“Only God can judge and damn, my child. What were they doing?”
Férula could spend half an hour on the details. She was a gifted narrator who knew exactly where to pause, how to measure her cadence, how to explain without too many gestures, painting a scene so true to life than her listener felt as if he were there. It was incredible how she could sense from the half-open door the quality of their trembling, the abundance of juices, the words whispered in the ear, the most secret smells—a veritable miracle. She unburdened herself of these agitated states of mind, returned to the house with her idol’s mask, impassive and severe, and resumed giving orders—put this here, and it was done; change the flowers in the vases, and they were changed; wash the windows; hush those damn birds, their noise won’t let Señora Clara sleep, and all that cackling is going to frighten the baby and who knows but it might be born with wings. Nothing escaped her watchful eye. She was always moving, unlike Clara, who found everything so lovely and who was as happy to eat truffles as she was to have leftover soup, to sleep in a featherbed as to sleep sitting up in