XLIII

We were going out of the courtyard behind the kitchen when Candelaria called after us, “You must not be long, for the dinner will be ready in a minute.”

Salome was going to shut the little cross-barred gate behind us, as we entered the cacao-enclosure; but I hastened to do it, while she was saying: “What shall we do with Fermín? He is such a little gossip.”

“You attend to that.”

“Oh, I know. Wait till we get a little farther on, and I’ll get rid of him.”

The thick shade of the cacao-trees covered us. The plantation appeared to be limitless. Salome’s feet, which her blue chintz skirt left visible to the ankles, showed prettily against the black path and the dry leaves. My godson walked behind us, throwing corncobs and aguacate stones at the cucaracheros and at the turtledoves which were cooing under the leaves. As we reached the foot of a cachimbo, Salome paused, and said to her brother: “Suppose the cows should go and dirty the water. I’m sure they will, because they are always at this time in their drinking-place up the stream. There’s nothing for it but your running and driving them away. Run, my life, and see to it that they don’t go and eat the gourd which I forgot and left in the fork of the chiminango. But be careful not to break the gourds, or lose anything. Off you go.”

Fermín did not wait for the order to be repeated. It must be said that it was given in the sweetest and most insinuating manner.

“Don’t you see how I did it?” asked Salome, slowing her walk, and looking at the branches in badly feigned indifference. Then she began to look at her feet, as if to count her slow steps. I broke the silence by saying to her, “Now tell me what it is that gives you so much trouble.”

“You see it makes me feel⁠ ⁠… I don’t know how to tell you.”

“Why so?”

“It is because they act so sad and serious with me today.”

“That’s all your imagination. But begin, for you can’t do it afterwards. Besides, I have something very nice to tell you.”

“Is that so? You begin, then.”

“By no means,” I replied.

“Must it be, then? Well, listen. But promise me never to tell a single thing of what⁠ ⁠…”

“Of course.”

“Well, what has happened is that Tiburcio has turned out the most fickle and unthankful person, and goes around doing nonsensical things to make me sorry. We have been quarrelling for almost a month, and he has not the least reason.”

“No reason at all? Are you sure?”

“Look, I swear it.”

“And what does he say is the matter with him to treat you so after having loved you so much?”

“Tiburcio? Impudent fellow! He does not love me a bit. At first, I could not understand why he acted so disagreeably all the while, but afterwards I found out that it was because he had an idea that I was making a pretty face at everyone I saw. Tell me, can one endure that, an honest woman? He made that stupid mistake in the first place, and then you joined the dance.”

“What, I?”

“Just when he was going to speak!”

“Why, what did he think?”

“What is the use of my telling you when you can guess already? It was all because he saw you come to the house several times, and because I am fond of you. It was natural that he should be suspicious, wasn’t it?”

“But finally he saw it was all nonsense, I suppose?”

“Oh, it cost me tears and fine words to make him reasonable again!”

“Really, I am sorry to have been the cause of this.”

“Never mind that. If it had not been you, it would have been another. Listen, I have not told you the best. My papa was breaking some colts for that boy Justiniano, and he had to come, besides, to see some steers he had in training. Once when he was here, Tiburcio met him.”

“Here?”

“Don’t be silly. In the house. As a punishment for my sins, he met him once again.”

“That makes twice, Salome.”

“Would that had been all! He also met him one Sunday afternoon when he came to ask a drink of water.”

“That makes three.”

“That is all, for, although he has come other times, Tiburcio did not see him. Still, I believe that they have told him.”

“And to you does this seem a mere nothing?”

“Are you, too, going to say the same thing? Oh, dear! Is it my fault that the boy keeps on coming? Why does not my papa tell him never to come again?”

“There are some very simple things hard to do.”

“There! that’s exactly what I told Tiburcio. But there is a remedy for everything, and of that I hardly dare speak to you.”

“He must marry you quickly⁠ ⁠… isn’t that it?”

“If he loves me so much. But he already⁠—and he could think me a woman of that kind!”

Her eyes were moist, and after a few more steps she stopped to dry her tears.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “I am sure he doesn’t believe that. It is all the result of jealousy. You must try to overcome it.”

“Don’t you believe that. He ought not to be so proud. Because they have told him he is a gentleman’s son, no one comes up to the ankle of the vain fellow, and he thinks there’s no one like him. I should be very happy if ’ñor José would turn him off. He is so provoking!”

“You must not be unfair. What is it against him that he works for José? That simply means he is making good use of his time. It would be worse if he passed all his days in idleness.”

“Oh, I know what Tiburcio is. He ought not to be so much in love.”

“But, because he admires you, must he admire every woman he sees?”

“Of course.”

I laughed at her reply, and she turned her eyes upon me to say, “Well, what tickles you in that?”

“Why, don’t you see that you are treating Tiburcio exactly as he treats you?”

“Heaven help me! no. How do I treat him?”

“Why, you are jealous of him.”

“Not at all. Never that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, if he made me? No one will ever make me believe that, if ’ñor José would consent, this changeable fellow would not marry Lucía, and, if Tránsito were not now out of the question, both of them, if they would let him.”

