Isabel Allende - The Tales of Eva Luna (English Translation)

Machine Translated by Google
THE TALES OF
EVA LUNA
ISABEL ALLENDE
The king ordered his vizier to bring him a virgin every night and when the
night had passed he ordered her to be killed. He was doing this for three
years and in the city there was no longer a maiden who could serve for
the assaults of this horseman. But the vizier had a very beautiful daughter
named Scheherazade... and she was very eloquent and a pleasure to
listen to.
(Arabian Nights)
You took off the sash from your waist, you tore off your sandals, you threw your wide
skirt, made of cotton, I think, into a corner, and you undid the knot that held your hair
back in a tail. You had goosebumps and you laughed. We were so close that we couldn't
see each other, both absorbed in this urgent rite, wrapped in the heat and the smell that
we made together. I made my way through your ways, my hands on your rearing waist and
yours impatient. You slid, you ran through me, you climbed me, you wrapped me with your
invincible legs, you told me a thousand times come with your lips on mine. In the final
moment we had a glimpse of complete solitude, each one lost in his burning abyss, but soon
we would rise from the other side of the fire to discover ourselves embraced in the disorder
of the cushions, under the white mosquito net.
I parted your hair to look into your eyes. Sometimes you would sit next to me, with your
legs drawn up and your silk shawl over one shoulder, in the silence of the night that was just
beginning. That's how I remember you, calmly.
You think in words, for you language is an inexhaustible thread that you weave as if life
were made by telling it. I think of frozen images in a photograph. However, this is not
printed on a plate, it seems to have been drawn with a pen, it is a meticulous and perfect
memory, with soft volumes and warm colors, Renaissance, like an intention captured on a
granulated paper or a cloth. It is a prophetic moment, it is our entire existence, everything
we have lived and what we will live, all the simultaneous epochs, without beginning or end.
From a certain distance I look at that drawing, where I am also. I am a spectator and
protagonist. I am in the dark, veiled by the mist of a translucent curtain. I know it's me, but
I'm also this one who watches from outside. I know what the man painted on that messy bed
feels like, in a room with dark beams and cathedral ceilings, where the scene appears like a
fragment of an ancient ceremony. I am there with you and also here, alone, in another time
of consciousness. In the painting, the couple rests after making love, their skin shines wet.
The man has his eyes closed, one hand on his chest and the other on her thigh, in intimate
complicity. For me, that vision is recurring and immutable, nothing changes, it is always the
same placid smile of the man, the same languor of the woman, the same folds in the sheets
and dark corners of the room, always the light from the lamp brushes the breasts and her
cheekbones at the same angle and always the silk shawl and dark hair fall with equal delicacy.
Every time I think of you, that's how I see you, that's how I see us, frozen forever on
that canvas, invulnerable to the deterioration of bad memory. I can recreate myself for a long
time in that scene, until I feel that I am entering the space of the painting and I am no longer
the one watching, but the man who lies next to that woman. Then the symmetrical stillness of
the painting is broken and I hear our very close voices.
"Tell me a story," I tell you. -How do you want it? Tell me a story that you haven't told
anyone.
ROLF CARLE
TWO WORDS
She had the name of Belisa Crepusculario, but not because of her baptism or her
mother's guess, but because she herself searched for it until she found it and dressed
with it. His trade was selling words. He traveled the country, from the highest and
coldest regions to the hot coasts, settling in the fairs and markets, where he set up
four poles with a canvas awning, under which he protected himself from the sun and
rain to attend to his clientele. She didn't need to advertise her merchandise, because
from so much walking here and there, everyone knew her. There were those who
waited for her from one year to the next, and when she appeared in the village with
her bundle under her arm, they lined up in front of her stall. He sold at fair prices. For
five cents he delivered verses from memory, for seven he improved the quality of
dreams, for nine he wrote love letters, for twelve he invented insults for irreconcilable
enemies. He also sold stories, but they weren't fantasy stories, but long true stories
that he recited continuously, without skipping anything. This is how he carried the
news from one town to another. People paid him to add a line or two: a child was born,
so-and-so died, our children got married, crops burned. In each place a small crowd
would gather around her to hear her when she began to speak and thus learn of the
lives of others, of distant relatives, of the details of the Civil War. Whoever bought fifty
cents, she gave him a secret word to scare away melancholy. It wasn't the same for
everyone, of course, because that would have been a collective delusion. Each one
received his own with the certainty that no one else used it for that purpose in the
universe and beyond.
Belisa Crepusculario had been born into a family so miserable that they didn't even
have names to call their children. He came into the world and grew up in the most
inhospitable region, where some years the rains turn into avalanches of water that
take everything away, and in others not a drop falls from the sky, the sun grows until
it fills the entire horizon and the world. it becomes a desert. Until he was twelve years
old he had no other occupation or virtue than to survive the hunger and fatigue of
centuries. During an interminable drought, he had to bury four younger brothers and
when he realized that his turn had come, he decided to walk across the plains towards
the sea, to see if he could cheat death on the journey. The earth was eroded, split in
deep cracks, strewn with stones, fossils of trees and thorny bushes, skeletons of
animals bleached by the heat. From time to time she ran into families who, like her,
went south following the mirage of the water. Some had started the march carrying
their belongings on their shoulders or in wheelbarrows, but they could hardly move
their own bones and soon had to abandon their things. They dragged themselves
painfully, their skin turned to lizard leather, their eyes burned by the glare of light. Belisa
greeted them with a gesture as she passed, but she did not stop, because she could
not spend her strength in exercises of compassion. Many fell along the way, but she
was so stubborn that she managed to cross hell and finally reached the first springs,
fine trickles of water, almost invisible, that fed stunted vegetation, and that later became
streams and estuaries.
Belisa Crepusculario saved her life and also discovered writing by chance. Upon
reaching a village near the coast, the wind placed a sheet of newspaper at his feet.
She took that brittle yellow paper and spent a long time looking at it without guessing
its use, until curiosity got the better of her shyness. I know
she approached a man who was washing a horse in the same muddy puddle where she had
quenched her thirst.
-What is this? -I ask. "The sports page of the newspaper," the man replied, showing no sign of
astonishment at her ignorance.
The answer astonished the girl, but she did not want to seem cheeky and limited herself to inquiring
about the meaning of the little fly legs drawn on the paper.
-They are words, girl. There it says that Fulgencio Barba knocked out Negro Tiznao in the third round.
That day Belisa Crepusculario found out that words are loose without an owner and anyone with
a little skill can seize them to trade with them.
She considered her situation and concluded that apart from prostitution or employment as a
servant in the kitchens of the rich, there were few occupations that she could perform. Selling
words seemed like a decent alternative. From that moment he practiced that profession and
was never interested in another. At first he offered his merchandise without suspecting that
words could also be written outside of newspapers. When he found out, he calculated the
infinite projections of his business, with his savings he paid twenty pesos to a priest to teach him to
read and write, and with the three left over he bought a dictionary. He went through it from A to Z and
then threw it into the sea, because he didn't mean to rip off customers with packaged words.
Several years later, on an August morning, Belisa Crepusculario found herself in the center of a plaza,
sitting under her awning selling justice arguments to an old man who had been requesting his pension
for seventeen years. It was market day and there was a lot of noise around him. Gallops and shouts
were suddenly heard, she raised her eyes from the writing and saw first a cloud of dust and then a group
of horsemen that broke into the place. They were the Colonel's men, who came under the command of
El Mulato, a giant known throughout the area for the speed of his knife and loyalty to his boss. Both the
Colonel and the Mulatto had spent their lives busy in the Civil War and their names were inextricably
linked to the disaster and calamity. The warriors entered the town like a stampeding herd, enveloped in
noise, drenched in sweat, and leaving behind the fright of a hurricane. The chickens flew away, the dogs
shot wildly, the women ran with their children, and there was no other living soul left in the market place
except Belisa Crepusculario, who had never seen the Mulatto and was therefore surprised that he
addressed her. .
"I'm looking for you," he yelled, pointing at her with his coiled whip and before he finished saying it,
two men fell on top of the woman, running over the awning and breaking the inkwell, tied her hands and
feet and placed her across like a sailor's bundle on the rump of the beast of the Mulatto. They galloped
toward the hills.
Hours later, when Belisa Crepusculario was about to die with her heart turned to sand by the jolts of
the horse, she felt them stop and four powerful hands lowered her to the ground. She tried to stand up
and lift her head with dignity, but her strength failed her and she collapsed with a sigh, sinking into a
dazed sleep. He woke up several hours later to the murmur of the night in the field, but he did not have
time to decipher those sounds, because when he opened his eyes he found himself before the impatient
gaze of the Mulatto, kneeling by his side.
"You're finally awake, woman," he said, handing her her canteen so that she could take a sip of brandy
with gunpowder and finish recovering her life.
She wanted to know the cause of so much mistreatment and he explained that the Colonel needed his
services. He allowed her to splash water on her face and then led her to the
edge of the camp, where the most feared man in the country lay in a hammock strung
between two trees. She couldn't see his face, because he had the uncertain shadow of
the foliage on him and the indelible shadow of many years living as a bandit, but she
imagined that he must have a perdular expression if his gigantic assistant addressed him
with such humility. He was surprised by her voice, smooth and well modulated like a
teacher's.
Are you the one who sells words? -I ask. "To serve you," she stammered, peering into
the shadows to see him better. The Colonel stood up and the light from the torch carried
by the Mulatto hit him head on. The woman saw his dark skin and his fierce puma eyes and
knew at once that she was facing the loneliest man in this world.
"I want to be President," he said. He was tired of roaming that accursed land in
pointless wars and defeats that no subterfuge could turn into victories.
He had been sleeping outdoors for many years, bitten by mosquitoes, feeding on iguanas
and snake soup, but these minor inconveniences were not reason enough to change his
destiny. What really annoyed him was the terror in the eyes of others. He wanted to enter
the towns under triumphal arches, among colored flags and flowers, to be applauded and
given fresh eggs and freshly baked bread as gifts. He was tired of seeing how men fled in
his wake, women miscarried and babies trembled, that's why he had decided to be
President.
The Mulatto suggested that they go to the capital and gallop into the Palace to take
over the government, just like taking many other things without asking permission, but
the Colonel was not interested in becoming another tyrant, they had already had enough
of those around there and, besides, in this way he would not obtain the affection of the
people. His idea was to be elected by popular vote in the December elections.
-For that I need to speak as a candidate. Can you sell me the words for a speech? the
Colonel asked Belisa Crepusculario.
She had accepted many orders, but none like this, yet she could not refuse, fearing that
the Mulatto would put a shot between her eyes or, worse still, that the Colonel would
burst into tears. On the other hand, she felt the urge to help him, because she felt a
throbbing heat on his skin, a powerful desire to touch this man, to run her hands over
him, to hold him in her arms.
All night and a good part of the next day, Belisa Crepusculario searched her repertoire for
the appropriate words for a presidential speech, closely watched by the Mulatto, who never
took his eyes off her firm, sinister legs and virginal breasts. He discarded words that were
dry and dry, those that were too flowery, thoseimprobable
that were faded
promises,
by abuse,
those those
lacking
that
in truth
offered
and those that were confused, to keep only those capable of touching men's thoughts with
certainty and women's intuition Making use of the knowledge bought from the priest for
twenty pesos, she wrote the speech on a sheet of paper and then signaled to the Mulatto
to untie the rope with which he had tied her ankles to a tree. They took her back to the
Colonel and when she saw him she felt the same throbbing anxiety of the first meeting. She
handed him the paper and waited as he watched, holding it between his fingertips.
What the hell does it say here? he finally asked. -You can not read? "What I know how to
do is war," he replied. She read the speech aloud. He read it three times, so that his client
could record it in his memory. When she finished, she saw the emotion on the faces of the
men in the troop who gathered to listen to her and noticed that the Colonel's yellow eyes
shone with enthusiasm, sure that with those words the presidential chair would be his.
"If after hearing it three times the boys continue with their mouths open, it's because this thing works,
Colonel," the Mulatto approved.
-How much do I owe you for your work, woman? asked the boss. - A peso, Colonel. "It's not expensive,"
he said, opening the bag on his belt with the remains of the last loot.
-You also have the right to a ñapa. Two secret words correspond to you -said Belisa Crepusculario.
-How is that? She proceeded to explain that for every fifty cents a customer paid, she gave him a word for
exclusive use. The boss shrugged, not having the slightest interest in the offer, but he didn't want to be
rude to the one who had served him so well. She ambled over to the leather stool he was sitting on and
leaned down to hand him her gift. Then the man felt the smell of the montuno animal emanating from that
woman, the fiery heat radiating from her hips, the terrible brushing of her hair, the mint breath whispering
in his ear the two secret words to which he was entitled.
"They are yours, Colonel," she said as she withdrew. You can use them as much as you want.
The Mulatto accompanied Belisa to the edge of the road, without ceasing to look at her with the pleading
eyes of a lost dog, but when he reached out his hand to touch her, she stopped him with a stream of
invented words that had the virtue of scaring away his desire, because she believed that it was some
irrevocable curse.
During the months of September, October, and November, the Colonel delivered his speech so
many times that if it had not been made with resplendent and durable words, use would have turned it
to ashes. He toured the country in all directions, entering the cities with a triumphant air and also stopping
in the most forgotten towns, there where only the trace of garbage indicated the human presence, to
convince the voters to vote for him. As he spoke on a platform in the center of the square, the Mulatto and
his men distributed sweets and painted his name with gold glitter on the walls, but no one paid attention
to these merchant resources, because they were dazzled by the clarity of his propositions and the poetic
lucidity of their arguments, infected by their tremendous desire to correct the errors of history and happy
for the first time in their lives. At the end of the Candidate's harangue, the troops fired their pistols into the
air and set off firecrackers, and when they finally withdrew, a trail of hope was left behind that lingered in
the air for many days, like the magnificent memory of a comet. Soon the Colonel became the most popular
politician. He was a phenomenon never seen before, that man who emerged from the civil war, full of
scars and speaking like a professor, whose prestige spread throughout the national territory, moving the
heart of the country. The press took care of him. Journalists traveled far to interview him and repeat his
phrases, and thus the number of his followers and his enemies grew.
"We're doing well, Colonel," said the Mulatto after twelve weeks of success.
But the candidate did not listen to him. He was repeating his two secret words, as he did with
increasing frequency. He said them when nostalgia softened him, he murmured them in his sleep, he
carried them with him on his horse, he thought about them before delivering his famous speech and
found himself savoring them in his carelessness. And every time those two words came to his mind, he
evoked the presence of Belisa Crepusculario and his senses were agitated with the memory of the
smell of montuno, the heat of fire, the terrible touch and the mint breath, until he began to walk like a
sleepwalker and his own men understood that his life would end before he reached the chair of presidents.
-What is wrong with you, Colonel? the Mulatto asked him many times, until for
Finally, one day the boss couldn't take it anymore and he confessed that the fault of his spirit
was those two words that he had stuck in his belly.
"Tell me, let's see if they lose their power," asked his faithful assistant.
"I won't tell you, they are only mine," replied the Colonel. Tired of seeing his boss deteriorate like a
man sentenced to death, the Mulatto shouldered his rifle and set off in search of Belisa Crepusculario.
He followed her tracks throughout that vast geography until he found her in a town in the south,
installed under the awning of her trade, counting her rosary of news. She stood in front of him with
her legs spread and her gun drawn.
"You come with me," he ordered. She was waiting for him. She picked up her inkwell, folded the
canvas from her stall, threw her shawl over her shoulders, and silently climbed onto the horse's
haunch. They didn't exchange a gesture on the whole way, because the Mulatto's desire for her
had turned into rage and only the fear that her tongue inspired in him prevented him from destroying
her with whips. Nor was he willing to tell her that the Colonel was stupefied, and that what so many
years of battles had not achieved, an incantation whispered in his ear had achieved. Three days
later they arrived at the camp and he immediately led his prisoner to the candidate, in front of all
the troops.
"I brought this witch to you so that you can give her back her words, Colonel, and so that she
can give you back your manhood," he said, pointing the barrel of his rifle at the woman's neck.
The Colonel and Belisa Crepusculario looked at each other for a long time, measuring each
other from a distance. The men understood then that their boss could no longer get rid of the
spell of those two devilish words, because they could all see the puma's carnivorous eyes turn
tame when she advanced and took his hand.
WICKED GIRL
At eleven years old, Elena Mejías was still a malnourished puppy, with the dull skin of lonely
children, a mouth with a few holes from late teeth, hair the color of mice, and a visible
skeleton that seemed too bulky for its size and threatened with sticking out at the knees
and elbows. Nothing in her appearance betrayed her torrid dreams or heralded the
passionate creature she truly was.
She was inconspicuous among the coarse furniture and faded draperies of her mother's
boarding house. She was just a melancholic cat playing among the dusty geraniums
and the large ferns in the patio or moving between the kitchen stove and the dining room
tables with the dinner plates. Rarely did a customer take notice of her, and if they did it was
only to order her to spray the roach nests with insecticide or fill the toilet tank, when the
creaking casing of the pump refused to carry the water up to the second floor. Her mother,
exhausted by the heat and the work at home, had no mood for tenderness or time to
observe her daughter, so she did not know when Elena began to mutate into a different
being. During the first years of her life she had been a silent and shy girl, always playing
mysterious games, talking to herself in corners and sucking her thumb. Her outings were
only to school or to the market, she didn't seem interested in the boisterous herd of children
her age playing in the street.
The transformation of Elena Mejías coincided with the arrival of Juan José Bernal, the
Nightingale, as he himself had nicknamed himself and as announced on a poster that he
pinned to the wall of his room. The pensioners were mostly students and employees of
some obscure branch of the public administration. Ladies and gentlemen of order, as her
mother used to say, who prided herself on not accepting anyone under her roof, only
people of merit, with a known occupation, good manners, sufficient solvency to pay the
month in advance and the willingness to comply the rules of the pension, more similar to
those of a seminar for priests than to those of a hotel. A widow has to take care of her
reputation and make herself respected, I don't want my business to become a nest of
bums and perverts, the mother often repeated, so that no one -much less Elena- could
forget it. One of the girl's tasks was to keep an eye on the guests and keep her mother
informed of any suspicious details. Those spy jobs had accentuated the incorporeal
condition of the girl, who vanished into the shadows of the rooms, existed in silence and
appeared suddenly, as if she had just returned from an invisible dimension. Mother and
daughter worked together in the multiple occupations of the pension, each one immersed
in its quiet routine, without the need to communicate.
They didn't really speak much and when they did, in their spare time during nap time,
it was about the clients. Sometimes Elena tried to decorate the gray lives of those
transitory men and women, who passed through the house without leaving memories,
attributing some extraordinary event to them, painting them with colors with the gift of
some clandestine love or some tragedy, but her mother had a sure instinct. to detect your
fantasies. In the same way, he discovered if his daughter was hiding information from him.
He had a relentless practical sense and a very clear notion of what was happening under
his roof, he knew exactly what everyone was doing at all hours of the day or night, how
much sugar was left in the pantry, who the phone was ringing for or where they had left.
scissors. She had been a cheerful and even pretty woman, her coarse dresses barely
contained the impatience of a still young body, but she had been busy with petty details for
so many years that her freshness of spirit and zest for life had dried up. However, when
Juan José Bernal arrived to request a room
rent, everything changed for her and also for Elena. The mother, seduced by the
Nightingale's pretentious modulation and the poster's suggestion of celebrity, went
against her own rules and accepted him into the boarding house, even though he
did not fit her image of the ideal client at all. Bernal said that he sang at night and
therefore had to rest during the day, that he had no occupation at the moment, so he
could not pay the month in advance and that he was very scrupulous with his eating
and hygiene habits, he was a vegetarian and he needed two showers a day.
Surprised, Elena saw her mother register the new guest in the book without
comment and lead him to the room, dragging his heavy suitcase with great difficulty,
while he carried the case with the guitar and the cardboard tube where he treasured
his poster. Concealing against the wall, the girl followed them up the stairs, noting
the intense expression of the new guest at the sight of the calico apron stuck to her
mother's sweat-damp buttocks. Entering the room, Elena turned on the switch and
the large blades of the ceiling fan began to turn with a hiss of rusty iron.
From that moment the routines of the house changed. There was more work, because
Bernal slept at the hours when the others had left for their chores, he used the
bathroom for hours, he consumed an overwhelming amount of rabbit food that had to
be cooked separately, he used the phone all the time and plugged in the iron to review
his gallant shirts, without the owner of the pension demanding extraordinary payments.
Elena returned from school with the afternoon sun, when the day languished under a
terrible white light, but at that hour he was still in his first dream. By order of his
mother, he took off his shoes, so as not to violate the artificial repose in which the
house seemed suspended. The girl realized that her mother changed day by day. The
signs were noticeable to her from the very beginning, long before the other inhabitants
of the boarding house began whispering behind her back.
First there was the smell, a persistent aroma of flowers, which emanated from
the woman and remained floating in the area of the rooms through which she
passed. Elena knew every corner of the house and her long spying habit allowed her
to discover the perfume bottle behind the rice packets and the canning jars in the pantry.
Then she noticed the dark pencil line on the eyelids, the touch of red on the lips, the
new underwear, the immediate smile when Bernal finally came down at sunset,
freshly bathed, his hair still damp, and sat in the kitchen. to devour their strange fakir
stews. His mother would sit in the front and he would tell her episodes from his life
as an artist, celebrating each of his own antics with a hearty laugh that rose from his
belly.
The first few weeks Elena felt hatred for that man who took up all the space in the
house and all the attention of her mother. He was repulsed by her glitter-oiled hair,
her varnished fingernails, her mania for picking her teeth with a toothpick, her
pedantry, and her impudence to be served. He wondered what his mother saw in
him, he was just a small-time adventurer, a slum singer no one had ever heard of,
perhaps a ruffian, as Miss Sofia, one of the oldest pensioners, had suggested in
whispers. But then, one hot Sunday afternoon, when there was nothing to do and the
hours seemed stopped between the walls of the house, Juan José Bernal appeared in
the patio with his guitar, settled on a bench under the fig tree and began to play. the
ropes. The sound attracted all the guests, who peeked out one by one, at first
somewhat shyly, not really understanding the cause of all the noise, but then they
enthusiastically pulled out the dining room chairs and settled around the Nightingale.
The man had a vulgar voice, but he was in tune and sang gracefully. I knew all the old
boleros and rancheras from the
Mexican repertoire and some guerrilla songs littered with profanity and
blasphemies, which made the women blush. For the first time, since the girl
could remember, there was a party atmosphere in the boarding house. When it
got dark they lit two paraffin lamps to hang from the trees and brought beers and
the bottle of rum reserved to cure colds. Elena served the glasses trembling, she
felt the spiteful words of those songs and the wailing of the guitar in every fiber of
her body, like a fever. His mother kept pace with one foot. Suddenly he got up, took
her hands and the two began to dance, immediately followed by the others, including
Miss Sofía, all fuss and nervous giggles. For a long time, Elena moved following the
cadence of Bernal's voice, pressed against her mother's body, inhaling her new
smell of flowers, completely blissful. Soon, however, she noticed that he was gently
rejecting her, separating her to continue alone. With her eyes closed and her head
thrown back, the woman billowed like a sheet drying in the breeze. Elena withdrew
and little by little the others also returned to their chairs, leaving the owner of the
pension alone in the center of the patio, lost in her dance.
From that night on, Elena saw Bernal with new eyes. She forgot that she
hated his glitter, her toothpick, and her arrogance, and when she saw him go by
or heard him speak, she remembered the songs from that impromptu party and felt
the burning on her skin and the confusion in her soul again, a fever she couldn't
put down. in words. She was watching him from afar, stealthily, and thus she was
discovering what she had not been able to perceive before: his shoulders, his wide
and strong neck, the sensual curve of his thick lips, his perfect teeth, the elegance
of his hands, long and fine. An unbearable desire came over her to get closer to
him, to bury her face in his brown chest, to listen to the vibration of the air in his
lungs and the noise of his heart, to inhale his smell, a smell that tasted dry and
penetrating, like tanned leather or tobacco. She imagined herself playing with his
hair, feeling the muscles of his back and legs, discovering the shape of his feet,
turned into smoke to go down his throat and fill him. But if the man raised his gaze
and met hers, Elena would run to hide in the most remote bush in the courtyard,
trembling. Bernal had taken over all her thoughts, the girl could no longer bear the
immobility of time away from him. At school she moved like in a nightmare, blind and
deaf to everything except the inner images, where she saw only him. What would
you be doing at that moment? Perhaps he was sleeping on his stomach on his bed
with the blinds drawn, his room dim, the hot air stirred by the fan's wings, a trail of
sweat down his spine, his face buried in the pillow. With the first ring of the dismissal
bell she would run into the house, praying that he hadn't woken yet and she would
get to wash up and put on a clean dress and sit and wait for him in the kitchen,
pretending to do her chores so her mother wouldn't. overwhelmed her with housework.
And then, when she heard him hissing out of the bathroom, she agonized with
impatience and fear, sure she would die of joy if he touched her or even spoke to
her, eager for it to happen, but at the same time ready to disappear into the furniture.
Because she couldn't live without him, but she couldn't resist his burning presence
either. She secretly followed him everywhere, served him in every detail, guessed his
wishes to offer him what he needed before he asked, but always moved like a
shadow, so as not to reveal his existence.
At night Elena could not sleep, because he was not at home. She would leave her
hammock and go out like a ghost to wander the first floor, gathering the courage to
finally sneak into Bernal's room. He closed the door behind him and opened the
blind a little, so that the reflection of the street could enter to illuminate the
ceremonies he had invented to seize the pieces of the soul of that man, who
they were impregnating their objects. In the mirror glass, black and shiny as a puddle
of mud, he looked at himself for a long time, because there he had looked at himself
and the traces of the two images could be confused in an embrace. She approached
the glass with her eyes wide open, seeing herself through his eyes, kissing her own
lips with a cold, hard kiss that she imagined was hot, like a man's mouth. She felt the
surface of the mirror against her chest and the tiny cherries on her breasts stood on
end, causing a dull ache that traveled down her body and settled in a precise point
between her legs. I searched for that pain over and over again. From the closet he took
a shirt and Bernal's boots and put them on. He took a few steps around the room very
carefully, so as not to make noise. Dressed like this, she rummaged through her
drawers, combed her hair with her comb, sucked on her toothbrush, licked her shaving
cream, caressed her dirty clothes. Then, without knowing why she was doing it, she
would take off her shirt, boots, and nightgown and lie naked on Bernal's bed, greedily
inhaling his scent, invoking his warmth to wrap herself in it. The whole body was
touched, starting with the strange shape of his skull, the translucent cartilages of his
ears, the sockets of his eyes, the cavity of his mouth, and so on down, drawing the
bones, the folds, the angles and the curves. of that insignificant totality that was herself,
wanting to be huge, heavy and dense as a whale. She imagined that she was filling up
with a viscous liquid, sweet as honey, which inflated and grew to the size of an
enormous doll, until it filled the entire bed, the entire room, the entire house with her
turgid body. Exhausted, she sometimes fell asleep for a few minutes, crying.
One Saturday morning Elena saw Bernal from the window approaching her mother
from behind, when she was leaning over the trough washing clothes. The man put his
hand on her waist and the woman did not move, as if the weight of that hand were
part of her body. From a distance, Elena perceived his possessive gesture, her mother's
surrender attitude, the intimacy of the two, that current that united them with a
formidable secret. The girl felt a drop of sweat bathing her entire body, she couldn't
breathe, her heart was a frightened bird between her ribs, her hands and feet itched,
the blood pushing to burst her fingers. From that day he began to spy on his mother.
One by one she discovered the evidence she was looking for, at first only glances,
a greeting that was too long, a knowing smile, the suspicion that their legs were under
the table and that they were inventing excuses to be alone. Finally one night, on her
way back from Bernal's room where she had performed her rites as a lover, she heard
a rumor of subterranean water coming from her mother's room and then she understood
that during all this time, while she believed that Bernal was earning his living with
nocturnal songs, the man had been on the other side of the corridor, and while she
kissed his memory in the mirror and breathed in the footprints of his steps on her
sheets, he was with his mother. With the skill learned in so many years of making
himself invisible, he walked through the closed door and saw them engaged in pleasure.
The fringed lampshade radiated a warm light, revealing the lovers on the bed. His
mother had been transformed into a round creature, ros. ada, moaning, opulent, a
billowing sea anemone, all tentacles and suckers, all mouth and hands and legs and
orifices, rolling and rolling attached to the large body of Bernal, who by contrast seemed
rigid, clumsy, jerky, a piece of wood shaken by an inexplicable wind. Until then the girl
had never seen a naked man and was surprised by the fundamental differences. Male
nature seemed brutal to her, and it took her a long time to get over her terror and force
herself to look. Soon, however, the fascination of the scene overcame her and she was
able to observe intently, to learn from her mother the gestures that had been achieved.
snatch away from Bernal, gestures more powerful than all her love, than all her prayers,
her dreams and her silent calls, than all her magical ceremonies to summon him to her
side. She was sure that those caresses and those whispers contained the key to the secret
and if she managed to seize them, Juan José Bernal would sleep with her in the hammock,
which every night hung from two hooks in the closet room.
Elena spent the next few days in a twilight state. He totally lost interest in his surroundings,
including Bernal himself, who came to occupy a reserve compartment in his mind, and was
submerged in a fantastic reality that completely replaced the world of the living. She kept
going through the routines out of habit, but her soul was absent from everything she did.
When her mother noticed her lack of appetite, she put it down to the approach of puberty,
despite the fact that Elena was clearly too young, and took time to sit down alone with her
and bring her up to date on the joke of being born. women. The girl listened in devious silence
to the spiel about biblical curses and menstrual blood, convinced that this would never happen
to her.
On Wednesday Elena felt hungry for the first time in almost a week. He went into the pantry
with a can opener and spoon and wolfed down the contents of three jars of peas, then
stripped the red wax dress off a Dutch cheese and ate it like an apple. Then she ran into the
patio and, doubled over, vomited a green concoction onto the geraniums. The pain in her belly
and the sour taste in her mouth brought her sense of reality back. That night she slept
peacefully, curled up in her hammock, sucking her finger as in the crib times. On Thursday she
woke up happy, helped her mother prepare coffee for the pensioners and then had breakfast
with her in the kitchen, before going to class. On the other hand, she came to school
complaining of strong stomach cramps and she writhed so much and asked permission to go
to the bathroom, that at mid-morning the teacher authorized her to return home.
Elena took a long detour to avoid the streets of the neighborhood and approached the house
from the back wall, which overlooked a ravine. He managed to climb the wall and jump into
the courtyard with less risk than expected. He had calculated that at that time his mother was
in the market, and since it was the day of the fresh fish, it would take a long time to return. The
only people in the house were Juan José Bernal and Miss Sofía, who had not gone to work
for a week because she had an arthritis attack.
Elena hid the books and shoes under some blankets and slipped into the house. She climbed
the stairs against the wall, holding her breath, until she heard the radio blaring in Miss Sofía's
room and she felt calmer. Bernal's door gave way immediately. It was dark inside and for a
moment he saw nothing, because he was coming from the morning glow on the street, but he
knew the room by heart, he had measured the space many times, he knew where each object
was, in what precise place the floor creaked. and how many steps from the door was the bed.
Still, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness and for the outlines of the furniture to
come into view. In a few moments he could also make out the man on the bed. He was not
face down, as he had imagined so many times, but on his back on the sheets, dressed only in
a pair of underpants, one arm outstretched and the other across his chest, a lock of hair over
his eyes. Elena felt that suddenly all the fear and impatience accumulated during those days
disappeared completely, leaving her clean, with the peace of mind of someone who knows
what to do. It seemed to him that he had experienced that moment many times; I know he said
that there was nothing to fear, it was just a somewhat different ceremony from the previous
ones. She slowly took off her school uniform, but she didn't dare to take off her cotton panties
as well. I know
approached the bed. He could see Bernal better now. She sat on the edge, a short distance
from the man's hand, trying not to let her weight mark another crease in the sheets, she
leaned in slowly, until her face was a few inches from his and she could feel the heat of his
breath. and the sweet smell of his body, and with infinite prudence she stretched out beside
him, carefully stretching out each leg so as not to wake him.
She waited, listening to the silence, until she decided to place her hand on his belly in an
almost imperceptible caress. That contact caused a suffocating wave in his body, he believed
that the noise of his heart would reverberate throughout the house and would wake the man.
He needed several minutes to regain consciousness and when he verified that he was not
moving, he relaxed the tension and supported his hand with the full weight of his arm, so
light in any case that it did not disturb Bernal's rest. Elena remembered the gestures she had
seen from her mother and while she inserted her fingers under the elastic of his underpants,
she searched for the man's mouth and kissed him as she had done so many times in front of
the mirror. Bernal groaned still in his sleep and wrapped his arm around the girl's waist, while
his other hand caught hers to guide her and his mouth opened to return the kiss, murmuring
the lover's name. Elena heard him call for his mother, but instead of pulling away she pressed
closer to him. Bernal took her by the waist and pulled her up, accommodating her on his
body at the same time that he began the first movements of love. Just then, feeling the
extreme fragility of that bird skeleton on his chest, a spark of awareness crossed the cottony
haze of sleep and the man opened his eyes. Elena felt his body tense up, she found herself
seized by the ribs and thrown back with such violence that she fell to the ground, but she stood
up and went back to him to hug him again. Bernal hit her in the face and jumped out of bed,
terrified who knows what old prohibitions and nightmares.
- Wicked, wicked girl! -scream. The door opened and Miss Sofia appeared on the threshold.
Elena spent the next seven years in a boarding school for nuns, three more in a
university in the capital, and then went to work in a bank. Meanwhile, his mother married her
mistress and between them they continued to manage the pension, until they had enough
savings to retire to a small country house, where they grew carnations and chrysanthemums
to sell in the city. The Nightingale put his poster as an artist in a gilt frame, but he never sang
at night shows again and nobody missed him. He never accompanied his wife to visit his
stepdaughter, nor did he ask about her, so as not to stir up the doubts in his own spirit, but
he thought of her often. The girl's image remained intact for him, the years did not touch her,
she continued to be the lustful and love-struck creature whom he rejected. In truth, as the
years passed, the memory of those light bones, of that child's hand on her belly, of that baby's
tongue in her mouth, grew until it became an obsession. When he embraced his wife's heavy
body, he had to concentrate on those visions, meticulously invoking Elena, to arouse the
increasingly diffuse impulse of pleasure. In adulthood she went to children's clothing stores
and bought cotton panties to delight in caressing and caressing herself. Later she would be
ashamed of those outrageous moments and would burn her panties or bury them deep in the
patio, in a futile attempt to forget them. He became fond of hanging around the schools and
the parks, to observe from afar the prepubescent girls, who returned to him for a few too brief
moments the abyss of that unforgettable Thursday.
Elena was twenty-seven years old when she went to visit her mother's house for the first
time, to introduce her to her boyfriend, an army captain who had been begging her for a century.
would marry him. On one of those cool November evenings the young men arrived, he
dressed as a civilian so as not to appear too arrogant in military regalia, and she laden with
gifts. Bernal had awaited this visit with the anxiety of an adolescent. She had looked at herself
tirelessly in the mirror, scrutinizing her own image, wondering if Elena would see the changes or if in
her mind the Nightingale had remained impervious to the wear and tear of time. She had prepared
for the encounter by choosing each word and imagining all the possible responses. The only thing
that did not occur to him was that instead of the creature of fire for whom he had lived tormented, a
harsh and timid woman would appear before his eyes. Bernal felt betrayed.
At dusk, when the euphoria of the arrival had passed and the mother and daughter had told
each other the latest news, they brought out some chairs to the patio to take advantage of the cool air.
The air was heavy with the smell of carnations. Bernal offered a drink of wine and Elena followed
him to find the glasses. For a few minutes they were alone, face to face in the narrow kitchen.
And then the man, who had waited so long for this opportunity, held the woman by the arm and told
her that it had all been a terrible mistake, that he was asleep that morning and didn't know what he
did, that he never wanted to throw her into the I wouldn't even call her that, to have compassion and
forgive him, let's see if that's how he managed to recover his sanity, because in all those years the
burning desire for her had harassed him relentlessly, burning his blood and corrupting his spirit. Elena
looked at him astonished and did not know what to answer. What wicked girl was he talking about?
For her, childhood was long behind her and the pain of that rejected first love was locked in some
sealed place of memory. He had no recollection of that distant Thursday.
CLARISA
Clarisa was born when there was still no electric light in the city, she saw on television
the first astronaut levitating on the surface of the moon and died of astonishment when
the Pope came to visit and he was met by homosexuals disguised as nuns. He had spent
his childhood among bushes of ferns and corridors lit by oil lamps. The days passed
slowly in those days. Clarisa never adapted to the shocks of today's times, it always
seemed to me that she was detained in the sepia-colored air of a portrait from another
century. I suppose she once had a virginal waist, a graceful carriage, and a medallion
profile, but when I met her she was already a somewhat bizarre old woman, with shoulders
raised like two soft humps and her noble head crowned with a sebaceous cyst, like a
pigeon's egg. , around which she wound her white hair. He had a mischievous and deep
look, capable of penetrating the most hidden evil and returning intact. In her many years
of existence she achieved fame as a saint and after her death many have her photograph
on a domestic altar, along with other venerable images, to ask her for help in minor
difficulties, despite the fact that her prestige as a miracle worker is not recognized by the
Vatican and surely it never will be, because the benefits granted by it are of a capricious
nature: it does not cure the blind like Saint Lucia or find a husband for single women like
Saint Anthony, but they say that it helps to bear the discomfort of drunkenness, the
stumbling blocks of conscription and the stalking of loneliness. His prodigies are humble
and improbable, but as necessary as the spectacular wonders of the cathedral saints.
I met her in my adolescence, when I worked as a servant in the house of La Señora,

