He came in without a word. I was stropping my best razor. And when I recognized him, I started to shake. But he did not notice. To cover my nervousness, I went on honing the razor. I tried the edge with the tip of my thumb and took another look at it against the light.
Meanwhile, he was taking off his cartridge-studded belt with the pistol holster suspended from it. He put it on a hook in the wardrobe and hung his cap above it. Then he turned full around toward me and, loosening his tie, remarked, “It’s hot as the devil. I want a shave.” With that he took his seat.
I estimated he had a four-days’ growth of beard—the four days he had been gone on the last foray after our men. His face looked burnt, tanned by the sun.
I started to work carefully on the shaving soap. I scraped some slices from the cake, dropped them into the mug, then added a little lukewarm water, and stirred with the brush. The lather soon began to rise.
“The fellows in the troop must have just about as much beard as I.” I went on stirring up lather.
“But we did very well, you know. We caught the leaders. Some of them we brought back dead; others are still alive. But they’ll all be dead soon.”
“How many did you take?” I asked.
“Fourteen. We had to go pretty far in to find them. But now they’re paying for it. And not one will escape; not a single one.”
He leaned back in the chair when he saw the brush in my hand, full of lather. I had not yet put the sheet on him. I was certainly flustered. Taking a sheet from the drawer, I tied it around my customer’s neck.
He went on talking. He evidently took it for granted that I was on the side of the existing regime.
“The people must have gotten a scare with what happened the other day,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, as I finished tying the knot against his nape, which smelt of sweat.
“Good show, wasn’t it?”
“Very good,” I answered, turning my attention now to the brush. The man closed his eyes wearily and awaited the cool caress of the lather.
I had never had him so close before. The day he ordered the people to file through the schoolyard to look upon the four rebels hanging there, my path had crossed his briefly. But the sight of those mutilated bodies kept me from paying
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attention to the face of the man who had been directing it all and whom I now had in my hands.
It was not a disagreeable face, certainly. And the beard, which aged him a bit, was not unbecoming. His name was Torres. Captain Torres.
I started to lay on the first coat of lather. He kept his eyes closed.
“I would love to catch a nap,” he said, “but there’s a lot to be done this evening.”
I lifted the brush and asked, with pretended indifference: “A firing party?” “Something of the sort,” he replied, “but slower.”
“All of them?”
“No, just a few.”
I went on lathering his face. My hands began to tremble again. The man could not be aware of this, which was lucky for me. But I wished he had not come in. Probably many of our men had seen him enter the shop. And with the enemy in my house I felt a certain responsibility.
I would have to shave his beard just like any other, carefully, neatly, just as though he were a good customer, taking heed that not a single pore should emit a drop of blood. Seeing to it that the blade did not slip in the small whorls. Taking care that the skin was left clean, soft, shining, so that when I passed the back of my hand over it, not a single hair should be felt. Yes. I was secretly a revolutionary, but at the same time I was a conscientious barber, proud of the way I did my job. And that four-day beard presented a challenge.
I took up the razor, opened the handle wide, releasing the blade, and started to work, downward from one sideburn. The blade responded to perfection. The hair was tough and hard; not very long, but thick. Little by little the skin began to show through. The razor gave out its usual sound as it gathered up layers of soap mixed with bits of hair. I paused to wipe it clean, and taking up the strop once more went about improving its edge, for I am a painstaking barber.
The man, who had kept his eyes closed, now opened them, put a hand out from under the sheet, felt of the part of his face that was emerging from the lather, and said to me, “Come at six o’clock this evening to the school.”
“Will it be like the other day?” I asked, stiff with horror. “It may be even better,” he replied.
“What are you planning to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. But we’ll have a good time.”
Once more he leaned back and shut his eyes. I came closer, the razor on high. “Are you going to punish all of them?” I timidly ventured.
“Yes, all of them.”
The lather was drying on his face. I must hurry. Through the mirror, I took a
look at the street. It appeared about as usual: there was the grocery shop with two or three customers. Then I glanced at the clock: two-thirty.
The razor kept descending. Now from the other sideburn downward. It was a blue beard, a thick one. He should let it grow like some poets, or some priests. It
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would suit him well. Many people would not recognize him. And that would be a good thing for him, I thought, as I went gently over all the throat line. At this point you really had to handle your blade skillfully, because the hair, while scantier, tended to fall into small whorls. It was a curly beard. The pores might open, minutely, in this area and let out a tiny drop of blood. A good barber like myself stakes his reputation on not permitting that to happen to any of his customers.
