The sewing machine starts up for a moment, as if something has fallen in its guts; a lock grates; and the closet door opens with a long screech. In truth, there is no way to get any rest in that bedroom. It seems like someone has intentionally moved the wobbly table that has an old sock under one leg to stabilize it.
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The broken-handled jug that was keeping some watercress fresh, the bottle of rancid oil, two plates and a highfalutin butter dish and a half-empty sugar bowl, all fall to the ground with a deafening crash. She is forever turning around suddenly because she has felt a tenacious presence behind her. It looks like a portrait from the Spiritist Center, and he already looked like a dead man, even when he was alive. But Capinche continues to pester her.
Look at Evaristo! With his spittoon and his shiny watch.
How do you think we can enjoy each other like that? One day passed, then another.
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All because of that damned portrait. They were whispering, gesticulating, and moving around the house. Another went to the window and asked those gathered on the sidewalk to go get a mustard plaster and borrow two or three more blankets. She had asked a neighbor for help. They could hardly understand her. She was barely mumbling and collapsed in the helping arms of her friends.
All she could do was shiver and let her teeth chatter, and from time to time her eyes would open wide as if she were looking for something or asking anxiously for what she needed. But what it was, nobody could guess.
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They had piled seven blankets on her. The neighbor, rubbing her legs with a brush, then massaging her and covering her back up, said that the coldness she felt must be from death itself. Then the dying woman recognized Capinche for a second. And everyone present shrank back in terror. They realized that the dead man had come to get her, and that he was carrying her off.
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Tell me. Misfortune was raining down on his head. Capinche cursed and swore. They never show their true colors. They just enjoy playing with men like a cat with a mouse. Abusing their power.
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But they were all sad and withdrawn, sitting in silence! No guarantees! Like a dream. And just on loan to us. The ancient newness of their discovery left them exhausted. Furthermore, with this particular death, there was something else.
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No sirree! Everyone, in the darkness of their souls, was so aware of the situation that nobody dared even talk about it. But it was enough to dominate the gathering of blacks. His presence was felt more strongly than it had ever been felt, even when he was alive!
Nobody will ever be able to forget it all. Go ahead and weep quietly.
cemadenabpu.ml Nobody goes crazy because his comadre has died. He kept speaking to the dead woman and to the others. Everyone rose as if on cue, and stood waiting. He threw himself on the corpse, embracing it and kissing it on the mouth. The men grabbed Capinche violently, trying to force him to stop carrying out his sacrilegious desires. They raised him up, but he was already a dead man, a limp 82 Los Compadres thing that they carried off and put down in the middle of the street. Everyone rushed to spend the rest of the night at the police station. As for the corpses, the Poor House wagon had to come carry them away.
And nobody went to sprinkle any water on their cursed bodies or to say a prayer for the peace of their souls, though their souls certainly needed some prayers. Maybe if it had been someone besides my compadre I would have pretended not to see anything. He lived with his family in an old shack that nobody owned or collected rent for. An old shack that seemed ready to collapse all at once in a strong gust of wind or a downpour but kept standing in suspense. It was just across from Mambiala Hill, where the road turns as it leaves the village and descends like a snake down to the coast among the palm trees.
They lived off charity without many problems and had been able to eat pretty regularly — him, his wife, and his children. Then one day, hard times fell upon the village, worse than anything they had expected, and food was scarce for everyone. Nobody gave any thought to black Serapio. Nobody could remember ever having seen him cut sugar cane on a plantation, pull a single weed, or even plant a sweet 84 Mambiala Hill potato.
In vain he strolled around, singing and playing his guitar, and then holding out his cockroach-eaten hat. Have the maid tell him that any leftovers today are for the chickens.
Come by some other day! Mambiala Hill, which rose up not far away, pale green and shaggy, round as an orange, had a pumpkin patch near the top. But no pumpkins. Everyone knew that it never produced any fruit. The poor fellow and his family had been going to bed hungry for several days. And he made the sign of the cross. Just leaves and branches and more leaves! And he surely had examined every square inch of ground! He looked and he looked. Then the bell struck noon, the time when other people sit down at the table for lunch.
Serapio wept, entreating God and Mambiala. Then he 85 Mambiala Hill started exploring once more, plant by plant, point by point, covering the whole pumpkin patch. Oh, God, Mambiala! Me die of hunger, Mambiala, Mambiala! But before abandoning all hope, he knelt down and raised his arms to the heavens. He remembered an engraving that told the story of a miracle, and he began to tell it to the heavens. The heavens paid no attention. No pumpkins rained down on his head. Serapio was overwhelmed with despair and let himself fall face down on the earth. A very nice pot, so nice that it inspired joy and made you want to caress it.
So he spoke to it as if that were the most natural thing in the world to do, and as if the pot could understand him and comfort him.
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And how round! And brand new! Who brought you here? Some poor fellow like me, looking for pumpkins? Are you the one speaking, or is it me and my double, one sane and the other crazy, but both starving? It spread a lovely white tablecloth out on the grass, and using an elegant table service silver knives and forks, if you please! The hill lifted off from the earth.
It was like a balloon that rose rapidly high into the blue sky, higher and higher, until old black Serapio, clinging tightly to some bushes so as not to fall off, went to sleep. When the sun had lost its strength, Serapio went home, holding the cooking pot under his arm. His poor starving family was waiting.
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