a lady of the night, as Clarisa called those of that trade. Already then he was almost pure
spirit, always seemed on the verge of taking off the ground and flying out the window.
She had the hands of a healer and those who could not afford a doctor or were
disillusioned with traditional science waited their turn for her to relieve their pain or
console them for bad luck. My employer used to call her to put her hands on her back.
By the way, Clarisa delved into the soul of La Señora with the purpose of twisting her life
and leading her along the paths of God, paths that the other one had no greater urgency
to travel, because that decision would have ruined her business. Clarisa gave him the
healing heat of her palms for ten or fifteen minutes, depending on the intensity of the
pain, and then accepted a fruit juice as a reward for her services. Sitting face to face in
the kitchen, the two women chatted about the human and the divine, my landlady more
about the human and she more about the divine, without betraying tolerance and the rigor
of good manners. Then I changed jobs and lost sight of Clarisa until a couple of decades
later, when we met again and were able to re-establish friendship to this day, without
paying much attention to the various obstacles that stood in our way, including that of his
death, which came to sow a certain disorder in good communication.
Even in the times when old age prevented her from moving with the missionary enthusiasm
of yesteryear, Clarisa preserved her perseverance to help her neighbor, sometimes even
against the will of the beneficiaries, as was the case of the pimps on Calle República, who
They had to endure, immersed in the greatest mortification, the public harangues of that
good lady in her unalterable eagerness to redeem them. Clarisa parted with everything she
owned to give it to the needy, usually she only had the clothes she was wearing and
towards the end of her life it was difficult for her to find poor people poorer than her. Charity
became a two-way street and it was no longer known who was giving and who was
receiving.
He lived in a dilapidated three-story house, with some empty rooms and others rented
as storage to a liquor store, so that an acid drunken stench polluted the environment.
She did not move from that house, an inheritance from her parents, because it
reminded her of her ancestry past and because for more than forty years her husband
had been buried there while he was alive, in a room at the back of the patio. The man
was a judge in a distant province, a job he exercised with dignity until the birth of his second
son, when disappointment took away his interest in facing his fate and he took refuge like a
mole in the smelly tunnel of his room.
He came out very rarely, like a fleeting shadow, and only opened the door to get out
the bedpan and pick up the food that his wife left him every day. He communicated with
her by means of notes written in his perfect calligraphy and by knocking on the door, two
for yes and three for no. Through the walls of his room one could hear his asthmatic throat
clearing and some buccaneer's swear words to whom no one knew for sure who they
were addressed to.
"Poor man, I hope God calls him to His side as soon as possible and makes him sing in
a choir of angels," Clarisa sighed without surprise of irony; but her husband's timely
death was not one of the graces bestowed by Divine Providence, since he has outlived
her to this day, though he must be over a hundred by now, unless he is dead and the
coughing and cursing heard is only the echo of yesterday.
Clarisa married him because he was the first to ask her and her parents thought a judge
was the best possible match. She left the sober well-being of her father's home and
accommodated herself to her husband's greed and vulgarity without claiming a better
fortune. The only time she was heard to comment nostalgically about the refinements of
the past was about a grand piano she delighted in as a child. This is how we found out
about her love of music and much later, when she was already an old woman, a group of
friends gave her a modest piano. By then she had gone almost sixty years without seeing
a keyboard up close, but she sat on the stool and played a Chopin Nocturne from memory
without the slightest hesitation.
A couple of years after the wedding with the judge, an albino daughter was born, who
as soon as she began to walk accompanied her mother to church. The little girl was so
dazzled by the tinsel of the liturgy that she began to rip off the curtains to dress as a
bishop and soon the only game that interested her was imitating the gestures of the mass
and singing songs in a Latin of her invention. She was hopelessly retarded, only spoke
words in an unknown language, drooled incessantly, and suffered uncontrollable fits of
malice, during which she had to be tied up like a fairground animal to prevent her from
chewing on furniture and attacking people. With puberty he calmed down and helped his
mother with the housework. The second son came into the world with a sweet Asian face,
devoid of curiosity, and the only skill he managed to acquire was balancing on a bicycle,
but it didn't do him much good because his mother never dared to let him out of the house.
He spent his life pedaling in the courtyard on a bicycle without wheels fixed to a stand.
The abnormality of her children did not affect the solid optimism of Clarisa, who
considered them pure souls, immune to evil, and related to them only in terms of affection.
Her greatest concern was to preserve them uncontaminated by earthly sufferings, she
often wondered who would take care of them when she was gone.
The father, on the other hand, never spoke of them, he clung to the pretext of
retarded children to plunge into embarrassment, abandon his work, his friends and even
the fresh air and bury himself in his room, busy copying with the patience of a monk.
medieval newspapers in a notary notebook. Meanwhile his wife spent up to
last penny of her dowry and inheritance and then worked at all sorts of small trades to support the
family. Her own hardships did not distance her from the hardships of others and even in the most
difficult periods of her existence she did not postpone her labors of mercy.
Clarisa had an unlimited understanding of human weaknesses. One night, when she was
already an old woman with white hair, she was sewing in her room when she heard unusual
noises in the house. He got up to find out what it was about, but he couldn't get out, because at
the door he ran into a man who put a knife to his neck.
"Silence, whore, or I'll send you off in one fell swoop," he threatened.
-It's not here, son. The ladies of the night are across the street where they have the music. -Don't
mock, this is an assault. -As you say? Clarisa smiled incredulously. And what are you going to steal
from me? _Sit in that chair, I'm going to tie you up.
-No way, son, I can be your mother, don't disrespect me.
- Sit down! -Don't yell, because you're going to scare my husband, who is in poor health.
And by the way, put the knife away, you could hurt someone -said Clarisa.
"Listen, ma'am, I came to steal," the baffled assailant mumbled.
No, this is not a robbery. I'm not going to let you commit a sin. I'm going to give you some
money of my own free will. You're not taking it from me, I'm giving it to you, okay? He went to
his wallet and took out what was left for the rest of the week. I have no more. We are quite a poor
family, as you see. Come with me to the kitchen, I'm going to put the kettle on.
The man put the knife away and followed her with the bills in his hand. Clarisa made tea for both of
them, served the last cookies he had left, and invited him to sit in the living room.
-Where did you get the bizarre idea of robbing this poor old woman? The thief told her that he had
watched her for days, knew that she lived alone and thought that in that house there would be
something to take. This was the first assault, he said, he had four children, he was out of work and
he couldn't come home empty-handed again. She made him see that the risk was too great, not
only could they take him to prison, but he could be condemned to hell, although in truth she
doubted that God was going to punish him with such rigor, at most he would end up in purgatory,
as long as he repented and never did it again, of course. He offered to add him to the list of his
protégés and promised that he would not accuse him to the authorities. They said goodbye with a
couple of kisses on the cheeks. For the next ten years, until Clarisa's death, the man sent her a small
gift by post every Christmas.
Not all of Clarisa's relationships were of this kind, she also knew prestigious people, noble
ladies, wealthy merchants, bankers, and public figures, whom she visited seeking help for others,
without stopping to speculate how she would be received. One day he appeared at the office of
Deputy Diego Cienfuegos, known for his incendiary speeches and for being one of the few
incorruptible politicians in the country, which did not prevent him from being promoted to minister
and ending up in the history books as the intellectual father of a certain peace treaty. At that time
Clarisa was young and somewhat shy, but she already had the same tremendous determination
that characterized her in old age. He went to the deputy to ask him to use his influence to get a
modern refrigerator for the Teresian Mothers. The man looked at her stunned, not understanding
the reasons why he should help his ideological enemies.
"Because a hundred children have free lunch every day in the nuns' dining room, and almost
all of them are children of the communists and evangelicals who vote for you," replied Clarisa
meekly.
This is how a discreet friendship was born between the two that would cost the politician a lot
of sleeplessness and favors. With the same irrefutable logic, he obtained school scholarships
for atheist boys from the Jesuits, used clothing for the prostitutes in his neighborhood from the
Catholic Ladies Action, musical instruments for a Hebrew choir from the German Institute,
funds for the programs from the vineyard owners. of alcoholics.
Neither her husband buried in the mausoleum in her room, nor the strenuous hours of
daily work, prevented Clarisa from getting pregnant once more. The midwife warned
her that in all probability she would give birth to another abnormal one 'but she reassured her
with the argument that God maintains a certain balance in the universe, and just as he creates
some crooked things, he also creates other right ones, for every virtue there is a sin , for each
joy a misfortune, for each evil a good and thus, in the eternal turning of the wheel of life,
everything is compensated through the centuries. The pendulum swings back and forth with
inexorable precision, she said.
Clarisa spent the time of her pregnancy without haste and gave birth to a third child.
The birth took place at home, helped by the midwife and enlivened by the company of
the retarded creatures, harmless and smiling beings who spent hours entertained in their
games, one mumbling gibberish in his bishop's suit and the other pedaling to nowhere. on a
stationary bicycle. On this occasion the scales moved in the right direction to preserve the
harmony of Creation and a strong boy was born, with wise eyes and firm hands, which the
mother placed on her chest, grateful. Fourteen months later, Clarisa gave birth to another son
with the characteristics of the previous one.
"These will grow up healthy to help me take care of the first two," she decided, faithful to her
theory of compensations, and that's how it was, because the younger children turned out to be
straight as two reeds and well endowed for kindness.
Somehow Clarisa managed to support the four children without the help of her husband and
without losing her pride as a great lady by asking for charity for herself. Few knew of his
financial plight. With the same tenacity with which he spent sleepless nights making rag dolls,
bridal cakes to sell, he battled against the deterioration of his house, whose walls began to
sweat a greenish vapor, and he instilled in his younger children his principles of good manners.
humor and generosity with such splendid effect that in the following decades they were always
with her bearing the burden of their older brothers, until one day they were trapped in the
bathroom and a gas leak transported them peacefully to another world .
The arrival of the Pope took place when Clarisa was not yet eighty years old, although it was
not easy to calculate her exact age, because she increased it out of flirtation, nothing more
than to hear how well the eighty-five she was proclaiming kept up. He had plenty of spirit, but
his body failed him, it was difficult for him to walk, he became disoriented in the streets, he
had no appetite and ended up feeding on flowers and honey. His spirit began to loosen to the
same extent that his wings germinated, but the preparations for the papal visit restored his
enthusiasm for earthly adventures. He did not agree to watch the show on television, because
he felt a deep distrust of that device. I was convinced that even the astronaut on the moon was
a hoax filmed in a Hollywood studio, just as they deceived with those stories in which the
protagonists loved each other or died for a lie and a week later they reappeared with their same
faces, suffering other Destinations. Clarisa wanted to see the Pontiff with her own eyes, so that
they would not show her an actor with episcopal vestments on the screen, so I had to
accompany her to cheer him on as he passed through the streets. After a couple of hours
defending ourselves from the
crowd of believers and sellers of candles, printed T-shirts, polychrome and plastic
saints, we managed to catch a glimpse of the Holy Father, magnificent inside a portable glass
box, like a white porpoise in its aquarium. Clarisa fell to her knees, about to be crushed by the
fans and by the escort guards. At that moment, just when we had the Pope within a stone's throw,
a column of men dressed as nuns, their faces painted over, emerged from a side street, waving
banners in favor of abortion, divorce, sodomy and women's rights. to exercise the priesthood.
Clarisa rummaged through her bag with a trembling hand, found her glasses and put them on to
make sure it wasn't a hallucination.
- Let's go, daughter. I've seen too much already -she told me, pale. She was so upset that to
distract her I offered to buy her a hair from the Pope, but she didn't want it, because there was
no guarantee of its authenticity. The number of hair relics offered by the merchants was such
that it was enough to fill a couple of mattresses, according to a socialist newspaper.
-I am very old and I no longer understand the world, daughter. It's best to go home.
She arrived at her house exhausted, with the noise of bells and cheers still
reverberating in her temples. I went to the kitchen to prepare a soup for the judge and to
heat some water to give her an infusion of chamomile, to see if that would calm her down a bit.
Meanwhile, Clarisa, with an expression of great melancholy, put everything in order and served
the last plate of food for her husband. He put the tray in front of the closed door and knocked for
the first time in over forty years.
-How many times have I said not to bother me? the decrepit voice of the judge protested.
-Excuse me, dear, I just want to let you know that I'm going to die. -When? -On Friday. "Okay,"
and he didn't open the door. Clarisa called her children to inform them of her upcoming end
and then she lay down in her bed. He had a large, dark room, with heavy carved mahogany
furniture that never made it into antiques, decay having defeated them along the way. On the
chest of drawers was a glass urn with a surprisingly realistic wax Child Jesus, it looked like a
recently bathed baby.
-I would like you to stay with the little boy, so that you can take care of him, Eva.
-You don't plan to die, don't make me go through these scares. -You have to put it in the
shade, if the sun hits it it melts. It has lasted almost a century and it can last another if you
defend it from the weather.
I arranged her meringue hair on top of her head, I decorated her hairstyle with a ribbon and I sat
next to her, ready to accompany her in that trance, without knowing for sure what it was about,
because the moment lacked everything. sentimentality, as if it were not really agony, but a mild
cold.
-It would be very good if I confessed, don't you think, daughter? -But what sins can you have,
Clarisal? -Life is long and there is plenty of time for evil, with the favor of God.
-You will go straight to heaven, if heaven exists. -Of course it exists, but it is not so sure that
they will admit me. They are very strict there - he murmured. And after a long pause he added:
- Going over my faults, I see that there is a rather serious one...
I shuddered, fearing that that old woman with the halo of a saint would tell me that she had
intentionally eliminated her retarded children to facilitate divine justice, or that she did not believe
in God and that she had dedicated herself to doing good in this world just because in the The
balance had fallen to that fate, to compensate for the evil of others, an evil that in turn was
unimportant, since everything is part of the same infinite process. But nothing so dramatic, Clarisa
confessed to me. She turned to the window and told me blushing that she had refused to fulfill
her conjugal duties.
-What does that mean? -I asked for. -Well... I mean not to satisfy my husband's carnal desires, do
you understand? -No. -If one denies him his body and he falls into the temptation of seeking relief
with another woman, one has a moral responsibility.
-I see. The judge is fornication and the sin is yours. -Nerd. It seems to me that it would be
both, it would be necessary to consult it.
Does the husband have the same obligation with his wife? -Huh? -I mean that if you had had another
man, would the fault also be your husband's? -The things that occur to you, daughter! She looked at
me stunned. -Don't worry, if your worst sin is having stolen the body from the judge, I'm sure God will
take it as a joke.
I don't think God is in the mood for those things. -Doubting divine perfection is a great sin, Clarisa.
He looked so healthy that it was hard to imagine his next departure, but I guessed that Saints,
unlike mere mortals, have the power to die without fear and in full use of their faculties. Her
prestige was so solid that many claimed to have seen a circle of light around her head and to have
heard heavenly music in her presence, so I was not surprised, when I undressed her to put on her
nightgown, to find two inflamed lumps on her shoulders. , as if he was about to burst a pair of angel
wings.
The rumor of Clarisa's agony spread rapidly. The children and I had to attend to an endless
line of people who came to ask for his intervention in heaven for various favors or simply to say
goodbye. Many expected that at the last moment a significant prodigy would occur, such as the smell
of stale bottles that infected the environment would transform into camellia perfume or her body
would glow with rays of consolation. Among them appeared his friend, the bandit, who had not
changed his course and had become a true professional. He sat next to the dying woman's bed and
told her his adventures without a hint of regret.
-I do very well. Now I only go into the houses of the upper neighborhood. I steal from the rich and
that is not a sin. I have never had to use violence, I work cleanly, like a gentleman," he explained
with some pride.
-I will have to pray a lot for you, son. -Pray, granny, that can't hurt me.
The Lady also appeared compunged to say goodbye to her dear friend, bringing a crown of flowers
and some alfajor sweets to contribute to the wake. My former employer didn't recognize me, but I had
no trouble identifying her, because she hadn't changed that much, she looked pretty good, despite
her fatness, her wig, and her extravagant plastic shoes with gold stars. Unlike the thief, she came to
communicate to Clarisa that her old advice had fallen on fertile ground and now she was a decent
Christian.
"Tell it to San Pedro, so he can erase me from the black book," he asked.
-What a tremendous disappointment these good people will take if instead of going to heaven I
end up cooking myself in the pans of hell... -commented the dying woman, when I was finally able to
close the door so she could rest a bit.
-If that happens up there, no one will know it down here, Clarisa.
-Better that way. Since dawn on Friday, a crowd gathered in the street and with great difficulty their
children managed to prevent the overflow of believers willing to take any relic, from pieces of
wallpaper from the walls to the saint's scant clothing. Clarisa was visibly declining and for the first
time showed signs of taking her own death seriously. At about ten o'clock a blue car with Congress
plates stopped in front of the house. The driver helped an old man, who the crowd recognized
immediately, get out of the back seat. It was Don Diego Cienfuegos, who had become a hero after so
many decades of service in public life. Clarisa's children went out to
receive him and accompanied him on his painful climb to the second floor. Seeing him on the
threshold of the door, Clarisa cheered up, the blush returned to her cheeks and the sparkle in her
eyes.
"Please, get everyone out of the room and leave us alone," he blew into my ear.
Twenty minutes later the door opened and Don Diego Cienfuegos shuffled out, watery-eyed,
battered and crippled, but smiling. Clarisa's children, who were waiting for him in the corridor, took
him by the arms again to help him and then, seeing them together, I confirmed something that I had
already noticed before. These three men had the same bearing and profile, the same calm
confidence, the same wise eyes and steady hands.
I waited for them to go downstairs and went back to my friend. I went over to arrange the pillows
for her and saw that she too, like her visitor, was crying with some joy.
-Don Diego was his most serious sin, right? I whispered to him.
-That was not a sin, daughter, just a help to God to balance the scales of destiny.
And you see how it turned out very well, because for two retarded children I had another two to
take care of them.
That night Clarisa died without anguish. Cancer, the doctor diagnosed when he saw its wing
cocoons; of holiness, proclaimed the devotees crowded in the street with candles and flowers;
Astonished, I say, because I was with her when the Pope visited us.
TOAD MOUTH
Times were very hard in the south. Not in the south of this country, but of the world,
where the seasons are changed and winter does not occur at Christmas, as in
cultured nations, but in the middle of the year, as in barbarian regions. Stone, coirón
and ice, extensive plains that towards Tierra del Fuego unravel in a string of islands,
peaks of the snow-capped mountain range closing the horizon in the distance, silence
installed there since the birth of time and sometimes interrupted by the subterranean
sigh of the glaciers sliding slowly towards the sea. It is a rough nature, inhabited by
rude men. At the turn of the century there was nothing there for the English to take, but
they did get concessions to raise sheep. In a few years the animals multiplied in such
a way that from a distance they looked like clouds trapped at ground level, they ate all
the vegetation and trampled the last altars -U indigenous cultures. In that place,
Hermelinda made a living playing fantasy games.
In the middle of the moor stood, like an abandoned cake, the great house of
the Cattle Company, surrounded by an absurd lawn, defended against the abuses of
the weather by the steward's wife, who could not resign herself to living outside the
heart of the British Empire. and she continued to dress up to dine alone with her
husband, a phlegmatic gentleman steeped in the pride of obsolete traditions. The
creole peons lived in the barracks of the camp, separated from their employers by
fences of thorny bushes and wild roses, trying in vain to limit the immensity of the
pampas and to create for foreigners the illusion of a gentle English countryside.
Watched by management guards, tormented by the cold and without home-made

soup for months, the workers survived the misadventure, as helpless as the cattle
in their care. In the afternoons there was no shortage of someone who picked up
the guitar and then the landscape was filled with sentimental songs. The lack of
love was so great, despite the firestone placed by the cook in the meal to appease
the desires of the body and the urges of memory, that the laborers lay with the sheep
and even with a seal, if it came close to the coast and managed to hunt it down.
Those beasts have big breasts, like a mother's breasts, and by removing the
skin, while they are still alive, warm, throbbing, a man in great need can close
his eyes and imagine that he is embracing a mermaid. Despite these drawbacks, the
workers had more fun than their bosses, thanks to Hermelinda's illicit games.
She was the only young woman in the entire expanse of that land, apart from the
English lady, who only crossed the fence of the roses to kill hares with shotguns, and
on those occasions one could barely glimpse the veil of her hat in the middle of the a
dust cloud of hell and a clamor of retrievers. Hermelinda, on the other hand, was a
close and precise female, with a daring mix of blood in her veins and a very good
disposition to celebrate. She had chosen that job of consolation out of pure and simple
vocation, she liked almost all men in general and many in particular. Among them she
reigned like an empress bee. He loved in them the smell of work and desire, the hoarse
voice, the two-day beard, the vigorous body and at the same time so vulnerable in his
hands, the combative nature and the naive heart.
He knew the illusory strength and the extreme weakness of his clients, but he took
advantage of neither of these conditions, on the contrary, he pitied both. In her brave
nature there were traces of maternal tenderness and often the night found her sewing
patches on a shirt, cooking a chicken for some sick worker or writing love letters to
remote girlfriends. He made his fortune on a mattress stuffed with raw wool, under a
tin roof with holes in it, which produced music from
flutes and oboes when the wind blew through it. He had firm flesh and spotless
skin, he laughed heartily, and he had guts to spare, much more than a terrified
sheep or a poor skinless seal could offer. In each hug, no matter how brief, she
revealed herself as an enthusiastic and mischievous friend. The fame of her solid
horseman's legs and her breasts invulnerable to use had traveled six hundred
kilometers of wild province and her lovers traveled far to spend time in her
company. On Fridays they came galloping wildly from ends so far apart that the
beasts, covered in foam, fell fainting. English patrons forbade the consumption of
alcohol, but Hermelinda managed to distill a clandestine brandy that improved
the mood and ruined the liver of her guests, and also served to light their lamps at
fun time. The betting began after the third round of liquor, when it was impossible
to focus your eyes or sharpen your mind.
Hermelinda had figured out a way to make sure profits without cheating.
Apart from cards and dice, the men had various games and the only prize was
always their person. The losers gave her their money and the winners gave it
to her, but they got the right to enjoy a very brief time in her company, without
subterfuges or preliminaries, not because she lacked good will, but because she
had no time to give. to all a more careful attention. The participants in the Blind
Man's Chicken took off their pants, but kept their vests, hats and boots lined with
lambskin, to defend themselves from the Antarctic cold that hissed between the
planks. She blindfolded them and the chase began. Sometimes such an uproar
would be formed that laughter and panting crossed the night beyond the roses
and reached the ears of the English, who remained impassive, pretending that it
was just the whim of the wind in the pampas, while they continued to drink slowly.
his last cup of Ceylon tea before going to bed. The first one to lay a hand on
Hermelinda would cackle exultantly and bless her good luck, while he imprisoned
her in his arms. The Swing was another of the games. The woman sat on a board
hung from the ceiling by two ropes. Braving the urgent gazes of the men, she
flexed her legs and everyone could see that she was wearing nothing under her
yellow petticoats. The players lined up had only one chance to ram her, and
whoever succeeded found himself caught between the beauty's thighs, in a flurry
of petticoats, swung, rocked to the bone, and finally lifted to heaven. But very few
succeeded, and most rolled on the ground to the laughter of others.
In El Sapo's game, a man could lose his month's pay in fifteen minutes.
Hermelinda would draw a chalk line on the ground and, four paces away, would
trace a wide circle, within which she would lie down, with her knees apart, her
legs golden in the light of the brandy lamps, and then the dark center of her body
would appear. , open like a fruit, like a happy toad's mouth, while the air in the
room became thick and hot. Players stood behind the chalk mark and shot for the
target. Some were expert marksmen, with such sure-handedness that they could
stop a terrified animal in mid-run by throwing two stone bolas attached to it
between its legs, but Hermelinda had an imperceptible way of slipping away from
the body, of slipping away so that at the last moment the coin lost its way. The
ones that landed inside the chalk circle belonged to the woman. If any entered the
gate, she would grant its owner the sultan's treasure, two hours behind the curtain
alone with her, in complete joy, to seek solace for all past hardships and dream of
the pleasures of paradise.
Those who had lived those two precious hours said that Hermelinda knew ancient
love secrets and was capable of leading a man to the threshold of his own death and
bringing him back transformed into a sage.
Until the day that Pablo, the Asturian, appeared, very few had won that prodigious
couple of hours, although several had enjoyed something similar, but not for a few cents,
but for half their salary. By then she had amassed a small fortune, but the idea of retiring
to a more conventional life hadn't occurred to her yet, she really enjoyed her job very
much and was proud of the happy sparks she could offer the peons. Pablo was a skinny
man, with chicken bones and infant hands, whose physical appearance contradicted the
tremendous tenacity of his temperament. Next to the opulent and jovial Hermelinda, he
looked like a sulking wuss, but those who saw him arrive and thought they could have a
laugh at his expense were in for an unpleasant surprise. The little stranger reacted like a
viper at the first provocation, ready to fight whoever got ahead of him, but the brawl was
exhausted before it began, because Hermelinda's first rule was that under her roof there
were no fights. Once his dignity was established, Pablo settled down. He had a determined
and somewhat mournful expression, spoke little, and when he did, his Spanish accent
was evident. He had left his homeland escaping from the police and lived by smuggling
through the Andean gorges. Until then he had been a sullen, quarrelsome hermit, making
fun of the weather, the sheep, and the English. He didn't belong anywhere and he didn't
recognize loves or duties, but he wasn't so young anymore and loneliness was settling in
his bones. Sometimes he would wake up at dawn on the frozen ground, wrapped in his
black Castilian blanket and with his saddle for a pillow, feeling that his whole body ached.
It wasn't a pain from numb muscles, but from accumulated sadness and abandonment.
He was sick of wandering around like a wolf, but he wasn't cut out for domestic
meekness either. He came to those lands because he heard a rumor that at the end of
the world there was a woman capable of twisting the direction of the wind, and he
wanted to see her with his own eyes. The enormous distance and the risks of the road
could not make him give up and when he finally found himself in the cellar and had
Hermelinda within arm's reach, he saw that she was made of the same strong metal and
decided that after such a long journey it wasn't worth going on living without her. He
settled in a corner of the room to watch her carefully and calculate his chances.
The Asturian had guts of steel and was able to drink several glasses of Hermelinda's
liqueur without watering his eyes. He did not agree to take off his clothes for La Ronda
de San Miguel, for the Mandandirun-dirun-dán or for other competitions that seemed
downright childish to him, but at the end of the night, when the climax of the Toad arrived,
he shook off the aftertaste of the alcohol and joined the chorus of men around the chalk
circle. Hermelinda seemed to him beautiful and wild like a lioness of the mountains. He
felt his hunting instinct kicking in, and the vague ache of helplessness that had racked
his bones throughout the journey turned into joyful anticipation. He saw the booted feet,
the woven stockings held in elastic bands below the knees, the long bones and taut
muscles of those golden legs between the ruffles of yellow petticoats, and he knew he
had only one chance to win her. He took a position, planting his feet on the ground and
swaying his trunk until he found the very axis of his existence, and with a dagger's glare
he frozen the woman in place and forced her to give up her contortionist tricks. Or maybe
things didn't happen that way, but she was the one who chose him among the others to
entertain him with the gift of his company. Pablo narrowed his eyes, exhaled all the air
from his chest and after a few seconds of absolute concentration,
tossed the coin. They all saw her make a perfect arc and go cleanly into the right
place. A round of applause and envious whistles celebrated the feat. Impassive, the
smuggler adjusted his belt, took three long steps forward, took the woman's hand and
pulled her to her feet, ready to prove to her in just two hours that she couldn't do without
him either. He came out almost dragging her and the others stayed looking at their
watches and drinking, until the prize time passed, but neither Hermelinda nor the
foreigner appeared. Three hours passed, four, all night, dawn came and the management
bells rang for work, without the door being opened.
At noon the lovers left the room. Pablo didn't exchange a glance with anyone, he
went to saddle his horse, another for Hermelinda and a mule to carry the luggage.
The woman wore pants and a travel jacket and had a canvas bag full of coins tied
to her waist. There was a new look in her eyes and a satisfied wobble to her
memorable behind. Both of them arranged their belongings calmly on the backs of
the animals, got on the horses and began to walk. Hermelinda waved a vague
farewell to her devastated admirers and followed Pablo, the Asturian, across the
bare plains without looking back. He never came back.
Such was the consternation caused by Hermelinda's departure that to amuse its
workers the Cattle Company installed swings, bought darts and arrows for target
shooting, and ordered an enormous painted earthenware toad with its mouth open to
be brought from London so that the pawns sharpen their aim by throwing coins; but in
the face of general indifference, these toys ended up decorating the management
terrace, where the English still use them to combat tedium at sunset.
THE GOLD OF TOMAS VARGAS
Before the huge fight for progress began, those who had some savings would bury them,
it was the only known way to save money, but later people took confidence in banks.
When the road was made and it was easier to get to the city by bus, they exchanged their
gold and silver coins for wallpaper and put them in safes, as if they were treasures. Tomás
Vargas laughed at them, because he never believed in that system. Time proved him right
and when the government of the Benefactor ended - which lasted about thirty years,
according to what they say - the tickets were worthless and many ended up stuck as
decorations on the walls, as an infamous reminder of the candor of their owners. While
everyone else wrote letters to the new President and to the newspapers to complain about
the collective fraud of the new currencies, Tomás Vargas had his gold morocotas in a safe
burial, although that did not attenuate his miser and beggar habits. He was a man without
decency, he borrowed money with no intention of paying it back, and he kept his children
hungry and his wife in rags, while he wore guama hair hats and smoked gentleman's cigars.
She didn't even pay school fees, her six legitimate children were educated for free because
Teacher Inés decided that as long as she was in her right mind and with the strength to
work, no child in the town would be left without knowing how to read. Age did not take away
his quarrelsome, drinker and womanizer.
It was a great honor for him to be the most macho in the region, as he would proclaim in
the square every time drunkenness made him lose his mind and announce at the top of his
lungs the names of the girls he had seduced and the bastards who carried his blood. If
they were to believe him, he had about three hundred because in each outburst he gave
different names. The policemen took him away several times and the Lieutenant himself
smacked him on the buttocks a few times to see if his character would regenerate, but that
did not produce any more results than the priest's admonitions. In truth, he only respected
Riad Halabí, the owner of the store, which is why the neighbors turned to him when they
suspected that he had gone too far with dissipation and was beating up his wife or children.
On those occasions, the Arab would leave the counter in such a hurry that he did not
remember to close the store, and he would show up, suffocated with self-righteous disgust,
to bring order to the Vargas ranch. He didn't need to say much, it was enough for the old
man to see him appear to calm down. Riad Halabí was the only one capable of embarrassing
that scoundrel.
Antonia Sierra, Vargas's wife, was twenty-six years his junior. When she reached her
forties she was already very worn out, she had almost no healthy teeth left in her mouth
and her seasoned mulatto body had been deformed by work, childbirth and abortions;
yet she still retained the traces of her past arrogance, a way of walking with her head
held high and her waist bent, a hint of old beauty, a tremendous pride that stopped dead
in her tracks any attempt to pity her.
She barely had enough hours to complete her day, because in addition to taking care of
her children and taking care of the garden and the chickens, she earned a few pesos
cooking lunch for the police officers, washing other people's clothes, and cleaning the
school. Sometimes her body was covered with blue bruises and although no one asked, all
of Agua Santa knew about the beatings inflicted by her husband. Only Riad Halabí and
Maestra Inés dared to give her discreet gifts, looking for excuses not to offend her, some
clothes, food, notebooks and vitamins for their children.
Antonia Sierra had to endure many humiliations from her husband, including having a
concubine imposed on her in her own home.
Concha Díaz arrived in Agua Santa aboard one of the trucks of the Compañía de
Petróleos, as disconsolate and lamentable as a specter. The driver was sorry to see her
barefoot on the road, with her strapped to her back and her pregnant woman's belly. When
crossing the village, the trucks stopped at the warehouse, so Riad Halabí was the first to
find out about the matter. He saw her appear at his door and from the way she dropped
her bundle in front of the counter he immediately realized that she wasn't passing through,
that girl had come to stay. She was very young, dark-haired and short, with a compact
mop of curly, sun-bleached hair that looked as if a comb hadn't been in it for a long time.
As she always did with visitors, Riad Halabí offered Concha a chair and a pineapple soda
and prepared to listen to the recount of her adventures or misfortunes, but the girl spoke
little, she limited herself to blowing her nose with her fingers, her eyes fixed on the ground,
tears falling unhurriedly down her cheeks and a string of reproaches sprouting between her
teeth. Finally the Arab managed to understand that he wanted to see Tomás Vargas and he
sent for him at the tavern. She waited for him at the door and as soon as he was in front of
him she took him by the arm and faced him with the stranger, without giving him time to
recover from his fright.
"The young woman says that the baby is yours," said Riad Halabi in that soft tone he
used when he was outraged.
-That cannot be proven, Turk. You always know who the mother is, but there's never
any certainty about the father,” replied the other, confused, but with enough courage
to give a mischievous wink that no one appreciated.
This time the woman began to cry heartily, muttering that she would not have traveled so
far if she did not know who the father was. Riad Halabí told Vargas that if he wasn't
ashamed, he was old enough to be the girl's grandfather, and if he thought that the people
would show up for their sins again, he was wrong, what had he imagined, but when the
young woman's crying increased, she added what everyone knew she would say.
"Okay girl, calm down. You can stay in my house for a while, at least until the baby is
born.
Concha Díaz began to sob more loudly and stated that she would not live anywhere,
only with Tomás Vargas, because that was why she had come. The air stopped in the
warehouse, there was a very long silence, the only sounds were the ceiling fans and the
woman's makeup, without anyone daring to tell her that the old man was married and had
six children. Finally, Vargas took the traveler's bundle and helped her stand up.
-Very well, Conchita, if that's what you want, there's no more to talk about. We're going to
my house right now -he said.
That is how Antonia Sierra returned from work to find another woman resting in her hammock
and for the first time her pride was not enough to hide her feelings. Their insults rolled down
the main street and the echo reached the square and entered all the houses, announcing
that Concha Díaz was a filthy rat and that Antonia Sierra would make her life miserable until
she returned her to the stream from which she should never have left, that if she thought her
children were going to live under the same roof with a ragtag she would be in for a surprise,
because she was no yokel, and her husband had better be careful, because she had put up
with a lot of suffering and disappointment, all in the name of of her children, poor innocents,
but that was enough, now everyone was going to see who Antonia Sierra was. The tantrum
lasted a week, after which the screams turned into a continuous murmur and she lost the
last vestige of her beauty, she no longer had the way to walk, she dragged herself like a
beaten dog. The neighbors tried to explain to her that all this mess was not Concha's fault,
but Vargas's, but she was not willing to listen to advice from
temperance or justice.
Life on that family's ranch had never been pleasant, but with the arrival of the concubine it became
relentless torment. Antonia spent the nights curled up in her children's bed, spitting curses, while her
husband snoring next to her, hugging the girl. As soon as the sun came up Antonia had to get up,
prepare the coffee and knead the arepas, send the children to school, take care of the garden, cook
for the police, wash and iron. She dealt with all these tasks like an automaton, while a rosary of
bitterness distilled from her soul. Since she refused to give her husband food, Concha took it upon
herself to do it when the other went out, so as not to run into her at the kitchen stove. Antonia Sierra's
hatred was so great that some in the town believed that she would end up killing her rival and went to
ask Riad Halabí and Maestra Inés to intervene before it was too late.
However, things did not happen that way. After two months, Concha's belly looked like a pumpkin,
her legs had swollen so much that her veins were about to burst, and she cried all the time because
she felt lonely and scared. Tomás Vargas got tired of so many tears and decided to go home just to
sleep.
It was no longer necessary for the women to take turns cooking, Concha lost the last incentive to
get dressed and remained stretched out in the hammock looking at the ceiling, unable to even
sneak a coffee. Antonia ignored her the whole first day, but at night she sent her a bowl of soup and a
glass of hot milk with one of the children, so they wouldn't say that she let no one starve under her roof.
The routine was repeated and after a few days Concha got up to eat with the others. Antonia pretended
not to see her, but at least she stopped throwing insults into the air every time the other passed by.
Little by little pity overcame her. When he saw that the girl was getting thinner every day, a poor
scarecrow with a huge belly and deep circles under his eyes, he began to kill his chickens one by one
to give him broth, and as soon as he ran out of birds he did what he had never done before , he went
to ask Riad Halabí for help.
"I've had six children and several failed births, but I've never seen anyone get so sick from
pregnancy," she explained blushing. He's skinny, Turk, he can't swallow his food and he's already
throwing it up. Not that I care, I have nothing to do with it, but what am I going to tell his mother if she
dies on me? I don't want them to ask me to account later.
Riad Halabí took the patient in his truck to the hospital and Antonia accompanied them.
They returned with a bag of pills of different colors and a new dress for Concha, because hers no
longer fell below her waist. The misfortune of the other woman forced Antonia Sierra to relive
pieces of her youth, her first pregnancy and the same violence that she endured. He wished, despite
himself, that Concha Díaz's future was not as dire as his own. He no longer felt anger at her, but a
quiet compassion, and he began to treat her like a wayward daughter, with a brusque authority that
barely concealed his tenderness. The young woman was terrified to see the pernicious transformations
in her body, that deformity that increased without control, that shame of urinating little by little and
walking like a goose, that uncontrollable repulsion and that desire to die. Some days she would wake
up very sick and couldn't get out of bed, so Antonia would take turns taking care of the children while
she left to do her job in a hurry, to return early to attend to her; but on other occasions Concha would
wake up more spirited and when Antonia returned exhausted, she would find dinner ready and the
house clean. The girl served him a coffee and stood by his side, waiting for him to drink it, with the liquid
look of a grateful animal.
The child was born in the city hospital, because he did not want to come into the world and they had
to open Concha Díaz to get it out. Antonia stayed with her for eight days, during which
Maestra Inés took care of her children. The two women returned in the truck from the
store and all of Agua Santa came out to welcome them. The mother came smiling, while
Antonia exhibited the newborn with a grandma's cheer, announcing that it would be
baptized Riad Vargas Díaz, in fair tribute to the Turk, because without his help the mother
would not have arrived on time at the maternity hospital and it was he who he took care
of the expenses when the father turned a deaf ear and pretended to be more drunk than
usual so as not to dig up his gold.
Within two weeks, Tomás Vargas wanted to demand that Concha Díaz return to her
hammock, despite the fact that the woman still had a fresh seam and a war bandage on
her belly, but Antonia Sierra stood in front of him with her arms on her hips, determined
for the first time in her existence to prevent the old man from doing according to his
whim. Her husband started to remove his belt to give her the usual strapping, but she
didn't let him finish the gesture and she jumped on him with such ferocity that the man
backed away, surprised. That hesitation lost him, because she knew then who was the
strongest. Meanwhile, Concha Díaz had left her son in a corner and was waving a heavy
clay pot with the obvious intention of smashing it over his head. The man realized his
handicap and left the ranch hurling profanities.
All of Agua Santa knew what had happened because he himself told the girls in the
brothel, who also said that Vargas no longer worked and that all his boasts about being
a stud were pure braggadocio and had no foundation.
From that incident things changed. Concha Díaz recovered quickly and while Antonia
Sierra went to work, she was left in charge of the children and the chores in the garden
and around the house. Tomás Vargas swallowed his discomfort and humbly returned
to his hammock, where he had no company. He soothed his spite by mistreating his
children and commenting in the tavern that women, like mules, only understand by
beatings, but at home he did not try to punish them again. In drunken binges he shouted
to the four winds the advantages of bigamy and the priest had to spend several Sundays
refuting him from the pulpit, so that the idea would not catch on and so many years of
preaching the Christian virtue of monogamy would go to hell.
In Agua Santa it was possible to tolerate a man mistreating his family, being lazy, a
rowdy, and not repaying the money lent, but gambling debts were sacred. In cockfights
the bills were placed neatly folded between the fingers, where everyone could see them,
and in dominoes, dice or cards, they were placed on the table to the player's left.
Sometimes the truckers from the Oil Company would stop for a few rounds of poker and
although they would not show their money, before leaving they would pay up to the last
penny. On Saturdays the guards from the Santa María Prison would come to visit the
brothel and gamble in the tavern for their week's pay. Not even they -who were much
more bandits than the prisoners in their charge- dared to play if they couldn't pay. No one
violated that rule.
Tomás Vargas did not gamble, but he liked to watch the gadores, he could spend
hours looking at dominoes, he was the first to settle in cockfights and he followed the
lottery numbers that were announced on the radio, although he never bought one.
He was defended from that temptation by the size of his greed. However, when the iron
complicity of Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz definitively diminished his manly impetus,
he turned to the game. At first he gambled a few paltry tips and only the poorest drunkards
would agree to sit with him, but he had better luck with cards than with his women and soon
he got the termite for easy money and began to rot to the very core of his life. petty nature.
Hoping to get rich in a single stroke of fortune and recover in the process - through
the illusory projection of that triumph - his humiliated prestige as a pimp, began to
increase the risks. Soon the bravest players were measured against him and the others
made a circle to follow the alternatives of each match. Tomás Vargas did not put the bills
flat on the table, as was the tradition, but he paid when he lost.
In her house, poverty worsened and Concha also went to work. The children were
left alone and Teacher Inés had to feed them so they wouldn't go around town learning to
beg.
Things got complicated for Tomás Vargas when he accepted the lieutenant's challenge and
after six hours of playing he won two hundred pesos. The officer confiscated the salary of
his subordinates to pay for the defeat. He was a well-built dark man, with a walrus mustache
and his coat always open so that the girls could appreciate his hairy chest and collection of
gold chains. Nobody esteemed him in Agua Santa, because he was a man of unpredictable
character and he claimed the authority to invent laws according to his whim and convenience.
Before his arrival, the jail was only a couple of rooms to spend the night after some fight -
there were never any serious crimes in Agua Santa and the only criminals were the prisoners
on their way to the Santa María Prison - but Lieutenant he made sure that no one passed
through the checkpoint without taking a good beating. Thanks to him people became afraid
of the law. He was indignant at the loss of the two hundred pesos, but he handed over the
money without question and even with a certain elegant detachment, because not even he,
with all the weight of his power, would have gotten up from the table without paying.
Tomás Vargas spent two days bragging about his triumph, until the Lieutenant told him
that he was waiting for him on Saturday for the rematch. This time the bet would be a
thousand pesos, he announced in such a peremptory tone that the other remembered the
blows he had received on the behind and did not dare to refuse. On Saturday afternoon the
tavern was packed with people. In the crowd and the heat, the air ran out and the table had
to be moved out into the street so that everyone could witness the game. Never had so
much money been wagered on Agua Santa and to ensure the cleanliness of the procedure
they appointed Riad Halabí. He began by demanding that the public stay two steps away, to
prevent any trap, and that the Lieutenant and the other policemen leave their weapons at the
checkpoint.
"Before starting, both players must put their money on the table," said the referee.
"My word is enough, Turk," replied the Lieutenant. "In that case, my word is enough too,"
added Tomás Vargas.
How will they pay if they lose? Riad Halabí wanted to know. -I have a house in the capital, if I
lose Vargas will have the titles tomorrow.
-It's okay. And you? -I pay with the gold that I have buried. The game was the most
exciting thing to happen in the town in many years. All of Agua Santa, even the elderly
and children gathered in the street. The only absentees were Antonia Sierra and Concha
Díaz. Neither the Lieutenant nor Tomás Vargas inspired any sympathy, so it didn't matter
who won; the fun consisted in guessing the anxieties of the two players and of those who
had bet on one or the other. Tomas Vargas was benefited by the fact that until then he had
been lucky at cards, but the Lieutenant had the advantage of his cold blood and his reputation
as a thug.
At seven in the evening the game ended and, in accordance with the established rules,
Riad Halabí declared the Lieutenant the winner. In victory, the policeman maintained the
same calm that he showed the previous week in defeat, not a mocking smile, not an
excessive word, he simply remained sitting in his chair picking his teeth with the nail of
his little finger.
"Well, Vargas, the time has come to unearth your treasure," he said, when the shouting of the
onlookers had died down.
Tomás Vargas's skin had turned ashen, his shirt was soaked with sweat and it seemed that
the air was not entering his body, it was stuck in his mouth. Twice he tried to stand up and
his knees gave out. Riad Halabí had to support him. At last he gathered the strength to start
walking towards the highway, followed by the Lieutenant, the policemen, the Arab, Maestra Inés,
and behind him the whole town in a noisy procession. They walked a couple of miles and then
Vargas turned right, into the tumult of gluttonous vegetation that surrounded Agua Santa. There
was no path, but he made his way without much hesitation through the gigantic trees and ferns,
until he came to the edge of a ravine barely visible, for the jungle was an impenetrable screen.
There the crowd stopped, while he went down with the Lieutenant. It was humid and stifling hot,
despite the fact that it was just before sunset. Tomás Vargas signaled for them to leave him
alone, got on all fours and, crawling, disappeared under some philodendrons with large fleshy
leaves.
A long minute passed before his scream was heard. The Lieutenant plunged into the foliage,
grabbed him by the ankles, and yanked him out.
-What happens! -It's not, it's not! - How come it's not here! -I swear, Lieutenant, I don't know
anything, they stole it, they stole my treasure! -And she began to cry like a widow, so desperate
that she didn't even notice the kicks that the Lieutenant gave her.
-Dumbass! You will pay me! By your mother you are going to pay me! Riad Halabí threw
himself down the ravine and took it from his hands before he turned it into a dungeon.
He managed to convince the Lieutenant to calm down, because hitting them would not solve the
matter, and then he helped the old man up. Tomás Vargas's skeleton was crushed by the horror
of what had happened, he was choking with sobs and hesitating and fainting so much that the
Arab had to carry him almost in his arms all the way back, until he finally deposited him in his
ranch. At the door were Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz sitting on two straw chairs, drinking
coffee and watching night fall. They gave no sign of dismay upon learning what had happened
and continued to sip their coffee, unfazed.
Tomás Vargas had a fever for more than a week, delirious with gold berries and marked cards,
but he had a firm nature and instead of dying of grief, as everyone supposed, he recovered his
health. When he was able to get up, he did not dare to go out for several days, but finally his
love of partying got the better of his prudence, he took his guama hair hat and, still trembling
and scared, went to the tavern. That night he did not return and two days later someone brought
the news that he was collapsed in the same ravine where he had hidden his treasure. They
found him cut open with machetes, like a cow, just as everyone knew his days would end,
sooner or later.
Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz buried him without great signs of grief and with no other
entourage than Riad Halabí and Maestra Inés, who went to accompany them and not to pay
posthumous homage to whom they had despised in life. The two women continued to live
together, willing to help each other in raising their children and in the vicissitudes of each day.
Shortly after the funeral they bought chickens, rabbits and pigs, went by bus to the city and
returned with clothes for the whole family.
That year they fixed up the ranch with new boards, added two rooms, painted it blue, and later
installed a gas stove, where they started a food industry to sell at home. Every noon they left with
all the children to distribute their food at the checkpoint, the school, the post office, and if there
were any leftover portions they left them on the store counter, so that Riad Halabí could offer
them to the truckers. And so
they came out of misery and began on the path of prosperity.

