XLII

At seven the next morning my father’s luggage was already out of the house, and he and I were taking our coffee, dressed for the road. I was to go with him as far as the M⁠⸺’s farm, to say goodbye to them and to other neighbors. The whole family was in the corridor when our horses were brought round. Emma and María, as I observed, came from my room. My father kissed my mother’s cheek, and the forehead of María and Emma and of all the children down to Juan, who took occasion to remind him of a commission to buy a little saddle with pistol-holsters, desired for an orphan pony which was the boy’s delight in those days.

My father stopped again in front of María before going down the stairway, and said to her, in a low voice, laying a hand on her hair, and vainly trying to get her to look at him, “It is agreed that you are going to be very good and sensible, isn’t it, my lady?”

María nodded affirmatively.

I said goodbye till afternoon, and as I was standing near María, she said to me, so that no one could hear her, “Not a minute after five.”

Carlos was the only one of Don Jerónimo’s family at home. He received me with the greatest pleasure, and at once wanted me to agree to stay with him all day. We were smoking after breakfast, when Carlos said to me: “It seems, then, that I shall be unable to see you before we say goodbye⁠—you with your happy student’s face, that face you used to put on to torture me when I would tell you of some desperate whim of Matilde’s. But the fact is, if you are so sad at going, it proves that you would be happy to stay. Deuce take that journey, anyway!”

“You ought not to feel so badly,” I said. “When I come back, you will have your doctoring free.”

“Of course, my dear fellow. Do you think I hadn’t considered that? Study hard, so as to come home soon. If I am not killed, meanwhile, by a fever caught on these plains, you may possibly find me in a dropsy. I am boring myself atrociously. They all wanted me to go to Buga to spend Christmas, and in order to stay at home, I had to pretend that I had sprained my ankle; though such conduct is likely to make me very unpopular with my numerous fair cousins. I shall finally have to invent some business in Bogotá⁠—if only to bring back tanned skins and cloaks, the way Emigdio does. I’ll bring something.”

“A wife, for example,” I broke in.

“What! do you suppose I haven’t thought of that? A thousand times. Every night I make a hundred plans. Just imagine: in bed on my back by six in the afternoon, waiting for the slaves to come to prayers, for them to call me to take chocolate, and then compelled to hear a jumble about grubbing roots, clearing grassland, and cane-planting. Every morning, as soon as the first smell of crushed cane reaches my nose, my castles all tumble about my head.”

“But you read?”

“What can I read? With whom can I talk about what I read? With that stupid overseer who is half asleep by five o’clock?”

“The only conclusion is that you are in desperate need of marrying⁠—that you are thinking of Matilde again, and are scheming to bring her here.”

“Literally correct. That is precisely the state of the case. As soon as I saw that I had been guilty of an egregious blunder in thinking of marrying your cousin⁠—may God and she forgive me for it!⁠—the temptation you speak of assaulted me. But do you know what usually happens to me? After costing me as much work as to solve one of Bacho’s problems, to imagine that Matilde is actually my wife and in this house, it makes me laugh to think what will become of the poor creature.”

“Why so?”

“Man! Matilde belongs to Bogotá as much as the fountain of San Carlos, as much as the statue of Bolívar, as much as Escamilla, the porter. I should lose her in the transplanting. And what could I do to prevent it?”

“Why, make yourself love her forever; give her all the luxuries and amusements you can⁠—in short, you are rich, and she will inspire you to work. Besides, these plains, these forests, these rivers⁠—has she ever seen such things? Can they be seen without being loved?”

“There you go with your poetry. What about my father and his peasant ways? My aunts, with their absurd pride and hypocrisy? And this loneliness? and the heat? and the⁠ ⁠… the devil!”

“Hold on,” I interrupted, laughing, “don’t take it so much to heart.”

“Let us talk no more of that. You must hurry back to cure me. When you do come back you are to marry the Señorita María, aren’t you?”

“If God grants it.”

“How would you like me to be your groomsman?”

“The best of all things.”

“Thanks. It’s agreed, then.”

After a moment’s silence, I said, “Have my horse ordered.”

“Must you go already?”

“I am sorry, but they expect me home early. You see, my journey is so near at hand⁠—and I must still go today to take leave of Emigdio and my compadre Custodio; they are not very near, you know.”

“You are going on the thirtieth precisely?”

“Yes.”

“You have only five days, then. I must not keep you. Well, you have laughed at something, if it was only at my being bored so.”

Neither of us could conceal our sorrow at parting.

As I was fording the little Amaime, I heard someone calling me, and perceived Custodio coming out of the forest. He was riding a great yellowish colt not yet trained to the bit, seated on a saddle with an enormous pommel. He wore a blue striped shirt; his trousers were hitched up to his knees; and his long cloak hung down over his thighs. Behind him, mounted on a white mare bowed down by years and four great bunches of bananas, rode an idiot boy, the same one who discharged on the little farm the combined functions of swineherd, bird-catcher, and gardener.

