‘Forgive me,’ said Leon. ‘God, oh God, forgive me!’
‘I know he tried to kill me,’ said Mingolla. ‘I don’t care what made him this way.’
‘Why should I bother?’ Leon’s mother gazed at the ceiling, her hands upheld in supplication. ‘Let him take my son, let me starve. Why should I live any longer?’ She turned a look of pure hatred on Mingolla. ‘Go ahead!’ she shrilled. ‘Kill him! See’—she pointed a knobbly finger at Leon—‘he doesn’t care, either. What’s it matter, life or death. In this place it’s the same.’ She screeched at him. ‘I hope you live forever in this godforsaken hole! I hope life eats you away an inch at a time.’ She tore at her blouse, ripping away buttons, baring the empty sacks of her breasts. ‘Kill me first! Come on, you devil! Kill me! Me!’ And when he did nothing, she tried to pull his hand away from Leon’s neck, to drive the knife into her chest. Her eyes as full of bright mad life as a bird’s, her claw fingers unnaturally strong. Breath whistling in her throat. He shoved her down, and she lay panting, teeth bared, an old gray bitch-wolf gone into fear, gone beyond it into a kind of exultation, lusting for death. He didn’t feel merciful toward her; mercy would have been inappropriate. She neither wanted nor needed it. He put her to sleep to rid himself of an annoyance. Withholding judgment on Leon, he settled in the far corner among the blankets… they even smelled gray.
To fend off weariness he did more frost. He rejected the idea of returning to Alvina’s. There he would be drawn to listen to Hermeto’s reminiscences, feel renewed appreciation for Alvina, and that would only weaken him. He would wait here until midnight and then take care of de Zedeguí. Take care of him in a straightforward fashion. No diversions, no tricks. He wanted a gunfight, a test of strength. Subtlety was not his forte, and he would be prone to bouts of foolhardiness until he gained more experience; he needed to reassure himself of the efficacy of brute force. A certain lack of prudence was corollary to the wielding of power, he thought; a credential of boldness. And if this attitude reflected a diminished concern for his survival, so be it: such a diminished concern would be an asset to a killer, for if one valued one’s own life too highly, such a valuation would be difficult to dismiss in regard to other lives.
Leon’s weeping began to perturb him, and he let him join his mother in sleep. He pulled out de Zedeguí’s photograph, inspected it for clues. But that bland professorial face gave nothing away, unless its unreadability was itself a clue to subtlety. He hoped that was the case, that their struggle would be one of strength against subtlety: that would be the best proving ground of all. He dipped up more frost with the edge of the photograph. The drug was a solid form in his head, a frozen vein of electricity that soon began to prevent any thought aside from a perception of its own mineral joy. Mingolla’s nasal membranes burned, his heart raced, and he sat unmoving. He gazed at a spot on the wall, his resolve building into anger, like a warrior envisioning the coming battle, living it in advance, yet for the moment secure amid hearth and home, with his dogs sleeping at his feet.
It began to rain shortly before six o’clock, a hard downpour that drummed like bullets on the iron roof, drowning out every other noise. All over the Barrio, sections of the roof were being lifted, allowing tracers of rain to slant through the orange gloom, the separate drops fiery and distinct. People cast off their rags and danced, their mouths open, their torsos growing slick and shiny, and others caught the water in buckets, and others yet dropped to their knees, their hands upheld to heaven. Fires hissed and burned low. Smoke fumed, and a damp chill infiltrated the air. There was a general lightening of mood, a carnival frenzy, and, taking advantage of it, Mingolla strolled up to the oil drum fire at the comer of de Zedeguí’s house and joined three old men who had gathered around it, convincing them that his presence was expected and welcome; out of the corner of his eye, he studied the four guards flanking de Zedeguí’s door. He blocked, becoming invisible to the uncommon senses of the man he intended to kill, and thought how best to deal with the guards.
The old men were roasting snakes that had been pierced by lengths of wire; the snakes were crisp and blackened, their eyes shattered opaque crystals, their jaws leaking thin smoke, and underlit by the fire, the men’s faces were made into cadaverous masks of shadow and glowing skin. They offered Mingolla a portion of the meat, but he suggested instead that they share their bounty with the guards. This struck the three as a marvelous idea. Why hadn’t they thought of it themselves? They extended whispered invitations, and de Zedeguí’s guards hurried over. When the guards slumped to the ground, put to sleep by Mingolla’s exertions, the old men expressed consternation, worrying that the meat might be tainted; but Mingolla reassured them and urged them to drag the guards off behind a pile of rubble, where they might rest more comfortably. That done, the old men returned to their snakes, paring slices of meat, tasting, and declaring that the snakes could use another turn, all as if nothing unusual had happened.
Five minutes later, de Zedeguí came to stand at his door. He wore jeans and a green shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he was more slender than Mingolla had assumed; his hair had grown long, falling in black curls to his shoulders, and his dark face was composed. He, too, was blocked, but on noticing the absence of his guards, he let the block slip. His heat was strong, but not as strong as Tully’s, and this gave Mingolla the confidence to let his own block slip. De Zedeguí sought him among the men gathered by the oil drum and spread his hands in a show of helplessness; then he beckoned, and Mingolla, committed to a concept of forth-right challenge, walked over to his side. The drumming of the rain seemed to be issuing from within his body, registering his rush of adrenaline.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said de Zedeguí in a soft, cultured voice.
Mingolla said nothing, afraid that speech, that any interaction would undermine his determination.
‘I knew they’d eventually send someone, and I knew it would be someone strong. But you’—de Zedeguís smile was thin and rueful—‘it seems they’ve adopted a policy of overkill.’ He rubbed his jaw with his middle finger as if smoothing away some imperfection. ‘You have come to kill me?’
Mingolla maintained his silence.
‘Yes, well…’ Again de Zedeguí held out his hands palms up. ‘I promise you I won’t resist. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have a chance… I’m sure you’re aware of that.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘So unless you’re in a rush, why don’t you come inside, let me have a last smoke, some wine. I’m a stickler for the formalities, and I’ve always been of the opinion that a man’s death should be an occasion of rigorous formality.’
Nothing was going as Mingolla had imagined. De Zedeguí’s surrender had disconcerted him, and he could not help sympathizing with the man.
‘Nobody’s hiding in there,’ said de Zedeguí. ‘Check through the window if you want.’
Mingolla went to the window, flung open the shutter, and peered inside. Cot against the rear wall, cushions on the floor in the opposite corner, and hung from a ceiling hook, a kerosene lamp that shed an unsteady orange glow. Stacked on the floor were canned goods, bottles, and a large number of books. Everything was very clean.
‘All right,’ said Mingolla. ‘Let’s go.’
Once inside, de Zedeguí turned the lantern flame down to a crescent, throwing the room into near darkness. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘No tricks. I prefer it dark.’ He picked up a wine bottle and sat on the cot. ‘I won’t offer you anything, I’ve no wish to compromise you. As a matter of fact, I’ve been impatient for you to arrive.’