YES YOU WILL TOUCH MY HEART
Amadeo Peralta grew up in his father's gang and became a thug, like all the men in his
family. His father was of the opinion that studies are for fags, books are not required to
succeed in life, but balls and cunning, he said, that's why he trained his children in rudeness.
Over time, however, he realized that the world was changing very quickly and that his
businesses needed to be consolidated on more stable bases. The era of casual looting had
been replaced by corruption and underhanded dispossession, it was time to manage wealth
with modern criteria and improve its image. He gathered his children together and set them
the task of making friends with influential people and learning about legal matters, so that
they could continue to prosper without the risk of impunity failing them. He also entrusted
them to look for brides among the oldest surnames in the region, to see if they could wash
the name of the Peraltas from so much splash of mud and blood. By then Amadeo had
turned thirty-two and had a deep-rooted habit of seducing girls and then abandoning them,
so he didn't like the idea of marriage at all, but he didn't dare disobey his father. He began
courting the daughter of a landowner whose family had lived in the same place for six
generations. Despite the suitor's murky fame, she accepted him, because she was very
unattractive and was afraid of staying single.
The two then began one of those boring provincial courtships. Uncomfortable in his white
linen suit and his polished boots, Amadeo visited her every day under the watchful eye of
his future mother-in-law or some aunt, and while the young lady served coffee and guava
cakes, he watched the clock, calculating the opportune moment. to say goodbye
A few weeks before the wedding, Amadeo Peralta had to make a business trip to the
province. Thus he arrived at Agua Santa, one of those places where no one stays and
whose name travelers rarely remember. He was passing through a narrow street, at siesta
time, cursing the heat and that sweet smell of mango jam that overwhelmed the air, when
he heard a crystalline sound like water slipping between stones, coming from a modest
house, with the peeling paint from the sun and rain, like almost all around there. Through
the grating he could see a hallway with dark tiles and whitewashed walls, a patio at the
end, and beyond, the surprising vision of a girl sitting cross-legged on the ground, holding
a blond wooden psaltery on her knees. He stayed for a while watching her.
"Come, child," he finally called her. She lifted her face and despite the distance he
made out the startled eyes and the uncertain smile on a still childish face. Come with me,"
he ordered, implored Amadeo with a dry voice.
she hesitated. The last notes were suspended in the air of the patio like a question.
Peralta called her again, she stood up and approached him, he put his arm between the
bars of the gate, closed the bolt, opened the door and took her hand, while he recited his
entire gallant repertoire, swearing to her that he had seen her in a dream, that he had
searched for her all his life, that he could not let her go and that she was the woman
destined for him, all of which he could have omitted, because the girl was simple in spirit
and did not understand the meaning of it. his words, though perhaps she was seduced by
the tone of his voice. Hortensia had just turned fifteen and her body was ready for the first
hug, although she did not know it or could give a name to those concerns and tremors. It
was so easy for him to take her to his car and lead her to an open field, that an hour later
he had completely forgotten her. Nor could he remember her when a week later she
suddenly appeared at his house, a hundred and forty
miles away, dressed in a yellow cotton apron and canvas espadrilles, with her psaltery
under her arm, lit by the fever of love.
Forty-seven years later, when Hortensia was rescued from the pit where she had been
buried and journalists traveled from all over the country to photograph her, she herself no
longer knew her name or how she got there.
"Why did you keep her locked up like a miserable beast?" -the reporters harassed
Amadeo Peralta.
"Because I felt like it," he replied calmly. By then he was eighty years old and as lucid as
ever, but he did not understand this belated uproar over something that had happened so
long ago.
He was not willing to explain. He was a man of an authoritative word, patriarch and great-
grandfather, no one dared to look him in the eye and even the priests greeted him with their
heads bowed. In his long life he increased the fortune inherited from his father, seized all the
lands from the ruins of the Spanish fort to the limits of the State, and then launched into a
political career that made him the most powerful cacique in the area. He married the
landowner's ugly daughter, with her he had nine legitimate descendants and with other
women he fathered an imprecise number of bastards, without keeping memories of any
because his heart was definitely mutilated for love. The only one he couldn't completely rule
out was Hortensia, because it stuck to his conscience like a persistent nightmare. After the
brief encounter with her among the grasses of a vacant lot, he returned to his home, his
work, and his tasteless girlfriend from an honorable family. It was Hortensia who searched
for him until she found him, it was she who stepped in front of him and clung to his shirt with
the terrifying submission of a slave. What a mess, he thought then, me about to get married
with pomp and fanfare and this deranged girl crosses my path.
He wanted to get rid of her, but seeing her in her yellow dress and her pleading eyes, he
thought it was a waste not to take advantage of the opportunity and he decided to hide her
while he came up with a solution.
And so, almost by mistake, Hortensia ended up in the basement of the old Peralta sugar
mill, where she remained buried for her entire life. It was a large, humid, dark room, stifling
in summer and cold on some nights of the dry season, furnished with a few junk and a
pallet. Amadeo Peralta did not give himself time to better accommodate her, despite the
fact that he sometimes cherished the fantasy of turning the girl into a concubine from oriental
tales, wrapped in light tulle and surrounded by peacock feathers, brocade borders, glass
lamps painted, crooked-legged gilt furniture, and shag rugs where he could walk barefoot.
Perhaps he would have if she had reminded him of his promises, but Hortensia was like a
nocturnal bird, one of those blind owls that live at the bottom of caves, she just needed a
little food and water. The yellow dress rotted on her body and she ended up naked. "He
loves me, he has always loved me," she declared, when the neighbors rescued her. In so
many years of confinement he had lost the use of words and his voice came out jerkily, like
the snore of a dying man.
The first few weeks Amadeo spent a lot of time in the basement with her, satiating an
appetite that he thought was inexhaustible. Fearing discovery and jealous even of his own
eyes, he refused to expose it to natural light and let only a dim ray in through the ventilation
skylight. In the dark they frolicked in the wildest disorder of the senses, their skin burning
and their hearts a hungry crab. There the smells and flavors acquired an extreme quality.
By touching in the darkness they managed to penetrate the essence of the other and immerse
themselves in the most
secret. In that place their voices resounded with a repeated echo, the walls returned
them amplified whispers and kisses. The basement became a sealed jar where they
wallowed like mischievous twins sailing in amniotic waters, two turgid, dazed creatures. For a
time they got lost in an absolute intimacy that they mistook for love.
When Hortensia fell asleep, her lover would go out to get something to eat and before she
woke up he would come back with renewed energy to hug her again. Thus they must have
loved each other until they died defeated by desire, they must have devoured each other or
burned like a double torch; but none of that happened. Instead, the most predictable and
mundane happened, the less grand. Less than a month later, Amadeo Peralta got tired of the
games, which were already beginning to be repeated, he felt the humidity gnawing at his joints,
and he began to think about everything that was on the other side of that den. It was time to
return to the world of the living and take back the reins of his destiny.
-Wait for me here, girl. I'm going out to get very rich. I'll bring you gifts, dresses and queen's
jewelry -he told her as he said goodbye.
"I want children," Hortensia said. -No children, but you will have dolls. In the months
that followed, Peralta forgot about her dresses, jewelry, and dolls. He visited Hortensia
whenever he remembered, not always to make love, sometimes just to hear her play some
ancient tune on the psaltery, he liked to see her leaning over the instrument, plucking the
strings. Sometimes he was in such a hurry that he couldn't even exchange a word with her, he
filled her jugs with water, left her a bag of provisions and left. When he forgot to do it for nine
days and found her dying, he understood the need to get someone to help him take care of his
prisoner, because his family, his travels, his business and his social commitments kept him very
busy. A hermetic Indian served him for that purpose. She kept the key to the padlock and went
in regularly to clean the dungeon and scrape off the lichens that grew on Hortensia's body like a
delicate, pale flora, almost invisible to the naked eye, smelling of disturbed earth and an
abandoned thing.
"Didn't you take pity on that poor woman?" they asked the Indian when they also took her
into custody, accused of complicity in the kidnapping, but she did not answer and just looked
straight ahead with impassive eyes and spit black tobacco.
No, she was not sorry because she believed that the other had a vocation as a slave and for
that reason was happy being one, or that she was an idiot from birth and, like so many in her
condition, was better locked up than exposed to the ridicule and dangers of the street. Hortensia
did not help to change the opinion that her jailer had of her, she never expressed any curiosity
about the world, she did not try to go out to breathe clean air or complain about anything.
She didn't seem bored either, her mind was stopped at some point in childhood and loneliness
ended up disturbing her completely. It was actually becoming an underground creature. In that
tomb her senses were sharpened and she learned to see the invisible, hallucinating spirits
surrounded her that led her by the hand through other universes. While her body remained
shrunken in a corner, she traveled through outer space like a messenger particle, living in a
dark territory, beyond reason. If she had had a mirror to look at herself, she would have been
terrified of her own appearance, but since she could not see herself, she did not perceive her
deterioration, she did not know about the scales that sprouted on her skin, about the silkworms
that nested in her long hair turned into tow, from the leaden clouds that covered his eyes,
already dead from so much peering into the gloom. He did not feel how his ears grew to capture
external sounds, even the faintest and most distant ones, such as the laughter of children at
school recess, the ice cream vendor's bell, the birds in flight, the
murmur of the river Nor did she notice that her once graceful and firm legs twisted to
accommodate the need to be still and crawl, or that her toenails grew like beast's
hooves, her bones turned into glass tubes. , the belly sank and a hump came out. Only
his hands maintained their shape and size, always busy practicing the psaltery, although
his fingers no longer remembered the melodies they had learned and instead they ripped
from the instrument the cry that did not come out of his chest. From a distance Hortensia
looked like a sad fairground monkey and up close she inspired infinite pity. She was
unaware of those evil transformations, in her memory she kept the image of herself
intact, she was still the same girl she last saw reflected in the window glass of Amadeo
Peralta's car, the day he drove her to his lair. She believed she was as beautiful as ever
and continued to act as if she were, thus the memory of her beauty was crouched within
her and anyone who got close enough to her could glimpse her under her external
appearance of a prehistoric dwarf.
Meanwhile, Amadeo Peralta, rich and feared, extended the network of his power
throughout the region. On Sundays, he sat at the head of a long table, with his sons
and grandsons, his henchmen and accomplices, and with some special guests, politicians
and military leaders, whom he treated with a noisy cordiality, not exempt from the
arrogance necessary for them to They would remember who was the master. Behind his
back there were rumors about his victims, about how many he left in ruins or made
disappear, about bribing the authorities, that half of his fortune came from smuggling;
but no one was willing to look for evidence. They also said that Peralta was keeping a
woman prisoner in a basement. This part of his black legend was repeated with greater
certainty than that of his legitimate businesses, in truth many knew it and over time it
became an open secret.
One very hot afternoon, three children ran away from school to bathe in the river.
They spent a couple of hours splashing in the mud on the shore, then wandered near
the Peraltas' old sugar mill, closed for two generations when the cane ceased to be
profitable. The place had a reputation for being haunted, they said that demonic noises
were heard and many had seen a disheveled witch there summoning the souls of
dead slaves. Excited by the adventure, the boys entered the property and approached
the factory building. Soon they dared to enter the ruins, they went through the spacious
rooms with wide adobe walls and beams gnawed by termites, they avoided the
overgrown weeds on the floor, the hills of garbage and dog shit, the rotten tiles and the
snakes' nests. Giving themselves courage by joking, pushing each other, they reached
the milling room, an enormous room open to the sky, with the remains of broken
machines, where the rain and the sun had created an impossible garden and where
they thought they perceived a penetrating trace of sugar and sweat. When the fright
began to wear off, they clearly heard a monstrous song. Trembling, they tried to back
away, but the pull of horror overpowered their fear, and they crouched listening until
the last note struck their foreheads.
Little by little they managed to overcome their immobility, they shook off their fear and
began to search for the origin of those strange sounds, so different from any known
music, and thus they found a small trap at ground level, closed with a padlock that they
could not open. . They shook the wooden plank that closed the entrance and an
indescribable smell of a caged beast hit their faces. They called, but no one answered,
they only heard a muffled gasp on the other end. Then they ran off to shout that they had
discovered the gate to hell.
The noise of the children could not be silenced and thus the neighbors finally confirmed
what they had suspected for decades. First came the mothers behind their children to
peek through the slots in the trap, and they too heard the terrible notes of the psaltery,
very different from the banal melody that attracted Amadeo Peralta when he stopped
in an alleyway in Agua Santa to wipe his sweat. from the forehead. Behind them came
a crowd of onlookers and finally, when a crowd had gathered, the policemen and
firemen appeared, hacked the door open and climbed into the hole with their lamps
and fire gear. In the cave they found a naked creature, its loose skin hanging in pale
folds, trailing gray locks across the floor and wailing in terror at the noise and light. It
was Hortensia, glowing with mother-of-pearl phosphorescence under the relentless
flashlights of the fire brigade, nearly blind, with worn teeth and legs so weak she could
hardly stand up. The only sign of his human origin was an old psalter clutched in his
lap.
The news sparked outrage across the country. On television screens and in the
newspapers, the woman rescued from the hole where she spent her life appeared,
poorly covered by a blanket that someone put on her shoulders. The indifference that
for almost half a century surrounded the prisoner, became in a few hours a passion to
avenge and help her. The neighbors improvised pickets to lynch Amadeo Peralta,
attacked his house, dragged him out, and if the Guard did not arrive in time to take him
off their hands, they would have torn him to pieces in the plaza. To silence the guilt of
having ignored her for so long, everyone wanted to take care of Hortensia.
Money was raised To give her a pension, tons of clothes and medicines
that she did not need were collected and various charities began to scrape the dirt off
her, cut her hair and dress her from head to toe, until she was turned into an ordinary
old woman. . The nuns lent her a bed in the homeless home and tied her up for months
so she wouldn't escape back into the basement, until she finally got used to the daylight
and resigned herself to living with other human beings.
Taking advantage of the public furor fueled by the press, Amadeo Peralta's many
enemies finally mustered the courage to swoop in against him. The authorities, who
for years protected his abuses, fell on him with the club of the law. The news held
everyone's attention long enough to send the old warlord to jail, and then it faded
away and disappeared altogether. Rejected by his family and friends, turned into a
symbol of everything abominable and abject, harassed by the guards and by his
companions in misfortune, he was in prison until death overtook him. He remained in
his cell, never going out into the courtyard with the other inmates. From there I could
hear the noises from the street.
Every day, at ten o'clock in the morning, Hortensia walked with her hesitant crazy
step to the prison and gave the guard at the door a hot pot for the prisoner.
"He hardly ever left me hungry," he told the doorman in an apologetic tone. Later he
would sit in the street to play the psaltery, eliciting groans of agony that were impossible
to bear. Hoping to distract her and silence her, some of the passers-by gave her a coin.
Huddled on the other side of the walls, Amadeo Peralta listened to that sound that
seemed to come from the depths of the earth and that pierced his nerves. That daily
reproach must have meant something, but he couldn't remember. Sometimes he felt
pangs of guilt, but soon his memory failed him and images from the past disappeared
in a thick fog. He did not know why he was in that tomb and little by little he also forgot the
world of light, abandoning himself to misfortune.

GIFT FOR A GIRLFRIEND
Horacio Fortunato had reached the age of forty-six when the scrawny Jewess who
was on the verge of changing his rogue habits and destroying his boastfulness entered
his life. He was a breed of circus people, the kind born with rubber bones and a
natural ability to somersault, and at the age when other creatures crawl like worms,
they hang upside down from the trapeze and brush the lion's teeth. . Before his father
turned it into a serious company, instead of the joke it had been until then, the
Fortunato Circus went through more pain than glory. In some times of catastrophe or
disorder, the company was reduced to two or three members of the clan wandering
the roads in a rickety wagon, with a broken tent that they erected in pitiful towns.
Horacio's grandfather alone carried the weight of the entire show for years; he walked
a tightrope, juggled burning torches, swallowed Toledo sabers, extracted both oranges
and snakes from a top hat, and danced a graceful minuet with his only companion, a
monkey dressed in a crinoline and feathered hat. But the grandfather managed to
overcome the misfortune and while many other circuses succumbed to other modern
amusements, he saved his own and at the end of his life he was able to retire to the
south of the continent to cultivate an orchard of asparagus and strawberries, leaving
him a company without debts. his son Fortunato. This man lacked his father's humility
and was not given to balancing on a rope or pirouetting with a chimpanzee, but instead
he was endowed with a firm merchant's prudence.
Under his direction the circus grew in size and prestige, until it became the largest
in the country. Three monumental striped tents replaced the modest stall of bad
times, various cages housed a traveling zoo of trained beasts, and other fantasy
vehicles transported the performers, including the only dwarf hermaphrodite and
ventriloquist in history. An exact replica of Christopher Columbus's caravel transported
on wheels, completed the Gran Circo Internacional Fortunato. This enormous caravan
no longer drifted, as it had done before with grandfather, but went in a straight line
along the main highways from the Rio Grande to the Strait of Magellan, stopping only
in the big cities, where it entered with such scandal. of drums, elephants and clowns,
with the caravel at the head as a prodigious memory of the Conquest, that no one was
left without knowing that the circus had arrived.
Fortunato II married a trapeze artist and with her he had a son whom they
named Horacio. The woman stayed in a place of passage, determined to become
independent from her husband and support herself through her uncertain trade,
leaving the child with his father. A vague memory of her prevailed in his son's mind,
who could not separate the image of his mother from the numerous acrobats he met
in his life. When he was ten years old, his father married another circus performer,
this time a horsewoman who could balance headfirst on a galloping animal or jump
from one rump to the other while blindfolded. It was very beautiful. No matter how
much water, soap, and perfume she used, she couldn't wash off a trace of horse
smell, a dry scent of sweat and exertion. In her magnificent lap, little Horacio, wrapped
in that unique smell, found comfort in the absence of his mother. But with time the
equitadora also left without saying goodbye. In adulthood, Fortunato married his third
nuptials to a Swiss woman who was visiting America on a tourist bus. He was tired of
his existence as a Bedouin and he felt old for new shocks, so when she asked him,
he did not have the slightest objection to change the circus for a sedentary destiny
and ended up installed in a farm in the Alps, between hills and forests
bucolic His son Horacio, who was already in his twenties, was left in charge of the
company.
Horacio had grown up in the uncertainty of changing places every day, always
sleeping on wheels and living under a tent, but he felt very comfortable with his luck.
He did not envy at all other creatures who went to school in gray uniforms and had
their destinies mapped out before they were born. By contrast, he felt powerful and
free. He knew all the secrets of the circus and with the same carefree attitude he
cleaned up the droppings of wild beasts or swung fifty meters high dressed as a hussar,
seducing the audience with his dolphin smile. If at any time he longed for some stability, he
did not admit it even asleep. The experience of having been abandoned, first by his mother
and then by his stepmother, made him suspicious, especially of women, but he did not
become a cynic, because he had inherited a sentimental heart from his grandfather. He had
immense circus talent, but more than the art he was interested in the commercial side of
the business. Since he was little, he set out to be rich, with the naive intention of getting the
security that he did not get in his family with money. He multiplied the company's tentacles
by buying a chain of boxing stadiums in various capitals. From boxing he passed naturally
to wrestling, and being a man of playful imagination, he turned that rude sport into a
dramatic spectacle. His initiatives were the Mummy, which appeared in the ring inside an
Egyptian sarcophagus; Tarzan, covering his impudence with a tiger skin so small that at
each leap of the wrestler the audience held its breath for some revelation; the Angel, who
bet his golden hair and every night lost it under the scissors of the ferocious Kuramoto -a
Mapuche Indian disguised as a samurai- to reappear the next day with his curls intact,
irrefutable proof of his divine condition. These and other business adventures, as well as
his public appearances with a pair of bodyguards, whose role it was to intimidate his
competitors and pique the curiosity of women, gave him a reputation as a bad man, which
he celebrated with enormous glee. He led a good life, traveling the world making deals and
looking for monsters, appearing in clubs and casinos, owned a glass mansion in California
and a ranch in the Yucatan, but lived most of the year in rich hotels. He enjoyed the
company of blondes for hire. She chose them soft and with fruity breasts, as a tribute to the
memory of her stepmother, but she did not worry too much about love affairs and when her
grandfather demanded that she marry and have children into the world so that the Fortunato
family name would not disintegrate without an heir. He replied that not even a madman
would go up to the marriage gallows. He was a big dark shoulder with a mane of hair
combed to the cheeks, mischievous eyes and an authoritative voice, which accentuated his
cheerful vulgarity. He was concerned with elegance and bought duke clothes, but his suits
were a little bright, his ties a little bold, the ruby in his ring too ostentatious, his fragrance
too pungent. He had the heart of a lion tamer and no English tailor could hide it.
This man, who had spent a good part of his life stirring up the air with his extravagance,
came across Patricia Zimmerman one Tuesday in March and his inconsistency of spirit
and clarity of thought ended. He was in the only restaurant in this city where blacks are
still not allowed in, with four cronies and a diva whom he planned to take to the Bahamas
for a week, when Patricia walked into the room on her husband's arm, dressed in silk and
adorned with some of those diamonds that made the firm Zimmerman y Cía. Nothing more
different from his unforgettable stepmother smelling of horse sweat or complacent blondes,
than that woman. He saw her move forward, small, fine, the bones of her neckline
the sight and the brown hair gathered in a severe bun, and he felt heavy knees and an
unbearable burning in his chest. He preferred simple females well disposed for partying,
and you had to look closely at that woman to appreciate her virtues, and even then they
would only be visible to an eye trained to appreciate subtleties, which was not the case
with Horacio Fortunato. If the psychic of her circus had consulted her crystal ball to
prophesy that she would fall in love at first glance with a haughty, forty-something
aristocrat, she would have laughed heartily, but that was exactly what happened when
she saw her moving toward her like the shadow of some ancient empress dowager, in her
dark regalia and with the lights of all those diamonds shining on her neck.
Patricia walked past him and stopped for a moment before that giant with his
napkin hanging from his waistcoat and a trace of sauce at the corner of his mouth.
Horacio Fortunato managed to perceive her perfume and appreciate her aquiline profile
and he completely forgot about the diva, the bodyguards, business and all the purposes
of his life, and decided with all seriousness to snatch that woman from the jeweler to
love her in the best way possible. He placed his chair on one side and, ignoring his
guests, he dedicated himself to measuring the distance that separated him from her,
while Patricia Zimmerman wondered if this stranger was examining her jewelry with some
twisted design.
That same night, a huge bouquet of orchids arrived at the Zimmerman residence.
Patricia looked at the card, a sepia rectangle with the name of the novel written in gold
arabesques. In terrible taste, he mumbled, guessing immediately that it was the guy with
gel from the restaurant and ordered the gift to be put out on the street in the hope that
the sender would be hanging around the house and find out the whereabouts of his
flowers. The next day they brought a glass box with a single perfect rose, without a card.
The butler also placed it in the trash. The rest of the week they dispatched various
bouquets: a basket of wild flowers on a bed of lavender, a pyramid of white carnations
in a silver cup, a dozen black tulips imported from Holland, and other varieties impossible
to find in this hot land. They all had the same fate as the first, but that did not discourage
the gallant, whose stalking became so unbearable that Patricia Zimmerman did not dare
answer the phone for fear of hearing his voice whispering indecencies to him, as
happened the same Tuesday at two o'clock. the dawn. He returned his letters sealed.
She stopped going out because she found Fortunato in unexpected places: watching her
from the neighboring box at the opera, in the street ready to open the car door for her
before her driver managed to make the gesture, materializing like an illusion in an elevator
or in a some stairs. She was a prisoner in her house, scared. It will pass, it will pass, he
repeated to himself, but Fortunato did not dissipate like a bad dream, he was still there,
on the other side of the walls, puffing. The woman considered calling the police or going
to her husband, but her horror at the scandal prevented her. One morning he was
attending to his correspondence, when the butler announced the visit of the president of
the Fortunato e Hijos company.
"In my own house, how dare you?" Patricia murmured, her heart racing.
She needed to resort to the implacable discipline acquired in so many years of acting in
salons, to hide the tremor in her hands and her voice. For a moment she was tempted to
face that madman once and for all, but she understood that her strength would fail her,
she felt defeated before she saw him.
- Tell him I'm not here. Show him the door and tell the employees that this gentleman is
not welcome in this house," he ordered.
The next day there were no exotic flowers for breakfast and Patricia thought, with a sigh of
relief or spite, that the man had finally understood her message. That morning
she felt free for the first time in the week and went off to play tennis and to the beauty parlor.
He returned at two in the afternoon with a new haircut and a severe headache.
As he entered, he saw on the hall table a purple velvet case with the Zimmerman brand printed in gold
letters. She opened it somewhat absently, imagining that her husband had left it there, and found an
emerald necklace accompanied by one of those elaborate sepia cards she had grown to know and
hate. The pain in his head turned to panic. That adventurer seemed ready to ruin her existence, not
only buying her own husband an impossible-to-disguise jewel, but also nonchalantly sending it to her
home. This time it was not possible to throw the gift away like the piles of flowers received until then.
With the case pressed against his chest, he locked himself in his desk. Half an hour later he called the
driver and sent him to deliver a package to the same address where he had returned several letters.
When she got rid of the jewel, she did not feel any relief, on the contrary, she had the impression of
sinking into a swamp.
But on that date, Horacio Fortunato was also walking through a quagmire, without advancing a single
step, groping around. He had never needed so much time and money to court a woman, although it
was also true, he admitted, that until then they were all different from this one. He felt ridiculous for the
first time in his life as a mountebank, he couldn't go on like this for long, his bull's health was beginning
to suffer, he slept fitfully, the air in his chest was running out, his heart was dizzy, he felt fire in his
chest. the stomach and bells in the temples. His businesses also suffered the impact of his lovesickness,
he made hasty decisions and lost money. Hell, I don't know who I am or where I'm standing anymore,
damn it, he grumbled, sweating, but never for a moment did he consider giving up the hunt.
With the purple case back in his hands, dejected in an armchair in the hotel where he was staying,
Fortunato remembered his grandfather. He rarely thought of his father, but he often thought of that
formidable grandfather who, in his nineties, still grew his vegetables. He picked up the phone and
asked for long-distance communication.
Old Fortunato was almost deaf and couldn't assimilate the mechanism of that devilish device that
brought him voices from the other end of the planet, but his great age hadn't taken away his
lucidity. He listened as best he could to his grandson's sad story, without interrupting him until the
end.
-So that bitch is having the luxury of making fun of my boy, huh? -He doesn't even look at me,
Nono. She is rich, beautiful, noble, she has everything.
-Aha... and she also has a husband. -Also, but that's the least of it. If only he would let me talk to
him! - Talk to him? And for what? There's nothing to say to a woman like that, son.
-I gave her a queen's necklace and she returned it to me without a single word.
Give him something he doesn't have.
-For example? -A good reason to laugh, that never fails with women -and the grandfather fell asleep
with the receiver in his hand, dreaming of the maidens who loved him when he performed deadly
acrobatics on the trapeze and danced with his monkey.
The next day the jeweler Zimmerman received a splendid young woman in his office, a manicurist
by profession, as he explained, who had come to offer him for half the price the same emerald necklace
that he had sold forty-eight hours before. The jeweler remembered the buyer very well, impossible to
forget him, a conceited lout.
"I need a jewel capable of knocking down an arrogant lady's defenses," he had said.
Zimmerman reviewed him in a second and decided he must be one of those oil or cocaine nouveau
riche. He had no mood for vulgarities, he was used to
other class of people. He rarely served customers himself, but this man had insisted on
talking to him and seemed willing to spend without hesitation.
-What do you recommend? he had asked before the tray where his most valuable garments
shone. It depends on the lady. Rubies and pearls look good on brown skin, emeralds on
lighter skin, diamonds are always perfect.
-He has too many diamonds. Her husband gives them to her like they were candy.
Zimmerman coughed. He was disgusted by that kind of confidence. The man took the necklace,
held it up to the light without any respect, shook it like a rattle, and the air was filled with tinkling
and green sparks, while the jeweler's ulcer gave a start.
-Do you think emeralds bring good luck? 'I suppose all gemstones meet that
requirement, sir, but I'm not superstitious. -This is a very special woman. I can't go
wrong with the gift, you see? - Perfectly. But apparently that's what happened, Zimmerman
told himself, unable to avoid a sarcastic smile, when that girl brought the necklace back to him.
No, there was nothing wrong with the jewel, it was the jewel that was wrong. He had imagined
a more refined woman, certainly not a manicurist with that plastic bag and ordinary blouse, but
the girl intrigued him, there was something vulnerable and pathetic about her, poor thing, she
won't have a good end in the hands of that highwayman, he thought. .
"You better tell me everything, child," Ziminerman said finally.

The young woman told him the story she had memorized and an hour later she left the
office with a brisk step. As she had planned from the beginning, the jeweler had not only
bought the necklace, but had also invited her to dinner.
It was easy for her to see that Zimmerman was one of those shrewd and distrustful men
when it came to business, but naive about everything else, and that it would be easy to keep
him distracted for as long as Horacio Fortunato needed and was willing to pay.
P,sa was a night to remember for Zimnierman, who had counted on a dinner party and found
himself living an unexpected passion. The next day she saw her new friend again and towards
the weekend she announced to Patricia with a stammer that she was going to New York for
a few days to auction off Russian jewelry, saved from the Yekaterinburg massacre. His wife
paid no attention to him.
Alone at home, with no desire to go out and with that headache that came and went
without giving her rest, Patricia decided to dedicate Saturday to recovering her strength. He
settled on the terrace to leaf through some fashion magazines. It hadn't rained all week and
the air was dry and thick. She read for a while until the sun began to make her sleepy, her
body was heavy, her eyes closed and the magazine fell from her hands. Just then a rumor
reached him from the bottom of the garden and he thought of the gardener, a stubborn fellow,
who in less than a year had transformed his property into a tropical jungle, uprooting his
clumps of chrysanthemums to make way for overflowing vegetation. She opened her eyes,
looked distracted against the sun, and noticed that something of unusual size was moving in
the top of the avocado. He took off his dark glasses and stood up. There was no doubt, a
shadow was moving up there and it was not part of the foliage.
Patricia Zimmerman left her chair and took a couple of steps, then she could clearly see a
ghost dressed in blue with a gold cloak that flew past several meters high, did a somersault
in the air and for an instant seemed to stop on the spot. gesture of greeting her from heaven.
She gasped, certain the apparition would fall like a stone and disintegrate on landfall, but the
cloak billowed and the radiant beetle reached out and clung to a neighboring medlar.
Immediately another blue figure appeared dangling by its legs from the top of the other tree,
swinging.
by the dolls to a girl crowned with flowers. The first trapeze artist made a signal and
the second threw the creature, which managed to release a shower of paper butterflies
before finding itself caught by the ankles. Patricia couldn't manage to move while
those silent birds with golden cloaks flew overhead.
Suddenly a scream filled the garden, a long, barbarous cry that distracted Patricia
from the trapeze artists. He saw a thick rope fall down a side wall of the property and
that was where Tarzan himself descended, the same one from the matinee at the
cinema and from the comic strips of his childhood, in his miserable tiger-skin loincloth
and a real monkey sitting on the his hip, hugging him around the waist. The King of
the Jungle landed gracefully, pounded his fists against his chest, and repeated the
visceral bellow, drawing all the house employees, who rushed onto the terrace.
Patricia gestured them to stand still, while Tarzan's voice trailed off to a lugubrious
roll of drums announcing a procession of four Egyptian women advancing sideways,
head and feet twisted, followed by a hunchback with striped hood, who was trailing a
black panther at the end of a chain. Then two monks appeared carrying a sarcophagus
and behind them an angel with long golden hair and closing the procession an Indian
disguised as a Japanese, in a dressing gown and perched on wooden skates. They
all stopped behind the pool. The monks deposited the coffin on the grass, and while
the vestals hummed in some dead language and the Angel and Kuramoto showed off
their prodigious muscles, the lid of the sarcophagus was lifted and a nightmare being
emerged from inside. When he stood up, with all his bandages visible, it was evident
that this was a mummy in perfect health. At that moment Tarzan gave another howl
and without provocation leaped around the Egyptians and shook the ape. The Mummy
lost its ancient patience, raised an arm and dropped it like a club on the nape of the
savage's neck, leaving him inert with his face buried in the grass.
The monkey screeched up a tree. Before the embalmed pharaoh finished off Tarzan
with a second blow, he leaped to his feet and came roaring at him. Both rolled knotted
in an unlikely position, until the panther was released and then they all ran to seek
refuge among the plants and the house employees flew into the kitchen. Patricia was
about to jump into the pool, when an individual in a tailcoat and top hat appeared by
enchantment, who with a resounding whiplash stopped the feline dead and left it on
the ground purring like a cat with all four legs in the air. , which allowed the hunchback
to retrieve the chain, while the other took off his hat and extracted a meringue cake
from inside, which he brought to the terrace and deposited at the feet of the mistress
of the house.
The rest of the comparsa appeared at the end of the garden: the musicians of the
band playing military marches, the clowns slapping each other across the face, the
dwarves of the Medieval Courts, the horsewoman standing on her horse, the bearded
woman, the dogs on bicycles, the ostrich dressed as a Columbian and finally a line of
boxers in their satin breeches and regulation gloves, pushing a wheeled platform
surmounted by a painted cardboard arch. And there, on that dais of a prop emperor,
was Horacio Fortunato with his mane of hair flattened with glitter, his irrevocable smile
of a gallant, plump under his triumphal portico, surrounded by his unprecedented
circus, acclaimed by the trumpets and cymbals of his own orchestra. , the most
arrogant, most in love and funniest man in the world. Patricia laughed and went out
to meet him.
ROUGH
Her father seated her at the piano at the age of five, and at ten Maurizia Rugieri gave her
first recital at the Garibaldi Club, dressed in pink organza and patent leather ankle boots,
before a benevolent audience, made up mostly of members of the Italian colony. At the end
of the presentation, several bouquets of flowers were placed at her feet and the president of
the club presented her with a commemorative plaque and a china doll, adorned with ribbons
and lace.
-We greet you, Maurizia Rugieri, as a precocious genius, a new Mozart. The great
stages of the world await you -he declaimed.
The girl waited for the applause to subside and, over her mother's proud weeping, she
made her voice heard with an unexpected arrogance. -This is the last time I play the
piano. What I want is to be a singer," she announced and left the room, dragging the doll
by one foot.
Once she had recovered from her embarrassment, her father placed her in voice
lessons with a stern teacher, who for every false note slapped her hands, which failed to
kill the girl's enthusiasm for opera. However, by late adolescence she was found to have
a birdlike voice, barely enough to lull an infant to sleep, so she must have traded her
pretensions as a soprano for a more banal fate. At the age of nineteen, she married Ez¡o
Longo, a first-generation immigrant in the country, an architect without a title and a builder
by trade, who had set out to found an empire on cement and steel and at thirty-five he had
almost consolidated it. .
Ez¡o Longo fell in love with Maurizia Rugieri with the same determination used to seed the
capital with his buildings. He was short, solidly boned, with the neck of a draft animal, and a
forceful and somewhat brutal face with thick lips and black eyes. His work forced him to dress
in rustic clothing and from being in the sun so much his skin was dark and crisscrossed with
grooves, like tanned leather. He had a good-natured and generous character, he laughed
easily and liked popular music and abundant and unceremonious food. Beneath that
somewhat vulgar appearance was a refined soul and a delicacy that he did not know how to
translate into gestures or words. Looking at Maurizia, his eyes sometimes filled with tears
and his chest filled with an oppressive tenderness, which he hid with a slap of his hand,
suffocating with shame. He found it impossible to express his feelings and believed that by
showering her with gifts and enduring with stoic patience her bizarre mood swings and
imagined ailments, he would make up for the flaws in her lover's repertoire. She aroused in
him a peremptory desire, renewed every day with the ardor of their first encounters, he
embraced her exacerbated, trying to bridge the gulf between them, but all his passion
crashed against Maurizia's fussiness, whose imagination remained feverish from reading
romantic songs and records by Verdi and Puccini. Ez¡o fell asleep defeated by the fatigues
of the day, overwhelmed by nightmares of crooked walls and spiral staircases, and woke up
at dawn to sit in bed to observe his sleeping wife with such attention that he learned to divine
her dreams. He would have given his life for her to respond to his feelings with equal intensity.
He built her an enormous mansion supported by columns, where the mixture of styles and
the profusion of ornaments confused the sense of direction, and where four servants worked
tirelessly only to polish bronzes, polish the floors, clean the glass pellets from the windows.
lamps and rattle the gilt-legged furniture and fake Persian rugs imported from Spain. The
house had a small amphitheater in the garden, with loudspeakers and lights from the main
stage, in which Maurizia Rugieri used to sing for her guests. Ez¡o would not have admitted
even in a trance
death that he was incapable of appreciating those hesitant sparrow trills, not only
so as not to expose the gaps in his culture, but above all out of respect for his wife's
artistic inclinations. He was an optimistic and self-confident man, but when Maurizia
announced crying that she was pregnant, an uncontrollable apprehension came
over him, he felt his heart break like a melon, that there was no place for such
happiness in this valley. of tears. It occurred to him that some sudden catastrophe
would disrupt his precarious paradise, and he set out to defend it against any
interference.
The catastrophe was a medical student whom Maurizia bumped into on a
streetcar. By then the child had been born - a creature as vital as its father, who
seemed impervious to all harm, even the evil eye - and the mother had already
regained her waist. The student sat next to Maurizia on the way to the center of town,
a thin, pale young man with the profile of a Roman statue. He was reading the score
of Tosca and whistling through his teeth an aria from the last act. She felt all the
midday sun dragging down her cheeks and a sweat of anticipation soaked her bodice.
Without being able to avoid it, he hummed the words of the unfortunate Mario greeting
the dawn, before the firing squad ended his days. Thus, between two lines of the
score, the romance began. The young man's name was Leonardo Gómez and he was
as enthusiastic about bel canto as Maurizia.
During the following months the student obtained his medical degree and she lived
one by one all the tragedies of the opera and some of universal literature, she was
successively killed by Don José, tuberculosis, an Egyptian tomb, a dagger and
poison, she loved singing in Italian, French and German, it was Aida, Carmen and
Lucía de Lamermoor, and each time Leonardo Gómez was the object of her immortal
passion. In real life they shared a chaste love, which she yearned to consummate
without daring to take the initiative, and which he fought in his heart out of respect for
Maurizia's married condition. They saw each other in public places and sometimes
linked hands in the shady area of a park, exchanged notes signed by Tosca and
Mario and naturally called Ez¡o Longo Scarpia, who was so grateful for the son, for
his beautiful wife and for Heaven-given goods, and so busy working to provide his
family with as much security as possible, that if it hadn't been for a neighbor who
came to tell him the gossip that his wife rode the streetcar too much, he might never
have known. what was going on behind their backs.
Ez¡o Longo had prepared himself to face the contingency of a bankruptcy in his
business, an illness and even an accident involving his son, as he imagined in his
worst moments of superstitious terror, but it had not occurred to him that a mellifluous
student could snatch away his wife in front of his nose. When he found out, he was
about to burst out laughing, because of all the misfortunes, that seemed the easiest
to solve, but after that first impulse, a blind rage turned his liver upside down. He
followed Maurizia to a discreet pastry shop, where he surprised her drinking
chocolate with her lover. He did not ask for explanations. He grabbed his rival by the
clothes, lifted him off his feet, and flung him against the wall to a crash of broken
china and shrieks of patrons. Then he took his wife by the arm and led her to his car,
one of the last Mercedes Benz imported into the country, before World War II ruined
trade relations with Germany. He locked her up at home and put two masons from
his company to take care of the doors. Maurizia spent two days crying in bed, without
speaking and without eating. Meanwhile, Ez¡o Longo had had time to meditate and
his anger had turned into a dull frustration that brought to mind the abandonment of
his childhood, the poverty of his youth, the loneliness of his existence and all that
inexhaustible hunger for darling who accompanied him until
he met Maurizia Rugieri and believed he had conquered a goddess. On the third day he
couldn't take it anymore and went into his wife's room.
-For our son, Maurizia, you must get those fantasies out of your head. I know I'm not very
romantic, but if you help me, I can change. I'm not the man to put up with horns and I love
you too much to let you go. If you give me the chance, I'll make you happy, I swear.
For all answer she turned against the wall and prolonged her fast two more days. Her husband
returned.
"I'd like to know what the hell is missing in this world, let's see if I can give it to you," he told
her, defeated.
I miss Leonardo. Without him I'm going to die. -It's okay. You can go with that wuss if you want,
but you'll never see our son again.
She packed her bags, dressed in muslin, put on a hat with a veil, and hailed a cab. Before
leaving, she kissed the boy sobbing and whispered in his ear that she would come back to look
for him very soon. Ez¡o Longo -who in a week had lost six kilos and half his hair- took the
creature from his arms.
Maurizia Rugieri arrived at the pension where her lover lived and found that he had left two
days before to work as a doctor in an oil camp, in one of those hot provinces whose name
evoked Indians and snakes. She had a hard time convincing herself that he had left without
saying goodbye, but she put it down to the beating he received in the pastry shop, concluded that
Leonardo was a poet and that her husband's brutality must have baffled him. He settled in a hotel
and in the days that followed he sent telegrams to every imaginable point. She finally managed
to locate Leonardo Gómez to announce to him that she had given up her only son for him, defied
her husband, society and God himself, and that her decision to follow him in his destiny, until
death do them part, was absolutely irrevocable.
The trip was a heavy expedition by train, by truck and in some parts by river. Maurizia had
never gone out alone outside a thirty-block radius around her house, but neither the grandeur of
the landscape nor the incalculable distances could frighten her. On the way she lost a couple of
suitcases and her muslin dress was turned into a yellow rag of dust, but she finally reached the
river crossing where Leonardo was to wait for her. As she got out of the vehicle, she saw a canoe
on the shore and ran towards it with the shreds of her veil flying behind her and her long hair
escaping in curls from her hat. But instead of her Mario, she found a black man with an explorer's
helmet and two melancholic Indians with their oars in their hands. It was too late to turn back. He
accepted the explanation that Dr. Gomez had had an emergency and climbed into the boat with
the rest of his battered luggage, praying that these men were not bandits or cannibals. They were
not, fortunately, and they carried her safely through the water through a vast and wild and rugged
country, to the place where her lover awaited her. There were two villages, one with long communal
dormitories where the workers lived; and another, where the employees lived, which consisted of
the company offices, twenty-five prefabricated houses flown in from the United States, an absurd
golf course, and a green water pool that woke up every morning full of huge toads, all surrounded
by of a metal fence with a gate guarded by two sentinels. It was a camp of men passing through,
existence there revolved around that dark mud that emerged from the bottom of the earth like an
endless dragon vomit. In those solitudes there were no more women than some long-suffering
companions of the workers; gringos and foremen traveled to the city every three months to visit
their families. The arrival of Dr. Gómez's wife, as they called her, upset the routine for a few days,
until they got used to seeing her walk around with her veils, her umbrella and her
dancing shoes, like a character escaped from another story.
Maurizia Rugieri did not allow the rudeness of those men or the heat of each day to
overcome her, she set out to live her destiny with greatness and she almost succeeded.
She turned Leonardo Gómez into the hero of her own melodrama, adorning him with
utopian virtues and exalting the quality of her love to madness, without stopping to
measure her lover's response to find out if he was following her at the same pace in that
unbridled passionate race. . If Leonardo Gómez showed signs of lagging far behind, she
attributed it to his timid character and his poor health, worsened by that accursed climate.
In truth, he seemed so fragile that she definitively cured herself of all her old ailments to
dedicate herself to taking care of him. She accompanied him to the primitive hospital and
learned the skills of a nurse to help him. Tending malaria victims or treating horrendous
injuries from well accidents seemed better to her than staying cooped up in her house,
sitting under a fan, reading the same old magazines and romantic novels for the
hundredth time. Between syringes and bandages she could imagine herself a war hero,
one of those brave women from the movies they sometimes saw at the camp club. With
suicidal determination, she refused to perceive the deterioration of reality, determined to
embellish each moment with words, given the impossibility of doing otherwise. He spoke
of Leonardo Gómez -whom he continued to call Mario- as a saint dedicated to the service
of humanity, and he set himself the task of showing the world that both were the
protagonists of an exceptional love, which ended up discouraging any employee of the
Company who might have been inflamed by the only white woman in the place. Maurizia
called the barbarism of the camp contact with nature and ignored the mosquitoes, the
poisonous bugs, the iguanas, the hell of the day, the heat of the night, and the fact that
she could not venture beyond the gate alone. She referred to her loneliness, her boredom,
and her natural desire to tour the city, dress fashionably, visit her friends, and go to the
theater, as a slight nostalgia. The only thing she couldn't change the name of was that
animal pain that doubled her in two when she remembered her son, so she chose never
to mention him.
Leonardo Gómez worked as a camp doctor for more than ten years, until fevers and
the weather ended his health. He had been inside the protective fence of the Oil
Company for a long time, he did not feel like starting out in a more aggressive milieu
and, on the other hand, he still remembered the fury of Ez¡o Longo when he smashed
him against the wall, so he did not even consider the possibility of returning to the capital.
He looked for another job in some remote corner where he could continue living in
peace, and so he arrived one day in Agua Santa with his wife, his medical instruments,
and his opera records. It was the fifties and Maurizia Rugieri got off the bus fashionably
dressed, in a tight polka dot suit and an enormous black straw hat, which she had ordered
from a catalog from New York, something never seen in those parts. In any case, they
welcomed them with the hospitality of small towns and in less than twenty-four hours
everyone knew the love legend of the newcomers. They called them Tosca and Mario,
without having the slightest idea who those characters were, but Maurizia took it upon
herself to let them know. She abandoned her nursing practices with Leonardo, formed a
liturgical choir for the parish and offered the first singing recitals in the village. Mute in
astonishment, the inhabitants of Agua Santa saw her transformed into Madame Butterfly
on an improvised stage at school, dressed in an outlandish dressing gown, some weaving
sticks in her hairstyle, two plastic flowers in her ears, and her face painted. with white
plaster, trilling with its bird voice. No one understood a word of the chant, but when
As she dropped to her knees and pulled out a kitchen knife, threatening to plunge it into
her belly, the audience screamed in horror and a bystander rushed to dissuade her,
snatching the weapon from her hands and forcing her to her feet. A lengthy discussion
soon ensued about the reasons for the Japanese lady's tragic determination, and everyone
agreed that the American sailor who had deserted her was a fiend, but he was not worth
dying for, since life is hard. long and there are many men in this world. The performance
ended in celebration when a band improvised that played some cumbias and the people
began to dance. That memorable night was followed by other similar ones: singing, death,
explanation by the soprano of the plot of the opera, public discussion and final party.
Doctor Mario and Mrs. Tosca were two select members of the community, he was in
charge of everyone's health and she was in charge of cultural life and reporting on
changes in fashion. He lived in a nice, cool house, half of which was taken up by the
consulting room. In the patio they had a blue and yellow macaw, which flew over their
heads when they went for a walk in the square. You knew where the doctor or his wife
were because the bird always accompanied them at a height of two meters, gliding
silently with its large wings like a painted animal. They lived in Agua Santa for many years,
respected by the people, who pointed to them as an example of perfect love.
In one of those attacks, the doctor got lost in the paths of the fever and could no longer
return. His death moved the people. They feared that his wife would commit a fatal act,
with, or as many as she had enacted singing, so they took turns accompanying her day
and night for the following weeks. Maurizia Rugieri dressed in mourning from head to
toe, painted all the furniture in the house black and dragged her pain like a tenacious
shadow that marked her face with two deep furrows near her mouth, yet she did not try to
put an end to her life. Perhaps in the privacy of her room, when she was alone in bed, she
felt a deep relief because she no longer had to keep pulling the heavy cart of her dreams, it
was no longer necessary to keep alive the character invented to represent herself, nor
continue juggling to hide the weaknesses of a lover who never lived up to his illusions. But
the theater habit was too ingrained. With the same infinite patience with which an image of
a romantic heroine was created before, in widowhood she built the legend of her grief. She
stayed in Agua Santa, always dressed in black, although mourning had not been worn for a
long time, and she refused to sing again, despite the pleas of her friends, who thought that
opera might comfort her. The people tightened the circle around her, like a big hug, to make
her life tolerable and help her in her memories. With everyone's complicity, the image of Dr.
Gómez grew in the popular imagination. Two years later they made a collection to make a
bronze bust that they placed on a column in the square, in front of the stone statue of the
liberator.
That same year they opened the highway that passed in front of Agua Santa, forever
altering the appearance and mood of the town. At the beginning, people opposed the
project, believing that they would take the poor inmates out of the Santa María Prison to
put them, shackled, to cut down trees and break stones, as the grandparents used to say
that the road had been built in the days of the Benefactor dictatorship. , but soon the
engineers of the city arrived with the news that the work would be done by modern
machines, instead of the prisoners. Behind them came the surveyors and then crews of
workmen in orange hardhats and glow-in-the-dark vests.
The machines turned out to be some iron masses the size of a dinosaur, according to
calculations by the school teacher, on whose flanks the name of the company was painted.
company, Ez¡o Longo and Son. That same Friday the father and son arrived in
Agua Santa to review the works and pay the workers.
Seeing her former husband's signs and machines, Maurizia Rugieri hid in her home
with doors and windows closed, foolishly hoping to stay out of reach of her past. But
for twenty-eight years she had endured the memory of her absent son, like a pain
nailed to the center of her body, and when she found out that the owners of the
construction company were in Agua Santa having lunch at the tavern, she could no
longer fight against her instinct. He looked in the mirror. She was a fifty-one-year-old
woman, aged by the tropical sun and the effort to feign a chimerical happiness, but her
features still held the nobility of pride. She brushed her hair and styled it in a high bun,
making no attempt to hide the gray, put on her best black dress and the pearl necklace
from her wedding, saved from so many adventures, and in a gesture of timid coquetry
put on a touch of black pencil on the eyes and lipstick on the cheeks and lips. He left his
house protecting himself from the sun with the Leonardo Gómez umbrella. Sweat trickled
down his back, but he no longer trembled.
At that time, the tavern's shutters were closed to avoid the midday heat, so it
took Maurizia Rugieri a long time to adjust her eyes to the darkness and distinguish Ez¡o
Longo and the man at one of the tables in the back. young man who must be his son.
Her husband had changed much less than she had, perhaps because he had always
been a person without age. The same lion's neck, the same solid skeleton, the same
awkward features and sunken eyes, but now softened by a range of cheerful wrinkles
produced by good humor. Bent over his plate, he chewed enthusiastically, listening to
his son's talk. Maurizia watched them from afar.
His son must have been around thirty years of age. Although he had her long bones
and delicate skin, his gestures were those of his father, he ate with equal pleasure, he
pounded the table to emphasize his words, he laughed heartily, he was a vital and
energetic man, with a sense of categorical of his own strength, well disposed for the
fight. Maurizia looked at Ez¡o Longo with new eyes and saw for the first time his solid
masculine virtues. She took a couple of steps forward, moved, with her breath stuck in
her chest, seeing herself from another dimension, as if she were on a stage representing
the most dramatic moment of the long theater that had been her existence, with the
names of her husband and her son on her lips and the best disposition to be forgiven
for so many years of abandonment. In those couple of minutes he saw the minute gears
of the trap he had been in during three decades of hallucinations. She understood that
the true hero of the novel was Ez¡o Longo, and she wanted to believe that he had
continued to desire her and wait for her during all those years with the persistent and
passionate love that Leonardo Gómez could never give her because it was not in his
nature.
At that moment, when one more step would have brought her out of the shadowy
zone and exposed her, the young man leaned down, seized his father's wrist, and
said something to him with a sympathetic wink. They both burst out laughing, slapping
each other's arms, ruffling each other's hair, with a masculine tenderness and firm
complicity from which Maurizia Rugieri and the rest of the world were excluded. She
wavered for an infinite moment on the border between reality and dream, then backed
away, walking out of the tavern, opening her black umbrella, and walking home with
the macaw flying overhead like some bizarre calendar archangel.
WALIMAI
The name my father gave me is Walimai, which in the language of our northern
brothers means wind. I can tell you about it, because now you are like my own
daughter and you have my permission to name me, even if only when we are with
the family. You must be very careful with the names of people and living beings,
because pronouncing them touches their heart and we enter into their vital force.
This is how we greet each other as blood relatives. I don't understand how easy it
is for foreigners to call each other without fear, which is not only disrespectful, it
can also cause serious danger. I have noticed that these people speak with the
greatest lightness, without taking into account that speaking is also being. The
gesture and the word are the thought of man. One should not speak in vain, that
is what I have taught my children, but my advice is not always listened to. Formerly
taboos and traditions were respected. My grandparents and my grandparents'
grandparents received the necessary knowledge from their grandparents. Nothing
changed for them. A man with a good teaching could remember each of the
received teachings and thus knew how to act at all times. But then the foreigners
came speaking against the wisdom of the elders and pushing us out of our land.
We go deeper and deeper into the jungle, but they always catch up with us,
sometimes it takes years, but finally they arrive again and then we must destroy
the crops, put the children on our backs, tie up the animals and leave. This is how
it has been since I can remember: leaving everything and running like mice and
not like the great warriors and the gods that inhabited this territory in ancient times.
Some young people are curious about the whites and while we travel deep into
the forest to continue living like our ancestors, others take the opposite path. We
regard those who leave as dead, because very few return, and those who do have
changed so much that we cannot recognize them as relatives.
They say that in the years before I came into the world not enough females
were born in our village and that is why my father had to travel long roads to find
a wife in another tribe. He traveled through the woods, following the directions of
others who had traveled that route before for the same reason, and who returned
with foreign women. After a long time, when my father was beginning to lose hope
of finding a mate, he saw a girl at the foot of a high waterfall, a river that fell from
the sky. Without getting too close, so as not to scare her, he spoke to her in the
tone used by hunters to reassure their prey, and explained his need to marry her.
She waved him over, observed him openly, and must have been pleased with the
traveler's appearance, for she decided that the idea of marriage was not entirely
far-fetched. My father had to work for his father-in-law until he paid him the value
of the woman. After completing the wedding rites, the two of them made the
journey back to our village.
I grew up with my brothers under the trees, never seeing the sun. Sometimes a
wounded tree fell and a hole was left in the deep dome of the forest, then we would
see the blue eye of heaven. My parents told me stories, sang me songs and taught
me what men must know to survive without help, only with their bow and arrows. In
this way I was free. We, the Children of the Moon, cannot live without freedom.
When they lock us up between walls or bars, we turn inward, we become blind and
deaf, and in a few days the spirit detaches itself from our chest bones and leaves
us. Sometimes we become like miserable animals, but almost always we prefer to
die. That's why our houses don't have
walls, just a sloping roof to stop the wind and divert the rain, under which we hang our
hammocks close together, because we like to listen to the dreams of women and
children and feel the breath of monkeys and dogs and limpets, who sleep under the
same eaves. The first times I lived in the jungle without knowing that there was a world
beyond the cliffs and rivers. On some occasions visiting friends from other tribes came
and told us rumors about Boa Vista and El Platanal, about foreigners and their customs,
but we thought they were just stories to make us laugh. I became a man and it was my
turn to get a wife, but I decided to wait because I preferred hanging out with singles, we
were happy and we had fun. However, I couldn't dedicate myself to playing and resting
like others, because my family is large: brothers, cousins, nephews, several mouths to
feed, a lot of work for a hunter.
One day a group of pale men came to our village. They hunted with gunpowder, from
afar, without skill or courage, they were unable to climb a tree or spear a fish into the
water, they could hardly move in the jungle, always entangled in their backpacks, their
weapons and even their bags. own feet. They did not dress in air, like us, but had soaked
and stinking clothes, they were dirty and did not know the rules of decency, but they were
determined to tell us about their knowledge and their gods. We compared them with what
we had been told about the whites and verified the truth of that gossip. We soon found
out that these were not missionaries, soldiers or rubber tappers, they were crazy, they
wanted the land and the wood, they were also looking for stones. We explained to them
that the jungle cannot be carried on one's back and transported like a dead bird, but they
did not want to listen to reasons. They settled near our village. Each one of them was like
a catastrophic wind, destroying everything it touched in its path, leaving a trail of waste,
disturbing animals and people. At first we complied with the rules of courtesy and we gave
them the pleasure, because they were our guests, but they were not satisfied with
anything, they always wanted more, until, tired of those games, we started the war with
all the usual ceremonies. They are not good warriors, they are easily frightened and have
soft bones. They couldn't resist the club blows we gave them on the head. After that we
left the village and headed east, where the forest is impenetrable, traveling long ways
through the treetops to avoid being overtaken by their companions. The news had reached
us that they are vengeful and that for each one of them that dies, even in a clean battle,
they are capable of eliminating an entire tribe including the children. We discovered a
place to establish another village. It wasn't that good, the women had to walk for hours to
get clean water, but we stayed there because we thought no one would look for us that
far away. After a year, on one occasion when I had to go far away on the trail of a cougar,
I got too close to a soldiers' camp. I was tired and had not eaten for several days, so my
understanding was dazed. Instead of turning around when I sensed the presence of the
foreign soldiers, I lay down to rest. The soldiers caught me.
However, they did not mention the beatings inflicted on the others, in fact they did not
ask me anything, perhaps they did not know these people or did not know that I am
Walimai. They took me to work with the rubber tappers, where there were many men
from other tribes, whom they had dressed in pants and forced to work, without considering
their wishes at all. Rubber requires a lot of dedication and there weren't enough people
in those parts, so they had to bring us by force. That was a period without freedom and I
don't want to talk about it. I stayed alone to see if I learned something, but from the
beginning I knew that I was going to return to my family. No one can hold for
a warrior for a long time against his will.

