The Fantastic Four

By Fabin Casas
(translation of the short story Cuatro fantsticos from Los Lemmings y otros)
Translated by Agustina Santomaso and Nicolas Allen
There was someone before, but I never met him. Although lots of people say that I have
his mouth and a bit of his personality too. That kind of thing. Im not too worried about looking
like anyone else though. There are so many faces in this world that, sooner or later, you'll end
up being the same as someone else. No, I want to talk here about the ones I knew. Each one
came and tracked his footprints through my life, and I think the way to remember those who
passed through me is to explain who they were, what they taught me. That kind of thing.
Around that time Mom was working in the Peter Pan lingerie factory. What a great
name. I wonder if it's still running. Mom, according to what everyone tells me, was a
bombshell, a real glamour model. Legs, ass, hips. We lived in the Once neighborhood in a tiny
apartment that I imagined was something like the pipe of Hijitus: Mom's bedroom, the living
room where I slept on a sofa bed and a kitchenette pegged to the wall. That was it. Mom's
clothes were scattered everywhere. And cosmetics and magazines that were brought back from
her friend's salon. My mom was a big reader. Sometimes when she went out dancing, I would
stay with Mom's hairdresser friend, a Paraguayan woman who would tell me about her kids
who, she said, were around the same age and lived with their father in Asuncin. I didn't
associate Asuncin with a physical place, it struck me more as a verb.1
In my memory, the first guy was Carmelo. Squat, muscular, a retired boxer. Mom
introduced him one night when he came by to pick her up. I was watching something on a tiny
miniature TV that the hairdresser had brought us from Ciudad del Este. You see? Ciudad del
Este sounded like a real place.
Carmelo walked up and shook my hand. I thought he was going to give me a kiss,
because I was a kid and that's what people usually did when they first met me. But he shook my
hand with his huge, calloused telephone-of-a-hand. I liked the gesture. From that moment
forward Carmelo was always coming by the house, and more and more when he came by to get
Mom he would also sit around with me, talking about his exploits from his boxing days. And
one day on an outing to the park, under the sun's light, the most incredible thing happened: in
the fresh air, Carmelo's skin looked the color of Scotch tape. I want to be clear. It wasn't as if he
was covered in Scotch tape, like some kind of mummy; he actually was the color and
consistency of Scotch tape. So I baptized him- to myself- Carmelo Scotch. I bet he looked
amazing, half naked, under the lights of the ring.
When I got bronchitis, Mom had to bring me to the hospital to get treated. They had me
use a humidifier, they gave me some shots, and told me that I had to get more sun. Carmelo
was especially concerned about my health, and he told my mom that I had to get more exercise,
run, jump. That kind of thing. He showed up in gym clothes the next day and told me that he
had a plan to turn me into an athlete. He unfolded a diagram across our little orange formica
table with all the different exercise routines that he felt would alter my body. We started to
work out in the mornings in the gym where Carmelo worked. Abdominals, short sprints, track.
1 <<Asuncin>>, the name of the Paraguayan capital city, can also mean alternatively in Spanish acceptance, resignation,
or Assumption, as in the ascension of the Virgin Mary to the heavens.

It was fantastic. He stood by my side while I poured sweat, and shouted at me: Come on,
harder. Feel the burn! Feel it! Then we headed off to the showers together. One day,while we
were drying off, he told me about the greatest moment of his life when he fought the opening
fight for Nicolino Locce. You dont know what it is to step into the ring of Luna Park when it's
packed...only you under the lights and all the people looking at you...the red lights of the
cigarettes in the blackness of the stadium... It ended in a draw.
To this day I still hear the war cry of Carmelo Scotch: Feel the burn!
One afternoon, Mom told me that he had been relieved of his duties. She had to endure a
week of my harassing her before she said why. Because he raised his hand to me. Mom was
always firm. And when choosing her boyfriends, she showed herself to be a true renaissance
woman. And so she changed from Sports to the Arts. The second candidate she snatched up
from right under my nose: Professor Locasso had come to the school as a substitute, and no
doubt, to earn whatever he could while doing practically nothing. He would show up in class,
put his breakfast of pastries or meringues on the desk- I went to school in the morning- cross
his legs and stuff his face. He told us that we must paint whatever came to us in the moment.
During Locassos class, we were free to space-out all we wanted. So we took the paper and we
painted whatever. When we brought him the paintings to take a look, as he chewed and set
aside the newspaper, he would glance at our artwork and utter his famous pet phrase: More
color, children. More color. Even if the paper was smeared with tempera like a cake, he would
repeat More color, children. More color. It was fine. It made us laugh. Naturally, we changed
his name from Professor Locasso to Professor More Color. Imagine my surprise when I saw
him one night without his smock, in a dark suit that fit him a bit big, holding a bottle of wine
and standing in the doorway of my house. Professor More Color was a man of some forty
years, with a horseshoe of white hair that rested on his neck, always a bit long and unkempt.
His forehead shone like a billiard ball. His athletic body, when it walked around the school
yard, moved in strides.
According to what I gathered much later, More Color came across my Mom at school
during the events of July 9th, the same day I stepped forward and recited a poem to mark the
occasion. The school was overrun with people and the night before I had been really nervous. I
was afraid that when it came time to deliver the poem I would draw a blank. But it was
glorious. With every new verse, I revealed my talent for reciting poetry and all during that
patriotic week my schoolmates and teachers couldn't stop praising my performance. But getting
back to my mother's love affair. It goes without saying I was the center of attention. All of my
friends knew that my mom was going out with More Color. Sometimes, during recess, some
kids went so far as to ask me if it bothered me. I asked them: "that you know about it or that
they're going out?" Silence. Other schoolmates tried to be more understanding, still, they told
me that it would have been better if my mother went out with the Math teacher- a really hard
subject- instead of Art class. They were right. I can't deny that I had already thought the same
thing.
My mother's romance with More Color lasted almost two years. When they broke up I
was in the fifth grade. Unlike my relationship with Carmelo Scotch, my relationship with More
Color was easy-going. The guy slept over twice a week and sometimes the three of us went out
for a walk. Only once did the two of us go out together. He took me to see an exhibition of

