The Killer's Tears

NO ONE EVER arrived here by chance. Here was nearly the end of the world, close to the southernmost tip of Chile, which resembles lace in the cold Pacific waters.

On this land, everything was so tough, desolate, and abused by the wind that even the stones seemed in pain. Yet just before the desert and the sea, a narrow, gray-walled structure emerged from the ground: the Poloverdo farm.

Travelers who reached this point were surprised to find a house. They would walk down the path and knock on the door to ask for a night's lodging. Most times, the traveler was a scientist, either a geologist with a box of stones, or an astronomer in quest of a dark night. Sometimes it was a
poet. Other times simply an adventurer looking for spots yet undiscovered and far from the beaten path.

So rare were such visits that each one seemed like a big event. The Poloverdo woman would pour a drink from a chipped pitcher with shaky hands. The Poloverdo man would force himself to say two words to the stranger so as not to seem too boorish. But he was still a boor, and his wife unfailingly poured the wine outside the glass. All the while the wind would hiss through the disjointed window, sounding like the howling of wolves.

When the visitor departed, the man and the woman would close their door with a sigh of relief. Their solitude resumed its course on the desolate moor, among the rocks and the violent elements.

The Poloverdos had a child. A boy, who was born out of their bedroom routine, without particular love, and who grew like all the rest on this land, that is to say not very well. He spent his days hunting for snakes. He had dirt under his nails, his ears had been so beaten down by storms that they looked like flaps, his skin was yellow and dry, and his teeth were as white as pieces of salt. His name was Paolo. Paolo Poloverdo.

Paolo was the one who saw the man arrive on the path, one warm January day. And he was the one who ran to warn his parents that a stranger was coming. Except that this time, it was not a geologist, or an adventurer, and even less a poet. It was Angel Allegria. A vagrant, a crook, a mur-derer. And he was not arriving by chance at this house at the end of the world. The Poloverdo woman took her
pitcher. Her eyes met those of Angel Allegria—small eyes, deeply set, as if pushed into their sockets by blows; eyes that betrayed a brutal wickedness. She shook more than usual. Her man sat on the bench facing the vagrant.

“Will you stay here long?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered the other. He dipped his lips in the wine.

Outside, rain clouds were coming up from the sea. Paolo had gone out of the house. He was waiting for the first drops to fall, his face turned to the sky and his mouth open. Like all the creatures on this land, he was always thirsty. The poets who had come to visit had compared him to a seed planted in the bedrock, condemned never to bloom.

While the first drops came crashing down onto the dust and onto Paolo's tongue, Angel Allegria took out his knife and planted it in the man's throat, then in the woman's. On the table, the wine and the blood mingled, forever reddening the deep grooves of the wood.

This was not Angel's first crime. Death was commonplace where he came from. It put an end to debts, drunken disputes, women's deceptions, neighbors' betrayals, or simply ended the monotony of a dull day. This time it put an end to two weeks of wandering. Angel was tired of sleeping outdoors, of fleeing south a little more each morning. He had heard that this house was the last one before the desert and the sea, the ideal refuge for a hunted man. It was here that he wanted to sleep.

When Paolo came back, soaked to the bones, he discov-ered his parents lying on the ground, and he understood. Angel was waiting for him, knife in hand.

“Come here,” Angel told him.

Paolo did not move. He stared at the sullied blade, at the hand holding the knife, at the arm that did not shake. The rain drummed on the metallic roof, as if announcing a trapeze artist's somersault at the circus.

“How old are you?” Angel asked.

“I don't know,” Paolo answered.

“Can you make soup?”

Angel had a firm grip on the handle of his knife, and yet remained undecided. The child, very small, very dirty, very wet, stood in front of him, and he could not imagine put ting an end to his life. An unexpected twist of his con-science, maybe a little pity, held back his arm.

“I've never killed a child,” he said.

“Neither have I,” said Paolo.

The answer made Angel smile.

“Can you make soup, or not?” he asked again.

“I think so.”

“Make me some soup, then.”

Angel put his knife away. He was sparing the child, and with some relief told himself that he did not need to kill him. The little one would not prevent him from sleeping here; besides, it would be convenient to send the boy to fetch water at the well rather than go himself.