They worked from sunrise to sunset, some bleeding the trees to take their life drop
by drop, others cooking the collected liquid to thicken it and turn it into large balls.
The open air was sick with the smell of burning rubber, and the air in the
dormitories was sick with the sweat of the men. In that place I could never breathe
fully. They fed us corn, bananas, and the strange contents of some cans, which I
never tried because nothing good for humans can grow in jars. At one end of the
camp they had set up a large hut where they kept the women. After two weeks
working with the rubber, the foreman handed me a piece of paper and sent me to
them. He also gave me a cup of liquor, which I overturned on the ground, because I
have seen how that water destroys prudence. I lined up, with everyone else. I was
the last one and when it was my turn to enter the hut, the sun had already set and
night was beginning, with its noise of toads and parrots.
She was from the Ila tribe, the sweet-hearted, where the most delicate girls come
from. Some men travel for months to get close to the lla, bring them gifts and hunt
for them, hoping to get one of their wives. I recognized her despite her lizard
appearance, because my mother was also an Ila.
She was naked on a mat, tied by the ankle with a chain fixed to the ground,
lethargic, as if she had inhaled the "yopo" of the acacia through her nose, she had
the smell of sick dogs and was wet from the dew of all the men who were upon her
before me. He was the size of a child of a few years, his bones sounded like pebbles
in the river. The lla women remove all the hair from their bodies, even their eyelashes,
they decorate their ears with feathers and flowers, they pierce their cheeks and nose
with polished sticks, they paint drawings all over their bodies with the colors of
annatto red, purple of the palm tree and black of the coal. But she no longer had any
of that. I left my machete on the ground and greeted her as a sister, imitating some
birdsong and the noise of the rivers. She did not answer. I hit his chest hard, to see if
his spirit resonated between his ribs, but there was no echo, his soul was very weak
and he could not answer me. Squatting by her side I gave her a little water to drink
and spoke to her in my mother's language. She opened her eyes and looked long. I
understood.
First of all I washed without wasting clean water. I took a big sip into my mouth and
squirted it into my hands, which I rubbed together well, then soaked to clean my face.
I did the same with her, to remove the dew from men. I took off the pants the foreman
had given me. From the rope around my waist hung my firesticks, some arrowheads,
my roll of tobacco, my wooden knife with a rat's tooth on it, and a sturdy leather bag in
which I kept some curare. I put a little of that paste on the point of my knife, leaned
over the woman and with the poisoned instrument I opened a cut on her neck. Life is a
gift from the gods. The hunter kills to feed his family, he tries not to taste the meat of
his prey and prefers what another hunter offers him. Sometimes, unfortunately, a man
kills another in war, but he can never hurt a woman or a child. She looked at me with
big eyes, yellow as honey, and I think she tried to smile gratefully. For her I had violated
the first taboo of the Children of the Moon and I would have to pay for my shame with
many works of expiation. I put my ear to her mouth and she murmured her name. I
repeated it twice in my mind to be sure, but without saying it out loud, because you
shouldn't lie to the dead so as not to disturb their peace, and she already was, even
though her heart was still beating. I soon saw the muscles in his belly go numb,
of the chest and limbs, he lost his breath, changed color, let out a sigh, and his
body died without a fight, as small creatures die.
I immediately felt the spirit come out of his nostrils and enter me, clinging to my
sternum. Her full weight fell on me and I had to struggle to my feet, moving clumsily
as if I were underwater.
I bent her body into the last rest position, with her knees touching her chin, tied her up
with the ropes of the mat, made a pile with the remains of the straw, and used my sticks
to make a fire. When I saw that the fire was burning safe, I slowly left the hut, climbed
the fence of the camp with much difficulty, for she was dragging me down, and made my
way to the woods. I had reached the first trees when I heard the alarm bells.
The entire first day I walked without stopping for a moment. On the second day I made
a bow and arrows and with them I was able to hunt for her and also for myself. The
warrior who carries the weight of another human life must fast for ten days, thus
weakening the spirit of the deceased, which finally detaches and goes to the territory of
souls. If he doesn't, the spirit gets fat with food and grows inside the man until it
suffocates him. I've seen some hard-liver die like that. But before fulfilling those
requirements, I had to lead the spirit of the woman into the darkest vegetation, where it
would never be found. I ate very little, barely enough not to kill her a second time. Every
bite in my mouth tasted like rotten meat and every sip of water was bitter, but I forced
myself to swallow to nourish us both. During one complete revolution of the moon I
entered the jungle inside carrying the soul of the woman, which each day weighed
more. We talk a lot. The language of the Ila is free and resounds under the trees with a
long echo. We communicate singing, with the whole body, with the eyes, with the waist,
the feet. I repeated to her the legends that I learned from my mother and father, I told
her my past and she told me the first part of hers, when she was a happy girl who
played with her brothers rolling in the mud and swinging from the highest branches. .
Out of courtesy, he did not mention his last time of misery and humiliation. I hunted a
white bird, plucked its best feathers, and made ornaments for its ears. At night he kept a
small bonfire lit so that she wouldn't be cold and so that the jaguars and snakes wouldn't
disturb her sleep. In the river I bathed her carefully, rubbing her with ashes and crushed
flowers, to remove the bad memories.
Finally one day we arrived at the right place and we no longer had any more excuses
to continue walking. There the jungle was so dense that in some parts I had to break
through the vegetation with my machete and even with my teeth, and we had to speak
in a low voice, so as not to disturb the silence of time. I chose a spot near a trickle of
water, put up a roof of leaves, and made a hammock for her out of three long pieces of
bark. With my knife I shaved my head and began my fast.
During the time that we walked together, the woman and I loved each other so much
that we no longer wanted to be separated, but the man is not master of life, not even
his own, so I had to fulfill my obligation. For many days I did not put anything in my
mouth, just a few sips of water. As her strength weakened, she began to break away
from my embrace, and her spirit, more and more ethereal, no longer weighed on me
as before. After five days she took her first steps around, while I was dozing, but she
was not ready to continue her journey alone and she returned to my side. He repeated
these excursions on several occasions, each time getting a little further away. The
pain of her departure was as terrible to me as a burn, and it took all the courage
learned from my father not to call her name out loud, thus drawing her back to me
forever. At twelve days I dreamed that she
I was flying like a toucan above the treetops and I woke up with a very light body
and wanting to cry. She was definitely gone. I took my weapons and walked for
many hours until I reached an arm of the river. I plunged waist-deep into the water,
speared a small fish with a sharp stick, and swallowed it whole, scales and tail. I
immediately vomited it up with a bit of blood, as it should. I no longer felt sad. I
learned then that sometimes death is more powerful than love. Then I went hunting
so as not to return to my village empty-handed.
ESTER LUCERO
They carried Ester Lucero to him on a makeshift stretcher, bleeding to death like an ox, her
dark eyes wide with terror. Seeing her, Dr. Ángel Sánchez lost his proverbial calm for the first
time and it was no wonder, since he had been in love with her since the day he saw her, when
she was still a girl. At that time she still hadn't let go of her dolls and he, on the other hand, had
returned a thousand years old from his last Glorious Campaign. He arrived at the town at the
head of his column, sitting on the roof of a truck, with a rifle on his knees, a beard that was
months old, and a bullet lodged forever in his groin, but as happy as he had never been before
or since.
He saw the girl waving a red paper flag, in the middle of the crowd that cheered the liberators.
At that time he was thirty years old and she was close to twelve, but Ángel Sánchez guessed,
from the firm alabaster bones and the depth of the girl's gaze, the beauty that was secretly
brewing. He observed her from the top of his vehicle, convinced that it was a vision caused
by the fever of the swamps and the enthusiasm of victory, but since that night he found no
comfort in the arms of the fleeting girlfriend who happened to be his turn, he understood that
he should go out looking for that creature, at least to verify its condition as a mirage. The next
day, when the street riots of the celebration had calmed down and the task of ordering the
world and sweeping up the rubble of the dictatorship began, Sánchez went out to tour the
town. His first idea was to visit the schools, but he found out that they were closed since the
last battle, so he had to knock on the doors one by one. After several days of patient pilgrimage,
and when he already thought that the girl had been a deception of his exhausted heart, he
arrived at a tiny house painted blue and with the front pierced with bullets, whose only window
opened onto the street without more protection than flowery curtains. He knocked several
times without getting an answer, so he decided to go inside. The interior was a single room,
poorly furnished, cool, and dim. He crossed the room, opened a door, and found himself in a
large patio cluttered with junk and junk, with a hammock slung under a mango tree, a washing
trough, a chicken coop at the far end, and a profusion of tin jars and clay pots where herbs,
vegetables and flowers grew. There he finally found who he thought he had dreamed of. Ester
Lucero was barefoot, in an ordinary canvas dress, her hair tied at the nape of her neck with a
shoestring, helping her grandmother hang the clothes out in the sun. When they saw him, they
both instinctively backed away, because they had learned to distrust anyone wearing boots.
"Don't be scared, I'm a comrade," he introduced himself with the greasy beret in his hand.
From that day on, Ángel Sánchez limited himself to desiring Ester Lucero in silence,
ashamed of his unspeakable passion for a prepubescent girl. Because of her, he refused to go
to the capital when the spoils of power were distributed, preferring to remain in charge of the
only hospital in that forgotten town. She did not aspire to consummate love beyond the realm
of her own imagination. He lived on tiny satisfactions: seeing her go to school, taking care of
her when she was infected with measles, providing her with vitamins during the years when
milk, eggs and meat were only enough for the little ones and the rest had to make do with
plantains and corn. , visit her in her patio, where she would sit on a chair to teach her the
multiplication tables under the watchful eye of her grandmother. Ester Lucero ended up calling
him uncle for lack of a more appropriate name, and the old woman, accepting his presence as
another of the inexplicable mysteries of the Revolution.
-What interest can an educated man, doctor, head of the hospital and hero of the
homeland, in the talk of an old woman and the silences of her granddaughter? the
town comadres wondered.
In the following years, the girl flourished as almost always happens, but Ángel Sánchez
believed that in her case she was some kind of prodigy and that only he could see the beauty
that was growing up hidden under the innocent dresses made by the grandmother in her
sewing machine. to sew. He was sure that in his wake the senses of whoever saw her were
disturbed, just as was the case with his own, which is why he was surprised not to find a
whirlwind of suitors around Ester Lucero. He lived tormented by overwhelming feelings:
precise jealousy of all men, a perennial melancholy -fruit of hopelessness- and the fever of
hell that haunted him at siesta time, when he imagined the girl naked and wet, calling him
with obscene gestures. in the shadows of the room. No one ever knew of his stormy moods.
His self-control became second nature, and he gained a reputation as a good man. Finally
the matrons of the town got tired of looking for a girlfriend and ended up accepting that the
doctor was a bit strange.
"He doesn't look like a fagot," they concluded, "but maybe malaria or the bullet in his
crotch have taken away his taste for women forever." Ángel Sánchez cursed his mother,
who had brought him into the world twenty years too early, and his destiny, which had left
so many scars on his body and soul. She prayed that some whim of nature would distort
the harmony and obscure the light of Ester Lucero, so that no one would suspect that she was
the most beautiful woman in this world and in any other. That is why on the fateful Thursday,
when they took her to the hospital on a stretcher with the grandmother marching in front and a
procession of onlookers behind, the doctor gave a visceral scream. Pulling back the sheet and
seeing the young woman pierced by a horrendous wound, he believed that by so much wishing
that she never belonged to another man, he had caused that catastrophe.
"She climbed on the patio handle, slipped and fell on the stake where we tied the goose,"
explained the grandmother.
-Poor thing, she was pierced like a vampire. It was not easy to unnail it, clarified a neighbor
who helped transport the stretcher.
Ester Lucero closed her eyes and complained slightly. From that moment on, Ángel
Sánchez fought a personal duel against death. He tried everything to save the young
woman. He operated on her, injected her, gave her transfusions with her own blood and
filled her with antibiotics, but after two days it was evident that life was escaping from the
wound like an uncontrollable torrent. Sitting in a chair next to the dying woman, exhausted
by tension and sadness, he rested his head on the foot of the bed and for a few minutes fell
asleep like a newborn. While he dreamed of gigantic flies, she was lost in the nightmares of
her agony, and so they found themselves in a no man's land and in the shared dream she
clung to his hand and begged him not to be overcome by death. and not abandon her. Ángel
Sánchez woke up startled by the clear memory of Negro Rivas and the absurd miracle that
brought him back to life. She ran outside and bumped into Grandma in the hallway, who was
in a murmur of endless prayers.
- Keep praying, I'll be back in fifteen minutes! he yelled as he passed.

Ten years before, when Ángel Sánchez was marching with his companions through the
jungle, knee-deep in vegetation and the inconsolable torture of mosquitoes and heat,
cornered, crossing the country in all directions to ambush the soldiers of the dictatorship,
when they were nothing more than a handful of crazy visionaries with a belt full of bullets, a
backpack full of poems and a head full of ideals, when they hadn't smelled a woman for
months or poured soap over their bodies, when hunger
and fear was a second skin and the only thing that kept them moving was despair,
when they saw enemies everywhere and mistrusted even their own shadows, then
Negro Rivas fell down a ravine and rolled eight meters into the abyss, crashing
noiselessly, like a bag of rags. It took his companions twenty minutes to descend with
ropes between sharp stones and twisted trunks, and find him submerged in the
bushes, and almost two hours to haul him up, drenched in blood.
El Negro Rivas, a brave and cheerful big shoulder, with the song always ready on
his lips and a willingness to throw another weaker combatant over his shoulder, was
open as a grenade, with his ribs exposed and a deep gash that began in the back
and ended in the middle of the chest. Sánchez carried his emergency case, but that
was completely beyond his modest resources. Without the slightest hope, he sutured
the wound, bandaged it with strips of cloth, and administered the available medicines.
They placed the man on a piece of canvas stretched between two poles and carried
him that way, taking turns carrying him, until it was evident that each jolt was a minute
less life, because Negro Rivas oozed like a spring and raved about iguanas with
breasts of woman and salt hurricanes.
They were planning to camp to let him die in peace, when someone spotted two
Indians delousing amicably on the banks of a black water well. A little further on, sunk
in the dense mist of the jungle, was the village. It was a tribe immobilized in remote
ages, with no more contact with this century than some daring missionary who
unsuccessfully went to preach the laws of God to them and, what is more serious,
without ever having heard of the Insurrection or having heard the cry of Homeland.
Or death. Despite these differences and the language barrier, the Indians understood
that these exhausted men posed no great danger and gave them a timid welcome.
The rebels pointed to the dying man. The one who seemed to be the boss led them to
a hut in eternal darkness, where a stench of urine and mud floated.
There they laid Negro Rivas down on a mat, surrounded by his companions and the
entire tribe. Shortly after, the sorcerer arrived in ceremonial attire. The commander
was shocked to see his peony necklaces, his fanatic eyes, and the crust of dirt on
his body, but Ángel Sánchez explained that very little could be done for the wounded
man and whatever the sorcerer could achieve - even if it was only help him die - was
better than nothing. The commander ordered his men to lower their weapons and
remain silent, so that this strange, half-naked sage could ply his trade without
distraction.
Two hours later the fever had disappeared and Negro Rivas could swallow water.
The next day the healer returned and repeated the treatment. At nightfall the patient
was sitting eating a thick porridge of corn and two days later he was rehearsing his
first steps around the area, with the wound in full healing process.
While the other guerrillas followed the progress of the convalescent, Ángel Sánchez
toured the area with the sorcerer, gathering plants in his bag. Years later, Negro
Rivas became Chief of Police in the capital and he only remembered that he was about
to die when he took off his shirt to hug a new woman, who invariably asked him about
that long seam that split him. in two.
"If Negro Rivas was saved by a naked Indian, I'll save Ester Lucero, even if I have to
make a pact with the devil," Ángel Sánchez concluded as he walked around his house
looking for the herbs he had kept for all those years and which, until that moment, I
had completely forgotten. He found them wrapped in newspaper, dry and brittle, at the
bottom of a dilapidated trunk, along with his notebook of verses, his beret, and other
memorabilia from the war.
The doctor returned to the hospital running like a hunted man, under the leaden
heat that melted the asphalt. He jumped up the stairs and burst into Ester Lucero's
room drenched in sweat. The grandmother and the nurse on duty saw him run past
and approached the peephole in the door. They watched as he took off his white coat,
cotton shirt, dark pants, smuggled socks, and the rubber-soled shoes he always wore.
Horrified, they saw him take off his underpants as well and stand naked, like a recruit.
-Holy Mary, mother of God! exclaimed the grandmother. Through the small window in
the door they could catch a glimpse of the doctor as he moved the bed to the center of
the room and, after placing both hands on Ester Lucero's head for a few seconds,
began a frantic dance around the patient. She raised her knees to touch her chest,
made deep bows, waved her arms, and made grotesque faces, without losing for an
instant the inner rhythm that gave wings to her feet. And for half an hour he did not
stop dancing like a fool, dodging the oxygen canisters and IV bottles. Then she took
some dried leaves from the pocket of her robe, placed them in a basin, crushed them
into a coarse powder with her fist, spat on them profusely, mixed it all together to form
a paste, and approached the dying woman. The women saw him remove the bandages
and, as the nurse reported in her report, smear the wound with that disgusting mixture,
without the slightest consideration for the laws of asepsis or for the fact that he was
displaying his shame in the nude. Finished the cure, the man fell sitting on the ground,
totally exhausted, but illuminated by a saint's smile.
If Dr. Ángel Sánchez had not been the director of the hospital and an
undisputed hero of the Revolution, he would have been placed in a straitjacket and
sent without further ado to the asylum. But no one dared to break down the door that
he locked with the bolt, and when the mayor made the decision to do it with the help
of the firefighters, fourteen hours had already passed and Ester Lucero was sitting on
the stretcher, with her eyes open, looking amused at her uncle Ángel, who had taken
off his clothes again and was beginning the second stage of treatment with new ritual
dances. Two days later, when the Ministry of Health commission sent especially from
the capital arrived, the patient was walking down the corridor arm in arm with her
grandmother, the whole town was filing through the third floor to see the resuscitated
girl and the hospital director , dressed with impeccable propriety, received his
colleagues behind his desk. The commission refrained from asking details about the
doctor's unusual dances and devoted its attention to inquiring about the witch's
wonderful plants.
A few years have passed since Ester Lucero fell off the mango. The young woman
married an atmosphere inspector and went to live in the capital, where she gave birth
to a girl with alabaster bones and dark eyes. From time to time he sends his uncle
Ángel nostalgic cards sprinkled with spelling horrors. The Ministry of Health has
organized four expeditions to search for the portentous herbs in the jungle, without
any success. The vegetation swallowed the indigenous village and with it the hope of
a scientific medicine against irremediable accidents.
Dr. Ángel Sánchez is left alone, with no other company than the image of Ester
Lucero who visits him in his room at siesta time, burning his soul in a perpetual
bacchanalia. The doctor's prestige has greatly increased throughout the region,
because they hear him speak to the stars in aboriginal languages.
MARÍA LA BOBA
María, the fool, believed in love. That made her a living legend. All the neighbors attended his
funeral, even the policemen and the blind man from the kiosk, who rarely left his business. Calle
República was left empty, and as a sign of mourning they hung black ribbons on the balconies
and extinguished the red lanterns of the houses. Each person has their story and in that
neighborhood they are almost always sad, stories of accumulated poverty and injustice, of
violence suffered, of children who died before being born and of lovers who leave, but María's
was different, she had an elegant shine that He let other people's imagination fly. She managed
to ply her trade on her own, managing herself quietly, discreetly. He never had the slightest
curiosity about alcohol or drugs, he wasn't even interested in the five-peso consolations that the
neighborhood fortune tellers and prophets sold. She seemed safe from the torments of hope,
protected by the quality of her invented love. She was a harmless-looking little woman, short in
stature, with fine features and gestures, all meekness and softness, but the times that some
pimp tried to lay his hand on her, he found himself with a drooling beast, all claws and fangs,
ready to return each blow, so was his life. They learned to leave her alone. While other women
spent their lives hiding bruises under thick layers of cheap makeup, she aged respectfully, with
a certain air of a queen in rags. She was completely unaware of the prestige of her name or the
legend that had been embroidered at her expense. She was an old prostitute with the soul of a
maiden.
A murderous trunk and a dark-haired man with the smell of the sea insistently appeared in
her memories, and thus her friends discovered the pieces of her life one by one and patiently
put them together, adding what was missing with fantasy resources, until they reconstructed
a past for her. . She was certainly not like the other women in that place.
He came from a remote world, where the skin is paler and Spanish has a resounding accent,
with hard consonants. She was born to be a great lady, that's what the other women deduced
from her elaborate way of speaking and her strange manners, and if there was any doubt, she
dispelled it when she died. He left with dignity intact. She did not suffer from any known
disease, she was not frightened or breathed through her ears like ordinary dying people, she
simply announced that she could no longer bear the tedium of being alive, put on her party
dress, painted her lips red and opened the curtains of oilcloth that gave access to her room,
so that everyone could accompany her.
"Now the time has come for me to die," was his only explanation.
She lay back on her bed, her back propped up on three pillows, with starched covers for
the occasion, and drank without breathing a large pitcher of thick chocolate. The other
women laughed, but when there was no way to wake her four hours later, they understood
that their decision was absolute and began to spread the word through the neighborhood.
Some came just out of curiosity, but most showed up in real grief, staying there to keep her
company. Her friends strained coffee to offer to the visitors, because they thought it was in bad
taste to serve liquor, lest they mistake that for a celebration. At about six o'clock in the evening,
Maria shuddered, opened her eyelids, looked around her without distinguishing the faces, and
immediately left this world.
That was it. Someone suggested that perhaps she had swallowed poison with the chocolate,
in which case they would all be to blame for not getting her to the hospital on time, but no
one paid any attention to such slander.
"If Maria decided to leave, it was her right, because she had no children or parents to
take care of," the lady of the house declared.
They did not want to watch her in a funeral establishment, because the premeditated
stillness of her death was a solemn event on República Street and it was only fair that her
last hours before going down to earth were spent in the environment where she had lived
and not as a foreigner whose mourning no one wants to take over. There were opinions
about whether watching over the dead in that house would bring bad luck to the soul of the
deceased or those of the clients, and just in case they broke a mirror to surround the coffin
and brought holy water from the Seminary chapel, to splash in the corners . That night
there was no work at the premises, there was no music or laughter, but there was no crying
either. They installed the box on a table in the living room, the neighbors lent chairs and
the visitors settled there to drink coffee and talk in a low voice. In the center was Maria with
her head resting on a satin cushion, her hands crossed and the photo of her dead child on
her chest. Over the course of the night his skin tone changed, until it ended as dark as
chocolate.
I learned about Maria's story during those long hours that we watched over her coffin.
His companions told that he was born at the time of the First War, in a province in the
south of the continent, where the trees lose their leaves in the middle of the year and the
cold penetrates the bones. She was the daughter of a superb family of Spanish emigrants.
Upon reviewing his room, they found some brittle and yellow papers in a cookie box,
including a birth certificate, photographs and letters. His father was a ranch owner, and
according to a time-faded newspaper clipping, his mother had been a pianist before she
was married. When Maria was twelve years old, she wandered through a railroad crossing
distracted and was hit by a freight train. They rescued her between the rails with no
apparent damage, she had only a few scratches and had lost her hat. However, soon after,
everyone was able to verify that the impact had transported the girl to a state of innocence
from which she would never return. He forgot even the school rudiments he had learned
before the accident, he barely remembered a few piano lessons and the use of the sewing
needle, and when they spoke to him he remained absent. What he did not forget, on the
other hand, were the rules of civility, which he kept intact until his last day.
The blow of the locomotive left Maria incapable of reasoning, attention or rancor. She was
therefore well equipped for happiness, but that was not her luck. When she turned sixteen,
her parents, eager to pass on the burden of their somewhat retarded daughter to another,
decided to marry her off before her beauty withered, and they chose a certain Dr. Guevara,
a man with a retired life and ill-disposed for marriage. , but that he owed them some money
and he could not refuse when they suggested the link. That same year the wedding was
held in private, as befitted a lunatic bride and a groom several decades older.
Maria arrived at the marriage bed with the mind of a child, although her body had matured
and was already that of a woman. The train swept away his natural curiosity, but it could
not destroy the impatience of his senses. I only had what I had learned from observing the
animals on the ranch, I knew that cold water is good for separating the dogs that get stuck
during intercourse and that the rooster fluffs out its feathers and clucks when it wants to
step on the hen, but no. found suitable use for that data. On her wedding night, she saw a
trembling old man in an open flannel robe walking toward her, something unexpected
under his navel. The surprise produced a constipation of which he did not dare to speak
and when it began to swell like a balloon, he drank a bottle of Margarita Water - an
antiscruful and restorative remedy, which in large quantities served as a purge - because
of which she spent twenty-two days sitting on the bedpan, so sick she almost lost some
vital organs, but that didn't deflate her. Soon he couldn't
buttoning their clothes and in due time gave birth to a blond boy. After a month in bed,
eating chicken broth and two liters of milk a day, she woke up stronger and more lucid than
she had ever been in her life. She seemed cured of her state of perennial somnambulism
and even had the courage to buy elegant clothes; However, he did not manage to show off
his new trousseau, because Mr. Guevara suffered a sudden attack and died sitting in the
dining room, soup spoon in hand. María resigned herself to wearing mourning clothes and
veiled hats, buried in a tomb of rags. Thus she spent two years in black, knitting vests for
the poor, entertaining herself with her lapdogs and with her son, whom she combed with
curls and dressed as a girl, as he appears in one of the portraits found in the cookie box,
where she you can see him sitting on a bearskin and illuminated by supernatural lightning.
For the widow, time stopped in a perpetual instant, the air in the rooms remained
unchanged, with the same ancient smell that her husband left behind. She continued to
live in the same house, cared for by loyal servants and closely watched by her parents and
siblings, who took turns visiting her daily, supervising her spending, and making even the
smallest decisions. The seasons passed, the leaves fell from the trees in the garden, and
the hummingbirds of summer reappeared, with no change in their routine. Sometimes she
wondered the cause of her black dresses, because she had forgotten the decrepit husband
who on a couple of occasions weakly embraced her between the linen sheets, and then,
repenting of his lust, threw himself at the feet of the Madonna and whipped himself with a
horse whip. From time to time she would open the closet to shake out the dresses and
could not resist the temptation to take off her dark clothes and secretly try on the beaded
embroidered suits, fur stoles, satin shoes and kidskin gloves. She looked at herself in the
triple moon of the mirror and greeted that woman dressed for a dance in which it was very
difficult for her to recognize herself.
After two years of solitude, the rumor of blood boiling in his body became intolerable.
On Sundays at the church door she would linger to watch the men go by, drawn by the
hoarse sound of their voices, their shaven cheeks, and the scent of tobacco.
Surreptitiously, she raised the veil of her hat and smiled at them. Her father and brothers
were quick to notice this and, convinced that this American land corrupted even the
decency of widows, they decided in a family council to send her to some uncles in Spain,
where without a doubt she would be safe from frivolous temptations, protected by the
strong traditions and power of the Church. Thus began the journey that would change the
destiny of María, la boba.
Her parents put her on an ocean liner accompanied by her son, a maid and the lap dogs.
The complicated luggage included, in addition to the furniture in Maria's room and her
piano, a cow that went to the ship's hold to provide the child with fresh milk. Among many
suitcases and hat boxes, he also carried a huge trunk with bronze edges and rivets, which
contained party dresses rescued from mothballs. The family did not think that at the house
of the uncles, María had any opportunity to use them, but they did not want to upset her.
The first three days the traveler could not leave her bunk, overcome by dizziness, but finally
she got used to the rocking of the ship and managed to get up. So she called the maid to
help her unpack her clothes for the long journey.
María's existence was marked by sudden misfortunes, like that train that took her spirit
away and threw her back into an irreversible childhood. She was arranging the dresses
in the closet of her cabin, when the boy peeked into the open trunk. At that instant a jolt
from the ship slammed the heavy lid shut and the metal blade caught the creature in the
neck, breaking its neck. It took three sailors to free the mother from the cursed trunk and
a dose of laudanum capable of knocking down a
athlete to prevent her from pulling out her hair in clumps and ramming her face with her
nails. He howled for hours and then went into a twilight state, rocking from side to side,
just like the days when he gained fame as an idiot. The captain of the ship announced the
unfortunate news through a loudspeaker, read a brief response, and then ordered the little
corpse to be wrapped in a flag and thrown overboard, because they were already in the
middle of the ocean and there was no way to preserve it until the next port.
Several days after the tragedy, Maria walked unsteadily out for the first time on deck.
It was a warm night and from the bottom of the sea rose an unsettling smell of
seaweed, shellfish, submerged ships, which entered his nostrils and ran through his
veins with the effect of a telluric shock. He was looking at the horizon, his mind blank and
his skin standing on end from the heels to the nape of his neck, when he heard an insistent
whistle and when he turned around he discovered two floors below a silhouette illuminated
by the moon, waving at him. She went down the stairs in a trance, approached the dark-
haired man who was calling her, submissively she allowed herself to be removed from her
veils and mourning robes and accompanied him behind a coil of ropes. Pummeled by a
shock similar to that of the train, she learned in less than three minutes the difference
between an elderly husband, worn out by the fear of God, and an insatiable Greek sailor
burning with the hardship of several weeks of oceanic chastity. Dazzled, the woman
discovered her own possibilities, dried her tears and asked for more. They spent part of the
night getting to know each other and were only separated when they heard the emergency
siren, a terrible roar of a shipwreck that broke the silence of the fish. Thinking that the
inconsolable mother had thrown herself into the sea, the servant had raised the alarm and
all the crew, except the Greek, were looking for her.
María met her lover behind the ropes every night, until the ship approached the
Caribbean coast and the sweet perfume of flowers and fruits carried by the breeze
finished disturbing her senses. She then accepted her companion's proposal to leave
the ship, where the ghost of the dead child haunted and where there were so many eyes
spying on them, she put the money for the trip in her glasses and said goodbye to her
past as a respectable lady. They unhooked a boat and disappeared at dawn, leaving the
servant, the puppies, the cow, and the murderous trunk on board. The man rowed with
his thick navigator's arms toward a stupendous harbor that appeared before his eyes in
the light of dawn like an apparition from another world, with its ranches, its palm trees,
and its many-colored birds. There the two fugitives settled while their money reserve
lasted.
The sailor turned out to be a quarrelsome and a drinker. He spoke gibberish that was
incomprehensible to María and to the inhabitants of that place, but he managed to
communicate with grimaces and smiles. She only woke up when he appeared to practice
with her the tricks she had learned in all the brothels from Singapore to Valparaíso, and the
rest of the time she remained stunned by a deadly languor. Bathed in the sweat of the
weather, the woman invented love without a partner, venturing alone into amazing territories,
with the audacity of someone who does not know the risks. The Greek lacked the intuition
to guess that he had opened a floodgate, that he himself was nothing but the instrument of
a revelation, and he was incapable of assessing the gift offered by that woman. At his side
was a creature preserved in limbo of invulnerable innocence, determined to explore her own
senses with the playful disposition of a puppy, but he couldn't follow her. Until then she had
not known the ease of pleasure, had not even imagined it, although it was always in her
blood like the germ of a burning fever. When she discovered it, she supposed that it was the
celestial bliss that the nuns at the school promised good girls in the Hereafter. He knew very
little about the world and was unable to look at a map to locate himself in
the planet, but when he saw the hibiscus and the parrots he thought he was in
paradise and he decided to enjoy it. No one knew her there, she was at ease for the
first time, far from home, from the inexorable tutelage of her parents and siblings, from
social pressures and mass veils, free at last to savor the torrent of emotions that was
born in her skin and penetrated by each filament to her deepest caverns, where it
overturned in waterfalls, leaving her exhausted and happy.
Mary's lack of malice, her imperviousness to sin or humiliation, ended up terrifying the
sailor. The pauses between each hug became longer, the man's absences more frequent,
the silence between the two grew. The Greek tried to escape from that woman with the
face of a girl who called him incessantly, humid, turgid, on fire, convinced that the widow
whom he seduced on the high seas had transformed into a perverse spider ready to
devour him like a fly on the sea. the tumult of the bed In vain he sought relief for his
overwhelmed virility by cavorting with prostitutes, fighting with knives and fists with pimps,
and betting the remainder of his sprees on cockfights. When he found himself with empty
pockets, he clung to that excuse to disappear altogether. Maria waited patiently for him
for several weeks. Sometimes she heard over the radio that some French sailor, a
deserter from a British ship, or a Dutchman escaped from a Portuguese ship, had been
stabbed to death in the rough neighborhoods of the port, but she listened to the news
without fretting, because He was waiting for a Greek escaped from an Italian liner. When
she could no longer bear the fever of her bones and the anxiety of her soul, she went
out to ask for comfort from the first man who passed by. She took him by the hand and
asked him in the most gentle and polite way, to do her the favor of undressing for her.
The stranger hesitated a bit before this young woman who in no way
resembled the neighborhood professionals, but whose proposition was very clear, despite
the unusual language. He calculated that he could distract ten minutes of his time with
her and followed her, not suspecting that he would be plunged into the whirlwind of
sincere passion. Amazed and moved, he went to tell everyone, leaving Maria a ticket on
the table. Others soon arrived, attracted by the gossip that there was a woman capable
of selling the illusion of love for a while. All customers left satisfied. This is how María
became the most famous prostitute in the port, whose name the sailors took tattooed on
their arms to make it known in other seas, until the legend went around the planet.
Time, poverty and the effort to outwit disappointment destroyed Maria's freshness. His
skin turned brownish, he lost weight to the bone, and for greater comfort he cut his hair
like a prisoner, but he maintained his elegant manners and the same enthusiasm for
each encounter with a man, because he did not see anonymous subjects in them, but
the reflection of herself in the arms of her imaginary lover.
Faced with reality, she was unable to perceive the sordid urgency of her
partner on duty, because each time she gave herself with the same irrevocable love,
anticipating, like a daring bride, the wishes of the other. With age her memory
became disordered, she spoke crazy things and by the time she moved to the capital
and settled on Calle República, she did not remember that she was once the inspiring
muse of so many verses improvised by sailors of all kinds. races and was perplexed
when one traveled from the port to the city, just to see if the one she had heard about
still existed somewhere in Asia. Confronted with that miserable grasshopper, that
pathetic pile of bones, that little woman of nothing, and seeing the legend reduced to
rubble, many turned and left in bewilderment, but others stayed out of pity. They
received an unexpected prize. María would close her oilcloth curtain and immediately
the quality of the
air in the room Later the man left amazed, taking with him the image of a
mythological girl and not the pitiful old woman he thought he saw at first.
María's past was gradually erased -her only clear memory was the terror of trains
and trunks- and if it had not been for the tenacity of her colleagues, no one would
have known her story. She lived waiting for the moment when the curtain of her
room would open to reveal the Greek sailor, or any other ghost born of her fantasy,
who would gather her in the precise circle of his arms to return the delight shared on
the deck of a ship. on the high seas, always looking for the ancient illusion in each
passing man, illuminated by an imaginary love, deceiving the shadows with fleeting
embraces, with sparks that were consumed before burning, and when he got bored
of waiting in vain and felt that he too his soul was covered with scales, he decided
that it was better to leave this world. And with the same delicacy and consideration
of all his actions, he then resorted to the jar of chocolate.
THE MOST FORGOTTEN OF OBLIVION
She allowed herself to be caressed, silent, beads of sweat on her waist, the smell of toasted
sugar on her still body, as if she had guessed that a single sound could rummage through
memories and ruin everything, turning that moment in which he was a dust into dust. A
person like everyone else, a casual lover she met in the morning, another man with no history
attracted by her spike hair, her freckled skin or the deep rattle of her gypsy bracelets, another
who approached her in the street and started walking with her. without a precise direction,
commenting on the weather or the traffic and observing the crowd, with that slightly forced
confidence of compatriots in a foreign land; a man with no sadness, no grudges, no guilt,
clean as ice, who simply wanted to spend the day with her wandering through bookstores
and parks, drinking coffee, celebrating the chance of having met, talking about old nostalgia,
about what life was like. when they both grew up in the same city, in the same neighborhood,
when I was fourteen, do you remember, the winters of frost-soaked shoes and paraffin stoves,
the summers of peaches, back in the forbidden country. Perhaps she felt a little lonely or it
seemed to her that it was an opportunity to make love without questions and that is why, at
the end of the afternoon, when there were no more excuses to continue walking, she took his
hand and led him to his house. He shared a seedy apartment with other exiles, in a yellow
building at the end of an alley full of garbage cans. His room was narrow, a mattress on the
floor covered with a striped blanket, shelves made of planks supported by two rows of bricks,
books, posters, clothes on a chair, a suitcase in a corner. There she took off her clothes
without preamble with the attitude of a complacent girl. He tried to love her. He walked
through her patiently, sliding down her hills and ravines, taking her leisurely routes, kneading
her, soft clay on the sheets, until she gave herself up, open. Then he stepped back with mute
reserve. She turned to look for him, curled up on the man's belly, hiding her face, as if bent
on modesty, while she felt him, licked him, whipped him. He wanted to abandon himself with
his eyes closed and he let her do it for a while, until sadness or shame overcame him and he
had to push her away. They lit another cigarette, there was no more complicity, the anticipated
urgency that united them during that day had been lost, and only two helpless creatures
remained on the bed, with absent memory, floating in the terrible emptiness of so many silent
words. When they met that morning, they didn't want anything extraordinary, they hadn't
wanted much, just some company and a little pleasure, nothing more, but when they met
they were overcome with grief. We're tired, she smiled, apologizing for that sadness installed
between the two of them.
In a last effort to buy time, he took the woman's face in his hands and kissed her eyelids.
They lay side by side, hand in hand, and talked about their lives in this country where they
happened to be, a green and generous place where, however, they would always be
strangers. He thought about getting dressed and saying goodbye, before the tarantula from
his nightmares poisoned the air, but he saw her young and vulnerable and wanted to be
her friend. Friend, he thought, not a lover, a friend to share a few quiet moments, without
demands or commitments, a friend to not be alone and to combat fear. He did not make up
his mind to leave or to let go of her hand. A warm, soft feeling, a tremendous pity for himself
and her made his eyes burn.
The curtain billowed like a sail and she got up to close the window, imagining that the
darkness could help them regain the desire to be together and the desire to embrace. But it
wasn't like that, he needed that piece of street light, because if he didn't feel trapped again
in the abyss of the ninety centimeters without time of the
cell, fermenting in his own excrement, insane. Leave the curtain open, I want to look at
you, he lied to her, because he did not dare to confide in her his terror of the night, when
thirst overwhelmed him again, the bandage tightening on his head like a crown of nails, the
visions of caves and the assault of so many ghosts I couldn't talk to him about it, because one
thing leads to another and you end up saying what has never been said.
She returned to the bed, caressed him without enthusiasm, ran her fingers over the small
marks, exploring them. Don't worry, it's not contagious, it's just scars, he laughed almost in a
sob. The girl caught his anguished tone and stopped, her face suspended, alert. At that moment
he should have told her that this was not the beginning of a new love, not even a fleeting
passion, it was just a moment of truce, a brief minute of innocence, and that soon, when she
fell asleep, he would would go; He should have told her that there would be no plans for them,
no furtive calls, they would not wander the streets together hand in hand again, nor would they
share lovers' games, but he could not speak, his voice stuck in his belly, like a claw. He knew
he was sinking. He tried to retain the reality that was slipping away from him, to anchor his spirit
in anything, in the messy clothes on the chair, in the books piled on the floor, in the Chile poster
on the wall, in the freshness of that Caribbean night, in the muffled noise of the street; He tried
to concentrate on that offered body and think only of the young woman's overflowing hair, of
her sweet smell. He begged her without a voice to please help him save those seconds, while
she watched him from the farthest corner of the bed, sitting like a fakir, her pale nipples and the
eye in her belly button looking back at him, registering his trembling, the crash from his teeth,
the moan. The man heard the silence grow inside him, he knew that his soul was breaking, as
it had happened so many times before, and he stopped fighting, letting go of the last hold on
the present, starting to roll down an endless cliff. He felt the straps embedded in his ankles and
wrists, the brutal shock, the ruptured tendons, the voices insulting, demanding names, the
unforgettable screams of Ana tortured by his side and of the others, hanging by the arms in the
courtyard.
What's wrong, for God's sake, what's wrong with you! Ana's voice reached him from afar.
No, Ana got stuck in the southern swamps. He thought he perceived a naked stranger,
who was shaking him and calling him names, but he could not get rid of the shadows where
whips and flags were waved. Cringing, he tried to control his nausea. He began to cry for Ana
and for the others. What's wrong with you?, again the girl calling him from somewhere.
Nothing, hug me...! he begged and she shyly approached him and wrapped her arms
around him, lulled him to sleep like a child, kissed him on the forehead, told him cry, cry, laid
him on his back on the bed and lay crucified on him.
They remained embraced like this for a thousand years, until the hallucinations
slowly faded away and he returned to the room, to discover himself alive despite
everything, breathing, beating, with her weight on his body, her head resting on his
chest, her arms and legs on his, two terrified orphans. And in that instant, as if she knew
everything, she told him that fear is stronger than desire, love, hate, guilt, rage, stronger
than loyalty. Fear is total, she concluded, tears rolling down her neck.
Everything stopped for the man, touched in the most hidden wound. He sensed that she was
not just a girl willing to make love out of pity, that she knew what was hidden beyond the
silence, the complete solitude, beyond the sealed box where he had hidden from the Colonel
and his their own betrayal, beyond the memory of Ana Díaz and the other betrayed
companions, whom they brought blindfolded one by one. How can she know all that? The
woman got up. Her slender arm was outlined against the clear haze of
the window, fumbling for the switch. She turned on the light and removed the metal
bracelets one by one, which fell noiselessly onto the bed. Her hair half covered her face as
she held out her hands. White scars crisscrossed her wrists, too. For an interminable
moment he watched them motionless until he understood everything, love, and saw her
strapped on the electric grill, and then they were able to embrace and cry, hungry for pacts
and confidences, for forbidden words, for promises of tomorrow, sharing, finally, the most
hidden
secret.
THE LITTLE HEIDELBERG
El Capitán and Niña Eloísa danced together for so many years that they reached perfection.
Each could intuit the other's next move, guess the exact moment of the next turn, interpret
the most subtle pressure of the hand or deflection of a foot.
They hadn't lost their step once in forty years, they moved with the precision of a couple
accustomed to making love and sleeping in close embrace, which was why it was so difficult
to imagine that they had never exchanged a single word.
Little Heidelberg is a dance hall some distance from the capital, located on a hill surrounded
by banana plantations, where in addition to good music and a less muggy atmosphere, they
offer an unusual aphrodisiac stew flavored with all sorts of spices, too forceful for the hot
climate of this region, but in perfect keeping with the traditions that inspired the owner, Don
Rupert. Before the oil crisis, when people still lived in the illusion of abundance and imported
fruit from other latitudes, the house specialty was apple strudel, but after the oil left only a hill
of indestructible garbage and the memories of better times, they make the strudel with guavas
or mangoes. The tables, arranged in a wide circle that leaves a free space in the center for
dancing, are covered with green and white checkered tablecloths and the walls display bucolic
scenes of Alpine country life: shepherdesses with yellow braids, burly young men and pristine
cows The musicians - dressed in shorts, woolen socks, suspenders and felt hats, which have
lost their elegance with sweat and from a distance look like greenish wigs - stand on a
platform crowned by a stuffed eagle, which, according to says Don Rupert, from time to time
it grows new feathers. One plays the accordion, the other a sax and the third manages with
his hands and feet to simultaneously play the drums and cymbals. The accordion player is a
master of his instrument and also sings with a warm tenor voice and a vague Andalusian
accent. Despite his crazy Swiss innkeeper attire, he is the favorite of the ladies who go to the
salon and several of them cherish the secret fantasy of being trapped with him in some deadly
adventure, for example, a landslide or a bombing, where they would happily exhale the last
breath wrapped in those powerful arms, capable of eliciting heartbreaking laments on the
accordion. The fact that the average age of these ladies reaches seventy years does not
inhibit the sensuality evoked by the singer, rather it adds the sweet breath of death. The
orchestra begins its work after sunset and ends at midnight, except on Saturdays and
Sundays, when the place fills up with tourists and must continue until the last customer
leaves, at dawn.
They only perform polkas, mazurkas, waltzes and regional dances from Europe, as if Little
Heidelberg were on the banks of the Rhine instead of being nestled in the Caribbean.
Dona Burgel, Don Rupert's wife, reigns in the kitchen, a formidable matron few know,
because her existence slips between pots and piles of vegetables,
focused on preparing foreign dishes with Creole ingredients. She invented the
tropical fruit strudel and that aphrodisiac stew capable of restoring vigor to the most
overwhelmed. The tables are attended by the owners' daughters, a pair of stout
women, scented with cinnamon, cloves, vanilla, and lemon, and a few other local
girls, all ruddy-cheeked. The usual clientele is made up of European emigrants who
arrived in the country escaping from some war or poverty, merchants, farmers,
artisans, friendly and simple people, who perhaps were not always so, but whom the
passage of life has leveled in that benevolent courtesy of healthy old men. The men
wear butterfly ties and jackets, but as the sway of the dance and the abundance of
beer warm their souls, they shed the superfluous down to their shirts. The women
dress in bright colors and an old-fashioned style, as if their dresses had been rescued
from the bridal trunk they brought with them when they immigrated. From time to time
a group of aggressive teenagers appear, whose presence is preceded by the
thunderous noise of their motorcycles and the rattle of boots, keys and chains, and
who arrive with the sole purpose of making fun of the old people, but the incident does
not go away. of a skirmish, because the drummer and the saxophonist are always
ready to roll up their sleeves and impose order.
On Saturdays, at about nine o'clock at night, when everyone has already savored
their portion of the aphrodisiac stew and has abandoned themselves to the pleasure
of dancing, La Mexicana appears and sits alone. She is a provocative fifty-year-old,
a woman with a galleon-like body - a high keel, potbellied, wide stern, face like a
figurehead - who sports a mature but still turgid neckline, and a flower in her ear.
She's not the only one dressed as a flamenco dancer, of course, but it looks more
natural on her than on the other white-haired, sad-waisted ladies who don't even
speak decent Spanish. The Mexicana dancing the polka is a ship adrift in abrupt
waves, but to the rhythm of the waltz she seems to slide in sweet waters. This is how
El Capitan sometimes glimpsed her in his dreams and woke up with the almost
forgotten restlessness of his adolescence. They say that El Capitan came from a Nordic
fleet whose name no one could decipher. He was an expert in ancient ships and sea
routes, but all this knowledge was buried deep in his mind, without the slightest
possibility of being useful in the hot landscape of this region, where the sea is a placid
aquarium of green and crystalline waters, unsuitable for the navigation of the intrepid
ships of the North Sea. He was a tall, dry man, a leafless tree, his back stiff and the
muscles in his neck still firm, dressed in his gold-buttoned jacket and enveloped in that
tragic aura of retired sailors. Not a word in Spanish or any other known language was
ever heard from him. Thirty years ago Don Rupert said that El Capitan was surely
Finnish, due to the icy color of his pupils and the inalienable justice of his gaze, and
since no one could contradict him, they ended up accepting him. For the rest, in Little
Heidelberg the language does not matter, because nobody goes there to talk.
Some behavior rules have been modified, for everyone's comfort and
convenience. Anyone can go out on the floor alone or invite someone from another
table, and the women also take the initiative to approach the men, if they wish. It is a
fair solution for widows without company. Nobody asks La Mexicana to dance, because
it is understood that she would find it offensive, and the gentlemen must wait, trembling
with anticipation, for her to do so. The woman deposits her cigar in the ashtray,
uncrosses the fierce columns of her legs, adjusts her bodice, advances to the chosen
one and stands in front of him without a glance. He changes partners at each dance,
but before he reserved at least four pieces for El Capitan. He took her around the waist
with his firm helmsman's hand and guided her down the track without allowing
that his many years cut off his inspiration.

