People migrated from the village until after some time there were more dead than alive. Fernando and Trini did not dare to go out into the wild country. They had no more chance to survive there than in the pestilent village; they knew not what to do and felt like trapped rats awaiting their doom. They dared not leave the house, imagining that the hideous disease respected windows and doors — as if it were not in the very walls, in the very air, in the sun itself which penetrated through the dusty windowpanes like a pale, clammy, insidious thing.
The streets were deserted, the houses full of corpses and the vultures had descended upon the dead village. Every time a cart went by carrying some of the dead into the wilderness, a flock of the hungry birds mobbed it and a gruesome battle ensued between the almost crazed cart driver and the horrible birds, and the man lashed away at the vultures and lashed furiously at the horses, the funereal load bouncing and diving into the woods, among a cloud of dust and a cloud of maddening birds.
The vultures had descended upon the dead village. Every night they alighted on the roofs and windowsills and screeched long and lugubriously, begging for the abundant flesh, until Trini almost went mad with horror and clung to Fernando:
“I am going crazy, I am losing my mind with these accursed birds. They seem to be calling me. I know I will be next. Drive them away!”
Then Fernando staggered to the windows like an enraged drunkard and pounded and cursed the vultures as if they were men.
It was under these adverse circumstances that Trini gave premature birth to a boy whom they named Enrique. Without a single skilled person’s help, only with the clumsy aid of Fernando whose nerves could not hold out much longer and who went to pieces during the delivery, the child was miraculously born.
Their fears were redoubled. Trini, who was a strong believer, was in panic: “The poor little angel. He will die without baptism.”
“If you believe at all, you cannot think your God that bad. This thing has not got us yet. It will not get us,” Fernando cried stupidly.
There was only one thing to break the monotony of their existence. Every night at the same time a faint young voice was heard singing, increasing in volume as it neared the house. It was a young native who came to the fountain in the plaza for water: to fetch and drink the poisoned water with the same indifference with which he sang, as if the ghastly happenings had nothing to do with his life.
They waited for him every night. As they sat talking or silent, one of them would say: “Here he comes now. Listen.”
He approached singing with a beautiful clear voice and the vultures were silenced. Then he stopped to fill his jug. They heard the water running melodiously and then he went back, always singing, his voice fading away in the distance, as if his life wore an impenetrable armor of indifference. When the voice had faded completely, the vultures resumed their fantastic serenade.
One night they waited for the little singer. They waited long but he did not come and the vultures screeched longer and screeched louder that night.
At last Fernando and Trini could stand no more and one day they rushed out of that place of death. It is not necessary to fill more paper with an account of their disastrous journey. They finally arrived at La Plata and from there Fernando wrote home.
It was an abject letter begging forgiveness, giving a gruesome description of their experiences and sufferings, promising to work until he had paid his father back, if only the latter promised not to prosecute him when he returned to Madrid.
Trini added a sentimental postscript to the letter, telling of her little Enriquito who wanted to know his grandparents, and also begging forgiveness for all the trouble she had given them only because she loved their son so much. The letter ended with the usual clause, demanding money for the return trip.
Don Mariano Sandoval had forgiven them long ago, but the letter renewed his anger and he called Trini unprintable names: “He expects to bring this washerwoman’s daughter into the family just like that. What will Madrid say?”
“Madrid always says the same thing no matter what one does.”
Julieta interceded in their favor, saying that Trini had always been a good girl and was not to blame for the bad education she had received: “After all, she can’t help that.”
“That is the worst of it. At least, if she could help it, there would be some hope, but this way. ”
Don Mariano softened. Ledesma also interceded in favor of the fugitives in his ponderous manner, stating that to forget is to be born again and then Don Mariano sent the money for the return trip and a letter containing his forgiveness.
When Fernando and Trini returned shamefacedly and having aged ten years in eighteen months, the Sandovals went to embrace them and meet little Enrique.
All this had taken considerable time and it was late, or more properly speaking, quite early in the morning. There had been interruptions and autosuggestions by Garcia and he had stopped frequently to make notes and changes and to elaborate certain points, indicating that the reader may not notice the things which the writer has unconsciously left out but never fails to notice the things which the writer has not consciously put in. There had been comments, digressions and even some more arguing that had led through generalizations to very unrelated topics. If it had not been for the brandy, I might not have shown so much interest, but alcohol can make so many things tolerable and even engrossing. But by now, Garcia could not keep his eyes open and finally the papers he held fell at his feet and he was fast asleep leaning against the cushions of the couch.
I poured myself the last drink from the bottle and drank it to the accompaniment of Garcia’s snores. Then I realized that I should be doing the same thing and got up with foggy aches running here and there through my anatomy, picked up my coat, went over to the couch and pulled the covers back over Garcia.
When I reached the door I looked back at the scene of intellectual debauchery and my eye caught Garcia’s glass still untouched on the table. Feeling chilly and, of course, in order not to waste it, I went back and drank it. Then I left the room. In the hall I stopped at the bathroom and on the way out took one look at the mirror. This hastened my departure and I went down the stairs much faster than I should in that condition. Outside it was open, undeniable morning, the first rays of the sun pointing accusing fingers. But I did not care, I walked away loggily, unashamed and with maudlin visions of a mattress against my body.
Boy! When I got home I was going to sleep like a son of a gun. All things considered, the bed is the payoff.
What I like about Garcia is his ability at loitering. He is a past master and can do it anywhere, day or night. We have often commented on the little loitering done in this country, or at least in the part we know of it, which is mostly New York. The way one lives here does not lend itself to it; there is no café life as we understand it, that is, cafés where one is certain of finding one’s friends or acquaintances between hours ample enough to permit a leisurely meeting and miss no one by simply remaining there long enough. There is not, for that matter, any tacit gathering place, some favorite spot or bench in a park or a stretch of an avenue or boulevard, where one cannot fail finding people one knows if only to escape at times a feeling of loneliness, of inevitable solitude among the many.
Garcia has reminded me of a certain sidewalk in Madrid where almost everyone knew everybody else. Between late morning and early evening, one was sure to find whomever one was looking for, but as it might not be convenient to spend all that time walking up and down, and in some cases, one might even have something else to do, there was a fellow who had created a fine job for himself. He worked that sidewalk continuously, accosting the passersby in keeping with some special formula: