B004QGYWKI EBOK (9 page)

The sands lap the front of the inn and come to an end there: from the hole serving as a door or from among the reeds, the view slides over a white, languid surface until it meets the sky. Behind the inn, the land is hard and rugged, and less than a mile away begin the burnished, closely ranged hills, each taller than the preceding one, their peaks piercing the clouds like needles or axes. To the left, the narrow, winding wood stretches along the border of the sand and grows without a break until it disappears between two hills, far beyond the inn: underbrush, wild plants and a dry, rampant grass that hides everything—the uneven terrain, the snakes, the tiny swamps. But the wood is only a hint of the forest, a foretaste: it stops at the end of a ravine, at the foot of a massive hill beyond which the real forest begins. And Doña Merceditas knows it: once, years ago, she climbed to the top of that mountain and with astonished eyes gazed through the large patches of cloud floating beneath her feet at the green platform stretching far and wide without a clearing.

Now Doña Merceditas dozes, lying across two sacks. A little farther away, the goat pokes his nose in the sand, stubbornly chews a splinter of wood or bleats in the cool afternoon air. Suddenly, it pricks up its ears and freezes. The woman half opens her eyes.

“What’s up, Cuera?”

The animal pulls on the cord tying it to the stake. The woman laboriously stands up. Some fifty yards away, the man is silhouetted sharply against the horizon, his shadow preceding him across the sand. The woman shades her forehead with one hand. She looks around quickly; then she stands motionless. The man is very close; he is tall, emaciated, quite dark, with curly hair and mocking eyes. His faded shirt flutters outside his flannel pants, which are rolled up to his knees. His legs look like two black pegs.

“Good afternoon, Doña Merceditas.” His voice is melodious and sarcastic. The woman has turned pale.

“What do you want?” she murmurs.

“You recognize me, right? Well, good for you. If you’d be so kind, I’d like something to eat. And drink. I’m really thirsty.”

“There’s beer and fruit inside.”

“Thanks, Señora Merceditas. You’re very kind. Like always. Will you join me?”

“What for?” The woman looks at him distrustfully. She is fat and well along in years, but with smooth skin. She is barefoot. “You know the place already.”

“Oh!” the man says in a cordial way. “I don’t like to eat alone. Makes me sad.”

The woman hesitates for a moment. Then she walks toward the inn, dragging her feet in the sand. She goes in. She opens a bottle of beer.

“Thanks, thanks a lot, Señora Merceditas. But I prefer milk. Since you’ve opened that bottle, why don’t you drink it?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“C’mon, Señora Merceditas, don’t be like that. Drink to my health.”

“I don’t want to.”

The man’s face goes sour. “Are you deaf? I told you to drink that bottle. Cheers!”

The woman raises the bottle with both hands and drinks slowly in small sips. On the dirty, scratched counter a bottle of milk glitters. With a swipe of his hand, the man scares off the flies circling around it, raises the bottle and takes a long drink. His lips are covered with a muzzle of cream, which his tongue, seconds later, noisily wipes away.

“Ah!” he says, licking again. “That milk really was good, Señora Merceditas. Goat’s milk, isn’t it? I liked it a lot. Have you finished that bottle yet? Why don’t you open up another? Cheers!”

The woman obeys without protest; the man devours two bananas and an orange.

“Listen, Señora Merceditas, don’t go so fast. The beer’s running down your neck. It’s going to get your dress wet. Don’t waste things that way. Open up another bottle and drink to Numa. Cheers!”

The man goes on repeating “Cheers!” until there are four empty bottles on the counter. The woman’s eyes are glassy; she belches, spits, sits down on a sack of fruit.

“My God!” says the man. “Some woman! You’re a regular drunk, Señora Merceditas. Excuse me for telling you so.”

“You’re going to be sorry for what you’re doing to a poor old lady. You’ll see, Jamaican, you’ll see.” Her tongue is a little thick.

“Really?” the man says, bored. “By the way, what time’s Numa coming?”

“Numa?”

“Oh, you’re really awful, Señora Merceditas, when you don’t want to understand something. What time’s he coming?”

“You’re a filthy nigger, Jamaican. Numa’s going to kill you.”

“Don’t talk that way, Señora Merceditas!” He yawns. “All right, I think we’ve still got a while yet. Definitely until nighttime. We’re going to take a little nap, that okay with you?”