“God preserve you, little friend,” said the old man, as he drew near. “If I had not shouted out so stubbornly, you would have got away from me.”

“I was going to your house.”

“You don’t say so! As for me I haven’t been out of these woods for quite a while, trying to run across that wretched cripple of a mule, who has cast her foal again; but she will have to pay me for them all together, crushing cane in the treadmill. If I had not thought of going out on the open ground of the pass to look for tracks, I should have been hunting for it yet. But I went straight out there, and no sooner said than done; there was the foal, half eaten, and as big as if he were two months old. I couldn’t even take off his hide, though I needed another one to make me some leggings, as the dogs won’t have to wait much longer for the ones I have.”

“Don’t let that trouble you, old friend, for you are bound to have young mules in plenty, and years enough to see them. Let’s go on, then.”

“It’s nothing, Señor,” said he, beginning to ride on ahead of me. “Still it’s all lost labor; the times are frightful. Just listen: honey down to a shilling; brown sugar, not worth talking about; the little sugar that comes out white, a dollar; cheese, given away; the pigs eating up the whole harvest of maize, and it might as well have been thrown into the river. What my wife can earn, though the poor creature works night and day, is not enough to buy candles: not a boiling of soap that pays expenses. What am I telling you? I bought of Master Don Jerónimo that bit of clearing. Oh, what a bargainer he is! Four hundred dollars and ten steers he took out of me!”

“And where did you make the four hundred? Out of the soap?”

“Ah, you misjudge me, friend. Why, we had to break open Salome’s money-box in order to pay him.”

“Does Salome work as hard as she used to?”

“If she didn’t, where would she get her water to drink? She does needlework which is a sight to see, and helps in everything. Her mother’s own daughter. But if I tell you that the girl is a puzzle to me, I am not lying to you.”

“Salome? She so proper, so honest?”

“She, my friend; quiet as you see her.”

“What has happened?”

“You are a real gentleman and my friend, and I will tell you, instead of going to tell the priest in the church; that good saint would not suspect it if his soul left his body. But wait, and let me get over this ditch first, for it will take skill not to get stuck in it.”

Turning around to the idiot, who came along half asleep among his bananas, he said, “Watch the path, fool; for if the mare gets mired I’ll gladly lose the bananas for the sake of leaving you there.”

The half-witted fellow laughed stupidly, and replied with some inarticulate mutterings. My friend went on, “You know Tiburcio, the little mulatto that Murcia raised?”

“Is not he the one that wanted to marry Salome?”

“The very one.”

“I do not know who raised him, but of course I know him. I have seen him in your house, and in José’s. We have even hunted together several times. He is a fine lad.”

“Up there where you see, he has eight good cows, his drove of pigs, his little bit of land, and two mares broken for riding. For ’ñor Murcia, though he led a fearfully wicked life, was a good man and left everything to the boy.”

“And what is the matter with Tiburcio?”

“I am coming to that. Well, Señor, it’s as much as eight months ago that I began to notice that the boy had no lack of errands to come to see us. But I soon saw his game, and was sure that what he wanted was to see Salome. One day I said so clearly to Candelaria, and she came out with the reply that my eyes must have been in a cloud, and that my story was stale. I put myself at a peephole, one Saturday afternoon, for Tiburcio always came on Saturdays at that hour; and mind you, I saw the girl go out to meet him as soon as she saw him. So I haven’t a particle of doubt. Understand, I saw nothing improper. Day after day passed, and Tiburcio did not open his mouth to speak of marriage. But I thought: he is studying Salome, and a ninny he will be if he doesn’t marry her, for she is neat in her clothes, and a housewife such as you’ll scarcely find. But suddenly Tiburcio stopped coming, and Candelaria could not find out the reason from the girl; and as Salome has me in great respect, as she ought to, still less could I find it out. Anyhow, since some time before Christmas Tiburcio has not been there. Are you a friend of Justiniano, brother of Don Carlitos?”

“I haven’t seen him since we were children.”

“Well, cut off the whiskers Don Carlos has grown, and there you have him. But would that he were like his brother! He is the very devil. Still, a good-looking boy; what is the use of denying it? I do not know where he saw Salome; but since he first did, I cannot eat a banana with any relish.”

“That is not right.”

“Though I am telling you this at the risk of having my wife, if she knows it, call me crazy, or a mere gabbler, I know what I am doing. But there is no disease without its cure. I have been digging over the matter till I have hit upon the difficulty.”

“What is it, my friend? But tell me first⁠—and pardon me if I offend you in asking it⁠—how does Salome treat Justiniano?”

