Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Mexico City

2013; University of Oklahoma; Volume: 87; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/wlt.2013.0154

1945-8134

Jean Rolin,

Literary and Philosophical Studies

50 worldliteraturetoday.org cover feature July–August 2013 • 51 Mexico City Jean Rolin French author Jean Rolin’s 2009 Un chien mort après lui (A dead dog after him—a quote from Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano) is an anthology of encounters with communities of stray or feral dogs and their attendant human societies around the world. Like all of Rolin’s work, this book combines classic travel writing and memoir but is often billed as fiction, à la Bruce Chatwin or W. G. Sebald. J uan Chávez Fernandez waits all day long, sitting on a low wall bordering one of the squalid patches of lawn, some shaded by trees, of which Plaza García Bravo numbers three or four. On each of these lawns at least one drunk lies passed out while another sits on the low stone wall, like Juan Chávez, drinking from the neck of a bottle; and on the uninviting grass—trampled and withered—various species of bird and mammal roam about in search of food: chickens, ducks, quiscales, pigeons and doves, cats and dogs. At Juan Chávez’s feet (he is also, consequently, positioned under a tree), a turtledove chick, its sparse down colored various shades of red and gray, has just fallen from the nest and lies motionless on the sidewalk for the few remaining seconds or minutes separating it from its inevitable demise. Across the whole of Plaza García Bravo, a host of happenings unfold, only some of which impinge upon Juan Chávez’s consciousness. He does not seem to have noticed the unfortunate turtledove, for example. Nor any of the things going on behind his back, though the permanent or cyclical nature of these phenomena, within the confines of the square, obviates any real need to keep a close eye on them in order to be apprised of their existence. So it is with the mêlée invading the intersection of Jesús María and Venustiano Carranza, the crossing of which, early in the afternoon on the first Saturday of the month, is tantamount to a slow-motion, quasi-choreographic street brawl opposing four columns of pedestrians making for each of the four cardinal points amid the throng of street vendors whose stalls occupy almost the entire breadth of the concourse, and the accompanying throng of trolley pushers and bundle porters. So it is, too, for the little street show—a mix of preaching and religious songs—organized by the Iglesia Cristiana Interdenominacional as a prelude to the large evening gathering on Plaza Zócalo. Binding its loyal clientele ever tighter, the interdenominational church has installed a tent on one side of Jesús María, where the poor can receive free medical treatment while others get a haircut or shave, perched on tall revolving seats, wrapped from head to foot in white sheets, like all-enveloping shrouds. Not far from here, perpendicular to Jesús María, against the wall of a disused convent, other tents, often no more than a simple sheet of plastic, shelter a more or less transient population of down-and-outs. By chance or otherwise, their territory is shared by a number of dogs, only one of which is constrained in its movements by a chain. Given that the dog in question is an American Staffordshire bull terrier, the chain may be an indication of its dangerousness, or market value, though in its extreme, emaciated state, it seems unlikely anyone would back it in a fight, for the moment at least. Throughout the weekend, however dense the crowds, the perimeter of the squatters’ camp is always left clear. On the right-hand sidewalk on Talavera (heading north), just opposite the wall where Juan Across the whole of Plaza García Bravo, a host of happenings unfold, only some of which impinge upon Juan Chávez’s consciousness.... the permanent or cyclical nature of these phenomena, within the confines of the square, obviates any real need to keep a close eye on them in order to be apprised of their existence. photo : gary denness 52 worldliteraturetoday.org Chávez sits, a pile of trash— getting bigger by the day...