I felt spied on by the twins. The firstborn was named Teresina. The second-born was called Camineta — little walker — because, apparently, as soon as she was born she wiggled her legs as if wanting to walk. Teresina told me that her father had beaten the dog because it had stolen a piece of ham and nothing infuriated him more than thieves. But in reality, they were the ones who had taken the ham. When their father noticed that the ham was missing, the girls blamed the dog and escaped a good thrashing. They burst out laughing as if they had gone mad.
A dull rapping on the wall by the hearth woke me. I pulled on my trousers and opened the door. It was the twins, who started laughing as they always did when they saw me. Camineta, wearing tiny gold earrings, whispered to me to go with them; they needed my help. She was carrying a small lantern. We went up to the second floor, holding onto the banister as we tiptoed up the steps. They led me to a large room that had the sweet scent of lavender. We climbed a ladder that was propped against a hole in the ceiling and entered the attic. The smell there could not be easily described. From the ceiling hung strings of garlics and bunches of onions. I stumbled on a heap of potatoes while trying to avoid some sacks of wheat, the contents of which were waiting to be transferred into large boxes scattered around the room. A rabbit pelt, dry and badly hung, brushed against my cheek. Everything was burning hot. The twins stopped in front of a huge armoire that reached all the way to the ceiling. Slide it away from the wall. Holding up the lantern, Camineta pointed to the bulky object. Move it back without making any noise. I tried to move it, tried with all my strength, but it wouldn’t budge. I kicked it. No noise, I said! Teresa glared at me, her eyes filled with fire. I braced my back against one side of the wardrobe, my feet solid on the ground, and pushed with all my might. It was useless. With Camineta behind me shining her light for me, I searched every corner for a tool I could use as a lever. A long board did the trick: I slid it behind the wardrobe and succeeded in moving it forward a bit. If we shift it a couple of spans, Teresina said, we’ll be able to get into the larder: The door behind the wardrobe opens inward. Suddenly I had the impression that the armoire was slipping and was about to topple on me. If you make any noise, it’s all over. Father will wake up — he sleeps just below us — and none of us will live to see the dawn. Bam! One of the doors to the armoire had swung open. The inside was filled with sacks of rice. Let’s empty it out. We went about it like hired hands employed to remove the sacks and dump them on the floor. After that it was easy to move the armoire. The room Teresina called the larder occupied the entire top floor of the farmhouse, and it was chock-full of food. From the beams hung hams, dried sausages, blood sausages, white sausages, and sobrassada sausages. Camineta showed me around. Bet you didn’t expect this. Large vats of olive oil. Huge jars filled with lard, balls of fat clustered together, as large as the heads of babies. Crocks of confit: goose, turkey, rabbit, chicken. Teresina, perched on the top of a ladder with a pair of scissors she produced from who knows where, started cutting at the rope that was holding a ham. Right away she started carving it up and dishing it out: it was dry, it was salty, it was good. Although we never went hungry, we devoured it as if we were starving. In a corner, apples, persimmons, and figs were scattered about on top of sacks. . We left taking with us the remainder of the ham and pushed the armoire back in place, leaving everything as we had found it.
The following night I wasn’t able to take the dog any food. I heard footsteps going up and down the stairs. The wooden steps creaked; there were muffled, incensed voices, and the atmosphere was permeated by a strange disquiet that for a long time wouldn’t let me close my eyes. I woke from a restless sleep, and rather than the usual thread of light streaming through the crack in the door, I saw the door ajar and the farmer’s shadow in the middle, holding an ash rod. His eyes were fixed on the ham that was on my pillow. He dragged me from the bed, and once he had me out on the threshing floor he began to beat me with the same rage I had seen him use on the dog. With every lash he shouted in a hoarse voice, you little thief! You thief! At one point I raised my head and saw the twins leaning over the balcony with the pink carnations, poking each other with their elbows and snickering. Suddenly the thrashing stopped. The dog had pounced furiously on the farmer and sunk his teeth into the man’s neck.
The forest was thick with small-leaved trees and yellow, moss-covered rocks that were piled into mounds. I lay by the rocks, without the strength to think. A scorpion was crawling in my direction, its stinger raised: It moved slowly but was headed straight for me. In the time it takes to say “Amen,” a large black bird swooped down and carried it off.
XIV A NIGHT IN THE CASTLE
I HID IN THE DAYTIME AND MADE MY WAY AT NIGHT. ONE EARLY morning, half-starved, I came upon a carrot patch. It was wonderful to tread on so many green leaves. They weren’t fully grown carrots, but tender as water, sweeter than honey. “If you play rabbit, I’ll fill you so full of lead you’ll never get up again.” A ruddy-faced man standing at the edge of the forest was aiming his shotgun at me. “Rabbit! Rabbit!” I bolted from the field as if I were being pursued and had the hunter’s dog on my tail, crossing fields, crossing vineyards, until I reached the foot of a hill at the top of which stood a castle. The sea lay before me, a festival of waves.
Not far from the beach, a whale-shaped rock was awash with crabs. I was too exhausted to go and collect some. I climbed the hill and sat with my back against a castle wall full of crevice-dwelling lizards. I heard voices singing a song about rifles and bullets. Through some lavender bushes I spotted the heads of two young men: One was bald, the other had a shock of black hair. Both were missing an arm: The one on the right had no left arm, the one on the left was missing his right arm. Without interrupting their song, they sat down with their backs to me, a good bit below the spot where I was. Their rucksacks appeared full. I couldn’t see what they were eating. They drank straight from the bottle. The black-haired guy wiped his mouth and asked: Did Isabel cry much? Shut up. She must have cried a lot. Shut up. I didn’t think you could possibly leave her. . I don’t want to marry without an arm. I returned the postcard with the pomegranate. The one with the black hair said, when the war’s over we’ll look for a lame fellow who can play the guitar and we’ll sing about her as we make the rounds of the villages. We’ll tell people we laughed at the bullets and the bombs. The other replied, I will mourn my arm for the rest of my life. I will be consumed by rage, the whole of me a bag of envy. Don’t think about your arm. We’ll sing, and our singing will quicken people’s hearts and rouse their minds. They finished eating and walked by without seeing me.