“Why, I must tell you that Lucía has long loved Braulio’s brother, who is soon coming for her. There is no doubt about it, for Tránsito told me.”

Salome was plunged in thought. We reached the end of the cacao-plantation. She sat down upon a fallen tree, and said: “Well, tell me. What do you think is to be done?”

“Will you let me tell Tiburcio what we have been talking about?”

“No, no. By what you love most, don’t do that.”

“I only ask if you will consent.”

“All of it?”

“Only your complaints, without your reproaches.”

“Every time I remember what he thinks me to be, I do not know what I am saying. See, I think it is better not to tell him; for if he does not love me any more, he will go around saying that I wore myself out crying for him, and tried in all ways to please him.”

“Make up your mind, then, Salome, that there is no way of getting over your trouble.”

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, beginning to cry.

“Come, don’t be a coward,” I said, taking her hands away from her face. “Tears from your eyes are worth too much for you to shed them so copiously.”

“If Tiburcio thought so, I would not spend the nights weeping till I fall asleep, to see him so unkind, and to think that on his account my papa is angry with me.”

“What will you bet that Tiburcio will not come to see you tomorrow, and make it all up?”

“Oh, I admit that I should never be able to pay you,” she replied, taking my hand in hers and pressing it to her cheek. “Do you promise it to me?”

“I will bring it about unless I am very stupid or unfortunate.”

“Mind, I depend upon your word. But, on your life, don’t tell Tiburcio that we have been here so entirely alone and⁠—for then he would go back to the other thing, and that would be to spoil everything. Now.” She added, beginning to climb the fence, “leap over so as not to see me jump⁠—or we will jump together.”

“You are very particular. You were not so much so formerly.”

“I am getting more bashful every day. Climb up, then.”

But Salome found more difficulty in getting to the other side than I did, and remained seated upon the fence, while she said to me, “I can’t get down without leaping.”

“Let me help you. See, it’s getting late, and my comadre⁠ ⁠…”

“Do you think she is like him? Even if she is, how do you expect me to get down? Don’t you see that if I trip⁠ ⁠…”

“Stop your monkey tricks and lean on me,” I said, offering her my shoulder.

“Straighten up, then, for I weigh as much as⁠—a feather,” she added, leaping down lightly. “I ought to have great glory for that, for I know many ladies who would like to be able to leap a fence like that.”

“You are a very artless creature.”

“Is that the same thing as spiteful? Because, if it is, I am going to pick a bone with you.”

“Going to what?”

“Don’t you understand that? Why, be angry with you. What can I do to find out how you appear when you are very angry? I’d like to know.”

“Suppose you were not able, afterwards, to mollify me?”

“Let me alone for that! Haven’t I seen how your heart is soft as butter if you see me crying?”

“But that is only when I see that you are not doing it out of coquetry.”

“Don’t do it out of what? What’s that word?”

“ ‘Co‑quet‑ry.’ ”

“What does it mean? Tell me, I really don’t know⁠—only I suppose it must be something bad. In that case I’ll be on my guard against it, do you hear?”

“Excellent! But you are throwing it away.”

“Tell me, tell me! I won’t stir if you don’t.”

“I will go on alone,” I replied, taking a few steps.

“Goodness! I am capable of spoiling the water for you. And what sheet will you dry yourself on, I’d like to know? I don’t mean it; do tell me what I am throwing away. I am beginning to think it is⁠ ⁠…”

“Well?”

“Is it, can it be, love?”

“Exactly so.”

“But how am I to help it? Why do I love that stuck-up fellow? If I were white, now, very white; and rich, oh, very rich, why⁠—then I would love you, wouldn’t I?”

“Do you think so? What should we do with Tiburcio?”

“With Tiburcio? Oh, out of friendliness, and in order to give a lift to everybody, we would make him overseer, and keep him like this,” she said, doubling up her hand.

“I shouldn’t like the plan.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t you like to have me love you?”

“It isn’t that; but fate has reserved you for Tiburcio.”

Salome laughed in perfect good-humor. We had reached the little stream. She spread out the sheet upon the turf, and then kneeled down upon a stone to wash her face. When she was done, she took a handkerchief from her belt to dry herself. I offered her the sheet, saying, “That will do you harm, unless you take a bath.”

“Perhaps I’ll come back to bathe; the water is so warm. But do you refresh yourself a while. As soon as Fermín comes, and when you are done, I’ll give myself a ducking in the pool below.”

Standing up now, she continued to look at me, smiling mischievously as she passed her moist hands over her hair. At last she said, “Will you believe me when I say that I have dreamed that what I said just now was true?”

“What, that Tiburcio didn’t love you any more?”

“Contrary! That I was white. When I awoke, it was an awful disappointment⁠—a disappointment so great that the other Sunday, in the parish church, I could think of nothing but my dream all through mass. And the whole week, sitting where you are now, doing my washing, I complained about it.”

Her simple confidences were broken in upon by shouts of “chi‑ino, chi‑i‑ino” uttered by her father, off by the cacao-plantation, as he was calling the pigs. Salome was startled a little, and said, looking around: “That Fermín has turned into smoke. Well, have your bath, quick. I will go up the river to look for him. Perhaps he went off without waiting for us.”

