What force compels them to put an end to themselves, to conquer that instinct for self-preservation which has carried them through the most dangerous paths of their lives? How horribly unbearable life must be to the one who is driven to suicide! And yet, how can they go through with it? Or are they always insane?
Suicide — oh saddest of all tragedies! When a being resolves to stop his own existence, when a being puts a check to the torrent of life that flows within. When a being turns against himself in that black moment of despair and in this loneliness becomes his own enemy, to commit the most unnatural act of existence.
Suicide! How many have sought peace and rest, persecuted by life, in the dark clouds of your night? How many have defended their crazed minds by wrapping themselves in the cold armor of your shroud?
The next morning Paco was awakened by the ringing of the doorbell. It did not surprise him to note that Julieta was not in bed because she always rose earlier. He went to the door still dizzy from alcohol.
Two men from the floor below said that the bathroom there was locked and they could not get in. Paco looked for the key but could not find it.
Together they descended the stairs and stopped before the bathroom door. Paco tried the knob.
“It seems to be locked from the inside.” He turned to the men and he was very pale. “I think we will have to break it down.” His voice was insecure.
One of the men applied his shoulder and pushed, but the door held.
“You don’t mind if I break the frame a bit, do you?”
“No, go ahead. Hurry!”
The two men looked at him curiously but did not move.
“Stand clear then. I am going to break it down.”
He hurled himself against the door which gave way. He stopped on his toes holding on to one side of the frame and gasped.
The two men looked over his shoulders. They did not look long and then backed away.
Julieta lay on the middle of the floor, wrapped in the bright shawl as if asleep. Upon one of her hands there was a white glove stained black. The window was closed. In one corner was a stove. The place looked white, bare and cold.
The two men bore her body reluctantly up the stairs to the apartment, and after a short moment of hesitation, they laid it on the floor. Paco walked unsteadily behind, as if still drunk from the night before. Then the men rushed out to call a doctor and Paco remained on the threshold of the apartment, not daring to enter the room. He remained there alone, like a waxen figure, waiting.
The doctor arrived and then Paco entered with him. The doctor examined Julieta rapidly and pronounced her dead from asphyxiation and then departed hurriedly to fulfill the necessary formalities. At the door he met Fernando, who was in a fearful condition.
“How did Fernando get there?” I interrupted. “Did anyone summon him, or did he have the gift of premonition?” To be perfectly frank, I did not care, but I was afraid that Garcia might notice how sleepy I was and I wanted to show him that I was paying attention.
“Why, yes. Perhaps you are right.” Garcia made a quick note: “I will fix that later,” and he went on undaunted:
Fernando stopped before his sister’s body, staring at her as if making an effort to grasp the meaning of this scene, and then raised his eyes to Paco who sat in a chair on the other side of her body, his head between his hands.
Fernando said in a dull voice: “Assassin.” Paco looked up blankly. “Yes, assassin. What have you done to my sister? You have killed her. You have murdered her. You are responsible for this. Accursed criminal!”
Paco stood up, his legs scarcely able to hold him. His arms went out appealingly.
Fernando was disfigured, his features distorted, his mouth drooping on one side. He hissed through clenched teeth: “You low bastard! You son of a bitch!”
Paco’s face flushed. He was standing firmly now: “No man will call me that, you neurotic whelp!”
It was disgraceful. They stood with the corpse between them, hurling insults at one another. Fernando squared himself and spat in the direction of Paco:
“For you and for your lousy mother!”
Paco was ready to spring and then a commanding voice was heard at the door:
“Stop!”
Garcia did. He looked at me and said that perhaps I might find what followed somewhat of a stock situation. As if one could not see it coming. He read it:
They turned around with livid faces. There stood Ledesma in his long black overcoat. He advanced toward them and stopped before the dead woman:
“Is there no respect for death? Out! All of you, out! Do not desecrate things to that degree.”
He bent down and with difficulty gathered Julieta in his arms. Paco took a step as if to help him: “Stand away! Don’t touch her!”
And staggering under the heavy burden, he carried her into the next room and laid her on her bed. He laid her down with care, as a mother lays her child to sleep. He kissed her brow and said: “Forgive whomsoever is to blame. Forgive us all, because in this world no one is responsible for anything.”
And respectfully, tenderly, he covered her with the bright shawl.
I knew it. It was exactly as I had expected, but I was still too sleepy to protest. Garcia conceded that perhaps he did spread it on a bit too thick, but that this was the original idea of his story, to make it cursi, corny, remember? I said nothing. There was nothing to say. He had stolen my reluctant thunder and went on unhindered even by his own conscience.
That last scene must have been more than I could bear in my condition and I must have dozed off momentarily because Garcia’s voice faded and I only recall very obscurely something about Paco Serrano disappearing after his wife’s death and no one except his many creditors caring much, that the doorwoman of the house where they lived took in his two boys when she found them abandoned, and that none of their relatives did anything to help them because they wanted nothing to do with any Serranos. Then Garcia’s voice came back into focus:
They grew and developed in the sordid atmosphere of the portería, mixing with other golfos, running through the city and reappearing at the portería when they pleased, for the portera was either too busy or did not care enough to do anything about it
It was Ledesma who in the end decided to place them in an orphan asylum. After the death of Julieta, he had wanted to leave the jewelry shop and go away, but Fernando pleaded with him to stay if only for the memory of Don Mariano and in order that the business he built should not perish. Ledesma was moved and in the end decided to stay, but he did not mention to Fernando having placed the boys in the orphanage.
Nature had been little generous with Ricardo, the older of the boys. He was undersized, ugly, almost repelling, and spoke little. Perhaps this was due to his unfavorable upbringing, or perhaps he was that way, considering that Jacinto, the younger, brought up in the same environment, was good-looking, with large eyes, well-developed and with a delicate complexion.
They were as different in temperament as they were in appearance. While Ricardo was humble and shy with his superiors at the orphanage and wanted to learn what they taught him, Jacinto was of a dreamy disposition and did not care about what went on around him, but in the end he always seemed to know more than his brother and to guess things with amazing perspicacity and no effort at all. He was by no means humble, and once when he was upbraided for his behavior, he said calmly: