The Cubs and Other Stories

  He had imagined that cleaning the skull would be somewhat difficult and quick, but he was wrong. The dust—what he had thought was dust and was, to judge from its biting odor, perhaps excrement—remained soldered to the inside walls and shone like sheet metal at the back of the cranium. While the white silk of the scarf became covered with gray stains without the coating of filth disappearing, Don Eulogio’s excitement increased. At one moment, irritated, he flung the skull away, but before it stopped rolling he had repented and was out of his seat, crawling on the floor until he reached it and lifted it up carefully. Then he guessed that the cleaning might be possible if he used something greasy. Over the house phone he ordered a can of olive oil from the kitchen and waited in the doorway for the waiter, out of whose hand he tore the can violently without paying any attention to the troubled look the boy tried to throw around the room, staring over the man’s shoulder. Full of anxiety, he soaked the scarf in the olive oil and, gently at first, then increasing the rhythm, he scraped to the point of exasperation. Soon he enthusiastically confirmed that the remedy worked: a soft rain of dust fell to his feet and he did not even notice that the olive oil was also dampening the edge of his cuffs and the sleeves of his jacket. Leaping to his feet suddenly, he stared in wonder at the skull he held up over his head: clean, radiant, motionless, with several little drops like sweat on the rolling surface of the cheekbones. Lovingly, he wrapped it up once again; he shut the briefcase and left the National Club. The taxi he got at Plaza San Martin dropped him off behind his house, on Orrantia. Night had fallen. In the cold semidarkness of the street he paused for a moment, fearing that the door might be locked. Weakly he stretched out his arm, and he gave a jump for joy when he realized that the handle was turning and the door was giving way with a tiny squeak.

  At that moment he heard voices in the pergola. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had even forgotten the reason for his feverish activity. The voices and the movement were so unforeseen that his heart seemed like an oxygen tank connected to a dying man. His first impulse was to crouch down, but he did it so clumsily that he slipped off the rock and slid flat on his face. He felt a sharp pain in his forehead and a disagreeable taste of wet earth in his mouth, but he made no effort to stand up and stayed there, half buried in the grass, breathing laboriously, trembling. In his fall, he had had time to raise the hand that held the skull, so it had remained up in the air, a few inches from the ground, still clean.

  The pergola was some fifty yards from his hiding place, and Don Eulogio heard the voices as a delicate murmuring without making out what they were saying. He got up painfully. Spying, he then saw in the middle of the arc of large apple trees, whose roots reached to the foundation of the dining room, a precise, slender silhouette, and he realized that it was his son. Next to him was a woman, still sharper and smaller, reclining with a certain abandon. It was his son’s wife. Blinking, rubbing his eyes, he tried anxiously but in vain to catch a glimpse of the boy. Then he heard him laugh: a boy’s crystalline laugh, spontaneous and open, that crossed the garden like a bird. He did not wait any longer; he took the candle out of his jacket and gropingly collected branches, clods of earth and pebbles, working quickly to fix the candle securely on the rock and to place the rock like an obstacle in the middle of the path. Then, with extreme precision to keep the candle balanced, he placed the skull over it. Seized with great excitement, putting his eyelashes up to the solid, oily object, he felt happy: the height was right, the candle’s small white point stuck out through the hole in the cranium like a spikenard. He could not stay watching. The father had raised his voice and although his words were still incomprehensible, the old man knew they were addressed to the boy. There was something of an exchange of words among the three people: the father’s heavy voice, increasingly vigorous, the melodious sound of the woman, his grandson’s shrill yelps. Suddenly the noise stopped. The silence was very brief; his grandson exploded it, shrieking: “But remember—my punishment ends today. You said seven days and it’s over today. Tomorrow I’m not going.” With the last words he heard hurried footsteps.

  Was he coming running? It was the decisive moment. Don Eulogio overcame the anguish strangling him and carried out his plan. The first match gave off only a brief blue thread. The second took fire. Burning his nails, but not feeling any pain, he kept it next to the skull, even seconds after the candle was lit. He hesitated because what he saw was not exactly what he had imagined, but then a sudden flame shot up between his hands with an abrupt crackling, like a heavy footstep in a pile of dead leaves, and the skull was completely illuminated, throwing out light from the eye sockets, the cranium, the nose and mouth. “It’s all lit up,” he exclaimed in wonder. He stood still and repeated like a record: “It was the olive oil, it was the olive oil,” stupefied, bewitched before the fascinating skull enveloped in flames.

  Exactly at that instant he heard the shout. A savage shout, the howl of an animal pierced by many javelins. The boy was in front of him, his hands extended, his fingers convulsed. Livid, shaking, his eyes and mouth open, he was mute now and stiff, but his throat was making strange sounds independently, snorting. “He’s seen me, he’s seen me,” Don Eulogio said to himself in panic. But looking at him, he knew immediately that the boy had not seen him, that his grandson could not see anything but that flaming head. His eyes were fixed, with a deep, everlasting terror painted in them. Everything had been simultaneous: the sudden blaze, the howl, the vision of that figure in short pants suddenly possessed by terror. Enthusiastically he was thinking that things had turned out even more perfectly than he had planned, when he heard approaching voices and footsteps; and then, not caring about the noise, he turned, and jumping off the path, trampling the beds of chrysanthemums and roses, which he glimpsed as the reflection of the flame reached them, he crossed the space separating him from the door. He ran through, accompanied by the woman’s scream, also strident but less genuine than his grandson’s. He did not stop; he did not look back. Out on the street, a cold wind cut through his forehead and his few hairs, but he did not notice it and continued walking, slowly, rubbing the garden wall with his shoulder, smiling in satisfaction, breathing better, more calmly.

  A Visitor

  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, D
oña 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.