"Self-mythography, days and epilogue -or not- of Isidoro Lalor"
Fortunately or unfortunately, delirious reader, I own all the existent information about Isidoro Torcuato Lalor y Obes (Rauch? 1901?)
and I say fortunately or unfortunately, because, if on one hand -in my admitted selfishness- I enjoy being the only mortal who knows something about Lalor, on the other hand, I'd like to find someone else who could -even- know more, in order to cast some light on this bird that Lalor was.
The first evidence about the ventures of Isidoro Lalor finds him in Paso de los Toros, Uruguay
as it seems, certain night of 1928 or 1929, Lalor had a bitter argument with an Englishman, Bascomb Teem.
They argued in a pulpería (local name for the pubs)
I'm almost sure they drank generous amounts of caña, spirituous beverage that inflates the aggression and reinforces the infamy of tongue.
Isidoro Lalor was -I'm 87% sure- a guapo, this is, a tough and rude guy from the early 1900s... I hold proof to assure that Lalor did sink his silver knife in the abdomen of Bascomb Teem 47 or 48 times, before he started running to escape from the imminent arrival of the police or milicos.
The myth says that Lalor embarked his bones toward La Plata, The Diagonal City, and there begins his thread of assorted and/or brochetted feats as guapo, fighting the law, and fighting other guapos, like a certain Jacinto Chiclana, who died in Gonnet by the inclement facón of Isidoro Lalor, bleeding to decease on a yard replete of hens and plumage at dawn.
And this, my friends, it's a story about the outlaw, prose versed in the gauchesque and in the suburban
story that got nothing to do with me, except because of certain accidental, geographic and hazardous reasons, related to my own reality very indirectly, obliquely; de côté, dare one say:
the morning of the day 18 of July of 1932, with -5ºc, Isidoro Lalor is cornered by 19 police officers close to Barracas al Sud
in desperate rush, Lalor hurts mortally 6 with his platinum knife
6 more come in desperate rush, over him, in desperate rush
4 hold him by the arms, 1 sinks bayonet repeatedly in-to the entrails of the desperado
again, bayonet, made in Bayonne, plata, deep in-to the entrails
Isidoro Lalor falls exanimous on the frozen pavement, like swimming on that little sea that his own pouring blood has created
his eyelids palpitate in ultranervous REM at the gates of the nothing: what does he see?
What does he see in his agony?
The little red sea becomes immense in his retina
boundless, immeasurable and full of flowers floating on the surface, like the ocean in the spring
the glorious sun that bathes that ocean in spring, it's filling his closed eyes
the siren of a Ford a Bigotes sounds as felicitous background for so much solar brightness and seas in the spring... that only Lalor sees... before entering a black, polished and hasty tunnel... a tunnel of peace and quietude
down the tunnel, goes down Lalor
down, abajo:
at the exterior of this, shouts of men and discordant sirens are heard in a suburb of nowhere
someone carries a body* soaked in blood toward a Ford
the sirens start to depart from that cold scene, swift and quick, away, inundating distant corners in red light.
3 or 4 minutes later and just a lake of blood remains on the irregular sidewalk, intact, shining under a moonlight -or screaming at it-
blood screaming from the sidewalk, as white and colossal dogs come closer, around the blood, smelling
cut, I close these eyes
let me close my eyes.
*Note from the "Diaries of Tomás Eloy Martínez", Madrid, Ediciones Orbis, 1976 ISBN: 978-84-7530-984-0
"The information about the body is uncertain until this day: the
Lalor was not buried there, but someone else.
The body was not cremated, neither dismembered, and it certainly was not thrown in-to the waters.
This said, all the cogent attestations published by Herminio Iglesias are being refuted in this act:
the death of Isidoro Lalor wasn't proven yet."
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