The oldest patron of the hall, who in half a century did not miss a Saturday at
Little Heidelberg, was the Niña Eloísa, a tiny lady, soft and soft, with skin like rice
paper and a crown of transparent hair. For so long she made her living making
chocolates in her kitchen, that the aroma of chocolate completely permeated her
and she smelled like a birthday party. Despite her age, she still kept some of the
gestures of her early youth and was capable of spending the whole night spinning
on the dance floor without breaking the curls in her bun or losing the rhythm of her
heart. He had arrived in the country at the turn of the century, from a village in southern
Russia, with his mother, who was then stunningly beautiful. They lived together making
chocolates, completely oblivious to the rigors of the climate, the century, and loneliness,
without husbands, without family, or big shocks, and with no other fun than Little
Heidelberg every weekend. Since her mother died, Niña Eloísa went alone.
Don Rupert greeted her with great deference at the door and escorted her to
her table, while the orchestra welcomed her with the first chords of her favorite
waltz. Mugs of ale were raised at some tables to greet her, for she was the oldest
person and certainly the most beloved. She was shy, she never dared to ask a man
to dance, but in all those years she didn't have to, because it was a privilege for
anyone to take his hand, gently wrap it around the waist so as not to break some
little glass bone and lead her to the track. She was a graceful dancer and she had
that sweet fragrance capable of bringing back to whoever smelled her the best
memories of her childhood.
The Captain sat alone, always at the same table, drank sparingly, and never
showed any enthusiasm for Dona Burgel's aphrodisiac stew. He followed the rhythm
of the music with one foot and when Niña Eloísa was free he invited her, stanced in
front of her with a discreet click of heels and a slight bow. They never spoke, they
only looked at each other and smiled between the gallops, escapes and diagonals of
some old dance.
One Saturday in December, less humid than others, a couple of tourists arrived at
Little Heidelberg. This time they were not the disciplined Japanese of recent times,
but tall Scandinavians with brown skin and pale hair, who settled at a table to watch
the dancers in fascination. They were cheerful and noisy, clinking beer mugs, laughing
heartily, and chatting loudly. The words of the foreigners reached the Captain at his
table and from far away, from another time and another landscape, the sound of his
own language reached him, whole and fresh, as if newly invented, words he had not
heard for several decades, but that remained intact in his memory. An expression
softened his old navigator's face, making him vacillate for a few minutes between the
absolute reserve where he felt comfortable and the almost forgotten delight of
abandoning himself in a conversation. Finally he stood up and approached the
strangers. Behind the bar Don Rupert watched the Captain, who was saying something
to the newcomers, leaning slightly, hands behind his back. Soon the other customers,
the girls, and the musicians realized that this man was speaking for the first time since
they had known him, and they also stood still to hear him better. He had a great-
grandfather's voice, cracked and slow, but he put great determination into every
sentence. When she finished taking out all the contents of her chest, there was such
silence in the living room that Mrs. Burgel came out of the kitchen to find out if
someone had died. Finally, after a long pause, one of the tourists shook off his
astonishment and called Don Rupert to tell him in primitive English to help him
translate the Captain's speech. The Norsemen followed the old sailor to the table
where the Eloise Girl was waiting and where
Rupert approached too, taking off his apron as he went, with the intuition of a solemn event.
The Captain said a few words in his language, one of the foreigners interpreted it in English
and Don Rupert, with red ears and a trembling mustache, repeated it in his twisted Spanish.
-Niña Eloísa, ask El Capitán if she wants to marry him. The frail old woman sat with round
eyes of surprise and her mouth hidden behind her batiste handkerchief, and they all waited,
suspended in a breath, until she managed to get her voice out.
"Don't you think this is a bit hasty?" he mumbled. His words passed through the bartender
and the tourists, and the response followed the same route in reverse.
"The Captain says he's waited forty years to tell you, and he couldn't wait until someone who
speaks his language shows up again." He says please answer him now.
"Okay," Nina Eloísa barely whispered, and it was not necessary to translate the answer,
because everyone understood it.
Don Rupert, euphoric, raised both arms and announced the engagement, the Captain kissed his
girlfriend's cheeks, the tourists shook hands with everyone, the musicians beat their instruments
in a triumphal march and the attendees made a wheel in lathe of the couple The women wiped
away their tears, the men toasted emotionally, Don Rupert sat down in front of the bar and hid
his head in his arms, shaken by emotion, while Dona Burgel and her two daughters opened
bottles of the best rum. Immediately the musicians played the waltz of the Blue Danube and
everyone cleared the floor.
The Captain took the soft woman by the hand that he had loved without words for so long and
led her to the center of the room, where they danced with the grace of two herons in their
wedding dance. The Captain held her with the same loving care with which in his youth he had
caught the wind in the sails of some ethereal ship, guiding her along the runway as if they were
rocking on the calm swell of a bay, while he said to her in his language of blizzards and woods
everything that his heart had kept silent up to that moment. Dancing and dancing The Captain
felt that their age was receding and with each step they were happier and lighter. One turn after
another, the chords of the music more vibrant, her feet quicker, her waist thinner, the weight of
her small hand in his lighter, her presence more disembodied. Then he saw that the Nina Eloísa
was turning into lace, foam, mist, until she became imperceptible and finally disappeared
completely, and he found himself turning and turning with empty arms, with no other company
than a faint aroma of chocolate.
The tenor told the musicians to get ready to continue playing the same waltz forever, because
he understood that with the last note El Capitán would wake up from his reverie and the memory
of Eloísa Girl would vanish forever. Moved, the old patrons of Little Heidelberg remained
immobile in their chairs, until at last La Mexicana, with her arrogance transformed into charitable
tenderness, rose and advanced discreetly towards the Captain's trembling hands, to dance with
him.
THE JUDGE'S WIFE
Nicolás Vidal always knew that he would lose his life for a woman. They predicted it on the day of
his birth and the owner of the store confirmed it on the only occasion when he allowed her to see his
fortune in the coffee grounds, but he did not imagine that the cause would be Casilda, Judge
Hidalgo's wife. He saw her for the first time the day she came to town to get married. He didn't find
her attractive, because he preferred brash, dark-haired females, and this transparent young woman
in her traveling dress, with her shifty eyes and thin fingers, useless to give pleasure to a man, was as
inconsistent as a handful of ashes. Knowing his destiny well, he took care of women and throughout
his life he fled from all sentimental contact, drying his heart for love and limiting himself to quick
encounters to circumvent loneliness. Casilda seemed so insignificant and remote to him that he did
not take precautions with her, and when the time came he forgot the prediction that was always
present in his decisions. From the roof of the building, where he had crouched with two of his men,
he observed the young lady from the capital when she got out of the car on the day of her marriage.
She arrived accompanied by half a dozen of her relatives, as livid and delicate as she was, who
attended the ceremony, fanning themselves with an air of open dismay, and then left, never to return.
Like all the inhabitants of the town, Vidal thought that the bride would not stand the weather and
soon the comadres would have to dress her for her own funeral. In the unlikely event that she could
withstand the heat and dust that seeped through her skin and settled into her soul, she would surely
succumb to her husband's bad temper and bachelorish ways. Judge Hidalgo was twice her age
and had been sleeping alone for so many years that he didn't know where to begin to please a
woman. Throughout the province they feared his harsh temperament and his stubbornness in
following the law, even at the cost of justice. In the exercise of his duties he ignored the reasons for
good feeling, punishing the theft of a chicken with equal firmness as qualified homicide. He dressed
in rigorous black so that everyone would know the dignity of his position, and despite the irreducible
dust cloud of that town without illusions he always wore his boots polished with beeswax. A man like
that is not made for a husband, the wives said, however the disastrous omens of the wedding did
not come true, on the contrary, Casilda survived three consecutive births and seemed happy. On
Sundays she went with her husband to mass at twelve, unperturbed under her Spanish mantilla,
untouched by the inclemencies of that perennial summer, colorless and silent as a shadow. No one
heard him more than a faint greeting, nor did they see more daring gestures than a nod or a fleeting
smile, he seemed volatile, on the verge of vanishing into an oversight.
He gave the impression of not existing, which is why everyone was surprised to see his influence
on the Judge, whose changes were notable.
Although Hidalgo continued to be the same in appearance, funereal and harsh, his
decisions in Court took a strange turn. In the face of public astonishment, he released a boy who
stole from his employer, arguing that for three years the boss had paid him less than fair and the
stolen money was a form of compensation. He also refused to punish an adulterous wife, arguing
that the husband had no moral authority to demand honesty from her if he himself maintained a
concubine. The malicious tongues of the town murmured that Judge Hidalgo turned around like a
glove when he crossed the threshold of his house, took off his solemn clothing, played with his
children, laughed, and sat Casilda on his knee, but those gossips were never confirmed. Anyway,
they attributed to his
those acts of benevolence and her prestige improved, but none of that interested
Nicolás Vidal, because he was outside the law and he was certain that there would be no
mercy for him when they could take him in chains before the Judge. He did not listen to
gossip about Dona Casilda, and the few times he saw her from afar confirmed his first
appreciation that she was just a blurry ectoplasm.
Vidal had been born thirty years earlier in a windowless room in the town's only
brothel, the son of Juana La Triste and an unknown father. It had no place in this world and
its mother knew it, which is why she tried to tear it from its womb with herbs, candle stubs,
bleach washes and other brutal resources, but the creature insisted on surviving. Years
later, Juana La Triste, seeing that son so different, understood that the drastic abortion
systems that failed to eliminate him, instead tempered his body and soul until giving him the
hardness of iron. As soon as he was born, the midwife lifted him up to observe him by the
light of an oil lamp and immediately noticed that he had four nipples.
"Poor thing, he will lose his life for a woman," she predicted, guided by her experience in
such matters.
Those words weighed like a deformity on the boy. Perhaps his existence would have
been less miserable with the love of a woman. To make up for the numerous attempts to
kill him before he was born, his mother chose for him a beautiful name and a solid last
name, chosen at random; but that princely name was not enough to ward off the fatal signs,
and before he was ten years old the boy had his face scarred by the knife from the fights,
and very soon after he lived as a fugitive. At twenty he was the head of a band of desperate
men. The habit of violence developed the strength of his muscles, the street made him
ruthless, and loneliness, to which he was condemned for fear of losing himself in love,
determined the expression in his eyes.
Any inhabitant of the town could swear upon seeing him that he was the son of Juana La
Triste, because just like her, his pupils were watered with unshed tears. Every time a crime
was committed in the region, the guards went out with dogs to hunt Nicolás Vidal to silence
the protest of the citizens, but after a few laps through the hills they returned empty-handed.
They really didn't want to find him, because they couldn't fight him. The gang consolidated
its bad name in such a way that the villages and haciendas paid a tribute to keep it away.
With these donations the men could rest easy, but Nicolás Vidal forced them to always stay
on horseback, in the midst of a wind of death and disaster so that they would not lose their
taste for war or lose their reputation. No one dared to face them. On a couple of occasions
Judge Hidalgo asked the Government to send army troops to reinforce his police, but after a
few useless excursions the soldiers returned to their barracks and the outlaws to their
wanderings.
Only once was Nicolás Vidal on the verge of falling into the traps of justice, but his inability to
be moved saved him. Tired of seeing the laws run over, Judge Hidalgo decided to ignore the
scruples and set a trap for the bandit.
He realized that in defense of justice he was going to commit a heinous act, but of two
evils he chose the lesser. The only bait that occurred to him was Juana La Triste, because
Vidal had no other relatives and no known love affairs. He took the woman out of the premises,
where she scrubbed floors and cleaned latrines in the absence of customers willing to pay for
her services, put her inside a custom-made cage and placed her in the center of the Plaza de
Armas, with no other consolation than a jug of water
-When the water runs out, he will start to scream. Then your son will appear and I will
be waiting for him with the soldiers -said the Judge.
The rumor of this punishment, in disuse since the days of the wild slaves, reached
ears of Nicolás Vidal shortly before his mother drank the last sip from the pitcher.
His men watched him receive the news in silence, without disturbing his impassive loner mask or
the calm rhythm with which he sharpened his razor against a leather girth.
It had been many years since he had contact with Juana La Triste and he did not keep a single
pleasant memory of his childhood either, but that was not a sentimental matter, but a matter of
honor. No man can bear such an offense, the bandits thought, as they readied their weapons
and their mounts, ready to go to the ambush and leave their lives in it if necessary. But the boss
showed no hurry.
As the hours passed, the tension in the group increased. They looked at each other, sweating,
not daring to comment, waiting impatiently, their hands on the grips of their revolvers, on their
horse's manes, on their bow hilts. Night came and the only one who slept in the camp was
Nicolás Vidal. At dawn the opinions were divided among the men, some believed that he was much
more soulless than they ever imagined and others that his boss was planning a spectacular action
to rescue his mother. The only thing that no one thought was that he might lack courage, because
he had shown signs of having it in excess.
At noon they couldn't bear the uncertainty any longer and went to ask him what he was going
to do.
"Nothing," he said. -And your mother? "We'll see who has more balls, the Judge or me," replied
Nicolás Vidal imperturbable.
On the third day Juana La Triste no longer cried out for mercy or begged for water, because
her tongue had dried up and the words died in her throat before she was born, she lay curled
up on the floor of her cage with her eyes lost and her lips swollen. moaning like an animal in lucid
moments and dreaming of hell the rest of the time. Four armed guards watched the prisoner to
prevent the neighbors from giving her a drink. Their cries filled the whole town, they entered through
the closed shutters, the wind introduced them through the doors, they stayed stuck in the corners,
the dogs picked them up to repeat them howling, they infected the newborns and ground the nerves
of those who loved them. listened The Judge could not prevent the parade of people through the
square pitying the old woman, nor was he able to stop the solidarity strike of the prostitutes, which
coincided with the miners' fortnight. On Saturday the streets were taken over by the rude mine
workers, eager to spend their savings before heading back to the tunnels, but the town offered no
entertainment, apart from the cage and that murmur of pity carried from mouth to mouth, from the
river to the coast road. The priest led a group of parishioners who appeared before Judge Hidalgo
to remind him of Christian charity and beg him to exempt that poor innocent woman from that
martyr's death, but the magistrate locked his office and refused to listen to them. betting that Juana
La Triste would last one more day and her son would fall into the trap. Then the notables of the
town decided to go to Doña Casilda.
The Judge's wife received them in the gloomy living room of her house and listened to their
reasons in silence, with downcast eyes, as was her style. Her husband had been absent for
three days, locked in his office, waiting for Nicolás Vidal with insane determination. Without
leaning out of the window, she knew everything that was happening in the street, because the
noise of that long ordeal also entered the vast rooms of her house. Doña Casilda waited for the
visitors to leave, dressed her children in their Sunday clothes and went out with them to the
plaza. She was carrying a basket with provisions and a pitcher of fresh water for Juana La Triste.
The guards saw her appear around the corner and guessed her intentions, but they had precise
orders, so
it is that they crossed their rifles in front of her and when she wanted to advance, watched by
an expectant crowd, they took her by the arms to prevent her from doing so. Then the children
began to scream.
Judge Hidalgo was in his office facing the plaza. He was the only inhabitant of the
neighborhood who had not plugged his ears with wax, because he remained attentive to the
ambush, listening for the sound of Nicolás Vidal's horses. For three days and nights he endured
the crying of his victim and the insults of the mutinous neighbors in front of the building, but when
he made out the voices of his children, he understood that he had reached the limit of his
resistance. Exhausted, he left his Court with a Wednesday beard, his eyes feverish from the vigil
and the weight of his defeat on his back.
He crossed the street, entered the quadrilateral of the square, and approached his wife.
They looked at each other sadly. It was the first time in seven years that she had faced him and
she chose to do it in front of the whole town. Judge Hidalgo took the basket and the jug from
Doña Casilda's hands and he himself opened the cage to help his prisoner.
"I told you, he has less balls than me," Nicolás Vidal laughed when he found out what happened.
But her laughter turned bitter the next day, when she was given the news that Juana La Triste
had hanged herself in the lamp of the brothel where she spent her life, because she could not
resist the shame of her only son abandoning her in a cage in the center of the Plaza de Armas.
_The Judge's time has come,' said Vidal.
His plan was to enter the town at night, catch the magistrate by surprise, give him a
spectacular death and place him inside the damned cage, so that when everyone woke up
the next day they could see his humiliated remains. But he found out that the Hidalgo family
had gone to a beach resort on the coast to get over the bad taste of defeat.
The indication that they were persecuted to take revenge reached Judge Hidalgo in the middle
of the route, in an inn where they had stopped to rest. The place did not offer sufficient protection
until the guard detail arrived, but he had a few hours' head start and his vehicle was faster than
the horses. He figured he could get to the other town and get help. He ordered his wife to get
into the car with the children, pushed the pedal to the floor, and hit the road. He must have
arrived with a wide margin of safety, but it was written that Nicolás Vidal would meet that day
with the woman from whom he had fled all his life.
Exhausted by the sleepless nights, the hostility of the neighbors, the embarrassment suffered,
and the tension of that race to save his family, Judge Hidalgo's heart jumped and exploded
without a sound. The out-of-control car veered off the road, bumped a few times, and finally
stopped at the curb. Doña Casilda took a couple of minutes to realize what had happened. She
had often put herself in the case of becoming a widow, since her husband was almost an old
man, but she did not imagine that he would leave her at the mercy of his enemies. He did not
stop to think about it, because he understood the need to act immediately to save the children.
He looked around the place where he was and was on the verge of crying with grief, because in
that bare expanse, burned by a merciless sun, there were no traces of human life, only the wild
hills and a sky bleached by the light. But with a second look, he distinguished the shadow of a
cave on a hillside and towards there he began to run carrying two creatures in his arms and the
third clinging to his skirts.
Three times Casilda climbed carrying her children one by one to the top. It was a natural
cave, like many others in the mountains of that region. He checked the interior to make sure it
wasn't the den of some animal, he settled the children in the back and kissed them without a tear.
-In a few hours the guards will come looking for them. Until then don't go out
for no reason, even if they hear me scream, have they understood? he ordered them.
The little ones shrank in terror and with a last goodbye look, the mother descended from the
hill. She reached the car, lowered her husband's eyelids, dusted off her clothes, adjusted her hair,
and sat down to wait. She did not know how many men Nicolás Vidal's band was made up of, but
she prayed that there would be many, that way they would find it hard to get their fill of her, and she
gathered her strength wondering how long it would take her to die if she tried hard to do it little by
little. She wanted to be wealthy and stocky to put up more resistance and buy time for her children.
He did not have to wait long. Soon he spotted dust on the horizon, heard a gallop, and gritted
his teeth. Disconcerted, she saw that it was a single horseman, who stopped a few meters from
her, weapon in hand. His face was marked by a knife and that was how he recognized Nicolás
Vidal, who had decided to go after Judge Hidalgo without his men, because this was a private matter
that they had to settle between the two of them. Then she realized that she would have to do something
much more difficult than die slowly.
One look was enough for the bandit to understand that his enemy was safe from any
punishment, sleeping his death in peace, but there was his wife floating in the reverberation of
light. He jumped off the horse and approached him. She didn't lower her eyes or move, and he
stopped in surprise, because for the first time someone was challenging him without fear. They
measured each other in silence for a few eternal seconds, each measuring the strength of the other,
estimating their own tenacity and accepting that they were facing a formidable adversary. Nicolás
Vidal put away the revolver and Casilda smiled.
The judge's wife earned every moment of the following hours. She used all the seduction
resources recorded since the dawn of human knowledge and others that she improvised inspired
by necessity, to offer that man the greatest delight. Not only did she work on her body like a skilled
artisan, pulsing every fiber in search of pleasure, but she put the refinement of her spirit at the
service of her cause.
Both understood that they were risking their lives and that gave their meeting a terrible
intensity. Nicolás Vidal had fled from love since birth, he did not know intimacy, tenderness,
secret laughter, the feast of the senses, the joyous joy of lovers. Every minute that passed
brought the detachment of guards closer and with them the firing squad, but it also brought him
closer to that prodigious woman and for that reason he gladly gave them up in exchange for the
gifts she offered him. Casilda was modest and shy and had been married to an austere old man to
whom she never showed herself naked. During that unforgettable afternoon, she did not lose sight of
the fact that her goal was to gain time, but at some point she abandoned herself, marveling at her
own sensuality, and felt something similar to gratitude for that man. For this reason, when he heard
the distant noise of the troops, he begged him to flee and hide in the hills. But Nicolás Vidal preferred
to wrap her in his arms to kiss her for the last time, thus fulfilling the prophecy that marked her destiny.
A PATH TO THE NORTH
Carnations Picero and his grandfather, Jesús Dionisio.

Picero, it took them thirty-eight days to cover the two hundred and seventy kilometers
between their village and the capital. They crossed the lowlands on foot, where the
humidity macerated the vegetation in an eternal broth of mud and sweat, they went
up and down the hills between immobile iguanas and overwhelmed palm trees, they
crossed the coffee plantations dodging foremen, lizards and snakes, they walked
under the leaves tobacco among phosphorescent mosquitoes and sidereal butterflies.
They were going straight towards the city, skirting the highway, but on a couple of
occasions they had to make long detours to avoid the soldiers' camps. Sometimes the
truckers slowed down as they passed her, attracted by the girl's half-breed queen's
back and long black hair, but the old man's look quickly dissuaded them from any
attempt to bother her. The grandfather and his granddaughter had no money and did
not know how to beg. When the provisions they carried in a basket ran out, they
pressed on with sheer courage. At night they wrapped themselves in their shawls and
fell asleep under the trees with a Hail Mary on their lips and their souls set on the
child, so as not to think about pumas and poisonous animals. They woke up covered
in blue beetles. With the first signs of dawn, when the landscape was shrouded in the
last mists of sleep and men and beasts had not yet begun their day's work, they began
to walk again to take advantage of the coolness. They entered the capital along the
Camino de los Españoles, asking those who crossed the streets where they could
find the Secretary of Social Welfare. By then, all of Jesús Dionisio's bones were
ringing, and in Carnation the colors of her dress had faded, she had the bewitched
expression of a sleepwalker, and a century of fatigue had spilled over the splendor of
her twenty years.
Jesús Dionisio was the best-known artisan in the province, in his long life he had
gained a prestige of which he did not boast, because he considered his talent as a gift
at the service of God, of which he was only its administrator. He had started out as a
potter and still made clay pots, but his fame came from wooden saints and small
sculptures in bottles, bought by peasants for their home altars or sold to tourists in the
capital. It was slow work, a matter of the eye, time and heart, as the man explained to
the children who crowded around him to watch him work. He inserted the painted
sticks into the bottles with tweezers, with a dot of glue on the parts to be glued, and
waited patiently for them to dry before putting on the next piece. His specialty was
Calvaries: a large cross in the center where the carved Christ hung, with his nails, his
crown of thorns, and a golden paper halo, and two other simpler crosses for the
Golgotha thieves. At Christmas he made niches for the Child God, with doves
representing the Holy Spirit and with stars and flowers to symbolize Glory. He did not
know how to read or sign his name because when he was a child there was no school
in those parts, but he could copy some Latin phrases from the mass book to decorate
the pedestals of his saints. He said that his parents had taught him to respect the laws
of the Church and the people, which was more valuable than having an education. The
art did not give him to maintain his house and he rounded off his budget raising breed
roosters, fine for the fight. He had to dedicate a lot of care to each rooster, he fed them
in their beaks with a porridge of crushed cereals and fresh blood, which he got at the
slaughterhouse, he had to remove them by hand, air their feathers, polish their spurs
and train them daily so that they did not lack value when trying them. sometimes i would
other towns to see them fight, but he never bet, because for him all money earned
without sweat and work was a thing of the devil. On Saturday nights she would go with
her granddaughter Claveles to clean the church for the Sunday ceremony. The priest
was not always able to arrive, who toured the towns on a bicycle, but the Christians got
together anyway to pray and sing. Jesús Dionisio was also in charge of collecting and
keeping alms for the care of the temple and helping the priest.
Picero had thirteen children with his wife, Amparo Medina, five of whom survived the plagues
and accidents of childhood. When the couple thought that parenting had finished, because all
the boys were adults and had left the house, the minor returned with permission from the
Military Service bringing a bundle wrapped in rags and placed it on Amparo's knees. When
they opened it, they saw that it was a newborn girl, half in agony due to the lack of breast milk
and the beatings of the trip.
-Where did you get this from, son? asked Jesus Dionisio Picero.
"Apparently he is of the same blood as me," replied the young man, not daring to meet
his father's gaze, squeezing his uniform cap between his sweaty fingers.
-And if it's not too much to ask, where did the mother go? -I dont know. He left the little girl
at the door of the barracks with a piece of paper stating that I am the father. The Sergeant
told me to hand it over to the nuns, he says there's no way to prove it's mine.
But I feel sorry for her, I don't want her to be an orphan...
-Where have you seen a mother abandon her newborn child? -They are things of the city.
-It must be, then. And what is this poor thing's name? -As you baptize it, father, but if you
ask me, I like Carnations, which was your mother's favorite flower.
Jesús Dionisio went out to look for the goat to milk it, while Amparo cleaned the baby
with oil and prayed to the Virgin of the Grotto asking her to give her the courage to take
care of another child. Once he saw the creature in good hands, the youngest son said a
grateful goodbye, put his bag on his shoulder and returned to the barracks to carry out
his punishment.
Claveles grew up in her grandparents' house. She was a devious and rebellious girl,
who was impossible to control through reason or the exercise of authority, but who
succumbed immediately when feelings touched her. He would get up at dawn and walk
five miles to a shed in the middle of the paddocks, where a teacher would gather the
children from the area to give them basic instruction. He helped his grandmother with the
housework and his grandfather in the workshop, he went to the hill in search of earthenware
and washed his brushes, but he was never interested in other aspects of his art. When
Claveles was nine years old, Amparo Medina, who had shrunk and was reduced to the
appearance of an infant, woke up cold in her bed, exhausted by so many maternity hospitals
and so many years of work. Her husband exchanged his best rooster for some boards and
made her an urn decorated with biblical scenes. Her granddaughter dressed her for the
funeral in a Saint Bernadette habit, a white tunic and a light blue cord at the waist, the same
one she wore for her First Communion, and which fit just right on the old woman's scrawny
body. Jesús Dionisio and Claveles left the house towards the cemetery, pulling a wheelbarrow
where the coffin was decorated with paper flowers.
Along the way they were joined by their friends, men and women with their heads covered,
who accompanied them in silence.
The old sculptor of saints and his granddaughter were left alone in the house. As a
sign of mourning they painted a large cross on the door and both wore a black ribbon
sewn on their sleeves for years. The grandfather tried to replace his wife in practical details
of life, but nothing went back to the way it was before. The absence of Amparo Medina
invaded him from within, like a malignant disease, he felt his blood thin, his memories darken,
his bones turned to cotton, his spirit filled with doubts. For the first time in her existence, she
rebelled against fate, wondering why she had been taken without him. From then on he could
no longer make Nativity Scenes, only Calvarios and Holy Martyrs came out of his hands, all
dressed in mourning, to which Claveles attached signs with pathetic messages to Divine
Providence, dictated by his grandfather. These figures did not have the same acceptance
among tourists from the city, who preferred the scandalous colors mistakenly attributed to the
indigenous temperament, nor among the peasants, who needed to worship happy deities,
because the only consolation for the sadness of this world was to imagine that in heaven they
were always celebrating. It was almost impossible for Jesús Dionisio Picero to sell his
handicrafts, but he continued making them, because in that trade he spent hours without fatigue,
as if it were always early. However, neither work nor the presence of his granddaughter could
alleviate him and he began to drink in secret, so that no one would notice his shame. Drunk, he
called his wife and sometimes managed to see her by the kitchen stove. Without Amparo Medina's
diligent care, the house deteriorated, the chickens got sick, they had to sell their goat, their garden
dried up, and soon they were the poorest family around.
Shortly after, Claveles went to work in a neighboring town. At the age of fourteen his body
had already reached its final shape and size, and since he did not have the auburn skin or firm
cheekbones of the other members of the family, Jesús Dionisio Picero concluded that his mother
must have been white, which offered a explanation for the unusual fact that he had abandoned her
at the door of a barracks.
After a year and a half, Claveles Picero returned home with spots on her face and a prominent
belly. He found his grandfather with no other company than a pack of hungry dogs and a pair of
pitiful roosters loose in the yard, talking to themselves, staring into space, with signs of not having
washed in a long time. The greatest disorder surrounded him. He had abandoned his piece of
land and spent hours making saints with insane haste, but very little of his former talent remained.
His sculptures were deformed and gloomy beings, inappropriate for devotion or for sale, who
piled up in the corners of the house like piles of firewood.
Jesús Dionisio Picero had changed so much that he didn't try to foist on his granddaughter a
speech about the sin of giving birth to children without a known father; in truth, he seemed
not to notice the signs of pregnancy. He limited himself to hugging her, trembling, calling her
Amparo.
"Look at me, grandfather, I'm Carnations and I'm here to stay, because there's a lot to do here,"
said the young woman and went to light the stove to boil some potatoes and heat water to bathe
the old man.
During the following months, Jesús Dionisio seemed to rise from his mourning, stopped
drinking, went back to cultivating his garden, taking care of his roosters and cleaning the church.
He still spoke to the memory of his wife and occasionally confused the granddaughter with the
grandmother, but he found the ability to laugh again. The company of Carnations and the
illusion that soon there would be another creature in the house restored his love for colors and
little by little he stopped smearing his Saints with black paint, dressing them in clothes more
suitable for the altar. The child from Claveles came out of his mother's womb one day at six
o'clock in the afternoon and fell into the calloused hands of his great-grandfather, who had long
experience in these tasks, because he had helped his thirteen children be born.
"His name will be Juan," the makeshift midwife decided as soon as he had cut the cord and
wrapped his offspring in a swaddling cloth.

-Why John? There is no Juan in the family, grandfather. -Because John was the best friend of Jesus
and this will be my friend. And what is the father's last name? -Realize that father does not have.
-Picero then, Juan Picero. Two weeks after the birth of his great-grandson, Jesús Dionisio began to
cut the sticks for a Nacimiento, the first he had done since the death of Amparo Medina.
It didn't take long for Claveles and his grandfather to realize that the boy was abnormal.
He had curious eyes and moved like any baby, but he did not react when spoken to, he could
stay awake and motionless for hours. They made the trip to the hospital and there they confirmed
that he was deaf and therefore mute. The doctor added that there wasn't much hope for him,
unless they were lucky and managed to place him in an institution in the city, where they would
teach him good behavior and in the future they could give him a trade so that he could earn a decent
living and not be always a burden to others.
"No way, Juan is staying with us," decided Jesús Dionisio Picero, without giving Claveles a glance, who
was crying with her head covered by her shawl.
-What are we going to do, grandpa? she asked as she left. -Create it, then. -I eat? -With patience,
just as roosters are trained or Calvaries are put in bottles. It is a matter of the eye, time and heart.
So they did. Disregarding the fact that the creature couldn't hear them, they talked to it relentlessly,
sang to it, placed it near the radio playing at full volume. The grandfather would take the child's hand
and place it firmly on his own chest, so that he could feel the vibration of his voice when he spoke,
prompting him to shout and celebrating his grunts with great fanfare. As soon as he could sit down, he
installed him next to him in a box, surrounded him with sticks, nuts, bones, pieces of cloth, and pebbles
to play with, and later, when he learned not to put it in his mouth, she passed him a ball of clay to eat.
mold. Every time she got a job, Claveles left for the town, leaving her son in the hands of Jesús Dionisio.
Wherever the old man went the creature followed him like a shadow, rarely being separated. A solid
camaraderie developed between the two, eliminating the tremendous difference in age and the obstacle
of silence. Juan got used to observing his great-grandfather's gestures and facial expressions to
decipher his intentions, with such good results that by the year he learned to walk he was already able
to read his thoughts. For his part, Jesús Dionisio cared for him like a mother. While his hands worked
on delicate crafts, his instinct followed the child's footsteps, attentive to any danger, but only intervened
in extreme cases. She did not come to comfort him after a fall or help him when he was in trouble, so
he got used to fending for himself. At an age when other boys are still stumbling around like puppies,
Juan Picero could dress himself, wash and eat by himself, feed the birds, fetch water from the well, he
knew how to carve the simplest parts of the saints, mix colors and prepare the bottles for Calvarios.
"We'll have to send him to school so he doesn't end up stupid like me," said Jesús Dionisio Picero as
the boy's seventh birthday approached.
Claveles made some inquiries, but they informed him that his son could not attend a normal course,
because no teacher would be willing to venture into the abyss of solitude where he was plunged.
"It doesn't matter, grandfather, he'll earn his living making saints, like you," he resigned.
carnations.
-That's not enough to eat. -Not everyone can educate themselves, grandfather. -Juan is deaf, but
not dumb. He has a lot of discernment and he can get out of here, life in the country is very hard for
him. Claveles was convinced that the grandfather had lost his mind or that
love for the child prevented him from seeing his limitations. He bought a syllabary and tried
to transfer his little knowledge to him, but he could not make his son understand that those
scribbles represented sounds and he ended up losing patience.
Around that time Mrs. Dermoth's volunteers showed up. They were young people from the
city, who toured the most remote regions of the country talking about a humanitarian project to
help the poor. Explaining that in some parts too many children were born and their parents could
not feed them, while in others there were many couples without children. His organization was
trying to alleviate that imbalance. They showed up at the Picero ranch with a map of North
America and color-printed brochures showing photographs of brown-haired children with blond-
haired parents in luxurious settings with roaring fireplaces, large shaggy dogs, silver-frosted pine
trees, and balls of snow. Christmas. After taking a quick inventory of the Piceros' poverty, they
were told about Mrs. Dermoth's charitable mission, who located the most destitute children and
gave them up for adoption to families with money, saving them from a life of misery. Unlike other
institutions designed for the same purpose, she dealt only with children with birth defects or
crippled by accidents or illnesses. In the North there were some couples - good Christians, of
course - who were willing to adopt these children. They had all the resources to help them. Back
in the North there were clinics and schools where they worked miracles, the deaf-mutes, for
example, were taught to read the movement of the lips and to speak, then they went to special
schools, received a complete education and some enrolled in the university and ended up
converted. in lawyers or doctors. The organization had helped many children, the Piceros could
see the photographs, look how happy they look, how healthy, with all those toys, in those rich
houses. The volunteers couldn't promise anything, but they would do everything possible to get one
of those couples to take Juan in, to give him all the opportunities his mother couldn't offer him.
"You never have to part with your children, no matter what," said Jesús Dionisio Picero, holding
the child's head to his chest so that he wouldn't see their faces and guess the reason for the
conversation.
-Don't be selfish, man, think about what's best for him. Can't you see that there you will have
everything? You don't have enough money to buy him medicine, you can't send him to school,
what will become of him? This poor thing doesn't even have a father.
"But he has a mother and a great-grandfather," replied the old man. The visitors departed, leaving
Mrs. Dermoth's brochures on the table. In the days that followed, Claveles found herself looking at
them many times and comparing those spacious and well-decorated houses with her modest house
made of boards, with a thatched roof and rammed earth floor, those kind and well-dressed parents,
with herself tired and barefoot, those children surrounded by toys and his kneading clay.
A week later, Claveles met the volunteers at the market, where he had gone to sell some of his
grandfather's sculptures, and he heard the same arguments again, that an opportunity like that
would never present itself again, that people adopt children healthy, never retarded, those people
from the North had noble sentiments, she should think about it, because she was going to regret
her whole life for having denied her son so many advantages, condemning him to suffering and
poverty.
-Why do they only want sick children? asked Carnations.
-Because they are half-saint gringos. Our organization deals only with the most painful cases.
It would be easier for us to place the normals, but it's about helping the underdogs.
Claveles Picero saw the volunteers several times. They always appeared when the
grandfather was not in the house. Towards the end of November he was shown a portrait of
a middle-aged couple standing at the door of a white house surrounded by a park, and told
that Mrs. Dermoth had found the ideal parents for her son. They pointed out the exact place
where they lived on the map, explained that there was snow there in winter and the children
made dolls, ice-skated and skied, that in autumn the woods looked like gold and that in
summer you could swim in the lake. The couple was so excited about the idea of adopting
the little one, that they had already bought him a bicycle. They also showed him the
photograph of the bicycle. And all this without counting that they offered Claveles two hundred
and fifty dollars, with which she could marry and have healthy children. It would be crazy to
reject that.
Two days later, taking advantage of the fact that Jesús Dionisio had left to clean the
church, Claveles Picero dressed his son in his best pants, placed his baptismal medal
around his neck and explained to him in the language of gestures invented by his
grandfather. for him, that they would not see each other for a long time, maybe never
again, but it was all for his own good, he would go to a place where he would have food
every day and gifts for his birthday. She took him to the address indicated by the volunteers,
signed a paper handing over custody of Juan to Mrs. Dermoth and ran out so her son
wouldn't see her tears and start crying too.
When Jesús Dionisio Picero found out what had happened, he lost his breath and
his voice. With his hands, he threw everything within his reach to the ground, including
the saints in bottles, and then he lashed out at Claveles, hitting her with unexpected
violence for someone his age and such a meek character. As soon as she could speak,
she accused her of being the same as her mother, capable of getting rid of her own son,
which not even wild beasts can do, and she called out to the ghost of Amparo Medina pai,
to take revenge on that depraved granddaughter. In the months that followed he did not
speak to Claveles, he only opened his mouth to eat and muttered curses while his hands
worked with the carving instruments. The Piceros got used to living in sullen silence, each
one carrying out their tasks. She cooked and put his plate on the table, he ate with his eyes
fixed on the food... Together they took care of the garden and the animals, each one
repeating the gestures of his own routine, in perfect coordination with the other, without rub
against each other On fair days she would take the bottles and the wooden saints, go out to
sell them, return with some provisions and leave the remaining money in a jar. On Sundays
the two of them went to church separately, like strangers.
Perhaps they would have spent the rest of their lives without speaking if Mrs. Dermoth's
name had not made the news by mid-February. The grandfather heard the matter on the
radio, when Claveles was washing clothes in the patio, first the comment of the announcer
and then the confirmation of the Secretary of Social Welfare in person. With her heart
pounding, she leaned out the door, shouting for Claveles. The girl turned and seeing him
so shaken she thought he was dying and ran to support him.
-They killed him, oh Jesus, it's sure they killed him! the old man moaned, falling to
his knees.
-Who, grandpa! "To Juan..." and half stifled by sobs, he repeated the words of the Secretary
of Social Welfare, that a criminal organization led by a certain Mrs. Dermoth was selling
indigenous children. They chose them sick or from very poor families, with the promise
that they would be placed for adoption. They kept them for a while in the fattening process
and when they were in better condition they took them to a clandestine clinic, where they
operated on them. Dozens of innocents were sacrificed as organ banks, to have their eyes,
kidneys, liver and other
parts of the body that were sent for transplants in the North. He added that in one of
the fattening houses they had found twenty-eight creatures waiting their turn, that the
police had intervened and that the Government was continuing the investigations to
dismantle this horrendous traffic.
Thus began the long journey of Claveles and Jesús Dionisio Picero to speak in the capital
with the Secretary of Social Welfare. They wanted to ask her, with all due submission, if
hers was among the rescued children and if perhaps they could return it to her.
They had very little of the money they had received, but they were willing to slave for
Mrs. Dermoth for as long as it took, until they paid her the last penny of those two
hundred and fifty dollars.
THE GUEST OF THE TEACHER
Maestra Inés entered La Perla de Oriente, which at that time was empty of customers, went
to the counter where Riad Halabí was rolling up a cloth with multicolored flowers, and
announced that she had just cut the throat of a guest at her boarding house. The merchant
took out his white handkerchief and covered his mouth.
- What do you say, Ines? -What you heard, Turk. -Is dead? -Of course. -Now what are you
gonna do? "I'm here to ask you the same thing," she said, adjusting a lock of hair.
"I'd better close the shop," Riad Halabí sighed. They had known each other for so long that
neither could remember the number of years, although both kept in their memory every detail
of that first day they began their friendship. HE was then one of those traveling salesmen who
go along the roads offering their merchandise, a pilgrim of trade, without a compass or a fixed
direction, an Arab immigrant with a false Turkish passport, lonely, tired, with a cleft palate like
a rabbit and a desire to unbearable to sit in the shade; and she was still a young woman, firm-
rumped and strong-shouldered, the only teacher in the village, mother of a twelve-year-old boy,
born of fleeting love. The son was the center of the teacher's life, she took care of him with an
inflexible dedication and barely managed to hide her tendency to pamper him, applying the
same rules of discipline to him as to the other children at school, so that no one could comment
that he was spoiling him. and to annul the wayward inheritance of the father, forming him,
instead, with a clear thought and a kind heart.
The same afternoon that Riad Halabí entered Agua Santa from one end, from the other a group
of boys brought the body of Maestra Inés's son on an improvised stretcher. He had gone into
someone else's land to pick up a mango and the owner, a foreigner whom no one knew in those
parts, fired a shot from his rifle with the intention of scaring him, marking the middle of his
forehead with a black circle where it was visible. escaped life. At that moment the merchant
discovered his vocation as a boss and without knowing how, he found himself at the center of
the event, consoling the mother, organizing the funeral as if he were a member of the family and
holding people to prevent them from tearing the person responsible to pieces. . Meanwhile, the
murderer understood that it would be very difficult for him to save his life if he stayed there and
he fled the town, determined never to return. The next morning Riad Halabí had to lead the
crowd that marched from the cemetery to the place where he had fallen. the child. All the
inhabitants of Agua Santa spent that day carrying mangoes, which they threw out the windows
until they filled the house completely, from floor to ceiling. In a few weeks the sun fermented the
fruit, which burst into a thick juice, impregnating the walls with a golden blood of sweetish pus,
which transformed the house into a fossil of prehistoric dimensions, an enormous beast in the
process of rotting, tormented by the infinite diligence of larvae and mosquitoes of decomposition.
The death of the child, the role he had to play in those days and the reception he received
in Agua Santa determined the existence of Riad Halabí. He forgot his nomad ancestry and stayed
in the village. There he installed his store, La Perla de Oriente. He married, was widowed,
remarried and continued to sell, while his prestige as a just man grew. For her part, Inés educated
several generations of children with the same tenacious affection that she would have given her
son, until fatigue overcame her, then she gave way to other teachers who had come from the city
with new syllabaries and she withdrew. When she left the classrooms she felt that she was
suddenly aging and that time was speeding up, the days passed too quickly without her being
able to remember how the hours had gone.
- I'm stunned, Turk. I'm dying without realizing it," he commented.