And this was indeed a special customer. How many of ours had he sent to their death? How many had he mutilated? It was best not to think about it. Torres did not know I was his enemy. Neither he nor the others knew it. It was a secret shared by very few, just because that made it possible for me to inform the revolutionaries about Torres’ activities in the town and what he planned to do every time he went on one of his raids to hunt down rebels. So it was going to be very difficult to explain how it was that I had him in my hands and then let him go in peace, alive, clean-shaven.
His beard had now almost entirely disappeared. He looked younger, several years younger than when he had come in. I suppose that always happens to men who enter and leave barbershops. Under the strokes of my razor Torres was rejuvenated; yes, because I am a good barber, the best in this town, and I say this in all modesty.
A little more lather here under the chin, on the Adam’s apple, right near the great vein. How hot it is! Torres must be sweating just as I am. But he is not afraid. He is a tranquil man, who is not even giving thought to what he will do to his prisoners this evening. I, on the other hand, polishing his skin with this razor but avoiding the drawing of blood, careful with every stroke—I cannot keep my thoughts in order.
Confound the hour he entered my shop! I am a revolutionary but not a murderer. And it would be so easy to kill him. He deserves it. Or does he? No, damn it! No one deserves the sacrifice others make in becoming assassins. What is to be gained by it? Nothing. Others and still others keep coming, and the first kill the second, and then these kill the next, and so on until everything becomes a sea of blood. I could cut his throat, so, swish, swish! He would not even have time to moan, and with his eyes shut he would not even see the shine of the razor or the gleam in my eye.
But I’m shaking like a regular murderer. From his throat a stream of blood would flow on the sheet, over the chair, down on my hands, onto the floor. I would have to close the door. But the blood would go flowing, along the floor, warm, indelible, not to be stanched, until it reached the street, like a small scarlet river.
I’m sure that with a good strong blow, a deep cut, he would feel no pain. He would not suffer at all. And what would I do then with the body? Where would I hide it? I would have to flee, leave all this behind, take shelter far away, very far away. But they would follow until they caught up with me. “The murderer of
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Captain Torres. He slit his throat while he was shaving him. What a cowardly thing to do!”
And others would say, “The avenger of our people. A name to remember”—my name here. “He was the town barber. No one knew he was fighting for our cause.”
And so, which will it be? Murderer or hero? My fate hangs on the edge of this razor blade. I can turn my wrist slightly, put a bit more pressure on the blade, let it sink in. The skin will yield like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender than a man’s skin, and the blood is always there, ready to burst forth. A razor like this cannot fail. It is the best one I have.
But I don’t want to be a murderer. No, sir. You came in to be shaved. And I do my work honorably. I don’t want to stain my hands with blood. Just with lather, and nothing else. You are an executioner; I am only a barber. Each one to his job. That’s it. Each one to his job.
The chin was now clean, polished, soft. The man got up and looked at himself in the glass. He ran his hand over the skin and felt its freshness, its newness.
“Thanks,” he said. He walked to the wardrobe for his belt, his pistol, and his cap. I must have been very pale, and I felt my shirt soaked with sweat. Torres finished adjusting his belt buckle, straightened his gun in its holster, and, smoothing his hair mechanically, put on his cap. From his trousers pocket he took some coins to pay for the shave. And he started toward the door. On the threshold he stopped for a moment, and turning toward me he said:
“They told me you would kill me. I came to find out if it was true. But it’s not easy to kill. I know what I’m talking about.”
Reprinted from Américas, a bimonthly magazine published in English and Spanish by the General Secretariat of the Organization of American States.
In this short story, titled "Lather and Nothing Else" by Hernando Tellez, the narrator is a barber who is visited by Captain Torres, a known enemy of the revolutionaries in the town. The narrator is secretly aligned with the revolutionaries and Torres is responsible for the deaths and mutilations of many rebels. The narrator battles with the decision of whether or not to kill Torres while shaving him, but ultimately decides to stick to his job as a barber and not become a murderer. Torres senses the internal struggle within the narrator and says that he knew there was a chance he would be killed, but it is not easy to kill.
Write a critique of the short story as if you are a critic for a newspaper or online blog. Be sure to give examples from the short story to support your opinions. Should be between 200-400 words.
Title: "Lather and Nothing Else" - A Masterfully Spun Moral Dilemma
Hernando Tellez's short story "Lather and Nothing Else" plunges readers into a gripping moral dilemma that is as thought-provoking as it is chilling. With impeccable precision, Tellez unfolds the internal struggle of the narrator, a barber torn between his allegiance to the revolutionaries and the opportunity to exact revenge on Captain Torres, their enemy. While the story lacks intricacy in terms of plot, the profound psychological conflict and its ethical ramifications make it a gripping read.