“Don’t ask me, Señor. That’s the thing that keeps me day and night as if I were sleeping on nettles. My friend, the girl is smitten. I love her, my boy, and that’s the reason I’m telling you all this, so that you can help me out.”

“But how do you know that Salome is enamoured?”

“Heaven help me! Haven’t I seen her eyes dance when she sees the little white fellow? And she never fails to go Sunday afternoons to the house of old Dominga. Do you know her?”

“No.”

“Well, I must tell you that she is one of those that use powders. No one can get it out of Candelaria’s head that it was that bat who cast the evil-eye upon our monkey, the one that knew so much and used to amuse you so; for the poor little creature gasped and beat his breast, groaning like a Christian.”

“He must have eaten a scorpion, my friend.”

“How could he? It was hard work to get him to take cold victuals. Make up your mind that the witch did him harm. But that is not what I was driving at. Once, when I went to look for my mare, I met the old woman. As I am very mischievous, as soon as I saw her I crossed her path and said, ‘Look, ’ña Dominga, turn back, for people there are busy instead of being gossips.’ She trembled all over, and as I saw she was frightened I thought at once, the wretch is on a bad errand. She said one thing and another, but I left her as if she was at mass when I said, ‘See, I am mischievous, and if I catch you in what you are about, I’ll skin you; if I don’t, let them take away my name.’ ”

My friend’s excitement had reached a climax. Crossing himself, he continued: “By all that’s holy, that creature will kill me some day, if I become really angry. It’s fine doings, friend; a man to have a little daughter who has cost him so much sorrow, and then to have someone trying to make her hate the one that she best loves!”

My irascible friend was at the verge of a burst of tenderness, and I hastened to say to him, “Tell me the remedy you have found for the disease, for I can now see it is a serious thing.”

“Well, now you’ll see. Your mamma offered my wife the other day to have Salome sent to her for some weeks, so that the girl might learn fine needlework. That is just what Candelaria wanted. But we couldn’t do it then. I did not know you then as well as I do now.”

“Compadre!”

“For the truth Christ died. But that’s all past now. I wish your mamma would take the girl for some months. That scamp would not go down there to see her. Salome will get back her wits, and will be the very one to tell that fellow to go and be hanged. Don’t you think so?”

“Certainly. I will speak to my mother about it today. She and the girls will be much pleased. I promise you that all this shall be gotten over.”

“May God reward you! Well, I’ll manage it so that you can speak to Salome a bit today, as if you meant nothing. You can propose to her to go to your house, and tell her your mamma wants her. You will tell me what you see, and so we will come out as straight as a furrow. But if the girl opposes me, I swear I’ll tie her on one of my nags some fine day, and shut her up in the convent at Cali. Not so much as a fly can touch her there, and if she doesn’t come out ready to be married, I’ll keep her there till St. John crooks his finger.”

We were riding through the clearing recently bought by Custodio, and he said: “Don’t you see what good land it is, and how brown the underbrush is⁠—the best sign of rich ground? The only thing lacking is water.”

“Why, my friend, you can lead in all of that you want.”

“Don’t make fun of me. If I could, I wouldn’t sell it for twice what I paid.”

“My father will let you have all you want from our pastures. I told him what you needed, and he was surprised that you hadn’t asked him before.”

“How thoughtful you are, little friend! Think of your waiting till now to tell me! Tell the master that I thank him with all my soul. He knows I am not without a heart, and that I am at his orders, with all I have. Candelaria will be delighted; water handy for her garden, for the still, for the cow-yard. You know that what flows by the house is but a little thread, and that is muddied by my neighbor Rudecindo’s pigs, which are all the while rooting and ruining my fences. The only clean water we can get in the house is by sending the stupid to the little Amaime to bring back gourdfuls on the mare. As for getting water from the Honda, it would be better to drink lye, it’s so full of copperas.”

“It comes from copper, my friend.”

“I suppose so.”

The news of my father’s permission to take water so cheered the farmer that he made the big colt show his paces.

“Whose colt is that? He has not your brand.”

“Do you like him? He belongs to Grandfather Somera.”

“How much is he worth?”

“To tell you the plain truth, Don Emigdio would not give four onzas. Yes, he is a mere hack. You ought to see my dark bay⁠—the one I have already trained to the bit. He has a beautiful gait. But what a job it was to break him! This arm was in a sling for a whole week. There never was a more touchy and obstinate beast. He is getting fat now, for after the last dressing down I gave him his spirit was broken.”

We arrived at Custodio’s house, and he dug his heels into the colt to make him open the courtyard gate. Scarcely had this closed behind us with a creak and a bang that startled the sorrel colt, when my friend said to me, “Be alert and careful with Salome, to see what you can get out of her.”

“Never fear,” I replied, forcing my horse up to the corridor; he was frightened at the wash hanging there.