Salvador Dal, a painter that he really admired. He liked that kind of twisted stuff. Bent clocks,
crucifixes from outer space. That afternoon in a cafe, we had the following dialogue:
- Would it bother you if I spent more time at your house?- he asked me.
-No- I told him after thinking about it for a moment.
- I think it would be better if there was a man at home, and I'm thinking about marrying your
mom. I still haven't proposed to her because I want to get your opinion first.-The only problem is that the house is really small.- I said.
-If you and your mother agree, we could move to another place. With a patio. Would you like to
have a patio to play in?-Yes.- I told him after thinking about it for a minute.
More Color seemed satisfied with my answer. We shook hands and he took me to catch the
subway. He showed me all the possible connections and the different kinds of trains that there
were. When we got home, late, he went to talk with my Mom in the bedroom. It seemed to me
like they were arguing. I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. I woke up in
the middle of the night, and it seemed more clear that they were fighting. The next week More
Color didn't even sleep over for an hour and even if he called on the phone to talk with Mom, I
started to sense that something was off-color. I tried to remember the conversation that we had
to understand where he had gone wrong. And I drew the following conclusions: it was no doubt
convenient for Mom to have a man at home. What's more, she was always saying to the
Paraguayan hairdresser that she wanted to find me a substitute father. Which seemed
reasonable to me. When I went to my friends' houses, I envied how they could feel so sure of
themselves and brag about their fathers. So, regarding marriage there shouldn't have been any
problem. I think the conflict had to do with the possibility of moving. For some unknown
reason that I couldn't and I can't understand, my Mom loved that pigsty in Plaza Once or "The
Eleven Park", as she called it. Something in that house touched a chord with her and it's
impossible to go back on that kind of thing.
One afternoon in winter, while Mom was putting her hair in rollers, she told me that
More Color had entered her hall of fame. Today I think that my childhood was separated into
different moments in which my mother told me about the boyfriend she'd just dumped. I
continued to see More Color during the next three years-5th, 6th and 7th- but, except
uncomfortable greetings when we ran into each other in the school yard, we avoided each other.
Although, it's fair to say, thanks to him, I know all the subway lines across the city to
perfection. I could never get lost.
More Color was already history when I signed up in the Rec center at the church to play
football every afternoon. The priests drew you in with an amazing football pitch and, in
exchange, they asked you to take communion. So I went straight to the catechism and I ended
up as an altar boy in a couple of masses. One afternoon Mom came to pick me up, and she told
me to wait for her because she wanted to give confession. The gesture seemed strange, coming
from her. But it's true that around that time she was spending a lot of time in bed, as if
something had broken her spirit. Father Manuel listened to her in silence, in the confessional
booth. Mom started to come every other afternoon to give confession, or to to walk around
chatting with Father Manuel. She told me that the priest- who was very young- was giving her
the will to live. "Mom, why don't you want to live?", I asked her. "It's not that I don't want to
live, it's that I don't have the will.", she answered me.

