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>> Now I'll just read a couple
of poems in English and Spanish,

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so that you get the swing
of the salsa, a little bit.

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And I'm going to read some parts of the
new novel Eccentric Neighborhoods to you.

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The shadow of guilt.

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Mother, why do blacks go
around the house barefoot?

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They were born in the jungle.

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They don't like to wear shoes, dear.

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Eusebia, Brambom, and
Santiago, Carmelo, Arsilio,

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Casilda are always
doing house chores.

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Eusebia's skin was a swamp.

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Her sweat steamed my father's
shirts every time she ironed them.

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Arsilio watered the plants, Carmelo buffed
the tiles, Casilda polished the silver.

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And when I think of Brambom, I remember
the perfect way his skin blended

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in with the packard.

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Blacks with pink skin on their feet,
they grew old without a trace of grey,

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wild musk cushioning their souls, dust falling
on their cheeks, dawn breaking in their smiles

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and in their eyes, the silent
shadow of the tiger lurking by.

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And in Spanish, it goes this way,
they're not -- They're versions.

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They're not really exact translations.

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La sombra de la culpa.

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Madre, ¿por qué los negros
tienen la palma de la mano blanca?

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No son como nosotros, hija.

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Los trajeron de bárbaros
países y siguen siendo bárbaros.

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Eusebia, Brambom y Santiago, Carmelo, Arsilio
y Casilda andaban en sus ajetreos por la casa.

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El silencio de la selva les acolchaba los pasos,

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pero yo pensaba que era porque
no usaban zapatos.

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Eusebia, la epiléptica, planchaba las camisas
de mi padre y dejaba en ellas el zumo de los

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pantanos del África.

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Arsilio regaba las plantas,
Carmelo enceraba las losas,

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Casilda brillaba la plata y de Brambom recuerdo
la manera en que su piel se confundía con

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el packard.

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Negros, con los pies rosados, llegaban a
viejos sin canas, en las mejillas la noche,

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en los dientes la mañana y en la
mirada, la sombra del tigre que pasa.