When I went to dismount, my friend had already covered the colt’s head with his cloak, and was holding my stirrup and bridle. After fastening the horses, he went in, shouting, “Candelaria! Salome!”

Nothing but the turkeys answered.

“What! not even the dogs,” continued my friend; “has the earth swallowed them all?”

“I am coming,” responded his wife from the kitchen.

“Stupidity! here’s friend Efraín.”

“Wait for me no time at all, little friend, for we are running out some brown sugar, and it will burn.”

“And Fermín, where has he hidden himself?” asked Custodio.

“He went with the dogs to look for the runaway pig,” replied Salome’s pleasing voice. She soon appeared at the kitchen door, while her father was helping me off with my leggings.

The farmer’s hut was thatched with straw. The floor was of hard earth, lately whitewashed, and very clean. As coffee-bushes, custard-apple trees, papaws, and other fruit-trees were all about the house, nothing was lacking but the thing which was to be supplied⁠—clear, running water. The hut was furnished with chairs bottomed with undressed hide, a bench, a little table then covered with a cloth of mixed cotton and linen, and the dresser, where shone plates and porringers of various sizes and colors.

My plump and laughing comadre soon came out of the kitchen, glowing with the heat of the fire, and grasping a wooden ladle. After a thousand complaints at my not having come before, she said, “Salome and I were looking for you to come to dinner.”

“How was that?”

“Juan Ángel came here for a few reales’ worth of eggs, and the Señora sent word that you were coming today. I had Salome called from the river, where she was washing. Ask her what I said to her, to make sure I am not lying to you: ‘If my friend does not come to dinner here today, I will tell him what I think of him.’ ”

“That must mean you have a feast ready for me.”

“Haven’t I seen you eat one of my stews with a relish? The only trouble is it isn’t done yet.”

“All the better; I shall have time to go and take a bath. Now, Salome,” I said, stopping at the kitchen door, while the others went into the sitting-room, “what have you got for me?”

“Jelly, and what I am making here,” she replied, without stopping her grinding. “If you knew how I have been waiting for you as for the consecrated bread⁠ ⁠…”

“That must be because⁠ ⁠… ⁠ ⁠… there must be many fine things.”

“Only a bit. Wait for me just no time at all till I wash myself, so as to shake hands with you. I know it will be useless, for, as you are not my friend any more⁠ ⁠…”

She said this without looking at me directly, half ashamed and half pleased, but showing me her smiling mouth with its teeth of incomparable whiteness. As her soft, bare arms came and went over the stone upon which she was leaning her waist, her flexible figure showed to the best advantage, her loosened hair fell over her shoulders, and the folds of her white embroidered chemise rose and fell. Throwing back her head to shake her shoulders free of hair, she went to wash her hands, and after drying them on her skirt, said to me: “It seems you like to see grinding. If you knew,” she went on, “the trouble I have. Didn’t I tell you that I have been waiting for you to come?”

Standing so that she could not be seen from the outside, she gave me her hand, and continued: “If you had not stayed away a whole month, you could have helped me. Look and see if my papa is out there.”

“No one is there. And can’t I give you the same help now?”

“I’m afraid not now.”

“But tell me, and I’ll see. Don’t you know that I would help you with all my heart.”

“If I should say no, I should not tell the truth; for I have long known that you liked me.”

“I am delighted that you know that.”

“But what I have to tell you is such a very long story that I can’t do it right away; and it is a miracle that mamma is not here already. Listen, there she comes!”

“There will be another chance.”

“Oh, I hope so. I can’t bear to have you go away without my telling you.”

“So you are going to take a bath?” said Candelaria, as she came in. “Then I am going to send you a sheet, beautifully perfumed, and you can go right away with Salome and your godson.”

On hearing this suggestion of the good woman, I concluded that she had fully entered into her husband’s plan. Salome made me an expressive little grimace, as much as to say, “Now’s our chance.”

I left the kitchen, and walked up and down in the sitting-room while they were getting the things ready for my bath. I thought, meanwhile, that Custodio had reason enough to be jealous of his daughter, since one less suspicious than he might have seen that there was danger in Salome’s face, rounded figure, and graceful walk.

My reflections were interrupted by Salome herself, who stopped at the door with a little straw hat half put on, and said, “Shall we go?”

She added, holding out the sheet she carried over her shoulder, “What perfume is that?”

“The one you use.”

“It’s mallows, Señor.”

“Oh, mallows, is it?”

“I always have them in my box. Walk on, and don’t think it is far. We’ve only to go down through the cacao-plantation, and once on the other side, there’s but a bit to go and we’re there.”

Fermín, loaded down with gourds, walked in front of us. He was my godson. I was thirteen and he two when I served as godfather at his confirmation. I did it in recognition of the regard which his parents had always shown me.