—¡Ah! no lo sabía y ¿cómo es qué sabes eso?

—Por los sapos, ellos me lo contaron, yo se lo dije a mi madrina, pero no me creyó y ese sapo viejo se paró ahí de frente, me miró y se echó a reír... ¿Usted ha visto un sapo riéndose? Oiga señor, no me ha dicho quién es y qué anda haciendo por estos lados.

—Me nombran Juan, de apellido Rulfo y quiero llegar a Comala.
—Pero ahí viven solo los muertos, los cementerios son puro rastrojo de chivo, no hay tumbas, los muertos caminan por las calles como si no les importara la vida, allí la soledad huele a silencio, quizá a tristeza.

—¿Y los muertos de aquí, esos, si duermen su eternidad?

—No, ellos se van a Comala y se ponen a la orden de un tal Pedro Páramo, no sé para qué, ese viejo también se murió, hay voces que dicen que era maluco... Tomaba lo que quería, nadie se atrevía a decirle un no.
—A ese hombre lo ando buscando, me dijeron que preguntara en Luvina, que allí me indicarían el camino.

—Le dijeron bien, aquí todavía hay gente viva, algunos se enfiestan los fines de semana, pero allá, en Comala todos están muertos.
—Eso lo sé.
—¿Y aun así va?
—Lo que pasa es que yo también estoy muerto y él me encargó una tarea, ¿Macario no le contó?

—Macario no sabe qué hacer con su locura, solo hablaba de Felipa que lo calentaba por las noches y de sus ganas de irse al infierno para conocer a sus padres.
—Yo tengo la culpa, escribí su historia una noche de tormenta y esos truenos alteraron mis nervios, bebí mucho mezcal, me emborraché de tristeza nomas.

—¿Usted conoce a Pedro Páramo? Él se cree dueño de ese pueblo, dicen que su hijo fue buscarlo, no pudo encontrarlo, eso dicen, pero yo sé que el viejo se murió por él, le quedó ese remordimiento por botar a la Dolores y eso le impedía el sueño.
—Pero muchas mujeres tuvieron hijos de él.

—Pero no por amor, aunque, él nunca supo que era eso, simplemente tomaba lo que quería cómo le dije antes.

—Bueno así lo pinté, digo lo escribí, aunque a veces pienso que se hizo así mismo, se desprendió de mis sueños y se fue solo, por eso fue dios y diablo al mismo tiempo.
—¿Y Usted lo mató?

—¡No! Él se murió solo, la soledad lo fue devorando, cuando se dio cuenta quiso reclamar, regresar a mis noches y meterse de nuevo, para que le cambiara la historia, pero ya estaba en el infierno, así que le tocó hacer tratos con el diablo para que lo regresara a Comala, el diablo lo tiró ahí en la Media Luna, pero allí solo había un viento arrastrando chamizos, búhos ululando toda la noche para mantenerlo despabilado, pero el hombre era porfiado, no se dejaba amilanar.

—¿Cómo me dijo que se llamaba?
—¿Juan Rulfo para servirle y tú cómo te llamas?

—Soy Justino, el hijo de Juvencio, Usted me metió en ese cuento, yo también soy su creación, ahora eso no importa, pero mi padre al final me maldijo y aquí ando, no puedo descansar. Yo tuve mucha culpa por lo del fusilamiento, lo sigo escuchando todos los días. Me siento culpable.

—¡No, la culpa es mía! Yo los metí en esas historias y ahora vagan por la eternidad, la gente me reconoce en ustedes, por eso quiero ir a Comala, a recoger mis muertos.

This story is a tribute I had pending with the Mexican writer Juan Rulfo, which I had to publish on May 16, the anniversary of his birth in 1917.
I couldn't publish it at the time, but I leave it here for you to enjoy.

Rulfo returns to Comala

—I come from Luvina, —he told me, —before I was killing toads with Macario, he asked me how I had climbed the hill, you can tell you didn't go up there, and why is that? —I answered him, —It's because of the whitish dust, it sticks to your shoes and when you fall asleep it sticks to your sleep and you can see everyone going up or down.

—Ah! I didn't know that and how do you know that?

—Because of the toads, they told me, I told my godmother, but she didn't believe me and that old toad stood there in front of me, looked at me and started laughing... Have you ever seen a frog laughing? Listen sir, you haven't told me who you are and what you're doing around these parts?

—They call me Juan, with the surname Rulfo, and I want to get to Comala.

—But only the dead live there, the cemeteries are pure goat stubble, there are no graves, the dead walk the streets as if they don't care about life, the loneliness there smells of silence, perhaps of sadness.

—And the dead here, do they sleep their eternity?
—No, they go to Comala and put themselves at the order of a certain Pedro Páramo, I don't know what for, that old man died too, there are voices that say he was evil... He took whatever he wanted, nobody dared to say no to him.

—They told me to ask in Luvina, that they would show me the way.

—They told him well, there are still people alive here, some of them party on weekends, but over there, in Comala, they are all dead.

—I know that.
—And you're still going?
—What happens is that I'm also dead and he gave me a task, didn't Macario tell you?

—Macario doesn't know what to do with his madness, he only talked about Felipa who warmed him up at night and his desire to go to hell to meet his parents.
—I'm to blame, I wrote his story one stormy night and those thunderstorms upset my nerves, I drank a lot of mescal, I got drunk with sadness.

—Do you know Pedro Páramo? He thinks he owns that town, they say his son went looking for him, he couldn't find him, that's what they say, but I know that the old man died for him, he had that remorse for throwing Dolores away and that prevented him from sleeping.

—But many women had children by him.
—But not out of love, although he never knew what that was, he just took what he wanted, as I told you before.

—Well, that's how I painted him, I mean wrote him, although sometimes I think he did it himself, he broke away from my dreams and left alone, that's why he was god and devil at the same time.

—And did you kill him?

—No! He died alone, loneliness was devouring him, when he realized he wanted to complain, to return to my nights and get back in again, so that I would change his story, but he was already in hell, so he had to make deals with the devil to return him to Comala, the devil threw him there in the Media Luna, but there was only a wind dragging him, owls hooting all night to keep him awake, but the man was stubborn, he wouldn't let himself be intimidated.

—What did he say his name was?
—Juan Rulfo to serve him, and what is your name?

—I'm Justino, Juvencio's son, you put me in that story, I'm also his creation, it doesn't matter now, but my father cursed me in the end and here I am, I can't rest. I was to blame for the firing squad, I still hear it every day. I feel guilty.

—No, it's my fault! I got you into those stories and now you wander through eternity, people recognize me in you, that's why I want to go to Comala, to collect my dead.

_{La imagen de portada fue realizada con la inteligencia artificial Wombo.art y editado con PhotoScape.
The cover image was made with the artificial intelligence Wombo.art and edited with PhotoScape.
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)}