-You are as healthy as always, Inés. What happens is that you get bored, you shouldn't be idle
- replied Riad Halabí and gave her the idea of adding a few rooms to her house and converting
it into a boarding house.
-In this town there is no hotel. "There are no tourists either," she argued. -A clean bed and a hot
breakfast are blessings for travelers passing through.
This was the case, mainly for the truckers of the Petroleum Company, who stayed overnight at
the pension when the fatigue and tedium of the road filled their brains with hallucinations.
Maestra Inés was the most respected matron in Agua Santa. He had educated all the children in
the place for several decades, which gave him the authority to intervene in the lives of each one and
pull their ears when he considered it necessary. The girls brought their boyfriends to her for her
approval, the husbands consulted her in their fights, she was a counselor, referee and judge in all
problems, her authority was more solid than that of the priest, the doctor or the police. Nothing
stopped her in the exercise of that power. On one occasion he went into the checkpoint, passed in
front of the Lieutenant without greeting him, took the keys that were hanging from a nail on the wall,
and took one of his students out of the cell, imprisoned because of drunkenness. The officer tried to
stop her, but she pushed him away and took the boy by the neck. Once on the street, she slapped him
a couple of times and announced that next time she would pull down his pants to give him a memorable
spanking. The day that Inés went to tell her that she had killed a client, Riad Halabí had not the
slightest doubt that she was serious, because he knew her too well. He took her arm and walked with
her the two blocks that separated La Perla de Oriente from her house. It was one of the best buildings
in town, made of adobe and wood, with a wide porch where hammocks were hung during the hottest
siestas, bathrooms with running water, and fans in all the rooms. At that hour it seemed empty, only a
guest resting in the room drinking beer with his eyes lost in the television.
-Where is? whispered the Arab merchant. "In one of the back rooms," she answered
without lowering her voice.
She led him to the row of rented rooms, all linked by a long covered corridor, with purple
trinitarias climbing the columns and pots of ferns hanging from the rafters, around a patio where
medlars and bananas grew. Inés opened the last door and Riad Halabí entered the shadowy
room. The blinds were drawn and it took her a moment to adjust her eyes and she saw on the bed
the body of a harmless-looking old man, a decrepit stranger, swimming in the puddle of his own
death, his pants stained with excrement, his head hanging from a livid strip of skin and a terrible
grief-stricken expression, as if he were apologizing for all the fuss and blood and the awful mess of
getting himself murdered. Riad Halabí sat on the only chair in the room, staring at the floor, trying to
control the lurch in his stomach. Inés remained standing, with her arms crossed over her chest,
calculating that she would need two days to wash the stains and at least another two to ventilate the
smell of shit and horror.
-How did you do it? Riad Halabí finally asked, wiping away his sweat.
-With the machete to chop coconuts. I came from behind and gave him a single blow. He didn't even
notice, poor devil.
-Why? I had to, that's life. Look what bad luck, this old man was not thinking of stopping in
Agua Santa, he was crossing the town and a stone broke the window of his car. He came to
spend a few hours here while the Italian in the garage got him a spare. Much has changed, we
have all aged according to
it seems, but I recognized him right away. I waited for him for many years, sure that he would
come sooner or later. It's the man with the mangoes.
"Allah help us," Riad Halabí murmured. -Do you think we should call the Lieutenant? - No way,
how can you think of it. -I am within my rights, he killed my child. -I wouldn't understand, Inés. -An
eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, Turk. Doesn't your religion say so? -The law does not work that
way, Inés. -Well, then we can accommodate him a bit and say that he committed suicide.
-Do not touch it. How many guests are in the house? - Just a trucker. He'll leave as soon as it's
cool, he has to drive to the capital.
-Well, don't receive anyone else. Lock the door of this room and wait for me, I'll be back at
night.
-What are you going to do? I'm going to fix this my way. Riad Halabí was sixty-five years old, but
he still retained the same youthful vigor and spirit that had placed him at the head of the crowd the
day he arrived in Agua Santa. She left Maestra Inés's house and headed quickly for the first of
several visits she had to make that afternoon. In the following hours, a persistent whisper ran
through the town, whose inhabitants shook off their years of torpor, excited by the most fantastic
news, which they repeated from house to house like an irrepressible rumor, news that was trying to
burst into shouts and to which the very need to keep it in a whisper gave it a special value. Before
sunset there was already in the air that joyful restlessness that in the following years would be a
characteristic of the village, incomprehensible to foreigners passing through, who could see nothing
extraordinary in that place, only an insignificant hamlet, like so many others, on the edge of the
jungle. From early on the men began to arrive at the tavern, the women went out onto the sidewalks
with their kitchen chairs and settled down to get some fresh air, the young people flocked to the
square as if it were Sunday. The Lieutenant and his men took a couple of routine turns and then
accepted the invitation of the girls from the brothel, who were celebrating a birthday, they said.
At dusk there were more people in the street than on All Saints' Day, each one busy with his
own business with such spectacular diligence that they seemed to be posing for a movie, some
playing dominoes, others drinking rum and smoking in the corners, some couples strolling hand in
hand, mothers chasing after their children, grandmothers snooping through open doors. The priest
lit the parish lanterns and blew up the bells calling to pray the novena of San Isidoro Mártir, but no
one was in the mood for that type of devotions.
At nine-thirty the Arab teacher, Inés the Arab, the town doctor and four young men that she had
educated from the first letters and were already big shoulders from their military service, met in
the house. Riad Halabí led them to the last room, where they found the corpse covered in insects,
because the window had been left open and it was the hour of the mosquitoes. They put the
unfortunate man in a canvas sack, carried him out onto the street, and unceremoniously threw
him into the back of Riad Halabi's vehicle. They crossed the whole town along the main street,
greeting as was the custom the people who crossed their paths. Some waved back with
exaggerated enthusiasm, while others pretended not to see them, snickering, like children caught
in some mischief. The truck headed to the place where, many years before, the son of Maestra
Inés leaned over for the last time to pick a piece of fruit. In the glow of the moon they saw the
property overrun with the malignant weeds of neglect, blighted by decrepitude and bad memories,
a tangled hill where mangoes grew wild, fruit fell from the branches and rotted on the ground,
giving birth to
other bushes that in turn engendered others and so on until creating a hermetic jungle that
had swallowed up the fences, the path and even the remains of the house, of which only an
almost imperceptible trace of the smell of jam remained. The men lit their kerosene lamps and
started walking into the woods, hacking their way through. When they considered that they
had gone far enough, one of them pointed to the ground and there, at the foot of a gigantic
tree overwhelmed with fruit, they dug a deep hole, where they deposited the canvas sack.
Before covering it with earth, Riad Halabí said a short Muslim prayer, because he did not know
any other. They returned to the town at midnight and saw that no one had left yet, the lights
were still on in all the windows and people were moving through the streets.
Meanwhile, Maestra Inés had washed the walls and furniture in the room with soap and
water, burned the bedding, ventilated the house, and was waiting for her friends with dinner
prepared and a jug of rum with pineapple juice. The meal passed with joy commenting on the
latest cockfights, a barbaric sport, according to the Teacher, but less barbaric than bullfights,
where a Colombian matador had just lost his liver, the men claimed. Riad Halabí was the last
to say goodbye.
That night, for the first time in his life, he felt old. At the door, Maestra Inés took her hands and
held them for a moment in hers.
"Thank you, Turk," he told him. -Why did you call me, Inés? -Because you are the person I
love the most in this world and because you should have been the father of my child.
The next day the inhabitants of Agua Santa returned to their usual chores enhanced by a
magnificent complicity, by a secret of good neighbors, which they would guard with the greatest
zeal, passing it on to each other for many years as a legend of justice, until that the death of
Maestra Inés freed us all and I can now tell it.
WITH ALL DUE RESPECT
They were a couple of rascals. He had the face of a privateer, and his hair and mustache
were dyed jet-black, but in time he changed his style and kept it gray, which softened his
expression and gave him a more circumspect air. She was robust, with that milky skin of
the red-haired Saxon, a skin that in youth reflects light in opalescent brushstrokes, but in
maturity becomes stained paper. The years he spent in the oil camps and in the border
villages did not deplete his vigor, inherited from his Scottish ancestors. Neither the
mosquitoes, nor the heat, nor misuse could exhaust his body or reduce his desire to
command. At the age of fourteen, he abandoned his father, a Protestant pastor who
preached the Bible in the middle of the jungle, a completely useless task because no one
understood his gibberish in English and because in those latitudes words, even God's, are
lost in the hubbub of the birds.
At that age the girl had already reached her final height and was in full control of her
person. He was not a sentimental creature. One by one, she rejected the men who,
attracted by the incandescent flame of her hair, so rare in the tropics, offered her
protection. She had never heard of love and it was not in her temperament to invent it,
instead she knew how to make the most of the only asset she possessed and when
she turned twenty-five she already had a handful of diamonds sewn into the fold of her
petticoats. She handed them over without hesitation to Domingo Toro, the only man who
managed to tame her, an adventurer who roamed the region hunting alligators and dealing
weapons and counterfeit whiskey. He was an unscrupulous knave, the perfect mate for
Abigail McGovern.
In the early days the couple had to invent somewhat bizarre businesses to increase
their capital. With her diamonds and some savings that he had obtained from his
smuggling, his alligator skins, and his gambling cheats, Domingo bought chips from the
Casino, because he knew that they were identical to those of another casino on the other
side of the border. where the value of the coin was much higher. He filled a suitcase with
chips and traveled to exchange them for hard cash. He managed to repeat the same
operation twice before the authorities became alarmed and when they did it turned out that
he could not be accused of anything illegal. Meanwhile, Abigail traded in some clay pots
that she bought from the peasants and sold as archaeological pieces to the gringos of the
Petroleum Company, with such success that she was soon able to expand her business
with false colonial paintings, made by a student in a shack behind of the cathedral and
hastily aged with sea water, soot and cat urine. By then she had shed the rustler's manners
and swearing, had cut her hair, and dressed in expensive suits.
Although her taste was very elaborate and her efforts to appear elegant too conspicuous,
she could pass for a lady, which facilitated her social relations and contributed to the
success of her business. He made appointments with his clients in the halls of the English
Hotel and while he served tea with the measured gestures that he had learned to copy, he
talked about hunting parties and tennis championships in hypothetical places with British
names, which no one could locate on a map. After the third cup, he mentioned in a
confidential tone the purpose of that meeting, showed photographs of the supposed
antiquities and made it clear that his intention was to save those treasures from local
neglect. The government did not have the resources to preserve these extraordinary
objects, he said, and to smuggle them out of the country, even if illegal, was an act of
archaeological conscience.
Once the Toros had laid the foundations of a small fortune, Abigail tried to found a lineage and
convinced Domingo of the need to have a good name.
-What's wrong with ours? "Nobody's called Toro, it's a bartender's last name," Abigail replied.
-It's my father's and I'm not going to change it. -In that case we have to convince everyone that
we are rich.
He suggested buying land and planting bananas or coffee, like the Goths of old, but he was not
attracted to the idea of going to the interior provinces, wild land, exposed to gangs of robbers, the
army or the guerrillas, snakes and all luck of pests; he believed it was stupid to go to the jungle in
search of a future, since it was within easy reach in the heart of the capital, it was safer to engage
in trade, like the thousands of Syrians and Jews who disembarked with a bundle of miseries on
their backs and after a few years they lived comfortably.
-No turkeys. What I want is a respectable family, that they call us Mr. and Mrs. and nobody dares
to talk to us with their hat on," she said.
But he insisted and she ended up abiding by his decision, as she almost always did, because
when her husband put himself in front of her, he mortified her with long periods of abstinence
and silence. On those occasions he would disappear from the house for several days, return
battered by clandestine love affairs, change his clothes and come out again, leaving Abigail
furious at first and then terrified at the thought of losing him. She was a practical person, completely
devoid of romantic feelings, and if there had ever been any seed of tenderness in her, the years of
suripanta destroyed her, but Domingo was the only man she could tolerate by her side and she
was not willing to give up. let it go As soon as Abigail gave in, he went back to sleep in her bed.
There were no noisy reconciliations, they simply resumed the rhythm of routines and returned to
the complicity of their traps. Domingo Toro set up a chain of stores in the poor neighborhoods,
where he sold very cheaply, but in large quantities. The stores served as screens for other less
lawful businesses. The money kept piling up and they were able to afford the extravagances of the
rich, but Abigail was not satisfied, for she realized that it was one thing to live in luxury and quite
another to be accepted in society.
-If you had listened to me, they wouldn't have confused us with Arab merchants. Look what to
sell rags! she demanded of her husband.
-I don't know what you're complaining about, we have everything. -Continue with your bazaars
for the poor, if that's what you want, but I'm going to buy racehorses.
-Horses? What do you know about horses, woman? -That they are elegant, all the important
people have horses.
-We're going to be ruined! For once Abigail managed to impose her will and soon they
realized that it hadn't been a bad idea. The animals gave them pretexts to socialize with the old
families of breeders and also turned out to be profitable, but although the Bulls frequently
appeared in the equestrian pages of the press, they were never in the social chronicle. Scorned,
Abigail became more and more ostentatious. He commissioned porcelain tableware with his
portrait painted by hand on each piece, cut crystal goblets and furniture with angry gargoyles on
the legs, as well as a threadbare armchair that he passed off as a colonial relic, telling everyone
that it had belonged to the Liberator. , reason for which he tied a red cord in front so that no one could
put their buttocks where the Father of the Nation had done. He arranged for a German governess for
his children and a Dutch vagabond, whom he dressed as an admiral, to manage the family yacht.
The only vestiges of the past were Domingo's filibuster tattoos and an injured back on
Abigail, as a result of wriggling open-legged in her barbaric times; but he

covered his tattoos with long sleeves and she had an iron corset made with silk
pads to prevent pain from destroying her dignity.
By then she was an obese woman, covered in jewels, resembling Nero.
Ambition marked in her the physical havoc that the adventures in the jungle had
not been able to do to her.
With the intention of attracting the most select of society, the Toro offered a costume
party every year for carnival: the Baghdad court with the elephant and camels from
the zoo and an army of young men dressed as Bedouins; the Versailles Ball, where
guests in brocaded gowns and powdered wigs performed a minuet between beveled
mirrors; and other scandalous carousings that became part of local legends and gave
rise to violent tirades in left-wing newspapers. They had to post guards at the house
to prevent the students, outraged at the waste, from painting slogans on the columns
and throwing poop out the windows, alleging that the new rich filled their bathtubs with
champagne while the new poor hunted the cats of the roofs to eat them. These parties
gave them a certain respectability, because by then the line that divided the social
classes was vanishing, people arrived in the country from all corners of the earth
attracted by the miasma of oil, the capital grew without control, fortunes were made
and they were lost in the blink of an eye and there was no longer any possibility of
finding out the origins of each one. However, the families of lineage kept the Toro at a
distance, despite the fact that they themselves were descended from other immigrants
whose only merit was to have arrived on those shores half a century beforehand. They
attended Domingo's and Abigail's banquets and sometimes took a cruise around the
Caribbean on the yacht guided by the firm hand of the Dutch captain, but they did not
return the attention they received. Maybe Abigail would have had to resign herself to the
background, if an unexpected event doesn't turn their luck around.
That August afternoon Abigail woke up embarrassed from her nap, it was very hot and
the air was charged with omens of storm. She slipped into a silk gown over her corset
and was led to the beauty parlor. The car crossed the streets crowded with traffic with
the windows closed, to prevent some resentful person -of those who were becoming
more and more- from spitting at the lady through the window, and stopped at the
premises at five o'clock, where it entered later. to tell the driver to pick her up an hour
later. When the man returned to look for her, Abigail was not there. The hairdressers
said that five minutes after arriving, the lady announced that she was going to do a
short errand, but she did not return. Meanwhile, Domingo Toro received the first call in
his office from the Red Pumas, an extremist group that no one had heard of until then,
to announce that his wife had been kidnapped.
Thus began the scandal that saved the prestige of the Toro. The police detained the
driver and the hairdressers, raided entire neighborhoods and cordoned off the Toro
mansion, to the consequent annoyance of the neighbors. A television bus blocked the
street for days and a mob of journalists, detectives and onlookers trampled the lawns of
the houses. Domingo Toro appeared on the screens, sitting in the leather armchair of his
library, between a world map and a stuffed mare, imploring the kidnappers to return the
mother of his children. The thrift store tycoon, as the press called him, offered a million
for his wife, a highly exaggerated figure, because another guerrilla group had only gotten
half for an ambassador from the Middle East. However, the Red Pumas did not think it
was enough and they asked for double. After seeing Abigail's photograph in the
newspapers, many thought that Domingo's best bargain would be to pay that amount, not
to get his spouse back, but so that the
kidnappers will stay with her. An incredulous gasp swept the country when the
husband, after some consultation with bankers and lawyers, agreed to the deal,
despite warnings from the police. Hours before handing over the stipulated sum, he
received a lock of red hair in the mail and a note indicating that the price had increased
by another quarter of a million. By then the Toro children were also on television
sending messages of filial despair to Abigail. The macabre auction was rising in tone
day by day, before the attentive eyes of the press.
The suspense ended five days later, just as the public's curiosity was beginning
to veer in other directions. Abigail was found bound and gagged in a parked car
downtown, a little nervous and disheveled, but with no visible damage and even a little
fatter. The afternoon Abigail returned home, a small crowd gathered in the street to
applaud this husband who had given such proof of
love.
Faced with the harassment of journalists and the demands of the police, Domingo Toro
assumed an attitude of discreet gallantry, refusing to reveal how much he had paid on
the grounds that his wife was priceless. Popular exaggeration gave her an improbable
figure, much more than any man had ever paid for a woman, let alone his own. That
made the Toros a symbol of opulence, it was said that they were as rich as the President,
who had benefited for years from the Nation's oil revenues and whose fortune was
calculated as one of the five largest in the world. Domingo and Abigail were elevated to
high society, where they had not had access until then. Nothing overshadowed his
triumph, not even the public protests of the students, who hung canvases at the University
accusing Abigail of kidnapping herself, the tycoon of taking millions out of one pocket to
put them in another without paying taxes, and the police of swallow the story of the Red
Pumas to scare people and justify purges against opposition parties. But gossip failed to
destroy the magnificent effect of the kidnapping, and a decade later the ToroMcGovems
had become one of the most respectable families in the country.
ENDLESS LIFE
There are all kinds of stories. Some are born to be told, their substance is
language and before someone puts them into words they are just an emotion, a
whim of the mind, an image or an intangible reminiscence. Others come complete,
like apples, and can be repeated ad infinitum without risk of altering their meaning.
There are some taken from reality and processed by inspiration, while others are
born from an instant of inspiration and become reality when told. And there are secret
stories that remain hidden in the shadows of memory, they are like living organisms,
they grow roots, tentacles, they fill with adhesions and parasites and with time they
become the stuff of nightmares. Sometimes to exorcise the demons of a memory it is
necessary to tell it as a story.
Ana and Roberto Blaum grew old together, so close that over the years they
came to look like brothers; both had the same expression of benevolent surprise,
the same wrinkles, the same gestures of the hands, the inclination of the shoulders;
both were marked by similar customs and longings. They had shared every day for
most of their lives and from so much walking hand in hand and sleeping in each
other's arms they could agree to find themselves in the same dream. They had
never been apart since they met half a century ago. At that time Roberto was
studying medicine and already had the passion that determined his existence to
wash the world and redeem his neighbor, and Ana was one of those young virgins
capable of embellishing everything with her candor. They discovered themselves
through music. She was a violinist in a chamber orchestra and he, who came from a
family of virtuosos and liked to play the piano, never missed a concert. He made out
on stage that girl dressed in black velvet and a lace neck who played her instrument
with her eyes closed and fell in love with her from a distance. Months passed before
he dared to speak to her and when he did, four sentences were enough for both of
them to understand that they were destined for a perfect bond. The war surprised
them before they were able to get married and, like thousands of Jews hallucinated
by the terror of the persecutions, they had to escape from Europe. They embarked in
a port in the Netherlands, with no more luggage than the clothes on their backs, some
of Roberto's books and Ana's violin. The ship drifted for two years, unable to dock at
any dock, because the nations of the hemisphere did not want to accept its cargo of
refugees. After circling several seas, it arrived on the Caribbean coast. By then her
hull was like a cauliflower of shells and lichens, moisture oozed from her interior in a
persistent distemper, her machines had turned green and all the crew and passengers
- except Ana and Roberto - defended from hopelessness by the illusion of love - they
had aged two hundred years. The captain, resigned to the idea of continuing to
wander forever, stopped with his ocean liner shell at a corner of the bay, facing a
beach of phosphorescent sands and slender palm trees crowned with feathers, so
that the sailors could descend at night to load fresh water for the tanks. But they didn't
get there anymore. At dawn the next day it was impossible to start the machines,
corroded by the effort of moving with a mixture of salt water and gunpowder, for lack
of better fuels. At mid-morning the authorities of the nearest port appeared in a launch,
a handful of happy mulattoes with their uniform unbuttoned and the best will, who in
accordance with the regulations ordered them to leave their territorial waters, but upon
learning of the sad fate of the The navigators and the deplorable state of the ship
suggested to the captain that they stay there for a few days sunbathing, to see if
giving them free rein the inconveniences would fix themselves.
as almost always happens. During the night all the inhabitants of that
wretched ship descended in the boats, stepped on the warm sands of that country
whose name they could barely pronounce, and lost themselves inland in the
voluptuous vegetation, ready to cut off their beards, shed their musty rags and
shake off the oceanic winds that had tanned their souls.
This is how Ana and Roberto Blaum began their destiny as immigrants, first working
as workers to survive and later, when they learned the rules of that fickle society, they
put down roots and he was able to finish his medical studies interrupted by the war.
They lived on bananas and coffee and lived in a humble pension, in a small room
whose window framed a street lamp. At night Roberto took advantage of that light to
study and Ana to sew. When finishing work he would sit down to look at the stars on
the neighboring roofs and she would play old melodies on her violin, a custom that
they kept as a way of closing the day.
Years later, when Blaum's name was famous, those times of poverty were
mentioned as a romantic reference in the forewords of books or in newspaper
interviews. Luck changed for them, but they maintained their attitude of extreme
modesty, because they were not able to erase the traces of past suffering or get rid
of the feeling of precariousness typical of exile. They were both of the same height,
with clear pupils and strong bones. Roberto had the appearance of a scholar, a
messy mane of hair crowned his ears, he wore thick glasses with round tortoiseshell
frames, he always wore a gray suit, which he replaced with another of the same type
when Ana gave up mending her cuffs, and leaned on a wooden cane. bamboo that
a friend brought him from India. He was a man of few words, precise in his speech
as in everything else, but with a delicate sense of humor that softened the weight of
his knowledge. His students would remember him as the kindest of teachers. Ana
had a cheerful and confident temperament, she was incapable of imagining the evil
of others and for that reason she was immune to it. Roberto recognized that his wife
was endowed with an admirable practical sense and from the beginning he delegated
important decisions and money management to her. Ana took care of her husband
with the pampering of a mother, she cut his hair and nails, watched over his health,
his food and his sleep, she was always within reach of his call. The company of the
other was so indispensable to both of them that Ana gave up her musical vocation,
because it would have forced her to travel frequently, and she only played the violin
in the privacy of the house. She got into the habit of going with Roberto at night to the
morgue or to the university library where he spent long hours researching. They both
liked the solitude and silence of closed buildings.
Then they would walk back through the empty streets to the poor neighborhood
where their house was located. With the uncontrolled growth of the city, this sector
became a nest of traffickers, prostitutes and thieves, where not even the police
cars dared to circulate after sunset, but they crossed it at dawn without being
disturbed. . Everyone knew them. There was no ailment or problem that was not
consulted with Roberto and no child had grown up there without trying Ana's
cookies. Someone was in charge of explaining to strangers from the beginning that
for reasons of sentiment the old were untouchable. They added that the Blaums were
a source of pride for the Nation, that the President himself had decorated Roberto
and that they were so respectable that not even the Guard bothered them when they
entered the neighborhood with their war machines, raiding the houses one by one.
I met them at the end of the sixties, when in her madness my Godmother opened
her neck with a knife. We took her to the hospital bleeding in torrents,
with no one holding out any real hope of saving her, but we were lucky that Roberto
Blaum was there and calmly proceeded to sew her head back into place.
To the astonishment of the other doctors, my Godmother recovered. I spent many
hours sitting by his bed during the weeks of convalescence and there were several
occasions to talk with Roberto. Little by little we began a solid friendship. The Blaums
had no children and I think they needed them, because over time they came to treat
me as if I were one. I went to see them often, rarely at night so as not to venture alone
in that neighborhood, they would entertain me with some special dish for lunch. I liked
helping Roberto in the garden and Ana in the kitchen. Sometimes she would take her
violin and give me a couple of hours of music. They gave me the key to their house and
when they traveled I took care of their dog and watered their plants.
Roberto Blaum's successes had started early, despite the delay that the war imposed
on his career. At an age when other doctors are starting out in the operating room,
he had already published some worthwhile essays, but his notoriety began with the
publication of his book on the right to a peaceful death. He was not tempted by private
medicine, except when it was a friend or neighbor, and he preferred to practice his trade
in hospitals for the indigent, where he could care for a larger number of patients and
learn something new every day. Long shifts in the wards for the dying inspired him
compassion for those fragile bodies chained to living machines, tortured by needles and
hoses, to whom science denied a dignified end on the pretext that one must hold one's
breath. any cost. It pained him that he couldn't help them leave this world and instead
was forced to hold them against their will in their dying beds. On some occasions, the
torment imposed on one of his patients became so unbearable that he could not get it
out of his mind for a moment. Ana had to wake him up, because he was screaming in
his sleep. In the shelter of the sheets he hugged his wife, his face buried in her breasts,
desperate. _Why don't you disconnect the tubes and alleviate the suffering of that poor
wretch? It's the most merciful thing you can do. He's going to die anyway, sooner or
later...
-I can't, Ana. The law is very clear, no one has the right to another's life, but for me this
is a matter of conscience.
-We've been through this before and each time you suffer the same
remorse. Nobody will know, it will be a matter of a couple of minutes.
If Roberto ever did it, only Ana knew about it.
His book proposed that death, with its ancient burden of terrors, is only the
abandonment of a useless shell, while the spirit reintegrates into the unique energy
of the cosmos. Dying, like birth, is a stage of the journey and deserves the same
mercy. There is not the slightest virtue in prolonging the throbbing and tremors of a body
beyond the natural end, and the doctor's job should be to facilitate death, instead of
contributing to the cumbersome bureaucracy of death. But such a decision could not
depend only on the discernment of professionals or the mercy of relatives, it was
necessary for the law to establish a criterion.
Blaum's proposal provoked an uproar from priests, lawyers and doctors.
Soon the issue transcended scientific circles and invaded the streets, dividing opinions.
For the first time someone spoke about this topic, until then death was a silenced matter,
they bet on immortality, each one with the secret hope of living forever. While the
discussion remained at a philosophical level, Roberto Blaum appeared in all the forums
to support his claim, but when it became another entertainment for the masses, he took
refuge in his work, scandalized by the shamelessness with which his theory was
exploited. For commercial purposes. Death
it came to the fore, stripped of all reality and turned into a joyous fashion motif.
One part of the press accused Blaum of promoting euthanasia and compared his ideas
to those of the Nazis, while another part hailed him as a saint. He ignored the commotion
and continued his investigations and his work at the hospital. His book was translated into
several languages and spread to other countries, where the subject also provoked
passionate reactions. His photography appeared frequently in science magazines.
That year he was offered a professorship at the Faculty of Medicine and soon became the
professor most sought after by students. There was not even a trace of arrogance in Roberto
Blaum, nor the exultant fanaticism of the administrators of divine revelations, only the calm
certainty of studious men. The greater the fame of Roberto, the more secluded was the life
of the Blaums. The impact of that brief celebrity frightened them and they ended up admitting
very few into their inner circle.
Roberto's theory was forgotten by the public as quickly as it became fashionable. The law
was not changed, the problem was not even discussed in Congress, but in the academic
and scientific field the prestige of the doctor increased. In the following thirty years, Blaum
trained several generations of surgeons, discovered new drugs and surgical techniques,
and organized a system of traveling clinics, wagons, ships, and small planes equipped with
everything necessary to attend to everything from deliveries to various epidemics, which
traveled throughout the country carrying relief to the most remote areas, where before only
the missionaries had set foot. He won countless awards, was Rector of the University for a
decade and Minister of Health for two weeks, time it took him to gather the evidence of
administrative corruption and waste of resources and present it to the President, who had
no choice but to remove him, because it was not about shaking the foundations of the
government to please an idealist. In those decades Blaum continued his investigations with
the dying. He published several articles on the obligation to tell the truth to the seriously ill,
so that they would have time to settle their souls and not be stunned by the surprise of
dying, and on the respect due to suicide bombers and the ways to put an end to it. to life
itself without useless pain or stridency.
Blaum's name was once again pronounced in the streets when his latest book was
published, which not only shook traditional science, but also caused an avalanche of
illusions throughout the country. In his long experience in hospitals, Roberto had treated
innumerable cancer patients and observed that while some were defeated by death,
others survived with the same treatment. In his book, Roberto tried to demonstrate the
relationship between cancer and mood, and assured that sadness and loneliness facilitate
the multiplication of fateful cells, because when the patient is depressed the body's defenses
lower, on the other hand if he has good reasons to live your body fights relentlessly against
evil. He explained that the cure, therefore, cannot be limited to surgery, chemistry or
apothecary remedies, which attack only the physical manifestations, but must contemplate
above all the condition of the spirit. The last chapter suggested that the best disposition is
found in those who have a good partner or some other form of affection, because love has
a beneficial effect that even the most powerful drugs cannot overcome.
The press immediately grasped the fantastic possibilities of this theory and put things into
Blaum's mouth that he had never said. If earlier death caused an unusual uproar, on this
occasion something equally natural was treated as a novelty. You
They attributed to love the virtues of the Philosopher's Stone and said that it could
cure all ills. Everyone was talking about the book, but very few read it. The simple
assumption that affect can be good for health became complicated as everyone wanted
to add or subtract something from it, until Blauni's original idea was lost in a tangle of
absurdities, creating colossal confusion. In the public. There was no shortage of rogues
who tried to take advantage of the matter, seizing love as if it were their own invention.
New esoteric sects proliferated, schools of psychology, courses for beginners, clubs for
solitaires, infallible attraction pills, devastating perfumes and an endless number of
cheap fortune tellers who used their playing cards and glass balls to sell feelings for
four cents. As soon as they discovered that Ana and Roberto Blaum were a touching
old couple, who had been together a long time and who kept intact the strength of the
body, the faculties of the mind and the quality of their love, they turned them into living
examples.
Apart from the scientists who analyzed the book to exhaustion, the only ones who read
it without sensationalizing purposes were cancer patients, however, for them the hope
of a definitive cure became an atrocious mockery, because in truth no one could tell
them where to find love, how to get it, much less how to preserve it. Although Blaum's
idea was perhaps not without logic, in practice it was inapplicable.
Roberto was dismayed at the size of the scandal, but Ana reminded him of what
had happened before and convinced him that it was a matter of sitting down and
waiting a bit, because the noise would not last long. So it happened. The Blaums
were not in town when the clamor died down. Roberto had withdrawn from his job at
the hospital and at the university, claiming that he was tired and that he was old
enough to lead a more peaceful life. But he could not stay away from his own celebrity,
his house was invaded by begging patients, journalists, students, teachers, and curious
people who arrived at all hours. He told me that he needed silence, because he was
planning to write another book, and I helped him find a secluded place to hide. We
found a house in La Colonia, a strange village embedded in a tropical hill, a replica of
some nineteenth-century Bavarian village, an architectural derangement of painted
wooden houses, cuckoo clocks, potted geraniums and notices with Gothic letters,
inhabited by a race of blond people with the same dirndl costumes and ruddy cheeks
that their great-grandfathers brought with them when they emigrated from the Black
Forest. Although La Colonia was already the tourist attraction it is today, Roberto was
able to rent an isolated property where the weekend traffic did not arrive. They asked
me to take care of their affairs in the capital, I collected their retirement money, accounts
and mail. At first I visited them frequently, but I soon realized that in my presence they
maintained a somewhat forced cordiality, very different from the warm welcome they
lavished on me before. I didn't think it was something against me, far from it, I always
had their confidence and their esteem, I simply deduced that they wanted to be alone
and I preferred to communicate with them by phone and by letter.
When Roberto Blaum called me for the last time, I hadn't seen them for a year. I spoke
very little with him, but I had long conversations with Ana. I gave her news of the world
and she told me about her past, which seemed to become more and more vivid for her,
as if all the memories of the past were part of her present. in the silence that now
surrounded her. Sometimes she sent me by various means oatmeal cookies that she
baked for me and sachets of lavender to perfume the closets. In recent months, she had
also sent me delicate gifts: a handkerchief her husband gave her many years ago,
photographs of her youth, an old brooch. I guess that, plus the desire to stay away and
the fact that Roberto avoided talking
from the book in preparation, they must have given me the keys, but I really did not imagine
what was happening in that house in the mountains. Later, when I read Ana's diary, I found
out that Roberto did not write a single line. During all that time he devoted himself entirely
to loving his wife, but that did not succeed in diverting the course of events.
On weekends the trip to La Colonia becomes a pilgrimage of cars with hot engines revving
their wheels, but on other days, especially in the rainy season, it is a solitary walk along a
road of closed curves that cuts the tops of the hills, between surprising abysses and
forests of reeds and palms. That afternoon there were clouds trapped between the hills
and the landscape seemed made of cotton. The rain had silenced the birds and all that
was heard was the sound of water against the glass. As I ascended, the air refreshed and
I felt the storm suspended in the mist, like a climate from another latitude. Suddenly, at a
bend in the road, that Germanic-looking village appeared, with its roofs sloping to withstand
snow that would never fall. To get to the Blaums, you had to cross the entire town, which
at that hour seemed deserted. Her cabin was like all the others, dark wood, with carved
eaves and lace-curtained windows, a well-tended garden blooming in front and a small
strawberry patch in back. There was a cold blizzard whistling through the trees, but I saw
no smoke from the chimney. The dog, who had been with them for years, was lying on the
porch and didn't move when I called, raising his head and looking at me without moving his
tail, as if he didn't recognize me, but he followed me when I opened the door, which was
without a key, and crossed the threshold. It was dark. I felt around the wall for the switch
and turned on the lights. Everything looked in order, there were fresh eucalyptus branches
in the vases, which filled the air with a clean smell. I crossed the living room of that rental
house, where nothing betrayed the presence of the Blaums, except the piles of books and
the violin, and I was surprised that in a year and a half my friends had not implanted their
personalities in the place where they lived.
I went up the stairs to the attic, where the master bedroom was, a large room with high,
rustically beamed ceilings, faded wallpaper on the walls, and coarse furniture in a vaguely
Provencal style. A nightstand lamp illuminated the bed, on which Ana lay, wearing the blue
silk dress and the coral necklace that I saw her wear so many times. She had the same
innocent expression in death that she appears in her wedding photograph, taken long ago,
when the ship's captain married her to Roberto seventy miles from the coast, that splendid
afternoon when the flying fish left the sea. sea to announce to the refugees that the promised
land was near. The dog that had followed me cowered in a corner whimpering softly.
On the night table, next to an unfinished embroidery and Ana's life diary, I found a note
from Roberto addressed to me, in which he asked me to take care of his dog and bury
them in the same coffin in the cemetery of that village of stories. They had decided to die
together, because she was in the last phase of cancer and they preferred to travel to
another stage holding hands, as they had always been, so that in the fleeting moment
when the spirit detaches they would not run the risk of getting lost in some intricacy of the
vast universe.
I went through the house looking for Roberto. I found him in a small room behind the
kitchen, where he had his study, sitting at a pale wooden desk, his head in his hands,
sobbing. On the table was the syringe with which he injected his wife with the poison,
loaded with the dose intended for him. I caressed the nape of her neck, she looked up and
looked at me for a long time. I suppose that he wanted to spare Ana the sufferings of the
end and he prepared the departure of both of them so that nothing would alter the serenity of that
Instantly, he cleaned the house, cut branches for the vases, dressed and combed
his wife's hair and when everything was ready he gave her the injection. Comforting her
with the promise that he would be with her in a few minutes, he lay down next to her
and hugged her until he was sure she was no longer alive. He refilled the syringe, rolled
up his shirtsleeve, and felt for the vein, but things didn't turn out quite as planned.
So he called me.
I can't do it, Eve. I can only ask you... Please, help me to die.
A DISCREET MIRACLE
The Boulton family came from a Liverpool merchant, who emigrated in the mid-nineteenth century
with his tremendous ambition as his only fortune, and became rich with a flotilla of cargo ships in
the southernmost and farthest country in the world. The Boultons were prominent members of the
British colony, and like so many Englishmen outside their island, they preserved their traditions and
their language with an absurd tenacity, until the mixture with Creole blood overthrew their arrogance
and changed their Anglo-Saxon names to more traditional ones. .
Gilberto, Filomena and Miguel were born at the height of the Boulton fortunes, but throughout their
lives they saw maritime traffic decline and a substantial part of their income disappear. Although they
were no longer wealthy, they were able to maintain their lifestyle. It was hard to find three people
more different in appearance and character than these three brothers. In old age the features of each
one were accentuated, but despite their apparent disparities their souls coincided in fundamentals.
Gilberto was a seventy-something-year-old poet, with delicate features and the bearing of a
dancer, whose existence had passed without regard to material needs, among art books and
antiques. He was the only one of his brothers who was educated in England, an experience that
marked him deeply. The vice of tea remained forever. He never married, partly because he did
not find in time the pale young woman who appeared so often in his youthful verses, and when
he gave up that illusion it was already too late, because his bachelor's habits were deeply rooted.
He made fun of his blue eyes, his yellow hair, and his ancestry, saying that almost all the Boultons
were vulgar merchants, who by pretending so much to be aristocrats had ended up convinced that
they were. Yet he wore tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, played bridge, read the Times
three weeks late, and cultivated the irony and phlegm attributed to British intellectuals.
Filomena, rotund and simple as a peasant, was a widow and grandmother of several grandchildren.
She was endowed with great tolerance, which allowed her to accept both Gilberto's Anglophile
whims and the fact that Miguel walked around with holes in his shoes and the collar of his
shirt in rags. He never lacked courage to attend to Gilberto's ailments or listen to him recite his
strange verses, nor to collaborate in Miguel's innumerable projects. She tirelessly knitted vests for
her younger brother, who he wore a couple of times and then gave to someone else in need. The
chopsticks were an extension of her hands, they moved with a mischievous rhythm, a continuous
ticking that announced her presence and always accompanied her, like the scent of her jasmine
cologne.
Miguel Boulton was a priest. Unlike his brothers, he was dark, short, almost entirely covered in
black hair that would have given him a bestial appearance if his face had not been so kind. He
abandoned the advantages of the family residence at the age of seventeen and only returned
there to participate in Sunday lunches with his relatives, or for Filomena to take care of him on the
rare occasions when he became seriously ill. He was not in the least homesick for the comforts of
his youth, and despite his outbursts of bad humor, he considered himself a lucky man and was
content with his existence. He lived next to the Municipal Garbage Dump, in a miserable town on
the outskirts of the capital, where the streets were unpaved, sidewalks built with boards and fences,
and no trees. Its zinc plates. Sometimes in summer fumaroles of fetid gases arose from the ground.
that seeped underground from garbage dumps. Its furnishings consisted of a bunk, a table, two chairs, and
bookcases, and the walls were lined with revolutionary posters, brass crosses made by political prisoners,
modest tapestries embroidered by the mothers of the disappeared, and pennants from their soccer team. f
ayorito. Next to the crucifix, where every morning he received communion alone and every night he thanked
God for the luck that he was still alive, hung a red flag. Father Miguel was one of those beings marked by
the terrible passion for justice. In his long life he had accumulated so much suffering from others that he
was incapable of thinking about his own pain, which, added to the certainty of acting in the name of God,
made him reckless.
Every time the military raided his house and took him away, accusing him of being a subversive, they had
to beat him up, because they couldn't even stop him from harassing them with insults interspersed with
quotes from the Gospels. He had been detained so often, went on so many hunger strikes in solidarity with
the prisoners, and protected so many persecuted, that according to the law of probabilities he should have
died several times. His photograph, sitting in front of a political police station with a sign announcing that
they tortured people there, was broadcast all over the world. There was no punishment capable of daunting
him, but they did not dare to make him disappear, like so many others, because he was already too well
known. At night, when he settled in front of his small domestic altar to talk with God, he doubted in
amazement if his only impulses were love for his neighbor and the desire for justice, or if there was not also
satanic arrogance in his actions. That man, capable of lulling a child to sleep with boleros and spending
sleepless nights caring for the sick, did not trust the gentleness of his own heart. All his life he had fought
anger, which thickened his blood and made him explode in uncontrollable rages. Secretly he wondered
what would become of him if circumstances did not offer him such good excuses to vent. Filomena kept an
eye on him, but Gilberto was of the opinion that if nothing too serious had happened to him in almost
seventy years of balancing on a tightrope, there was no reason to worry, since his brother's guardian angel
had proven to be very efficient.
-Angels don't exist. They are semantic errors -replied Miguel.