He gets up and goes out. He heads toward the goat. The animal looks at him suspiciously. He unties it. He goes back to the inn, swinging the cord like a propeller and whistling; the woman is gone. The lazy, lewd calmness of his gestures disappears immediately. Swearing, he runs around the place in great leaps. Then he heads toward the wood, followed by the goat. The animal finds the woman behind a tree and begins to lick her. The Jamaican laughs, seeing the angry looks the woman flings at the goat. He makes a simple gesture and Doña Merceditas heads toward the inn.

“You really are an awful woman, yessiree. What notions you’ve got!”

He ties her feet and hands. Then he picks her up easily and deposits her on the counter. He stands there looking at her wickedly and, suddenly, starts tickling the broad, wrinkled soles of her feet. The woman writhes with laughter; her face shows her desperation. The counter is narrow and with her shaking Doña Merceditas nears the edge; finally, she rolls heavily onto the floor.

“What an awful woman, yessiree!” he repeats. “You pretend to faint and you’re spying on me out of one eye. There’s no curing you, Señora Merceditas!”

Its head thrust into the room, the goat stares at the woman attentively.

The neighing of the horses cuts through the end of the afternoon: it is already growing dark. Señora Merceditas raises her head and listens, her eyes wide open.

“It’s them,” says the Jamaican. He jumps up. The horses keep neighing and pawing. From the door of the inn, the man shouts angrily:

“You gone nuts, Lieutenant? You gone nuts?”

Out of a rocky bend in the hill the lieutenant appears: he is short and thick-set; he is wearing riding boots and his face is sweaty. He looks around warily.

“You nuts?” repeats the Jamaican. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, nigger,” says the lieutenant. “We just got here. What’s going on?”

“What do you mean, what’s going on? Order your men to take their horses away. Don’t you know your job?”

The lieutenant turns red.

“You’re not free yet, nigger,” he says. “Show some respect.”

“Hide the horses and cut their tongues out if you like. Just so they’re not heard. And wait there. I’ll give you the signal.” The Jamaican uncurls his mouth and the smile sketched on his face is insolent. “Don’t you see that now you’ve got to follow my orders?”

The lieutenant hesitates for a few seconds.

“God help you if he doesn’t come,” he says. And, turning his head, he orders: “Sergeant Lituma, hide the horses.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” says someone from behind the hill. The sound of hoofs is heard. Then silence.

“Good for you,” says the Jamaican. “You got to follow orders. Very good, General. Bravo, Commander. Congratulations, Captain. Don’t move from that spot. I’ll let you know.”

The lieutenant shows him his fist and disappears among the rocks. The Jamaican goes into the inn. The woman’s eyes are filled with hatred.

“Double-crosser,” she mumbles. “You’ve come with the police. Damn you!”

“What manners, my God, what bad manners you’ve got, Señora Merceditas! I didn’t come with the police. I came alone. I met the lieutenant here. That should be obvious to you.”

“Numa’s not coming,” says the woman. “And the police will cart you off to jail again. And when you get out, Numa will kill you.”

“You’ve got hard feelings, Señora Merceditas, no doubt about it. The things you predict for me!”

“Double-crosser,” repeats the woman; she has managed to sit up and stays very stiff. “Do you think Numa’s stupid?”

“Stupid? Not at all. He’s a real fox. But don’t give up, Señora Merceditas. I’m sure he’ll come.”

“He isn’t coming. He’s not like you—he’s got friends. They’ll warn him the police are here.”

“Think so? I don’t. They won’t have time. The police have come from around the other side, from behind the hills. I crossed the sand alone. In every town I asked, ‘Is Señora Merceditas still at the inn? They just let me out and I’m going to wring her neck.’ At least twenty people must’ve run to tell Numa. Still think he won’t come? My God, what a face you’ve put on, Señora Merceditas!”

“If anything happens to Numa,” stammers the woman hoarsely, “you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life, Jamaican.”

He shrugs. He lights up a cigarette and begins to whistle. Then he goes up to the counter, takes the oil lamp and lights it. He hangs it on the door.

“It’s getting dark,” he says. “Come over here, Señora Merceditas. I want Numa to see you sitting in the doorway, waiting for him. Oh! That’s right. You can’t move. Excuse me, I’m so forgetful.”

He bends over and lifts her in his arms. He puts her down in the sand in front of the inn. The light from the lamp falls on the woman and softens the skin on her face: she looks younger.

