I remember how much I enjoyed sitting in one of those corridors during the afternoon and sewing the children’s clothes, amidst the perfume of the honeysuckle and the bougainvillea. The passageways were covered with climbing plants that flowered almost all year round. To keep such a large house in order and its garden cared for-my morning activity each day-was hard work. Between the rooms and the garden were corridors that protected the rooms from the harshness of the frequent rains and wind. The house was very large, with a garden in the middle and the rooms laid out around it. I always rose very early, dressed the children-who would already be awake-gave them breakfast, and entertained them while Guadalupe fixed up the house and went out to do the shopping. During the day, everything proceeded with apparent normality. I lost what little peace I had enjoyed in that big house. With large yellowish eyes, unblinking and almost circular, that seemed to pierce through things and people. I couldn’t suppress a cry of horror the first time I saw him. He would sleep until night fell, and I never discovered what time he went to bed.

Because of these drawbacks, I never used it. Only my husband enjoyed having him there.įrom the first day, my husband assigned him the corner room. Everyone in the house-my children, the woman who helped me with the chores, her little son-dreaded him. I wasn’t the only one who suffered because of his presence. “You’ll get used to having him around, and if you don’t.” It was impossible to convince him to take him away. “He’s completely inoffensive,” my husband said, looking at me with marked indifference. I couldn’t help it he filled me with mistrust and horror. The very night he arrived, I begged my husband not to condemn me to the torture of his company. A town that was almost dead, or about to disappear. We lived in a small, isolated town, far from the city. To my husband I represented something like a piece of furniture, which you’re used to seeing in a particular spot but which doesn’t make the slightest impression. My husband brought him home from a trip.Īt the time we had been married for almost three years, we had two children, and I wasn’t happy.

I’ll never forget the day he came to live with us. Her honors include the Xavier Villaurrutia Prize in 1977 and the Medalla Bellas Artes in 2015. She has been hailed as one of Mexico's masters of the short story. Amparo Dávila was born in Mexico in 1928. Drawing comparisons to Kafka, Poe, Leonora Carrington, and Shirley Jackson, the stories in the collection follow characters to the limits of desire, paranoia, insomnia, and fear. The following is from Amparo Dávila's collection, The Houseguest and Other Stories.

The houseguest and other stories