Don't be a heretic, man. -They were simple messengers until Santo Tomás de Aquino invented all that
hoax.
- Are you going to tell me that the feather of the Archangel Saint Gabriel, who is venerated in Rome,
comes from the tail of a vulture? Gilbert laughed.
If you don't believe in angels, you don't believe in anything. Why are you still a priest? You should
change your profession, Filomena intervened.
-Several centuries have already been wasted arguing how many of these creatures fit on the tip of a pin.
What difference does it make? Don't spend energy on angels, but on helping people!
Miguel had gradually lost his sight and was almost blind. He couldn't see anything from his right eye and
very little from his left, he couldn't read and it was very difficult for him to leave his neighborhood, because
he got lost in the streets. He increasingly depended on Filomena to mobilize. She accompanied him or sent
him the car with the driver, Sebastián Canuto, alias El Cuchillo, an ex-convict whom Miguel had released
from prison and regenerated, and who had worked with the family for two decades. With the political
turbulence of recent years, El Cuchillo became the priest's discreet bodyguard. When rumors spread of a
protest march, Filomena would give him the day off and he would leave for the town of Miguel, armed with
a blackjack and a pair of mitts hidden in his pockets. He would post himself in the street to wait for the priest
to come out and then follow him at a distance, ready to defend him with blows or to drag him to a safe place
if the situation required it. The nebula in which Miguel lived
It prevented him from noticing these rescue maneuvers, which would have infuriated him,
because he would consider it unfair to have such protection while the rest of the demonstrators
endured blows, water jets, and gases.
As the date on which Miguel turned seventy years approached, his left eye suffered a hemorrhage
and in a few minutes he was left in complete darkness. He was in the church in a nocturnal
meeting with the residents, talking about the need to organize to confront the Municipal Garbage
Dump, because it was no longer possible to continue living among so many flies and so much smell
of rottenness. Many neighbors were on the opposite side of the Catholic religion, in truth for them
there was no proof of the existence of God, on the contrary, the sufferings of their lives were an
irrefutable demonstration that the universe was a pure ball, but also they They considered the local
parish as the natural center of the population. The cross that Miguel wore hanging from his chest
seemed to them only a minor inconvenience, a kind of old man's extravagance. The priest was
pacing as he spoke, as was his custom, when he felt his temples and heart race and his whole body
break out in clammy sweat. He attributed it to the heat of the discussion, passed his sleeve over his
forehead and closed his eyelids for a moment. When he opened them he thought he was sunk in a
whirlwind at the bottom of the sea, he only perceived deep waves, spots, black on black. He
stretched out an arm for support.
"The power went out," he said, thinking of another sabotage. His friends surrounded him in fear.
Father Boulton was a formidable companion, having lived among them for as long as they could
remember. Until then they believed him invincible, a strong and muscular big shoulder, with the
booming voice of a sergeant and mason's hands that joined in prayer, but in truth seemed made for
fighting. Suddenly they realized how worn he was, they saw him shrunken and small, a wrinkled
child. A chorus of women improvised the first remedies, forced him to lie on the ground, put wet
cloths on his head, gave him hot wine to drink, massaged his feet; but nothing had any effect, on
the contrary, with so much handling the patient was losing his breath. Finally Miguel managed to get
the people off him and stand up, ready to face this new misfortune face to face.
face.
"I'm screwed," he said without losing his cool. Please call my sister and tell her I'm in trouble, but
don't give her any details so she won't worry.
At the hour Sebastián Canuto appeared, sullen and silent as always, announcing that Mrs.
Filomena could not miss the episode of the soap opera and that here he was sending her some
money and a basket with provisions for her people.
-This time it is not about that, Cuchillo, it seems that I have gone blind.
The man put him in the car and without asking questions took him across the city to the Boulton
mansion, which stood elegantly in the middle of a somewhat abandoned but still stately park. He
summoned all the inhabitants of the house by honking his horns, helped the patient down and
carried him almost on a litter, moved to see him so light and docile. His coarse crook's face was wet
with tears when he broke the news to Gilberto and Filomena.
"Because of the rascal who gave birth to me, Don Miguelito has lost his eyes." This is the only
thing we needed -the driver cried without being able to contain himself.
"Don't swear in front of the poet," said the priest. "Put him to bed, Cuchillo," ordered Filomena. This
is not serious, it must be a cold. That's what you get for walking without a vest! -Time has stopped:
night and day is always winter and there is a pure silence of antennas because of the black... *
-Gilberto began to improvise.
"Tell the cook to prepare a chicken broth," his sister silenced him.
The family doctor determined that it was not a cold and recommended that Miguel be
seen by an ophthalmologist. The next day, after a passionate presentation on health, a gift
from God and the right of the people, which the infamous prevailing system had turned into
a caste privilege, the patient agreed to go see a specialist.
Sebastián Canuto took the three brothers to the South Area Hospital, the only place
Miguel approved, because the poorest of the poor were cared for there. This sudden
blindness had put the priest in a terrible mood, he could not understand the divine
design that made him an invalid just when his services were most needed. He didn't even
remember Christian resignation. From the beginning he refused to accept being guided or
supported, preferring to stumble forward, even at the risk of parAlque es de noche, by the
Chilean poet Carlos Bolton. throw a bone, not so much out of pride as to get used to this
new limitation as soon as possible. Filomena gave the driver secret instructions to divert
course and take them to the German Clinic, but her brother, who knew the smell of misery
all too well, became suspicious as soon as they crossed the threshold of the building and
confirmed them when he heard music on the elevator, they should have gotten him out of
there in a hurry, before a brawl broke out. In the hospital they waited for four hours, time
that Miguel took advantage of to investigate the misfortunes of the other patients in the
ward, Filomena to start another vest and Gilberto to compose the poem about the antennae
because of the blackness that had arisen in his heart the day before. .
"The right eye is hopeless and to restore some vision to the left it would have to be operated
on again," said the doctor who finally attended them. He has already had three operations
and the tissues are very weakened, this requires special techniques and instruments. I
think the only place they can try it is at the Military Hospital...
-Never! Miguel interrupted him. I will never set foot in that soulless den! Startled,
the doctor winked apologetically at the nurse, who returned it with a knowing smile.
-Don't be crafty, Miguel. It will only be for a couple of days, I don't think that's a
betrayal of your principles. Nobody goes to hell for that! Filomena pointed out, but her
brother replied that he would rather remain blind for the rest of his days than give the
military the pleasure of restoring his sight. At the door the doctor held him for a moment
by the arm. _Look, Father.... Have you heard of the Opus De¡ clinic? They also have very
modern resources there.
- Opus De? exclaimed the priest. Did he say Opus De¡? Filomena tried to lead him out of
the office, but he got stuck on the threshold to inform the doctor that he wasn't going to ask
those people for a favor either.
-But how... aren't they Catholics? -They are reactionary Pharisees. "Excuse me," the doctor
stammered. Once in the car, Miguel told his brothers and the driver that Opus Dei was a
fateful organization, more concerned with calming the conscience of the upper classes than
with feeding those who are dying of hunger, and that more easily enters a camel through
the eye of a needle than a rich man to the Kingdom of Heaven, or something like that. He
added that what happened was further proof of how bad things were in the country, where
only the privileged could be cured with dignity and the rest had to settle for herbs of mercy
and poultices of humiliation.
Finally, he asked to be taken directly home because he had to water the geraniums
and prepare the Sunday sermon.
"I agree," commented Gilberto, depressed by the hours of waiting and by the vision of so
much misery and ugliness in the hospital. He was not used to such errands.
-According to what? Philomena asked. -That we cannot go to the Military Hospital,

it would be bullshit. But we could give Opus De a chance, don't you think? -But what are you
talking about! his brother replied. I already told you what I think of them.
-Anyone would say that we cannot pay! added Filomena, about to lose patience.
"There's nothing wrong with asking," Gilberto suggested, passing his perfumed handkerchief
around his neck.
-Those people are so busy moving fortunes in the banks and embroidering priest's chasubles
with gold threads, that they don't have the courage to see the needs of others. Heaven is not
won by kneeling, but by...
"But you're not poor, Don Miguelito," Sebastián Canuto interrupted, clinging to the wheel.
-Don't insult me, Knife. I am as poor as you. Turn around and take us to that clinic, to prove
to the poet that, as always, he's on the moon.
They were greeted by a friendly lady, who made them fill out a form and offered them coffee.
Fifteen minutes later the three of them went into the office.
"First of all, doctor, I want to know if you are also from Opus De! or if you only work here,"
said the priest.
"I belong to the Work," the doctor smiled softly. -How much does the consult cost? The priest's
tone did not hide his sarcasm. - Do you have financial problems, Father? - Tell me how much. -
Nothing, if you can't pay. Donations are voluntary. For a brief moment Father Boulton lost his
composure, but the bewilderment did not last long.
This doesn't look like a charity. It's a private clinic. -Aha... Only those who can make donations
come here. "Look, Father, if you don't like it, I suggest you leave," replied the doctor. But it won't
go away without my examining it. If you want, bring me all your protégés, and we'll take care of
them here as well as possible, for that's what those who have pay for. And now don't move and
open your eyes wide.
After a meticulous review, the doctor confirmed the previous diagnosis, but he was not optimistic.
-Here we have an excellent team, but it is a very delicate operation.

I can't fool him, Father, only a miracle can restore his sight -he concluded.
Miguel was so overwhelmed that he barely heard it, but Filomena clung to that hope.
"A miracle, did you say?" -Well, it's a manner of speaking, ma'am. The truth is that no one can
guarantee that you will see again.
"If what you want is a miracle, I know where to get it," Filomena said, placing the tissue
in her bag. Thank you very much doctor. Get everything ready for the operation, we'll be back
soon.
Back in the car, with Miguel mute for the first time in a long time and Gilberto exhausted from the
shocks of the day, Filomena ordered Sebastián Canuto to head up the mountain. The man gave
him a sidelong glance and smiled enthusiastically. He had led his employer through those
directions before and he never did it willingly, because the road was a twisted snake, but this
time he was encouraged by the idea of helping the man he appreciated most in this world.
_Where Next? Gilberto murmured, making use of his British education so as not to collapse from
exhaustion.
-It is better that you sleep, the trip is long. We're going to Juana de los Lirios' grotto,' her sister
explained.
- You must be crazy! the surprised priest exclaimed.
-She's holy. -That's pure nonsense. The Church has not ruled on it.
-The Vatican takes about a hundred years to recognize a saint. We can't wait that long
-Filomena concluded.
"If Miguel doesn't believe in angels, he'll even less believe in pious Creoles, especially if that
Juana comes from a family of landowners," Gilberto sighed.
-That has nothing to do, she lived in poverty. Don't put ideas into Miguel's head,” said
Filomena.
"If it weren't for the fact that your family is willing to spend a fortune to have their own saint,
no one would know of your existence," the priest interrupted.
-She is more miraculous than any of your foreign saints.
-In any case, it seems a lot of petulance to ask for special treatment. Bad or bad, I'm
nobody and I don't have the right to mobilize heaven with personal demands, the blind man
grumbled.
Juana's prestige had begun after her death at a premature age, because the peasants of
the region, impressed by her pious life and her works of charity, prayed to her for favors.
Soon the word spread that the deceased was capable of performing wonders and the matter
escalated until it culminated in the Explorer's Miracle, as they called it. The man was lost in
the mountains for two weeks, and when the rescue teams had already given up the search
and were about to declare him dead, he turned up exhausted and hungry, but intact. In his
statements to the press, he said that in a dream he had seen the image of a girl dressed in
a long dress with a bouquet of flowers in her arms. When he woke up he felt a strong scent
of lilies and knew without a doubt that it was a heavenly message. Following the penetrating
perfume of the flowers, he managed to get out of that labyrinth of gorges and abysses and
finally reach the vicinity of a path. Comparing his vision with a portrait of Juana, he testified
that they were identical. The young woman's family took it upon themselves to spread the
story, to build a grotto in the place where the explorer appeared and to mobilize all the
resources at their disposal to take the case to the Vatican. Until that moment, however, there
was no response from the cardinal's jury. The Holy See did not believe in hasty resolutions, it
had spent many centuries of slow exercise of power and expected to have many more in the
future, so it was not in a hurry for anything, much less for beatifications. He received numerous
testimonies from the South American continent, where prophets, saints, preachers, stylites,
martyrs, virgins, hermits and other original characters appeared from time to time whom
people revered, but it was not something to get excited about each one. Great caution was
required in these matters, because any misstep could lead to ridicule, especially in these
pragmatic times, when disbelief prevailed over faith.
However, Juana's devotees did not wait for the verdict of Rome to treat her as a saint.
Stamps and medals with his portrait were sold and every day notices were published in
the newspapers thanking him for some favor granted. In the grotto they planted so many
lilies that the smell stunned the pilgrims and made the surrounding domestic animals sterile.
Oil lamps, candles, and torches filled the air with stubborn smoke, and the echo of chants
and prayers drifted among the hills, confusing the condors in flight. In a short time the place
was filled with memorial plaques, all kinds of orthopedic devices and miniature replicas of
human organs, which the believers left as proof of some supernatural healing. Through a
public collection, money was raised to pave the route and in a couple of years there was a
road full of curves, but passable, that linked the capital with the chapel.
The Boulton brothers reached their destination at dusk. Sebastián Canuto helped the three
old men along the path that led to the cave. Despite the late hour, there was no shortage
of devotees, some crawled on their knees on the stones, supported by a solicitous relative,
others prayed aloud or lit candles before a plaster statue of the blessed. Filomena and El
Cuchillo knelt down to formulate their request. Gilberto sat down on a bench to think about
the turns that life takes, and Miguel remained standing muttering that if it was about asking
for miracles, why didn't they better ask that the tyrant fall and democracy return once and for
all.
A few days later, the doctors from the Opus Dei clinic operated on his left eye at no cost,
after warning the brothers not to get their hopes up too much. The priest begged Filomena
and Gilberto not to make the slightest comment about Juana de los Lirios, he had enough
with the humiliation of being helped by his ideological rivals. As soon as they released him,
Filomena took him home, ignoring his protests. Miguel wore a huge patch covering half his
face and was weakened by the whole thing, but his vocation for modesty remained intact. He
declared that he did not want to be cared for by mercenary hands, so they had to fire the nurse
hired for the occasion. Filomena and the faithful Sebastián Canuto were in charge of taking
care of him, a task that was not easy, because the patient was in a terrible mood, he could not
stand the bed and did not want to
eat.
The presence of the priest fundamentally altered the routines of the house. The
opposition radio stations and the short-wave Voice of Moscow were blaring at all hours and
there was a perpetual parade of remorseful residents of Miguel's neighborhood, who came
to visit the sick man. His room was filled with humble gifts: drawings from school children,
cookies, bushes of herbs and flowers raised in tin cans, a chicken for soup, and even a two-
month-old puppy that urinated on the Persian rugs. and gnawed on the legs of the furniture,
and that someone took him with the idea of training him as a blind man's dog. However, the
convalescence was quick and fifty hours after the operation Filomena called the doctor to tell
him that her brother could see quite well.
-But I didn't tell him not to touch the bandage! the doctor exclaimed.
-The patch still has it. Now go through the other eye -explained the lady.
-Which other eye? -The one on the side, well doctor, the one that was dead. -It just can't be.
I 'm coming. Do not move it for any reason! ordered the surgeon.
At the Boulton house he found his patient in high spirits, eating chips and watching the
soap opera with the dog on his knee. Incredulous, he verified that the priest could see
without difficulty through the eye that had been blind for eight years, and when he removed
the bandage it was evident that he could also see through the operated eye.
Father Miguel celebrated his seventieth birthday in his neighborhood parish. His sister
Filomena and her friends formed a caravan of cars packed with cakes, pastries, snacks,
baskets of fruit, and jugs of chocolate, headed by El Cuchillo, who carried liters of wine
and brandy concealed in horchata bottles. The priest drew the story of his eventful life
on large papers, and put them on the walls of the church. In them he recounted with a hint
of irony the ups and downs of his vocation, from the moment the call of God hit him like a
blow to the neck at the age of fifteen, and his fight against the capital sins, first those of
gluttony and lust, and later that of anger, until his recent adventures in the police headquarters,
at an age when other old men swing in a rocking chair counting stars. He had hung a portrait
of Juana, crowned by a garland of flowers, along with the inevitable red flags. The meeting
began with a mass animated by
four guitars, which was attended by all the neighbors. They put up loudspeakers so that the overflowing
crowd in the street could follow the ceremony. After the benediction, some people came forward to testify
to a new case of abuse of authority, until Filomena strode forward to announce that she had had enough
of lamenting and that it was time to have fun. They all went out to the patio, someone put on the music and
the dancing and feasting began immediately. The ladies from the upper neighborhood served the food,
while El Cuchillo lit fireworks and the priest danced a Charleston, surrounded by all his parishioners and
friends, to show that not only could he see like an eagle, but also that there was no one to equal him. in a
party
"These popular festivities have nothing to do with poetry," Gilberto observed after the third glass of fake
horchata, but his English lord's grunts failed to hide the fact that he was having fun.
- Let's see little band-aid, tell us about the miracle! someone yelled, and the rest of the audience joined in
the request.
The priest silenced the music, straightened up the mess in his clothes, with one slap he crushed the few
hairs that crowned his head and with a voice broken by gratitude he referred to Juana de los Lirios, without
whose intervention all the artifices of science and technology would have been fruitless.
"If she were at least a devout proletariat, it would be easier to trust her," a daring person pointed out,
and a general laugh followed the comment.
-Don't screw me with the miracle, look how the saint gets angry and I go blind again from the whirligig!
roared Father Miguel indignantly. And now everyone get in line, because you are going to sign a letter to
the Pope! And so, amid laughter and gulps of wine, all the residents signed the request for the beatification
of Juana de los Lirios.
A REVENGE
The radiant noon when Dulce Rosa Orellano was crowned with the jasmines of the
Carnival Queen, the mothers of the other candidates murmured that it was an unfair
award, that they gave it to her only because she was the daughter of Senator Anselmo
Orellano, The most powerful man in the entire province. They admitted that the girl
was pretty, played the piano and danced like no other, but there were other much more
beautiful applicants for that award. They saw her standing on the dais, in her organza
dress and flower crown, waving to the crowd, and they cursed her under their breath.
For this reason, some of them were happy when months later misfortune entered the
Orellano house, sowing so much fatality that it took twenty-five years to reap it.
The night of the queen's election there was a dance at the Santa Teresa City
Hall and young people from remote towns came to meet Dulde Rosa. She was so
gay and danced so lightly that many did not realize that she was not really the most
beautiful, and when they returned to their starting points they said that they had never
seen a face like hers. Thus, she acquired an undeserved reputation for beauty and no
subsequent testimony could deny it. The exaggerated description of her translucent skin
and diaphanous eyes passed from mouth to mouth and each one added something of
their own fantasy. Poets from remote cities composed sonnets for a hypothetical maiden
named Dulce Rosa.
The rumor of that beauty flourishing in the house of Senator Orellano also reached
the ears of Tadeo Céspedes, who never imagined meeting her, because in the years
of his existence he had not had time to learn verses or look at women. He dealt only
with the Civil War. Ever since he started shaving his mustache, he had a gun in his
hand and for a long time he had lived in the heat of gunpowder. He had forgotten his
mother's kisses and even the songs of the mass. He did not always have reason to offer
a fight, because in some periods of truce there were no adversaries within reach of his
gang, but even in those times of forced peace he lived as a corsair. He was a man used
to violence. He crossed the country in all directions fighting against visible enemies, when
there were any, and against the shadows, when he had to invent them, and he would
have continued like this if his party did not win the presidential elections. Overnight he
went from hiding to taking over power and he ran out of excuses to continue rioting.
The last mission of Tadeo Cérpedes was the punitive expedition to Santa Teresa.
With one hundred and twenty men he entered the town at night to give an example
and eliminate the leaders of the opposition. They shot at the windows of public
buildings, smashed the door of the church and rode into the main altar, crushing
Father Clemente who stood before them, and continued at a gallop with a roar of war
in the direction of the villa of the Senator Orellano, who stood proudly on the hill.
At the head of a dozen loyal servants, the Senator waited for Tadeo Céspedes, after
locking his daughter in the last room in the patio and releasing the dogs. At that moment
he regretted, like so many other times in his life, not having male descendants to help
him take up arms and defend the honor of his house. He felt very old, but he did not
have time to think about it, because he saw on the slopes of the hill the terrible flash of
one hundred and twenty torches that were approaching, frightening the night. He
distributed the last of the ammunition in silence. Everything had been said and each
one knew that before dawn they would have to die like a male at their fighting post.
"The last one will take the key to the room where my daughter is and will do his duty," said the
Senator when he heard the first shots.
All those men had seen Dulce Rosa born and had her on their knees when she was barely
walking, told her tales of ghosts on winter afternoons, heard her play the piano and applauded
her excitedly on the day of her coronation as Carnival Queen. Her father could die in peace,
because the girl would never fall alive into the hands of Tadeo Céspedes. The only thing that
Senator Orellano never thought was that despite his recklessness in battle, he would be the
last to die. He saw his friends fall one by one and finally understood the futility of continuing to
resist. He had a bullet in his belly and his vision was blurred, he could barely make out the
shadows climbing the high walls of his property, but his wits did not fail him to drag himself to
the third patio. The dogs recognized his scent above the sweat and blood and sadness that
covered him and parted to let him pass. He put the key in the lock, opened the heavy door, and
through the mist in his eyes he saw Dulce Rosa waiting for him. The girl wore the same organza
dress worn at the Carnival party and had adorned her hairstyle with the flowers from the crown.
"It's time, daughter," he said, triggering the gun while a pool of blood grew at his feet.
"Don't kill me, father," she replied firmly. Leave me alive, to avenge him and to avenge
myself.
Senator Anselmo Orellano looked at his daughter's fifteen-year-old face and imagined what
Tadeo Céspedes would do with her, but there was great strength in Dulce Rosa's transparent
eyes and he knew that she could survive to punish her executioner. The girl sat down on the
bed and he took a place next to her, pointing at the door.
When the noise of the dying dogs died down, the bar gave way, the bolt jumped and the first
men burst into the room, the Senator managed to fire six shots before losing consciousness.
Tadeo Céspedes thought he was dreaming when he saw an angel crowned with jasmine holding
a dying old man in his arms, while his white dress was soaked in red, but pity was not enough
for a second look, because he came drunk with violence and enervated by several hours of
combat.
"The woman is for me," he said before his men got their hands on him.
A leaden Friday dawned, tinted by the glow of the fire. Silence was thick on the hill. The last
moans had died away when Dulce Rosa was able to stand up and walk towards the garden
fountain, which the day before had been surrounded by magnolias and now was just a
tumultuous puddle in the middle of the rubble. Nothing remained of the dress but shreds of
organza, which she slowly removed to reveal herself naked. He plunged into the cold water.
The sun broke through the birch trees, and the girl could see the water turn pink as it washed
away the blood that spurted between her legs and her father's, which had dried on her hair.
Once clean, serene and without tears, she returned to the house in ruins, looked for something
to cover herself, took a sheet of twine and went out to the road to collect the remains of the
Senator. He had been bound by the feet to be dragged at a gallop down the slopes of the hill
until he was a pitying shred, but guided by love, her daughter recognized him without hesitation.
She wrapped him in the cloth and sat next to him to watch the day grow. This is how the
residents of Santa Teresa found her when they dared to go up to the Orellanos' villa.
They helped Dulce Rosa bury her dead and put out the remains of the fire and begged her to go
live with her godmother in another town, where no one knew her story, but she refused. So they
formed crews to rebuild the house and gave her six brave dogs to take care of her.
From the moment her father was taken away, still alive, and Tadeo Céspedes closed the door
behind him and untied his leather belt, Dulce Rosa lived to take revenge. In the years that
followed, that thought kept her awake at night and filled her days, but it did not completely erase
her laughter or dry up her good will. Her reputation for beauty increased, because singers went
everywhere trumpeting her imaginary charms, until she became a living legend. She got up every
day at four in the morning to manage the chores in the fields and around the house, tour her
property on the back of a beast, buy and sell with Syrian haggling, raise animals and cultivate the
magnolias and jasmines in her garden. . At sunset, she took off her pants, boots, and weapons
and put on her exquisite dresses, brought from the capital in aromatic trunks. At dusk her visitors
began to arrive and they would find her playing the piano, while the servants prepared the trays of
cakes and glasses of horchata. At first many wondered how it was possible that the young woman
had not ended up in a straitjacket in the sanatorium or as a novice in the Carmelite nuns, however,
as there were frequent parties in the Orellanos' villa, over time people left to talk about the tragedy
and the memory of the assassinated Senator was erased. Some renowned and wealthy gentlemen
managed to overcome the stigma of rape and, attracted by Dulce Rosa's prestige of beauty and
good sense, they proposed to her. She rejected them all, because her mission in this world was
revenge.
Tadeo Céspedes could not get that fateful night out of his memory either. The hangover from the
slaughter and the euphoria from the rape wore off after a few hours, when he was on his way to
the capital to render an account of his punitive expedition. Then came to his mind the girl dressed
for a dance and crowned with jasmine, who bore him in silence in that dark room where the air
was impregnated with the smell of gunpowder. He saw her again at the final moment, lying on the
ground, poorly covered by her red rags, sunk in the compassionate sleep of unconsciousness, and
he continued to see her like this every night at the moment of sleep, for the rest of his life. Peace,
the exercise of government and the use of power made him a calm and industrious man. With the
passage of time the memories of the Civil War were lost and people began to call him Don Tadeo.
He bought a farm on the other side of the mountains, dedicated himself to administering justice and
ended up as mayor. If it hadn't been for the tireless ghost of Dulce Rosa Orellano, perhaps he
would have achieved a certain happiness, but in all the women who crossed his path, in all those
he embraced in search of comfort and in all the loves pursued throughout his life. of the years, the
face of the Carnival Queen appeared to him. And to his greater misfortune, the songs that
sometimes brought his name in verses by popular poets did not allow him to separate her from his
heart. The image of the young woman grew inside him, occupying him entirely, until one day he
couldn't take it anymore.
He was at the head of a long banquet table celebrating his fifty-seventh birthday, surrounded by
friends and collaborators, when he thought he saw a naked creature among jasmine blossoms
on the tablecloth and understood that this nightmare would not leave him alone even after dead.
He gave a fist bump that made the crockery tremble and asked for his hat and cane.
-Where are you going, Don Tadeo? asked the Prefect. "To repair an old damage," he replied,
leaving without saying goodbye to anyone.
He did not need to look for her, because he always knew that he was in the same house of his
misfortune and that was where he directed his car. By then there were good roads and distances
seemed shorter. The landscape had changed in those decades, but around the last bend of the
hill the village appeared just as he remembered it before his gang stormed it. There were the solid
walls of
river stone that he destroyed with charges of dynamite, there the old coffered ceilings of dark
wood that he set on fire, there the trees from which he hung the bodies of the Senator's men,
there the patio where he massacred the dogs. He stopped his vehicle a hundred meters from the
door and did not dare to continue, because he felt his heart exploding inside his chest. She was
about to turn around to go back the same way she had come, when a figure wrapped in the halo of
her skirts appeared among the rose bushes. He closed his eyelids, hoping with all his might that
she didn't recognize him. In the soft light of six o'clock he perceived Dulce Rosa Orellano floating
along the paths of the garden. He noticed her hair, her clear face, the harmony of her gestures, the
flutter of her dress, and he thought he found himself suspended in a dream that had lasted twenty-
five years.
"You're finally here, Tadeo Céspedes," she said when she caught sight of him, not letting herself be
fooled by his mayor's black suit or his gentleman's gray hair, because he still had the same pirate
hands.
-You have persecuted me relentlessly. I have not been able to love anyone in my entire life, only
you - he murmured with a voice broken by shame.
Dulce Rosa Orellano sighed with satisfaction. She had called to him in her thoughts day and night all
this time, and at last it was there. His time had come. But she looked into his eyes and found no
trace of the executioner in them, only fresh tears.
He searched his own heart for the hatred cultivated throughout his life and was unable to find it.
She evoked the moment when she asked her father to make the sacrifice of letting her live to fulfill
a duty, she relived that man's so often cursed embrace and the early morning in which she wrapped
some sad remains in a twine sheet.
He reviewed the perfect plan for his revenge but did not feel the expected joy, but rather, on the
contrary, a deep melancholy. Tadeo Céspedes gently took her hand and kissed the palm, wetting it
with his tears. Then she realized, terrified, that from thinking so much about him at every moment,
savoring the punishment in advance, the feeling turned around and she ended up loving him.
In the days that followed both raised the floodgates of repressed love and for the first time in their
rough destinies they opened to receive the proximity of the other.
They walked through the gardens talking about themselves, without omitting the fatal night that
twisted the course of their lives. At sunset, she played the piano and he smoked, listening to her until
he felt his bones soft and happiness enveloping him like a cloak and erasing the nightmares of past
times. After dinner, Tadeo Céspedes would go to Santa Teresa, where nobody remembered the old
horror story anymore. He stayed at the best hotel and from there he organized his wedding, he
wanted a party with fanfare, waste and noise, in which the whole town participated. He discovered
love at an age when other men have lost their illusion and that restored the strength of his youth.
He wanted to surround Dulce Rosa with affection and beauty, give her all the things that money
could buy, to see if she managed to make up for the harm she had done to him as a young man
in his old years. At times he was seized with panic. He watched her face for signs of rancor, but he
only saw the light of shared love and that restored his confidence. Thus passed a month of bliss.
Two days before the wedding, when they were already setting up the tables for the garden party,
killing the birds and pigs for the feast and cutting the flowers to decorate the house, Dulce Rosa
Orellano tried on her wedding dress. She saw herself reflected in the mirror, so similar to the day of
her coronation as Carnival Queen, that she could no longer deceive her own heart. She knew that
she could never carry out the planned revenge because she loved the murderer, but she couldn't
silence the Senator's ghost either, so she dismissed the seamstress, took the scissors and went to
the room of the senator.
third patio that during all that time had remained unoccupied.
Tadeo Céspedes searched for her everywhere, calling her desperately. The barking of
the dogs led him to the other end of the house. With the help of the gardeners, he broke
down the locked door and entered the room where he had once seen an angel crowned
with jasmine. He found Dulce Rosa Orellano just as he had seen her in dreams every
night of his existence, with the same bloody organza dress, and guessed that she would
live to be ninety years old, to pay for her guilt with the memory of the only woman his
spirit could love. .
LOVE LETTERS BETRAYED
Analía Torres's mother died of a delirious fever when she was born and her father could not
bear the sadness and two weeks later shot himself in the chest with a pistol.
He agonized for several days with his wife's name on his lips. His brother Eugenio
administered the family lands and arranged the fate of the little orphan according to his criteria.
Until she was six years old, Analía grew up clinging to the skirts of an Indian mistress in the
maid's quarters of her tutor's house, and then, barely old enough to go to school, they sent her
to the capital, boarding at the Sisters' College. of the Sacred Heart, where he spent the next
twelve years. She was a good student and loved the discipline, the austerity of the stone
building, the chapel with its court of saints and its scent of wax and lilies, the bare corridors, the
shady patios. What least attracted her was the bustle of the pupils and the acrid smell of the
classrooms. Every time she managed to evade the nuns' surveillance, she hid in the attic,
among decapitated statues and broken furniture, to tell stories to herself. In those stolen
moments he plunged into silence with the sensation of abandoning himself to a sin.
Every six months he received a brief note from his uncle Eugenio recommending that he
behave well and honor the memory of his parents, who had been two good Christians in
life and would be proud that their only daughter dedicated her life to the highest precepts of
the virtue, that is, she entered the convent as a novice. But Analía let him know from the first
insinuation that she was not willing to do so and held her position firmly simply to contradict
him, because deep down she liked religious life. Hidden behind the habit, in the ultimate solitude
of giving up any pleasure, perhaps she could find lasting peace, she thought; however his instinct
warned him against his tutor's advice. He suspected that his actions were motivated by greed
for land, rather than family loyalty. Nothing coming from him seemed trustworthy, in some
loophole was the trap.
When Analía turned sixteen, her uncle went to visit her at school for the first time.
The Mother Superior called the girl into her office and had to introduce them, because they had
both changed so much since the days of the Indian mistress in the backyards and they didn't
recognize each other.
"I see that the Little Sisters have taken good care of you, Analía," the uncle commented, stirring
his cup of chocolate. You look healthy and even pretty. In my last letter I notified you that from
the date of this birthday you will receive a monthly sum for your expenses, as stipulated in his
will by my brother, may he rest in peace.
-How much? -One hundred pesos. -Is that all my parents left behind? -Of course not. You
already know that the farm belongs to you, but agriculture is not a task for a woman,
especially in these times of strikes and revolutions. For now, I will send you a monthly payment
that I will increase every year, until you come of age. We will see later.
-We'll see what, man? We'll see what's best for you. -What are my alternatives?
"You will always need a man to manage the field, girl." I have done it all these years and
it has not been an easy task, but it is my obligation, I promised my brother in his last hour
and I am willing to continue doing it for you.
"You won't have to do it for much longer, man." When I get married I'll take over my land.
- When you get married, said the girl? Tell me, Mother, do you have a suitor?
- How can you think of it, Mr. Torres! We take great care of the girls. It's just a manner of
speaking. What things does this girl say! Analía Torres stood up, stretched her
folds of uniform, gave a short, rather mocking bow, and left. The Mother Superior
served the gentleman more chocolate, commenting that the only explanation for this
discourteous behavior was the little contact that the young woman had had with her
relatives.
"She is the only student who never goes on vacation and who has never been sent a
Christmas present," said the nun dryly.
-I am not a man of pampering, but I assure you that I appreciate my niece very much
and I have taken care of her interests like a father. But you're right, Analía needs
more affection, women are sentimental.
Within thirty days the uncle showed up again at the school, but this time he
did not ask to see his niece, he limited himself to notifying the Mother Superior that her
own son wanted to correspond with Analía and to beg her to send him the letters. to see
if the camaraderie with his cousin would strengthen the family ties.
The letters began to arrive regularly. Simple white paper and black ink, writing with
large, precise strokes. Some spoke of life in the countryside, of the seasons and animals,
others of dead poets and the thoughts they wrote. Sometimes the envelope included a
book or a drawing done in the same firm calligraphy strokes. Analía decided not to read
them, faithful to the idea that anything related to her uncle hid some danger, but in the
boredom of school the letters represented her only chance to fly. He hid in the attic, no
longer inventing improbable tales, but eagerly rereading the notes sent by his cousin until
he knew by heart the inclination of the letters and the texture of the paper. At first he
didn't answer them, but after a while he couldn't stop doing it. The content of the letters
became more and more useful to evade the censorship of the Mother Superior, who
opened all the correspondence. Intimacy grew between the two and soon they managed
to agree on a secret code with which they began to talk about love.
Analía Torres did not remember ever having seen that cousin who was signed Luis,
because when she lived at her uncle's house the boy was a boarder in a school in the
capital. She was sure that he must be an ugly man, perhaps sickly deformed, because
it seemed impossible to her that such a deep sensitivity and such a precise intelligence
could be combined with an attractive appearance. He tried to paint in his mind an image
of his cousin: stocky like his father with a pockmarked face, lame and bald; but the more
faults he added to it, the more he was inclined to love it. The brilliance of the spirit was
the only important thing, the only thing that would resist the passage of time without
deteriorating and would grow over the years, the beauty of those utopian heroes of the
tales had no value and could even become a reason for frivolity, concluded the girl,
though he couldn't help a shadow of unease in his reasoning. He wondered how much
deformity he would be able to tolerate.
The correspondence between Analía and Luis Torres lasted two years, after which the
girl had a hat box full of envelopes and her soul was definitely delivered. If the idea
crossed her mind that this relationship could be a plan by her uncle so that the assets
she had inherited from her father would pass into the hands of Luis, she immediately
discarded it, ashamed of her own pettiness. The day she turned eighteen, Mother
Superior called her to the refectory because there was a visitor waiting for her. Analía
Torres guessed who it was and was about to run to hide in the attic of the forgotten
saints, terrified at the possibility of finally facing the man she had imagined for so long.
When she entered the room and was in front of him, she needed several minutes to
overcome her disappointment.
Luis Torres was not the twisted dwarf she had built in her dreams and had grown
to love. He was a well built man, with a pleasant face with
regular, the mouth still childish, a well-groomed dark beard, pale eyes with long
eyelashes, but empty of expression. He looked a bit like the saints in the chapel,
too pretty and a bit goofy. Analía recovered from the shock and decided that if she had
accepted a hunchback into her heart, she could love this elegant young man with even
greater reason who kissed her on the cheek, leaving a trail of lavender on her nose.
From the first day of their marriage, Analía hated Luis Torres. When he crushed her
between the embroidered sheets of a bed that was too soft, she knew that she had
fallen in love with a ghost and that she could never translate that imagined passion into
the reality of her marriage. He fought his feelings with determination, first dismissing
them as a vice and then, when it became impossible to ignore them any longer, trying
to reach deep into his own soul to uproot them. Luis was gentle and even amusing at
times, he did not bother her with disproportionate demands or try to change her
tendency to solitude and silence. She herself admitted that with a little good will on her
part she could find a certain happiness in that relationship, at least as much as she
would have obtained from a nun's habit. She had no precise reasons for this strange
revulsion for the man she had loved for two years without knowing. He couldn't put his
emotions into words either, but if he could have there would have been no one to talk
to. She felt mocked by not being able to reconcile the image of the epistolary suitor
with that of that flesh and blood husband. Luis never mentioned the letters and when
she touched on the subject, he closed her mouth with a quick kiss and some light
observation about that romanticism so inappropriate to married life, in which trust,
respect, common interests and future of the family mattered much more than a
correspondence of adolescents. There was no true intimacy between the two. During
the day each one performed their chores and at night they found themselves among
the feather pillows, where Analía -accustomed to her cot at school- thought she was
suffocating. Sometimes they hugged in a hurry, she immobile and tense, he with the
attitude of someone who complies with a bodily demand because he can't help it. Luis
fell asleep immediately, she stayed with her eyes open in the dark and a protest stuck
in her throat. Analía tried various means to overcome the rejection that he inspired in
her, from fixing every detail of her husband in her memory with the purpose of loving
him out of sheer determination, to emptying her mind of all thoughts and moving to a
dimension where he couldn't reach her. I prayed that it was only a temporary disgust,
but the months passed and instead of the hoped-for relief, the animosity grew until it
turned into hatred. One night she found herself dreaming of a hideous man caressing
her with fingers stained with black ink.
The Torreses lived on the property acquired by Analía's father when that was still a
half-wild region, a land of soldiers and bandits. Now he was along the road and a short
distance from a prosperous town, where agricultural and livestock fairs were held
every year. Legally, Luis was the administrator of the farm, but in reality it was Uncle
Eugenio who fulfilled that function, because Luis was bored with country affairs. After
lunch, when father and son settled in the library to drink brandy and play dominoes,
Analía listened to her uncle decide on investments, animals, crops, and crops. On the
rare occasions when she dared to intervene to offer an opinion, the two men listened
with apparent attention, assuring her that they would take her suggestions into account,
but then they acted on her. Sometimes Analía would go galloping through the pastures
to the limits of the mountain wishing she had been a man.
The birth of a child did not improve Analía's feelings for her husband at all.
During the months of pregnancy, her withdrawn character increased, but Luis did
not get impatient, attributing it to his condition. Still, he had other matters to think
about. After giving birth, she moved into another room, furnished only with a hard,
narrow bed. When the son was one year old and his mother still locked the door of
his room and avoided any opportunity to be alone with him, Luis decided that it was
time to demand more considerate treatment and warned his wife that he would not
care more. it was worth changing his attitude, before he broke the door with shots.
She had never seen him so violent. He obeyed without comment. In the seven years
that followed, the tension between the two increased in such a way that they ended
up becoming sneaky enemies, but they were people with good manners and in front
of others they treated each other with exaggerated courtesy. Only the child suspected
the size of the hostility between his parents and woke up at midnight crying, with a
wet bed. Analía covered herself with a shell of silence and little by little seemed to be
drying up inside. Luis, on the other hand, became more expansive and frivolous, he
gave in to his multiple appetites, drank too much, and used to lose himself for several
days in unspeakable pranks. Later, when he stopped hiding his acts of dissipation,
Analía found good excuses to get even further away from him. Luis lost all interest in
farm work and his wife replaced him, happy with this new position. On Sundays, Uncle
Eugenio would stay in the dining room discussing the decisions with her, while Luis
sank into a long nap, from which he would come back to life at nightfall, drenched in
sweat and with an upset stomach, but always ready to go off again to party. with your
friends.
Analía taught her son the rudiments of writing and arithmetic and tried to introduce
him to a taste for books. When the boy was seven years old, Luis decided that it was
time to give him a more formal education, away from his mother's pampering, and he
wanted to send him to a school in the capital, to see if he would become a man quickly,
but Analía refused. He pushed ahead with such ferocity that he had to accept a less
drastic solution. He took him to the village school, where he stayed as a boarder from
Monday to Friday, but on Saturday mornings the car would pick him up so he could
come home until Sunday. The first week, Analía watched her son anxiously, looking for
reasons to keep him by her side, but she couldn't find any. The creature seemed happy,
talking about its teacher and its companions with genuine enthusiasm, as if it had been
born among them. He stopped wetting the bed. Three months later he arrived with his
report card and a short letter from the teacher congratulating him on his good
performance. Analía read it trembling and smiled for the first time in a long time. She
hugged her son moved, questioning him about every detail, what the bedrooms were
like, what they gave him to eat, if it was cold at night, how many friends he had, what
his teacher was like. She seemed much calmer and didn't talk about getting him out of
school again. In the following months the boy always brought good grades, which
Analía collected like treasures and rewarded with jars of jam and baskets of fruit for the
whole class. She tried not to think that this solution was barely enough for primary
education, that in a few years it would be inevitable to send the child to a school in the
city and she would only be able to see him during the holidays.
On a night of ballplay in the town, Luis Torres, who had drunk too much, prepared
to do tricks on someone else's horse to demonstrate his riding skills before a group
of tavern cronies. The animal threw him to the ground and kicked his testicles. Nine
days later Torres died howling in pain in a clinic in the capital, where they took him in
the hope of saving him from the infection. At his side was his wife, crying with guilt for
the love he could never give her and with relief.
because I would no longer have to pray for him to die. Before returning to the field with the
body in a coffin to bury it in her own land, Analía bought a white dress and put it at the bottom
of her suitcase. She arrived at the town in mourning, with her face covered by a widow's veil so that no
one would see the expression in her eyes, and in the same way she appeared at the funeral, hand in
hand with her son, also wearing a black suit. At the end of the ceremony, Uncle Eugenio, who remained
very healthy despite his seventy well-spent years, proposed to his daughter-in-law that she give him the
land and go to live off the income in the city, where the boy would finish his life. education and she
could forget the sorrows of the past.
"Because it's not lost on me, Analía, that you and my poor Luis were never happy," she said.
-You're right, man. Luis fooled me from the beginning. -Good God, daughter, he was always very
discreet and respectful with you. Luis was a good husband. All men have little adventures, but that
doesn't matter in the slightest.
-I don't mean that, but an irremediable deception. I don't want to know what it's about.
In any case, I think that in the capital the child and you will be much better. They will lack
nothing. I'll take over the property, I'm old but not finished and I can still turn a bull.
-I will stay here. My son will also stay, because he has to help me in the fields. In recent years
I have worked more in the paddocks than in the house. The only difference will be that now I will
make my decisions without consulting anyone. At last this land is mine alone. Goodbye, Uncle
Eugenio.
In the first weeks, Analía organized her new life. She began by burning the sheets she had
shared with her husband and moving their narrow bed into the main room; He immediately
studied the property administration books in depth, and as soon as he had a precise idea of his
assets, he looked for a foreman who would carry out his orders without asking questions. When
she felt that she had all the reins under control, she looked for her white dress in the suitcase,
ironed it with care, put it on, and thus dressed, she went in her car to the village school, carrying an
old hat box under her arm.
Analía Torres waited in the courtyard for the five o'clock bell to announce the end of the last
class of the afternoon and the crowd of children to go out for recess. Among them came her son
in a happy run, who stopped short when he saw her, because it was the first time his mother had
appeared at the school.
"Show me your classroom, I want to meet your teacher," she said.
At the door, Analía told the boy to leave, because this was a private matter, and she went in
alone. It was a large, high-ceilinged room with maps and biology drawings on the walls. There
was the same smell of confinement and children's sweat that had marked his own childhood, but
this time it didn't bother him, on the contrary, he breathed it in with pleasure. The desks looked messy
from the day they had been used, there were some papers on the floor and open inkwells. He caught
a glimpse of a column of numbers on the blackboard. In the background, at a desk on a platform, was
the teacher. The man looked up in surprise and did not stand up, because his crutches were in a
corner, too far to reach without dragging the chair. Analía crossed the corridor between two rows of
desks and stopped in front of him.
"I'm Torres's mother," she said because she couldn't think of anything better.
-Good evening Madam. I take this opportunity to thank you for the sweets and fruits that you have
sent us.
-Let's leave that, I didn't come for courtesies. I came to ask you for an account," Analía said, placing
the hat box on the table. -What is this? She opened the box and took out the love letters she had kept
all this time. For a long moment he looked around
on that hill of envelopes.