Paolo headed for the back of the house, entered a dark recess where his mother kept some meager supplies, and soon came out with a few potatoes, a leek, a turnip, and a piece of dried-up lard. He knew how to make soup,
although he had never made any. He had watched his mother so often that the recipe was imprinted in his mind. To make a fire, he only had to imitate his father's gestures. It was easy.

Once the soup was ready, he turned to Angel Allegria.

“Serve me,” said the killer.

Paolo went to fetch one of his father's iron bowls, the largest one, and put it on the table, far from the blood and wine stain. He poured the soup into it.

“Eat with me,” Angel ordered.

Paolo went to fetch another bowl, the smallest and most dented one, his own. He helped himself and sat on the bench, facing the man, who was already slurping his soup. The rain had stopped. It was not cold in the house, thanks to the fire that crackled in the fireplace. Behind the win-dow, night was coming like an ocean wave about to engulf the house and drown the world. Paolo lit a candle.

“Come on, eat,” Angel told him.

The soup smelled good. But the eyes of the child wan-dered and stared at the lifeless bodies stretched on the ground. He put his hands around the bowl but was unable to bring it to his mouth. The killer turned and looked at the two corpses.

“Is that why you've lost your appetite?” he asked.

Paolo nodded. Angel Allegria got up from his bench, sighing.

“Well then.” He went to rummage in the recess and found a shovel. “Come,” he said, “I need you to hold the light.”

Paolo took the storm lantern, lit it, and went into the
night with the man. He saw him pull his parents' bodies along the rocks.

“The soil is hard,” Paolo warned.

Worse than hard. It took Angel two hours to dig a hole hardly large enough for the man and woman. The shovel knocked against the stones and the roots. The handle burned his hands. Finally, he succeeded in putting the corpses in the hole; he covered it, packed the ground on the knoll, and, out of habit, wiped his forehead. Yet the wind coming from the sea had dried his skin: he had hardly per-spired.

“Are you happy now?” he asked the child, roughly.

Paolo held the lamp up to his face and looked at the grave. For a brief moment he wanted to bury himself in the ground, to sleep, but he knew that he did not have the right to do so, since he was not dead. He understood that on this desolate land, only the dead were entitled to peace. The others, the living, had no choice but to clench their teeth and endure life. This was the gift that Angel had just given to Paolo: a life. But what kind of life?

“Come,” the man said. “There is nothing more to see, and the soup will be cold.”

ANGEL ALLEGRIA WAS a wanted man. The police of Talcahuano, Temuco, and Puerto Natales were looking for him. In these three cities, he had robbed old ladies, swin-dled young people, and killed those who resisted him. His victims had no face, and he himself never had occasion to look in a mirror. His world seethed with silhouettes, with threatening shadows that he brushed aside as if chasing away swarms of flies.

When young, he had seen his father die. As for his mother, he had hardly known her. Early on, he had learned to fend for himself, following the harsh rules of the streets to survive.

The only things he had ever possessed were his knife, his physical strength, and the stolen money that quickly slipped through his fingers. Once or twice he thought he was in love with a woman but none had been able to soften his fiery temper. These affairs had ended like everything else, in bitterness, in shouts of accusations, and in angry stomps down fire escapes. Angel Allegria was not a respectable person, especially not one fit to bring up a child.

Nevertheless, here he was living with Paolo, in this house cornered by the winds, the rains, the snows, and the skies. Paolo, young and ignorant, did not have a choice. The murderer had installed himself in his house and he had to put up with him.

Both of them tended to the vegetable garden, to the chickens and the goats. Paolo kept making soup and hunting for snakes, although less than before because Angel did not like him to search between the stones. “You're going to get bitten,” he would say, “and you will be sorry.”

What really puzzled Angel was the age of the child. Paolo's small body wasn't a reliable indicator. He appeared to be five, but could as well have been eight or ten years old.

“Try to remember when you were born,” Angel would say.

“I was born the day you arrived,” the child would answer.

“Not at all!”

“I don't remember anything before that day.”