My God is a Gun, translated into English in 2013 by the late Melvin Milo Melbern from a Spanish translation of an anonymous and untitled Quechuan text, is an anomaly in the history of translation.
In which the party combat a local menace, and uncover betrayal and subterfuge.
I stab myself through the head with a serrated blade, but I am not dead yet. The story continues.
I had no idea where I was, and the landscape outside – nondescript dying farmer’s fields – weren’t helping me none either.
The cadence starts in C, as if to tease the major scale, but it loses all tonal sense instantaneously. The instrument it is played on does not exist: could not exist.
I met somebody at work today. There was something about his eyes that rang hollow like the kind of expression I imagine people see me to have.
The collar of my shirt is soaked through, and my feet are sweating so much that it feels as if I’m walking through a swamp. The girl behind the counter asks me for ID, and I take out my provisional driving licence.
Drawing near to the end now. I’m ready for it. I think. Been waiting for them to come for me for a while now. It’s a nice room – not too cold, not too warm. Full air conditioning, what a rarity – and it’s quiet for miles around.
Somebody knocks on my door and I try to stand but fall back down. I try to stand again and this time my legs grace me with regular use and I stumble to the door with the bottle of beer in my hand. I open the door.