“Wait for him here; he will come to look for you. This is all because you heard your father. Do you suppose that he doesn’t like us to talk together.”

“Talk together, yes, but⁠ ⁠… that depends.”

Leaping over the large stones on the bank with the greatest agility, she disappeared behind the leafy carboneros.

Her father’s cries continued, and made me think that his confidence in me had its limits. Doubtless he had followed us from afar, and only when he lost sight of us determined to call the swine. Custodio did not know that his suggestion had been carried out most diplomatically, and that, to the thousand charms of his daughter, no soul could be more blind and deaf than mine.

I went back to the house with Salome and Fermín, who were loaded with gourds. She had made a bundle of hers in her handkerchief, and above it bore on her head the rustic jar, which, though unsupported by her hand, did not prevent her graceful form from displaying all its lithe ease of movement.

As soon as Salome leaped down, as before, she thanked me with a “God reward you,” and her pleasantest smile, adding: “It was in payment for this that I was by the side of the river, up the stream, throwing flowers in for your bath. Didn’t you see them?”

“Yes, but I thought it was a troop of monkeys up there.”

“How stupid of you! And I almost had a fall climbing the tree for the blossoms.”

“And are you so foolish as to believe that I did not know it was you who threw the flowers in?”

“Well, Juan Ángel told me that at the farm they throw roses into the tank when you take a bath, and I thought I would throw into the river the best flowers I could find.”

At four in the afternoon came my prolonged leave-taking. My comadre made me many promises of recommending me to the milagroso of Buga, to secure me a pleasant journey and speedy return. As I said goodbye to Salome, who managed just then to be away from the others, she pressed my hand warmly, and said: “Remember, I depend upon yon. Don’t say goodbye to me for your stupid journey; for, even if it uses me up, I am coming out to the road to see you, should it be only after you have passed by. Don’t forget me⁠ ⁠… you know if you do, I don’t know what to do with my papa.”

Over on the other side of one of the torrents that run noisily down the slope, between the swelling forest-knolls, I heard a man’s full voice singing:

“Of Time I ask more time,
And Time time giveth me;
Yet Time himself doth say,
My dreams dispelled shall be.”

The singer came out of the woods. It was Tiburcio. With his cloak hanging over one shoulder, and across the other a staff from the end of which hung a little bundle, he was holding on his way, unbosoming his grief to solitude. He was silent, and stopped on seeing me. After a pleasant and respectful greeting, he came nearer and said: “Caramba! You are going up late and at a pace, when the black sweats like that! Where do you come from, swallowing the wind in this way?”

“I have been making some calls. The last one, as your good-luck would have it, was at Salome’s house.”

“It’s a dog’s age since you were there.”

“I’m very sorry for that. And you, how long is it since you were there?”

The young man hung his head, and began to whip a little bush with his stick. At last he looked up at me and said: “It was her fault. What did she tell you?”

“That you are ungrateful and jealous, and that she is dying for you. That’s all.”

“Did she tell you all that? Then she kept back the best.”

“What is it you call the best?”

“The fine times she has with that boy⁠—Justiniano.”

“Listen to me. Do you think that I could be in love with Salome?”

“How could I think that?”

“Well, Salome is as much in love with Justiniano as I am with her. You must judge that girl at her true worth, which, luckily for you, is great. You have offended her with your jealousy; yet if you go and try to please her, she will forgive you, and love you more than ever.”

Tiburcio stood reflecting. Then he said, with a certain tone and air of sadness: “Look, my boy Efraín, I love her so much that she cannot imagine the torture she has caused me this month. When a man has the disposition which God has given me, he can endure everything except being taken for a simpleton. I know what I am saying: the fault is Salome’s.”

“What you do not know is, that today, when she was telling me of your unkindness, she was in a desperate way, and cried pitifully.”

“Really?”

“And I inferred that you were the cause of it all. If you love her as you say you do, why don’t you marry her? Once in your own house, who could see her without your consent?”

“I confess that I have thought of marrying, but I cannot make up my mind. In the first place, because Salome always thinks I am suspicious; and in the second, I do not know if ’ñor Custodio would give her to me.”

“Well, as concerns her, you know now what I have told you. As for her father, I’ll answer for him. You must act reasonably. In proof that you believe me, you must go this very afternoon to Salome’s house, and without appearing to know what has taken place, make her a call.”

“Caramba!⁠ ⁠… what a hurry you are in! So you will answer for everything?”

“I know that Salome is the purest, prettiest, and smartest girl you can find; and as for her parents, I know that they will give her to you gladly.”

“I declare, you give me a mind to go.”

“If you don’t go, and Salome should dismiss you, and so you should lose her, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I’ll go, master.”

“That’s settled, then. It is useless for me to ask you to inform me how it goes with you, for I am certain that you will be very much obliged to me. Goodbye; it’s almost five.”

“Goodbye, my master. God reward you. I will certainly tell you what happens.”

“Be careful not to go singing those verses where Salome can hear you.”

Tiburcio laughed and then replied: “Do they seem to you offensive? Good afternoon. Depend upon me.”