"You owe me eleven years of my life," said Analía. How did you know that I wrote them?
- he stammered when he managed to get the voice that had got stuck somewhere.
-The same day of my marriage I discovered that my husband could not have written
them and when my son brought home his first notes, I recognized the calligraphy. And now
that I'm looking at you, I don't have the slightest doubt, because I've seen you in dreams
since I was sixteen. Why did you do it? -Luis Torres was my friend and when he asked me
to write him a letter for his cousin I didn't think there was anything wrong. So it was with
the second and third; later, when you answered me 'I couldn't go back. Those two years
were the best of my life, the only ones in which I have expected anything. I was waiting for
the mail.
-AHA. -Can you forgive me? "It depends on you," said Analía, handing him the crutches.
The teacher put on his jacket and got up. The two of them went out into the bustle of the
patio, where the sun had not yet set.
THE IMAGINED PALACE
Five centuries ago when the brave outlaws of Spain, with their exhausted horses and their
armor hot as embers from the American sun, set foot on the lands of Quinaroa, the Indians had
already been born and died in the same place for several thousand years. The conquerors
announced with heralds and flags the discovery of this new territory, declared it the property of a
remote emperor, planted the first cross and baptized it San Jeronimo, an unpronounceable name
in the native language. The Indians observed these arrogant ceremonies a little surprised, but
they had already received news about those bearded warriors who traveled the world with their
rattle of iron and gunpowder, they had heard that they sowed lamentations in their wake and that
no known people had been capable of To face them, all armies succumbed to that handful of
centaurs. They were an ancient tribe, so poor that not even the most feathered monarch bothered
to tax them, and so tame that they were not recruited for war either. They had existed in peace
since the dawn of time and were unwilling to change their ways because of rude foreigners. Soon,
however, they perceived the size of the enemy and understood the uselessness of ignoring them,
because their presence was oppressive, like a large stone carried on their backs. In the following
years, the Indians who did not die in slavery or under the various tortures designed to implant
other gods, or victims of unknown diseases, dispersed into the jungle and little by little lost even
the name of their town. Always hidden, like shadows among the foliage, they remained for
centuries speaking in whispers and moving at night. They became so skilled in the art of
dissimulation that history did not record them and today there is no evidence of their passage
through life. The books do not mention them, but the peasants of the region say that they have
heard them in the forest and every time a young unmarried girl's belly begins to grow and they
cannot point to the seducer, they attribute the child to the spirit of a lustful Indian. . The people of
the place are proud to carry a few drops of blood from those invisible beings, in the midst of the
mixed torrent of English pirate, Spanish soldier, African slave, adventurer in search of El Dorado
and after all immigrants managed to arrive by those sides with his saddlebag on his shoulder and
his head full of illusions.
Europe consumed more coffee, cocoa and bananas than we could produce, but all that
demand did not bring us prosperity, we are still as poor as ever. The situation was turned
upside down when a Negro from the coast stuck a pick into the ground to make a well and oil
sprayed into his face. By the end of the First World War the idea had spread that this was a
prosperous country, although almost everyone still dragged their feet in the mud. In truth, gold
only filled the coffers of the Benefactor and his entourage, but there was hope that one day it
would exceed something for the town. Two decades of totalitarian democracy, as the President
for Life called his government, had been completed, during which every trace of subversion
had been crushed, to his greatest glory. In the capital there were signs of progress, motor cars,
cinematographs, ice cream parlors, a hippodrome and a theater where shows brought from New
York or Paris were presented. Every day dozens of ships docked in the port that took oil and
others that brought news, but the rest of the territory continued mired in a drowsiness of centuries.
One day the people of San Jerónimo woke up from their siesta to the tremendous hammer
blows that presided over the arrival of the railroad. The rails would link the capital with that village,
Chosen by The Benefactor to build his Summer Palace, in the style of the
European monarchs, despite the fact that no one knew how to distinguish summer
from winter, the whole year passed in the humid and burning breath of nature. The
only reason for building that monumental work there was that a Belgian naturalist
stated that if the myth of the earthly Paradise had any foundation, it must have been
found in that place, where the landscape was of portentous beauty. According to his
observations, the forest was home to more than a thousand varieties of multicolored
birds and all sorts of wild orchids, from Brassias, as big as a hat, to tiny Pleurothallis,
visible only under a magnifying glass.
The idea for the palace came from some Italian builders, who presented His
Excellency with plans for a variegated marble villa, a labyrinth of innumerable
columns, wide corridors, curved staircases, arches, vaults and capitals, living rooms,
kitchens, bedrooms and more than thirty bathrooms decorated with gold and silver
keys. The railway was the first stage of the work, essential to transport to that remote
corner of the map the tons of materials and the hundreds of workers, plus the foremen
and artisans brought from Italy. The task of erecting that puzzle lasted four years,
altered the flora and fauna, and had a cost as high as all the warships in the national
fleet, but it was paid promptly with the dark oil of the earth, and on the day of the
anniversary of the Glorious Seizure of Power they cut the ribbon that inaugurated the
Summer Palace. For that occasion, the train locomotive was decorated with the colors
of the flag and the freight cars were replaced by passenger cars lined with plush and
English leather, where guests traveled in gala dress, including some members of the
oldest aristocracy, that although they detested that soulless Andean who had usurped
the government, they did not dare to reject his invitation.
The Benefactor was a rough man, with peasant habits, he bathed in cold water,
slept on a mat on the ground with his pistol within reach of his hand and his boots
on, he ate roast beef and corn, drank only water and coffee. His only luxury was
black tobacco cigars, all the rest seemed to him to be the vices of degenerates or
fagots, including alcohol, which he looked down on and rarely offered at his table.
However, in time he had to accept some refinements around him, because he
understood the need to impress diplomats and other eminent visitors, lest they give
him a reputation as a barbarian abroad. He did not have a wife to influence his
Spartan behavior. He considered love a dangerous weakness, convinced that all
women except his own mother were potentially wicked and it was wiser to keep them
at arm's length. He said that a man asleep in a loving embrace was as vulnerable as
a seven-month-old, for the same reason he demanded that his generals live in the
barracks, limiting his family life to sporadic visits. No woman had spent a full night in
his bed or could boast of anything more than a hasty encounter, none leaving lasting
impressions on him until Marcia Lieberman appeared at his destination.
The opening party for the Summer Palace was an event in the annals of the Benefactor's
rule. For two days and nights, the orchestras took turns playing the latest rhythms and
the cooks prepared an endless banquet. The most beautiful mulatto women in the
Caribbean, dressed in splendid dresses made for the occasion, danced in the halls with
soldiers who had never participated in any battle, but whose chests were covered with
medals. There were all kinds of entertainment: singers brought from Havana and New
Orleans, flamenco dancers, magicians, minstrels and trapeze artists, games of cards
and dominoes and even a rabbit hunt,
that the servants took them out of their cages to run them, and that the guests chased
with purebred greyhounds, all of which culminated when a funny man shot the black-
necked swans of the lagoon to death. Some guests fell exhausted on the furniture,
drunk on cumbias and liquor, while others threw themselves dressed into the pool or
scattered in pairs through the rooms. El Benefactor did not want to know the details. After
welcoming her guests with a brief speech and beginning the dance on the arm of the lady
of the highest rank, she had returned to the capital without saying goodbye to anyone.
Parties put him in a bad mood. On the third day the train made the return trip, taking away
the exhausted diners. The Summer Palace was left in a calamitous state, the bathrooms
looked like garbage dumps, the curtains dripping with urine, the furniture gutted, and the
dying plants in their pots. The employees needed a week to clean up the remains of that
hurricane.
The Palace was no longer the scene of bacchanalia. From time to time El Benefactor
was driven there to get away from the pressures of his position, but his rest did not last
more than three or four days for fear that in his absence the conspiracy would grow. The
Government required his permanent vigilance so that power did not slip into his hands.
Only the staff in charge of its maintenance remained in the enormous building. When the
noise of the construction machines and the passage of the train ended, and when the echo
of the inaugural party subsided, the landscape recovered its calm and the orchids bloomed
again and the birds nested. The inhabitants of San Jerónimo resumed their usual chores
and almost managed to forget the presence of the Summer Palace. Then, slowly, the
invisible Indians returned to occupy their territory.
The first signs were so discreet that no one paid attention: footsteps and murmurs,
fleeting silhouettes between the columns, the print of a hand on the pale surface of a
table. Little by little the food from the kitchens and the bottles from the cellars began to
disappear, in the mornings some beds were turned upside down. The employees blamed
each other, but they refrained from raising their voices, because it was not in anyone's
interest to have the officer on duty take matters into his own hands. It was impossible to
keep an eye on the entire extension of that house, while checking a room, sighs were
heard in the next door, but when they opened the door they only found the trembling
curtains, as if someone had just passed through them. Rumor spread that the Palace was
haunted, and soon fear reached the soldiers as well, who stopped making night patrols
and just remained motionless at their posts, scanning the landscape, clinging to their
weapons. Frightened, the servants no longer went down to the cellars and as a precaution
they locked several rooms. They occupied the kitchen and slept in one wing of the building.
The rest of the mansion was left unguarded, in the possession of those disembodied
Indians, who had divided the rooms with illusory lines and settled there like mischievous
spirits. They had stood the test of history, adapting to change when it was inevitable and
hiding in a dimension of their own when necessary. In the rooms of the Palace they found
refuge, there they loved each other without noise, they were born without celebrations and
they died without tears.
They learned all the intricacies of that marble maze so well that they could exist without
any problems in the same space with the guards and the service personnel without ever
touching each other, as if they belonged to another time.
Ambassador Lieberman landed in port with his wife and a cargo of gear. He traveled
with his dogs, with all his furniture, his library, his collection of opera records and all kinds
of sports equipment, including a sailing boat.
Since they announced his new destination, he began to hate that country. left
his post as minister-counselor in Vienna, fueled by ambitions of becoming

ambassador, even if it was in South America, a bizarre land for which he had not the
slightest sympathy. Instead Marcia, his wife, took the matter with a better humor.
She was ready to follow her husband on his diplomatic pilgrimage, despite the fact
that every day she felt more distant from him and that worldly affairs interested her
very little, because at his side she had great freedom. It was enough to meet certain
minimum requirements of a wife and the rest of the time belonged to him. In truth, her
husband, too busy with his work and his sports, barely noticed her existence, only
noticed her when she was absent. For Lieberman, his wife was an indispensable
complement to his career, she gave him shine in social life and he efficiently managed
his complicated domestic train. He considered her a loyal partner, but until then he
hadn't been the least bit concerned about her sensitivity. Marcia consulted maps and
an encyclopedia to find out details about that distant nation and began to study Spanish.
During the two weeks of crossing the Atlantic, she read the books of the Belgian
naturalist and before meeting her she was already in love with that hot geography. She
had a withdrawn temperament, she felt happier cultivating her garden than in the salons
where she had to accompany her husband, and she deduced that in that country she
would be freer from social demands and could dedicate herself to reading, painting and
discovering nature.
Lieberman's first move was to install fans in every room of his residence. He then
presented credentials to government authorities. When El Benefactor received him in
his office, the couple had only spent a few days in the city, but the gossip that the
ambassador's wife was very beautiful had already reached the caudillo's ears. By
protocol, he invited them to a dinner, despite the fact that he found the diplomat's
arrogant air and chatter unbearable. On the appointed night Marcia Lieberman entered
the Reception Hall on the arm of her husband and for the first time in his long career
The Benefactor lost his breath before a woman. He had seen fairer faces and more
slender bearings, but never so graceful. It awakened the memory of past conquests,
stirring her blood with a heat she hadn't felt in many years. During that evening he kept
his distance, observing the ambassador covertly, seduced by the curve of her neck, the
shadow of her eyes, the gestures of her hands, the seriousness of her attitude. Perhaps
the fact that he was forty-something years older than her and that any scandal would
have unsuspected repercussions beyond its borders crossed his mind, but that failed to
dissuade him, on the contrary, it added an irresistible ingredient to his nascent passion.
Marcia Lieberman felt the man's gaze on her skin, like an indecent caress, and
she realized the danger, but she didn't have the strength to escape. At one point
she thought of asking her husband to leave, but instead she sat waiting for the old
man to come to her and at the same time ready to run away if he did. He didn't know
why he was shaking. She had no illusions about him, from a distance she could detail
the signs of decrepitude, the skin marked with wrinkles and spots, the lean body, the
unsteady walk, she could imagine his rancid smell and guessed that under the white
kid gloves his hands they were two paws. But the dictator's eyes, clouded by age and
the exercise of so many cruelties, still had a brilliance of dominance that paralyzed her
in her chair. .
The Benefactor didn't know how to woo a woman, hadn't had the need to do so before.
That worked to his advantage, because if he had harassed Marcia with seductive
charm it would have been repulsive and she would have recoiled with contempt.
Instead she could not refuse when a few days later he appeared at her door,
dressed in civilian clothes and without an escort, like a sad great-grandfather, to tell him that
it had been ten years since he had touched a woman and he was already dead to
temptations of this kind, but with all due respect he requested that she accompany him that
afternoon to a private place , where he could rest his head on her queenly knee and tell her
what the world was like when he was still a well-built male and she was not yet born. sigmund freud headass
-And my husband? Marcia managed to ask with a breath of voice.
-Your husband does not exist, daughter. "Now there's only you and me," replied the
President for Life, leading her by the arm to his black Packard.
Marcia did not return home and within a month Ambassador Lieberman left for his
country. He had removed stones in search of his wife, refusing at first to accept what was
no longer a secret, but when the evidence of the kidnapping became impossible to ignore,
Lieberman requested an audience with the Head of State and demanded the return of his
wife. . The interpreter tried to soften his words in the translation, but the President caught
the tone and took advantage of the pretext to get rid of that reckless husband once and for
all. He declared that Lieberman had insulted the Nation by making those wild and baseless
accusations and ordered him to leave his borders in three days. He offered him the alternative
of doing it without scandal, to protect the dignity of his country, since nobody was interested
in breaking diplomatic relations and obstructing the free traffic of oil tankers. At the end of
the interview, with the expression of an offended father, he added that he could understand
his obfuscation and that he should leave in peace, because in his absence the search for
the lady would continue. To prove his good will, he called the Chief of Police and gave him
instructions in front of the ambassador. If it ever occurred to Lieberman to refuse to leave
without Marcia, a second thought made him realize he was risking a shot to the back of the
head, so he packed up his belongings and left the country before the designated deadline.
Love took the Benefactor by surprise at an age when he no longer remembered the
impatience of the heart. That cataclysm rocked his senses and placed him back in
adolescence, but it wasn't enough to numb his fox cunning.
He understood that it was a senile passion and it was impossible for him to imagine that
Marcia returned his feelings. He did not know why she had followed him that afternoon,
but his reason told him that it was not for love, and since he knew nothing of women, he
assumed that she had allowed herself to be seduced by a taste for adventure or a greed
for power. In reality, she was overcome by pity. When the old man embraced her eagerly,
his eyes watering with humiliation because his manhood did not respond to him as in the
past, she patiently and with good will insisted on restoring his pride. And so, after several
attempts, the poor man managed to cross the threshold and walk for a few moments through
the warm gardens offered, immediately collapsing with a heart full of foam.
"Stay with me," asked The Benefactor as soon as he managed to overcome the fear
of succumbing to her.
And Marcia stayed because she was moved by the solitude of the old caudillo and
because the alternative of returning to her husband seemed less interesting to her than the
challenge of crossing the iron fence behind which this man had lived for almost eighty
years.
The Benefactor kept Marcia hidden in one of his properties, where he visited her daily. He
never stayed the night with her. The time together passed in slow caresses and
conversations. In her halting Spanish, she told him about her travels and the books she
read, he listened to her without understanding much, but pleased with the cadence of her
voice. Other times he referred to his childhood in the drylands of the
Andes or his days as a soldier, but if she asked him a question, he would
immediately shut down, watching her out of the corner of his eye, like an enemy.
Marcia felt that unshakable doubt and realized that her habit of distrust was much
more powerful than the need to give in to tenderness, and after a few weeks she
resigned herself to her defeat. By giving up the hope of winning him for love, she lost
interest in that man, and so she wanted to get out of the walls where she was
kidnapped. But it was already late. The Benefactor needed her by his side because
she was the closest thing to a companion he had ever known, her husband had returned
to Europe and she had no place on this earth, even her name was beginning to fade
from the memory of others. The dictator perceived the change in her and his mistrust
increased, but he did not stop loving her for it. To comfort her from the confinement to
which she was condemned forever, because her appearance on the street would confirm
Lieberman's accusations and international relations would go to hell, he gave her all the
things she liked, music, books, animals. Marcia spent the hours in a world of her own,
each day more detached from reality. When she stopped encouraging him, he couldn't
hold her again, and their dates turned into lazy afternoons of chocolate and brownies. In
his desire to please her, one day The Benefactor invited her to visit the Summer Palace,
so that she could see up close the paradise of the Belgian naturalist, about which she
had read so much.
The train had not been used since the opening party ten years earlier and was in
ruins, so they made the trip by car, led by a caravan of guards and employees who
left a week in advance carrying everything they needed to return to the Palace the
luxuries of the first day. The road was barely a path defended from the vegetation by
gangs of prisoners. In some places they had to resort to machetes to clear the ferns
and oxen to dig the cars out of the mud, but none of that dampened Marcia's
enthusiasm. I was dazzled by the landscape. She endured the humid heat and the
mosquitoes as if she didn't feel them, attentive to that nature that seemed to envelop
her in an embrace. She had the impression that she had been there before, perhaps in
dreams or in another existence, that she belonged to that place, that until then she had
been a stranger in the world and that all the steps she had taken, including leaving her
husband's house for following an old man trembling, they had been indicated by their
instinct with the sole purpose of leading her there. Before seeing the Summer Palace,
he already knew that this would be his last residence. When the building finally emerged
from the foliage, fringed with palm trees and glistening in the sun, Marcia sighed with
relief, like a castaway seeing her home port again.
Despite the frantic preparations to receive them, the mansion had an air of
enchantment. Its Roman architecture, conceived as the center of a geometric park and
grand avenues, was submerged in the disorder of gluttonous vegetation. The torrid
climate had altered the color of the materials, covering them with a premature patina,
nothing was visible from the pool and the gardens. The hunting greyhounds had broken
their leashes long ago and roamed the property lines, a hungry and ferocious pack that
greeted newcomers with a chorus of barking.
Birds had nested in the capitals and covered the reliefs with droppings. Everywhere
there were signs of disorder. The Summer Palace had been transformed into a living
creature, open to the green invasion of. the jungle that had enveloped and penetrated
him. Marcia jumped out of the car and ran to the great gates, where the heat-weary
escort was waiting. One by one he went through all the rooms, the great halls decorated
with crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceilings like clusters of stars and French
furniture in whose tapestries nested
the lizards, the bedrooms with their four-poster beds faded by the intensity of the light,
the bathrooms where moss crept into the joints of the marble. He was smiling, with the
attitude of someone who recovers something that has been taken from him.
During the following days, El Benefactor saw Marcia so pleased that some vigor
returned to warm his worn bones and he was able to embrace her as in the first
encounters. She accepted it distracted. The week they planned to spend there was
extended to two, because the man felt very comfortable. The fatigue accumulated in
his years as a satrap disappeared and several of his old ailments lessened. He walked
around with Marcia, pointing out the many varieties of orchids that climbed the trunks
or hung like grapes from the highest branches, the clouds of white butterflies that
covered the ground, and the birds with iridescent feathers that filled the air with their
voices. . He played with her like a young lover, fed her mouth the delicious pulp of wild
mangoes, bathed her with his own hands in herbal infusions, and made her laugh with
a serenade under her window. It had been years since he had left the capital, except
for brief trips in a small plane to the provinces where his presence was required to
quell an outbreak of insurrection and restore to the people the certainty that his
authority was unquestionable. Those unexpected vacations put him in a very good
mood, life suddenly seemed kinder to him and he had the fantasy that together with
that beautiful woman he could continue ruling forever.
One night sleep surprised him in her arms. He woke up at dawn terrified, with the
feeling of having betrayed himself. He got up sweating, his heart racing, and watched
her on the bed, a white odalisque at rest, her copper hair covering her face. He went
out to give orders to his escort to return to the city. He wasn't surprised that Marcia
gave no indication of accompanying him. Perhaps deep down he preferred it that way,
because he understood that she represented his most dangerous weakness, the only
one that could make him forget about power.
The Benefactor left for the capital without Marcia. He left her half a dozen soldiers to
guard the property and some servants for her service, and promised to keep the
road in good condition, so that she would receive her gifts, provisions, mail, and
some newspapers. He assured that he would visit her often, as much as his obligations
as Head of State allowed him to, but when they said goodbye they both knew that
they would not meet again. The Benefactor's caravan was lost behind the ferns and
for a moment silence surrounded the Summer Palace. Marcia felt truly free for the
first time in her existence. She removed the pins that held her hair in a bun and shook
her head. The guards unbuttoned their jackets and shed their weapons, while the
employees left to hang their hammocks in the coolest corners.
From the shadows the Indians had watched the visitors during those two weeks.
Undeceived by Marcia Lieberman's fair skin and gorgeous curly hair, they recognized
her as one of them but dared not materialize in her presence because they had been in
hiding for centuries. After the departure of the old man and his entourage, they crept
back to occupy the space where they had existed for generations. Marcia sensed that
she was never alone, wherever she went, a thousand eyes followed her, a constant
murmur arose around her, a warm breath, a rhythmic pulsation, but she was not afraid,
on the contrary, she felt protected by friendly elves. He got used to small disturbances;
one of her dresses would disappear for several days and suddenly it would wake up in
a basket at the foot of the bed, someone devoured her dinner shortly before she entered
the dining room, her watercolors and books were stolen, freshly cut orchids appeared
on her table, some afternoons her bathtub was waiting for her with mint leaves floating
in the cool water, they could be heard
the notes of the pianos in the empty rooms, the panting of lovers in the closets, the
voices of children in the attic. The employees had no explanation for these disorders
and very soon she stopped asking them questions because she imagined that they
too were part of that benevolent conspiracy. One night she waited crouched with a lantern
between the curtains, and when she felt the tapping of feet on the marble she turned on
the light. He thought he saw some naked silhouettes, which for an instant returned a
meek gaze and immediately vanished. He called them in Spanish, but no one answered.
He understood that he would need immense patience to uncover these mysteries, but he
didn't care, because he had the rest of his life ahead of him.
A few years later, the country was shaken by the news that the dictatorship had ended
for a surprising reason: El Benefactor had died. Despite the fact that he was already an
old man reduced to only bones and skin and had been rotting in his uniform for months,
in reality very few imagined that this man was mortal. Nobody remembered the time
before him, he had been in power for so many decades that the people got used to
considering him an inevitable evil, like the weather. The echoes of the funeral took a while
to reach the Summer Palace. By then most of the guards and servants, tired of waiting for
relief that never came, had deserted their posts. Marcia Lieberman listened to the news
without being upset. In fact, he had to make an effort to remember his past, what was
beyond the jungle and that old man with the little hawk eyes who had upset his destiny.
She realized that with the death of the tyrant the reasons for remaining hidden would
disappear, now she could return to civilization, where surely no one cared about the
scandal of her abduction anymore, but she soon discarded that idea, because there was
nothing outside. of that tangled region that interested him. Her life passed peacefully
among the Indians, immersed in that green nature, barely dressed in a tunic, her hair short,
adorned with tattoos and feathers. I was totally happy.
A generation later, when democracy had been established in the country and only a
trace of the long history of dictators remained in school books, someone remembered
the marble villa and proposed to recover it to found an Art Academy. The Congress of
the Republic sent a commission to write a report, but the cars got lost along the way and
when they finally reached San Jerónimo, no one could tell them where the Summer
Palace was. They tried to follow the railroad tracks, but they had been torn from the
sleepers and the vegetation had obliterated their tracks. Congress then sent a scouting
party and a couple of military engineers who flew over the area in a helicopter, but the
vegetation was so thick they couldn't find the place either. The traces of the Palace were
confused in the memory of the people and in the municipal archives, the notion of its
existence became a gossip among gossips, the reports were swallowed by the bureaucracy
and since the country had more urgent problems, the project of the Art Academy was
postponed.
Now they have built a highway that connects San Jerónimo with the rest of the country.
Travelers say that sometimes, after a storm, when the air is humid and charged with
electricity, a white marble palace suddenly appears along the road, which for a few
moments remains suspended at a certain height, like a mirage, and then it disappears
without a sound.
WE ARE MADE OF CLAY
They discovered the girl's head leaning out of the quagmire, her eyes open,
calling without a voice. She had a First Communion name, Azucena. In that
endless cemetery, where the smell of the dead attracted the most remote vultures
and where the cries of the orphans and the cries of the wounded filled the air, that
girl obstinate in living became the symbol of tragedy. The cameras broadcast the
unbearable vision of his head sprouting from the mud like a black pumpkin so much
that no one was left without knowing or naming it. And whenever we saw her appear
on the screen, behind was Rolf Carlé, who arrived at the place attracted by the news,
without suspecting that there he would find a piece of his past, lost thirty years ago.
First it was a subterranean sob that shook the cotton fields, rippling
them like a foamy wave. The geologists had set up their measuring machines weeks
in advance and already knew that the mountain had woken up again. They had long
predicted that the heat of the eruption could detach the eternal ice from the slopes
of the volcano, but no one paid attention to those warnings, because they sounded
like old ladies' tales. The towns of the valley continued their existence deaf to the
groans of the earth, until the night of that fateful Wednesday in November, when a
long roar announced the end of the world and the snow walls fell away, rolling in an
avalanche of mud, stones and water that fell on the villages, burying them under
unfathomable meters of telluric vomit. As soon as they managed to shake off the
paralysis of the first fright, the survivors verified that the houses, the squares, the
churches, the white cotton plantations, the shady coffee forests and the pastures of
the stallion bulls had disappeared. Much later, when the volunteers and soldiers
arrived to rescue the living and calculate the magnitude of the cataclysm, they
calculated that under the mud there were more than twenty thousand human beings
and an imprecise number of beasts, rotting in a viscous broth. The forests and rivers
had also been defeated and all that remained in sight was an immense desert of mud.
When the channel called at dawn, Rolf Carlé and I were together. I got out of bed
groggy with sleep and went to make coffee while he hurriedly dressed.
He placed his work items in the green canvas bag that he always carried, and we
said goodbye as so many other times. I had no premonition. I stayed in the kitchen
sipping my coffee and planning the hours without him, sure that the next day he
would be back.
He was one of the first to arrive, because while other journalists approached the
edges of the swamp in jeeps, on bicycles, on foot, each making their way as best
they could, he had the television helicopter and was able to fly over the avalanche. .
On the screens appeared the scenes captured by his assistant's camera, where he
saw himself submerged up to his knees, with a microphone in his hand, in the midst
of a riot of lost children, mutilated, corpses and ruins. The story came to us in his
calm voice. For years I had seen him on the news, delving into battles and
catastrophes, unstoppable, with reckless perseverance, and I was always amazed at
his calm attitude in the face of danger and suffering, as if nothing could shake his
strength or divert his strength. your curiosity. Fear seemed not to touch him, but he
had confessed to me that he was not a brave man, far from it. I think the machine
lens had a strange effect on him, as if it transported him to another time, from which
he could see events without really participating in them.
As I got to know him better, I understood that this fictitious distance kept him safe from his own
emotions.
Rolf Carlé was with Azucena from the beginning. He filmed the volunteers who discovered her and
the first who tried to approach her, his camera focused insistently on the girl, her dark face, her large
desolate eyes, the compact tangle of her hair. In that place the mud was dense and there was a
danger of sinking when stepping on it. They threw a rope at her, which she made no attempt to
catch, until they yelled at her to catch it, then she put out a hand and tried to move, but then went
deeper. Rolf dropped his bag and the rest of his equipment and advanced into the swamp,
commenting into his assistant's microphone that it was cold and that the stench of corpses was
already beginning.
-What's your name? he asked the girl and she answered him with her flower name. Don't move,
Azucena -Rolf Carlé ordered her and continued speaking to her without thinking about what he was
saying, just to distract her, while he slowly dragged himself up to his waist in mud. The air around him
seemed as cloudy as mud.
It wasn't possible to get any closer that way, so he backed up and went around where the ground
seemed firmer. When she was finally close, she took the rope and tied it under her arms, so they
could hoist her up. He smiled at her with that smile of his that narrows his eyes and takes him back to
childhood, he told her that everything was fine, he was already with her, they would take her out
immediately. He signaled to the others to pull, but as soon as the rope tightened the girl screamed.
They tried again and her shoulders and arms appeared, but they couldn't move her anymore, she was
stuck. Someone suggested that perhaps her legs were trapped in the ruins of her house, and she said
that it wasn't just rubble, she was also held down by the bodies of her brothers, clinging to her.
"Don't worry, we're going to get you out of here," Rolf promised. Despite the transmission glitches, I
felt his voice crack and felt so much closer to him for it.
She looked at him without answering.
In the first hours, Rolf Carlé exhausted all the resources of his ingenuity to rescue her.
She fought with sticks and ropes, but each tug was intolerable agony for the prisoner. It
occurred to him to make a lever with some sticks, but that did not work and he had to abandon that
idea too. He got a couple of soldiers to work with him for a while, but then he was left alone because
so many other victims were asking for help. The girl could not move and could barely breathe, but she
did not seem desperate, as if an ancestral resignation allowed her to read her destiny.
The journalist, on the other hand, was determined to snatch it from death. They brought her a tire,
which she tucked under her arms like a life preserver, then stepped across a board near the hole
for support so she could better reach her. As it was impossible to remove the rubble blindly, he dove
a couple of times to explore that hell, but came up exasperated, covered in mud, spitting stones. He
deduced that a pump was needed to extract the water and radioed for it, but they came back with
the message that there was no transport and they couldn't send it until the next morning.
We can't wait that long! Rolf Carlé demanded, but in that mess no one stopped to sympathize with
him. It would be many more hours before he accepted that time had stopped and that reality had
suffered an irreparable distortion.
A military doctor came to examine the children and stated that their hearts were working well and that if
they did not get too cold they would be able to last through the night.
"Be patient, Azucena, tomorrow they will bring the bomb," Rolf Carlé tried to console her.
"Don't leave me alone," she asked him. -Of course not. They brought them coffee and he gave it to the
Girl, sip by sip. The hot liquid cheered her up and she began to talk about her
little life, her family and school, about what that piece of the world was like before
the volcano blew up. He was thirteen years old and had never left the limits of his
village. The journalist, sustained by premature optimism, was convinced that
everything would end well if the pump arrived, they would extract the water, remove
the rubble, and Azucena would be taken by helicopter to a hospital, where she would
quickly recover and where he could visit her bringing her gifts. She thought she was
too old for dolls and she didn't know what she would like, maybe a dress. I don't
understand much about women, he concluded amused, calculating that he had had
many in his life, but none had taught him those details. To deceive the hours, he
began to tell her about his travels and adventures as a news hunter, and when his
memories ran out, he used his imagination to invent anything that could distract her.
At times she dozed, but he kept talking to her in the dark, to show her that he hadn't
left and to overcome the harassment of uncertainty. That was a long night.
Many miles away, I was watching Rolf Carlé and the girl on a screen. I couldn't stand
the wait at home and I went to National Television, where I often spent whole nights
with him editing programs. This is how I was close to him and I was able to peek into
what he lived through in those three definitive days. I went to all the important people in
the city, the senators of the Republic, the generals of the Armed Forces, the US
ambassador and the president of the Oil Company, begging them for a pump to extract
the mud, but I only got vague promises. I began to urgently ask for it on radio and
television, to see if someone could help us. Between calls, I ran to the reception center
so as not to lose the satellite images, which came in all the time with new details of the
catastrophe. While the journalists selected the scenes with the most impact for the
newscast, I looked for those where Azucena's well appeared. The screen reduced the
disaster to a single shot and accentuated the tremendous distance that separated me
from Rolf Carlé, nevertheless I was with him, every suffering of the girl hurt me as it did
him, I felt his same frustration, his same impotence. Faced with the impossibility of
communicating with him, I came up with the fantastic resource of concentrating to reach
him with the force of thought and thus give him encouragement. At times I was dazed
in a frantic and useless activity, at times I was overwhelmed with pity and began to cry,
and other times exhaustion overcame me and I thought I was looking through a
telescope at the light of a star that died a million years ago.
On the first newscast of the morning I saw that hell, where corpses of men and
animals floated, swept away by the waters of new rivers, formed in a single night
by melted snow. The tops of some trees and the bell tower of a church protruded
from the mud, where several people had found refuge and were patiently waiting
for the rescue teams. Hundreds of soldiers and Civil Defense volunteers were
trying to remove rubble in search of survivors, while long lines of ragged specters
waited their turn for a bowl of broth. Radio stations reported that their phones were
jammed with calls from families offering shelter to orphaned children. There was a
shortage of drinking water, gasoline and food. The doctors, resigned to amputating
members without anesthesia, demanded at least fluids, painkillers and antibiotics,
but most of the roads were interrupted and also the bureaucracy slowed everything
down. Meanwhile, the mud contaminated by the decomposing corpses threatened the
living with plague.
Azucena trembled leaning on the tire that supported her on the surface. The
The immobility and tension had made her very weak, but she was conscious and still
spoke audibly when a microphone was held close to her. His tone was humble, as if he
was apologizing for causing so much trouble. Rolf Carlé had a long beard and dark
shadows under his eyes, he looked exhausted. Even at that enormous distance I could
perceive the quality of that fatigue, different from all the previous fatigues of his life. He
had completely forgotten about the camera, he could no longer look at the girl through a
lens. The images that reached us were not of her assistant, but of other journalists who
had taken possession of Azucena, attributing to her the pathetic responsibility of embodying
the horror of what happened in that place. Since dawn Rolf tried again to move the
obstacles that kept the girl in that tomb, but he had only his hands, he did not dare to use
a tool, because he could hurt her. He gave Azucena the cup of corn and plantain porridge
that the Army distributed, but she immediately vomited it up. A doctor came and found that
she had a fever, but said that there was not much that could be done, antibiotics were
reserved for cases of gangrene. A priest also came to bless her and hang a medal of the
Virgin around her neck. In the afternoon a light, persistent drizzle began to fall.
"The sky is crying," Azucena murmured and began to cry too.

"Don't be scared," Rolf pleaded. You have to reserve your strength and stay
calm, everything will be fine, I'm with you and I'm going to get you out of here somehow
way.
The journalists returned to photograph her and ask her the same questions that she no
longer tried to answer. Meanwhile, more television and film equipment arrived, reels of
cables, tapes, films, videos, precision lenses, recorders, sound consoles, lights, reflective
screens, batteries and motors, boxes of spare parts, electricians, sound technicians, and
carnographers. , which sent Azucena's face to millions of screens around the world. And
Rolf Carlé continued clamoring for a bomb. The deployment of resources gave results and
on National Television we began to receive clearer images and sharper sounds, the
distance seemed to shorten suddenly and I had the terrible feeling that Azucena and Rolf
were at my side, separated from me by glass. irreducible. I was able to follow the events
hour by hour, I knew how much my friend did to get the girl out of her prison and to help her
endure her ordeal, I heard bits of what they talked about and the rest I could guess, I was
present when she taught Rolf to pray and when he distracted her with the stories that I have
told him in a thousand and one nights under the white mosquito net of our bed.
As darkness fell on the second day he tried to put her to sleep with the old Austrian songs
learned from her mother, but she was beyond sleep. They spent much of the night talking,
both exhausted, hungry, shaken by the cold. And then, little by little, the firm floodgates that
held back Rolf Carlé's past for many years were demolished, and the torrent of what he had
hidden in the deepest and most secret layers of memory finally came out, dragging in its
path the obstacles that for so long had blocked his awareness. He could not tell Azucena
everything, perhaps she did not know that there was a world beyond the sea or a time
before hers, she was unable to imagine Europe at the time of the war, so she did not tell her
about the defeat, nor about the afternoon when the Russians took him to the concentration
camp to bury the starving prisoners. Why explain to him that the naked bodies, piled up like
a mountain of logs, seemed to be made of brittle china? How to talk about the ovens and
the gallows to that dying girl?
Nor did he mention the night he saw his mother naked, wearing red stiletto heels, crying
with humiliation. He kept quiet about many things, but in those
hours he revived for the first time everything that his mind had tried to erase.
Azucena gave him her fear and thus, without wanting to, forced Rolf to meet hers.
There, next to that cursed well, Rolf found it impossible to continue running from himself
and the visceral terror that marked his childhood took him by surprise. He went back to
Azucena's age and back, and found himself trapped in a dead-end pit, buried alive, his
head at ground level, he saw his father's boots and legs next to his face, who had fallen.
removed the belt from his waist and waved it in the air with an unforgettable hiss of a
furious viper. The pain invaded him, intact and precise, as it always crouched in his mind.
He went back to the closet where his father locked him up to punish him for imaginary
offenses, and there he spent endless hours with his eyes closed so as not to see the
darkness, his ears covered with his hands so as not to hear his own heartbeat, trembling,
shrunken like an animal. In the mist of memories he found his sister Katharina, a sweet
retarded creature who spent her life in hiding hoping that her father would forget the
misfortune of her birth. He crawled next to her under the dining room table and there,
hidden behind a long white tablecloth, the two children remained embraced, attentive to
the footsteps and voices. Katharina's scent came to him mixed with. that of his own sweat,
with the aromas of cooking, garlic, soup, freshly baked bread, and a strange stench of
rotting mud. Her sister's hand in hers, her startled gasp, the brush of her wild hair on his
cheeks, the candid expression in her eyes. Katharina, Katharina... she floated before him
like a flag, wrapped in the white tablecloth-turned into a shroud, and he was finally able to
mourn her death and the guilt of having abandoned her.
He then understood that his feats as a journalist, those that had given him
so much recognition and fame, were only an attempt to keep his oldest fear under
control, by means of the trick of taking refuge behind a lens to see if reality was better
for him that way. tolerable. He faced inordinate risks as an exercise in courage, training
by day to defeat the monsters that tormented him by night. But the moment of truth had
arrived and he could no longer escape from his past. He was Azucena, he was buried
in the mud, his terror was not the remote emotion of an almost forgotten childhood, it
was a claw in the throat.
In the suffocation of tears, his mother appeared to him, dressed in gray and with her
crocodile-skin bag clutched in her lap, just as he had seen her for the last time on the
dock, when she went to see him off the ship on which he embarked. for America. He did
not come to dry her tears, but rather to tell him to take a shovel, because the war was
over and now they had to bury the dead.
-Do not Cry. Nothing hurts anymore, I'm fine,” Azucena told her at dawn.
"I'm not crying for you, I'm crying for myself, because everything hurts me," Rolf Carlé smiled.
In the valley of the cataclysm the third day began with a pale light between dark clouds.
The President of the Republic traveled to the area and appeared in campaign attire
to confirm that it was the worst misfortune of this century, the country was in
mourning, sister nations had offered help, a state of siege was ordered, the Armed
Forces Armed forces would be merciless, they would shoot anyone caught stealing or
committing other misdeeds without formalities. He added that it was impossible to
remove all the corpses or account for the thousands of missing, so the entire valley
would be declared a cemetery and the bishops would come to celebrate a solemn mass
for the souls of the victims. He went to the Army tents, where the rescued were huddled,
to give them the relief of uncertain promises, and to the makeshift hospital, to give a
word of encouragement to the doctors and nurses, exhausted by so many hours of
hardship. Immediately he was led to the place where Azucena was, who by then was
already famous, because her image had given the
return to the planet He greeted her with his languid statesman's hand and the
microphones recorded his moved voice and paternal accent, when he told her that her
courage was an example for the country. Rolf Carlé interrupted him to ask for a bomb,
and he assured him that he would take care of the matter in person. I caught a glimpse
of Rolf for a moment, squatting by the well. On the evening news he was in the same
position: and I, peering at the screen like a fortune teller before her crystal ball, sensed
that something fundamental had changed in him, guessed that during the night his
defenses had crumbled and he was gone. she had surrendered to pain, vulnerable at last.
That girl touched a part of his soul to which he himself had not had access and which
he never shared with me. Rolf wanted to comfort her and it was Azucena who comforted
him.
I noticed the precise moment when Rolf stopped fighting and abandoned himself
to the torment of watching the girl's agony. I was with them, three days and two
nights, spying on them on the other side of life. I was there when she told him that in her
thirteen years no boy had ever loved her and that it was a pity to leave this world without
knowing love, and he assured her that he loved her more than he could ever love anyone,
more More than his mother and sister, more than all the women who had slept in his
arms, more than me, his mate, who would give anything to be trapped in that pit in his
place, who would trade his life for hers. her, and I saw when he bent over her poor head
and kissed her on the forehead, overwhelmed by a sweet and sad feeling that he could
not name. I felt how in that instant they were both saved from hopelessness, they broke
free of the mud, they rose above the vultures and the helicopters, they flew together over
that vast swamp of rottenness and wailing. And finally they were able to accept death. Rolf
Carlé silently prayed that she would die soon, because it was no longer possible to bear
so much pain.
By then I had obtained a bomb and was in contact with a general willing to send it at
dawn the next day in a military plane. But at nightfall of that third day, under the
implacable quartz lamps and the lenses of a hundred machines, Azucena gave up, her
eyes lost in those of that friend who had supported her until the end. Rolf Carlé took the
life jacket off her, closed her eyelids, held her tight against his chest for a few minutes,
and then released her. She sank slowly, a flower in the mud.
You're back with me, but you're not the same man anymore. I often accompany you to the
Channel and we watch Azucena's videos again, you study them carefully, looking for
something you could have done to save her but you didn't think of it in time.
Or maybe you examine them to see yourself as in a mirror, naked. Your cameras are
abandoned in a closet, you don't write or sing, you sit for hours in front of the window
looking at the mountains. By your side, I hope you complete the journey into yourself
and heal from old wounds. I know that when you return from your nightmares we will
walk hand in hand again, as before.

Isabel Allende - The Tales of Eva Luna (English Translation)

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Isabel Allende - The Tales of Eva Luna (English Translation)

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I met her in my adolescence, when I worked as a servant in the house of La Señora,

Watched by management guards, tormented by the cold and without home-made

THE GOLD OF TOMAS VARGAS

they came out of misery and began on the path of prosperity.

YES YOU WILL TOUCH MY HEART

world of light, abandoning himself to misfortune.

GIFT FOR A GIRLFRIEND

"You better tell me everything, child," Ziminerman said finally.

a warrior for a long time against his will.

- Keep praying, I'll be back in fifteen minutes! he yelled as he passed.

THE MOST FORGOTTEN OF OBLIVION

that his many years cut off his inspiration.

THE JUDGE'S WIFE

A PATH TO THE NORTH

Carnations Picero and his grandfather, Jesús Dionisio.

wrapped his offspring in a swaddling cloth.

THE GUEST OF THE TEACHER

- I'm stunned, Turk. I'm dying without realizing it," he commented.

WITH ALL DUE RESPECT

Abigail, as a result of wriggling open-legged in her barbaric times; but he

-Angels don't exist. They are semantic errors -replied Miguel.

-According to what? Philomena asked. -That we cannot go to the Military Hospital,

-Here we have an excellent team, but it is a very delicate operation.

LOVE LETTERS BETRAYED

on that hill of envelopes.

THE IMAGINED PALACE

his post as minister-counselor in Vienna, fueled by ambitions of becoming

WE ARE MADE OF CLAY

"The sky is crying," Azucena murmured and began to cry too.

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