One night when I was returning late from my friend's house, I happened to see Father
Manuel leaving my building. What surprised me most was that he was dressed like a normal
guy. He didn't see me, but I saw him clearly because I was on the other side of the street. I
didn't make a peep. When I got home, Mom's eyes were all red, as if she had been crying. The
day after, she spent the whole day in her bedroom with the Paraguayan hairdresser. Whenever
they opened the door, to go to the bathroom or to look for something in the kitchen, there was
an awful smell of cigarettes. I think that's why I never smoked.
I decided to talk to Father Manuel after I found Mom sitting in the living room with
huge bags under her eyes. It looked like she had been sitting there since puberty. "All of the
appliances decided to commit suicide," she said with a hoarse voice, hardly seeing me. The
mini-fridge and the television weren't working, and the water heater made a terrible noise when
we turned on the hot water.
Father Manuel was in his bedroom reading, they told me. I told the nun that I needed
him urgently. Soon, I saw him coming down the hallway. This time, he was wearing his
impeccable robe. He patted my head as we walked across the football pitch that at that hour- 2
in the afternoon- was empty. It was a spring day.
-Father, I don't know what's going on with my Mom- I told him.
I felt my voice emerging from deep in my chest.
-Son- he said, even though he was very young- do you know the story about Calvary and our
Lord Jesus Christ?- he asked.
-The whole bit about the Romans and the crown of thorns and the betrayal of Judas?-Exactly. I want you to think about that part of our Lord's story. Because often in life adults
have to make great sacrifices. Do you understand?I didn't understand a bit of it, but I agreed. He was selling me a line.
-Your mother is an exemplary woman. I want to be clear about that. And more often than not,
people of integrity suffer greatly. Now we're going to to go to the church and we're going to
kneel and pray for her.And that's what happened. We prayed in silence. To be honest, I didn't pray. My mind jumped
from one image to another like a video game. I saw Father Manuel in his robe, then I saw him
in street clothes, like I saw him when he was leaving my building, then I imagined him in his
underwear, then playing football. Finally, he took my hand and told me not to worry, that the
Lord knows what he's doing.
What's certain is that Mom didn't go back to church, and a few months later they moved
Father Manuel to a convent in Crdoba. The Lord knew what he was doing alright, because
Mom began to feel better and she started coming out of the depression that she'd been stuck in.
We fixed the TV, the mini-fridge, we took out the water heater and replaced it with a better one.
Throughout the rest of secondary school Mom didn't bring home any other boyfriends.
And, just when I was preparing to start University, the last and, for me most important
boyfriend arrived. His was name Rolando, he worked installing antennas on rooftops, and he
was pivotal because he talked to me for the first time about my father. Because he was obsessed
with whoever it was that my father was.
Mom met him in a group that got together every Sunday in Hospital Pena. It was a
psychological support group to deal with Sunday sadness. It wasn't that my mother got
depressed on Sunday, she was really accompanying the Paraguayan hairdresser who on Sunday

around 7pm, invariably, wanted to kill herself. Rolando was going because his football team
had descended to the B league, and for that he had to suffer game-less Sundays. According to
Mom, he was a devastating arrow straight to the heart. Rolando had curls, a prince valiant
haircut and a gravelly voice. I took an immediate liking to him. And even more when I found
out that he spent his time on the roofs of buildings fixing and installing antennas.
I love people who spend their time up on roofs, I love jumping from the roof.
So quickly- I was seventeen- I started going along with him. It was grand. In the
summer, we climbed to the peak with a cooler and a six pack. Sometimes, if we hadn't eaten,
we brought cheese and membrillo in a tupperware. After fixing the antennas, we sat down to, as
he said, have a little chat. Rolando was obsessed with other people's lives. "Look at the guys
who go around the world playing against the Harlem Globe Trotters. It's crazy. Showing up so
that those black sons-of-bitches can make you look the fool. Some people's lives are insane,
right?". And always, after the beers were done, he talked to me about my dad. "I don't know
how you're mother could believe anything that that imbecile told her. Did you know that your
dad was caught up with the guerillas, and that he preferred that to having a family, taking care
of you, seeing you grow upAnd your mom thought he was a great guy, brilliant! You
seriously never saw a photo of him?".
One afternoon, as we watched the sun set from the roof of a tall building, he told me: "
You know that I love you right?". "Yes", I told him and I felt goosebumps. "But before I
couldn't even look at you because I could only think about how you were your father's fuckmade-flesh." I didn't answer because I was left thinking about his expression, and I
remembered when Father Manuel said that Christ was God "made-flesh". Rolando downed all
of the beers and said : "in Italy they call this time of day the Pomeriggio, do you know why?" I
didn't make a peep. "Because Pomeriggio means tomato. Do you see the color of the sky?"
What a guy. The sky was completely red. He added "You see, from here we can see all across
the city. Isn't it great? Most of the people don't know that we're up here, watching them. We're
like gods."
Sometimes, before sticking an antenna in the roof, he would raise it high with one hand
and shout: "I've got the power!". And we would die of laughter. Other times, he would get
melancholy and say to me: " Swear to me that if your father comes back, you won't get suckedin by him." "Where is he going to come back from, Rolando?" , I asked him. "From Timbuktu,
how should I know?", he replied.
Some time passed and I was drafted into military. I was assigned to ground troops, and
so I had to come down from the roof. I spent a year in hell as an assistant to a military general.
At some point that same year, my Mom and Rolando broke up. She told me so in a letter. When
I came back home, I found a job fixing antennas. I never saw Rolando again, but I heard about
him from a doorman of one of the buildings. He told me that he had an attack of vertigo and
that's why he had stopped working at heights. It sounded to me like science fiction.
Sometimes when I am up high, with my lunch, I realize how wonderful it was that he let me go
along with him and learn the profession. Because the roof's dizzying heights is a solitary
calling. For mythical beasts. You don't need anyone up here.