dew drops hidden between the blades of grass, and glistening with restless points of light on the small pieces of glass and porcelain from broken plates and pots, which, scattered about here and there in the pile of manure and garbage where I do my walking, appear in the distance like a shining constellation of stars.
In this place, now distracted by the persecution of an insect who flees, hides, and reappears, now stirring with my beak the humid earth, between whose clods appears from time to time an appetizing seed, I pass through all the hours that exist between dawn and evening. When evening arrives, the gentle sound of flowing waters calls me down to the edge of the nearby stream, where, to the rhythm of the music in the air, in the water, and in the rustling leaves of the poplars, I open the fan of my dark feathers and recite my idyll to the innocent lady turkey—light of my life, señora of my thoughts!—a recitation which would inspire jealousy, if they could only understand it, not just in the rustic farm boys who frequent these parts, but in the most genteel shepherds of Cervantes’ La Galatea. Such is my life; today like yesterday, probably tomorrow like today.
Reread this page as many times as there are days in a year, and you will have an exact idea of the first part of my story.
*
But one day I find that the unalterable serenity of my life has been disturbed, like the surface of a pond into which one throws a stone.
A strange anxiety has taken hold of my spirit and has interrupted the flow of my thoughts.
This excess of mental activity is the cause of great perturbation also in my physical well-being; I can barely sleep eleven hours, and yesterday a perfectly nice apricot pit gave me indigestion.
I thought that there was nothing beyond these mountains on the horizon of the village. Nevertheless, I have overheard that we will go to the Capital, and in order to arrive there we will travel through these high granite barriers that I once took for the ends of the earth. The Capital! How will it be, the Capital?
Soon I will know.
I am writing these lines in the corral where I go home to sleep, I am taking advantage of the last light of the evening. Tomorrow we will go. Our departure seems a bit hasty. Luckily, preparing my luggage will not take me long.
I have stopped on the highest peak which overlooks the valley, the only home I’ve ever known, in order to contemplate for the last time the roof of my beloved corral.
How fitting it would be to name these cliffs, from which I send my final farewells to that which was my kingdom, The Turkey’s Sigh.
From here I can see the stage where I once so youthfully strutted. A little further on flows the stream which, as well as quenching my thirst, offered me a clear mirror on which to contemplate my handsomeness. And just there lives my lady turkey. Next to that tree, I saw her for the first time. At the feet of that other tree, I confessed to her my undying love!
Tears obscure my vision, and I weep uncontrollably for what I leave behind.
It seems to me that leaving these places will tear something vital from the depths of my innards, something which I will never regain. Suddenly, perversely, I almost relish the feeling. Could this dark unexpected eagerness be a premonition of my coming misfortune? Could it be . . . ?
A sharp whack of the señor’s cane interrupts the flow of my thoughts quite suddenly.
I make a point of hurrying to rejoin the pack, not wishing the not-so-subtle hint to be repeated.
*
We are now in the Capital. It was necessary for the others to tell me and repeat it to me one hundred times before I believed it.
Is this Madrid? Is this the paradise that I dreamed about from my humble village? Good God! What a horrible disillusionment!
The sun glares painfully into every nook and cranny of these streets, whose houses appear like castles; not a single wildflower grows in the jagged gaps between the cobblestones; and not a single orange peel, nor cabbage stem, nor apricot pit—in short, not a single thing that might be good to eat—manages to fall to the ground without somehow disappearing immediately.
In every street there is an obstacle; on every corner, a danger. When we are not accosted by a dog, a carriage threatens to crush us, or a vagrant kicks us most rudely.
The cane is now being wielded against us frequently and without mercy. Day and night we see it held suspended above our heads, like a new sword of Damocles.
Now I can no longer explore the path that most interests me, nor even stop one moment to rest from the constant fatigue of this interminable journey. “Go on! Go on!” our guide tells me constantly, accompanying his words with a whack from the cane.
How accurate it would be to compare me to the famous Jew from the legend! Henceforth they can call me “the wandering turkey”!
When will this vexing and eternal pilgrimage be over?
I have lost at least two pounds.
Nevertheless, I seem to have caught the attention of a gentleman who has just stopped in front of the herd and admired me for being fat. Ha! If only he could have known me at the height of my health and happiness!
Now this man has three times grabbed me by the feet, held me upside down to feel my weight, shook me about, then put me down in order to carry on an animated dialogue with our guide.
Now he is doing it a fourth time, and he must be quite distracted by his conversation because he has held me upside down for over seven minutes.
The capriciousness of this good sir is beginning to annoy me.
*
Is this some kind of nightmare? Am I sleeping or awake? What will become of me? It’s been over a quarter of an hour now that I’ve been trying to overcome the stupor that has befallen me, and I am not sure that I shall succeed.
I find myself suddenly alert, as if awoken from an agonizing dream . . . There is no doubt. I fell asleep, or more accurately, I fainted.
Let us try to get things straight. I am starting to remember, with a bit of confusion, what happened.
After much conversation between our guide and the unknown person, the latter delivered me to another man, who grabbed me by the feet and slung me upside down over his shoulder.
I wanted to resist, I wanted to scream as we moved farther and farther from my fellow travelers, but the indignation, the pain, and the uncomfortable position in which the man held me strangled my voice in my throat, and I could not make a sound. I’m sure you can imagine, dear readers, how much I suffered as I watched my companions recede from view.
Next I felt myself being carried through many different streets, until we started to climb steep steps which seemed to have no end.
Halfway through this climb, which could be compared to Jacob’s ladder in its length although no angels were to be found on it, I lost consciousness.
All the blood had rushed to my head, which I suppose must have created in me an acute case of cerebral congestion.
When I came to, I found myself enveloped in profound darkness. Slowly my eyes are adjusting to it, and I am able to see more clearly my surroundings.
This must be what they call in Madrid a “garret.” Old junk, rolled matting, canopies of spiderwebs, these constitute all of the furnishings in this shadowy room, which several rats wander through at their leisure.
Through the narrow skylight appears a furtive ray of sunlight . . . Oh, the sun, the country, fresh air! My God, what a jumble of thoughts and associations are crowding into my mind! Where are those happy days now?
Where are those . . . ?
It is impossible to think straight. An old harpy, disturbing my ruminations, has just stuck fourteen walnuts into my mouth. Fourteen walnuts with the shells and everything! Consider my situation for a moment, dear readers—what will become of me? This is their idea of feeding me?!
*
Lasciati ogne speranza! Several days have passed, and the full horror of my situation has been revealed to me. I have seen glinting with a sinister light the knife which will severe my throat, and I have contemplated with terror the earthen pot destined to receive my blood.
I can already hear the drum roll that will announce my execution. My feathers, these beautiful feathers which so many times I proudly opened into a fan, will be plucked out one by one, and scattered in the wind like the ashes of a criminal.
I will have another’s stomach for a tomb. And for an epitaph, the eternal words of Count Ugolino to Virgil: E se non piangi, di che pianger suoli?
*
When I finished reading this strange diary, all present were quite moved. The victim’s presence there on the table made the tragedy all the more poignant.
But . . . oh, the power of hunger and of convention! After the first moment of stupefaction and profound silence, we used the corner of the linen napkins to wipe away the tears that hung suspended in our eyes, and we ate the cadaver.