“Why are you doing this, Jamaican?” By now the voice of Doña Merceditas is weak.

“Why?” asks the Jamaican. “You haven’t been in jail, have you, Señora Merceditas? Day after day goes by and you haven’t got anything to do. Let me tell you, you really get bored in there. And you’re hungry a lot. Listen, I forgot about one detail. You can’t have your mouth hanging open. You can’t start shouting when Numa comes. Besides, you might swallow a fly.”

He laughs. He looks around the room and finds a rag. With it he bandages half of Doña Merceditas’s face. Amused, he examines her for a long while.

“Let me tell you, you look really funny that way, Señora Merceditas. I just don’t know what you look like.”

In the darkness at the back of the inn, the Jamaican rises up like a serpent: elastically and noiselessly. He remains bent over, his hands resting on the counter. Two yards in front of him in the circle of light the woman is rigid, her face pushed forward as if she were sniffing the air: she too has heard. It was a slight but very distinct sound, coming from the left, standing out above the crickets’ singing. It bursts out again, longer: the branches in the wood crackle and break. Something is approaching the inn. “He’s not alone,” whispers the Jamaican. “There’re several of them.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the whistle and places it between his lips. He waits, not moving. The woman stirs and the Jamaican curses between his teeth. He sees her squirm in place and jerk her head left and right, trying to free herself from the gag. The noise has stopped: is he already on the sand, which muffles his footsteps? The woman has her face turned toward the left and her eyes, like a squashed iguana’s, bulge from their sockets. “She’s seen them,” the Jamaican mutters. He places the tip of his tongue on the whistle: the metal is sharp. Doña Merceditas goes on twisting her head and groans in anguish. The goat bleats and the Jamaican crouches down. Seconds later he sees a shadow descending over the woman and a naked arm stretching toward the gag. He blows with all his might at the same time that he jumps on the newcomer. The whistle fills the night like a fire and is lost amid the curses exploding right and left, followed by hurried footsteps. The two men have fallen on the woman. The lieutenant is fast: when the Jamaican stands up, one of his hands seizes Numa by the hair and the other holds the revolver to his temple. Four guards with rifles surround them.

“Run!” shouts the Jamaican to the guards. “The others are in the wood. Quick! They’re going to get away. Quick!”

“Keep still!” shouts the lieutenant. He does not take his eyes off Numa, who is trying, out of the corner of his eye, to find the revolver. He seems calm; his hands hang at his sides.

“Sergeant Lituma, tie him up.”

Lituma puts his rifle on the ground and uncoils the rope he has at his waist. He ties Numa by his feet and then handcuffs him. The goat has come up and, smelling Numa’s legs, begins to lick them gently.

“The horses, Sergeant Lituma.”

The lieutenant sticks the revolver back in his holster and bends toward the woman. He takes off the gag and the ropes. Doña Merceditas stands up and goes to Numa after kicking the goat out of the way. She strokes his forehead without saying anything.

“What’s he done to you?” asks Numa.

“Nothing,” says the woman. “Want a cigarette?”

“Lieutenant,” insists the Jamaican. “Do you realize the others are there in the woods, just a few yards away? Didn’t you hear them? There must be at least three or four. What’re you waiting for? To order a search for them?”

“Shut up, nigger,” says the lieutenant, without looking at him. He strikes a match and lights the cigarette the woman has put in Numa’s mouth. Numa begins to suck in long puffs; the cigarette is between his teeth and he blows the smoke out through his nose. “I came looking for this guy. Nobody else.”

“Okay,” says the Jamaican. “So much the worse if you don’t know your job. I did mine. I’m free.”

“Yeah,” says the lieutenant. “You’re free.”

“The horses, Lieutenant,” says Lituma. He holds the reins of five animals.

“Put him up on your horse, Lituma,” says the lieutenant. “He’ll go with you.”

The sergeant and another guard take Numa and, after untying his feet, seat him on the horse. Lituma mounts behind him. The lieutenant moves toward the horses and takes up the reins of his own.

“Listen, Lieutenant, who’m I going with?”

“You?” says the lieutenant, with one foot in the stirrup. “You?”

“Yeah,” says the Jamaican. “Who else?”

“You’re free,” says the lieutenant. “You don’t have to come with us. You can go wherever you like.”

From their horses, Lituma and the other guards laugh.