Tellez effectively creates tension through vivid descriptions and sharp dialogue, allowing readers to visualize and feel the mounting pressure experienced by the narrator. The intense atmosphere is heightened when Captain Torres himself enters the barber shop, unaware of the barber's secret identity. The seemingly mundane task of shaving becomes a metaphorical battlefield for the narrator's decision.
The story's true brilliance lies in its exploration of the human psyche and the complexities of morality. The unnamed barber grapples with the desire for revenge and the inherent responsibility of his profession. Throughout the story, the reader is treated to a candid glimpse into the narrator's inner monologue, fanning the flames of the ethical debate raging within him.
One of the most compelling moments occurs when the narrator contemplates slitting Torres' throat. The author's ability to vividly portray the internal conflict is commendable. The reader can almost feel the tremors coursing through the barber's hand, amplifying the moral dilemma he faces. The thought of the blood cascading from Torres' throat, forever staining the shop, encapsulates the potent imagery utilized by Tellez.
However, one cannot help but wish for more complexity in the plot. The story is a mere snapshot, lacking deeper exploration of the revolutionaries' perspective or the consequences of the narrator's decision. Expanding on these elements could have added greater depth and a more satisfying resolution to the narrative.
In conclusion, "Lather and Nothing Else" is an engrossing tale that thrives on its well-crafted moral quandary. Tellez masterfully evokes the precariousness of human nature and the fragility of one's conscience. While the story's brevity may disappoint those seeking a more extensive exploration of the theme, the intricacies of the internal struggle ceaselessly engage readers, leaving them to question where they too would draw the line between justice and morality.
Create a one-pager that displays a visual representation of a scene or character in the short story. Include at least three quotes and an explanation of why each quote is important.
Scene Illustration: The Barber Shaving Captain Torres
[Insert image]
Quote 1: "The lather soon began to rise."
Explanation: This quote captures the initial moment of tension in the story, as the narrator begins shaving Captain Torres. The rising lather symbolizes the mounting pressure and internal struggle faced by the protagonist. It visually represents the moral dilemma that is taking place beneath the surface, where the narrator must decide whether to carry out an act of violence or adhere to his professional integrity.
Quote 2: "I was certainly flustered... I was a conscientious barber."
Explanation: This quote reflects the narrator's conflicted state of mind. He expresses his nervousness and anxiety while trying to maintain composure and professionalism. It highlights the inner turmoil experienced by the barber, who identifies as both a revolutionary and a conscientious craftsman. This dichotomy underscores the central theme of the story, highlighting the tension between personal convictions and professional obligations.
Quote 3: "He deserves it. Or does he? No, damn it! No one deserves the sacrifice others make in becoming assassins."
Explanation: This quote delves into the narrator's introspective thoughts as he contemplates murdering Captain Torres. It encapsulates the internal struggle between seeking retribution and rejecting the cycle of violence. The narrator questions the justification for acts of vengeance and acknowledges the moral dilemma faced by those who choose violence as a means of resistance. This quote reveals the complexity of the protagonist's moral compass and his ultimate decision to reject the path of a killer.
Explanation:
The selected quotes and visual representation capture the essence of the scene where the barber shaves Captain Torres. The rising lather symbolizes the mounting pressure and internal struggle of the protagonist. The image displays the barber standing before Torres, razor in hand, showcasing the tense atmosphere. The quotes emphasize the narrator's conflicted state of mind and the moral dilemmas he wrestles with, inviting viewers to reflect on the complexities of personal and professional obligations. Together, the visual and quotes bring to life the emotional and ethical dimensions of the scene, compelling viewers to engage with the broader themes explored in the story.
What does the barber look like?
The short story does not provide a detailed physical description of the barber. However, based on the information provided, we can infer certain characteristics about the barber's appearance.
The narrator refers to himself as a "conscientious barber" and takes pride in his work, suggesting a certain level of professionalism in his appearance. As a diligent craftsman, it is likely that the barber maintains a clean and neat appearance. This could include well-groomed hair, trimmed facial hair (if any), and perhaps even a white barber's coat or apron to signify his occupation.
Given the tense situation with Captain Torres, it can be assumed that the barber's facial expressions and body language would reflect his internal struggle. The narrator mentions being "flustered" and "shaking," indicating a visibly nervous demeanor. These physical manifestations of anxiety could be represented through a slightly disheveled appearance, trembling hands, or sweat on the barber's forehead.
As a revolutionary sympathizer, the barber might possess subtle hints of rebellion or resistance in his appearance. This could be reflected in small details, such as a hidden symbol of the revolution or a faint insinuation of support through a piece of clothing or accessory.
While the short story does not explicitly describe the barber's physical appearance, these inferences can be made based on his profession, internal conflict, and allegiance to the revolutionaries.