A Sweet Scent of Death

by Guillermo Arriaga

  A weight of silence and heat hung over the classroom, a wordless vapor. No one looked straight ahead, only out of the corner of their eyes.

  Justino discreetly beckoned Evelia.

  ‘What took you so long?’ he demanded softly.

  Evelia panted as if she had made a great effort. ‘They weren’t home,’ she answered. ‘I found them cutting prickly pears on El Bernal.’

  El Bernal was the only hill in the area, and to reach it from Loma Grande, one had to walk five kilometers through furrows, ravines, and underbrush.

  ‘They didn’t believe me,’ continued Evelia. ‘It took a lot of convincing to get them to come…they assured me that Adela had been in bed when they set out for the hill.’

  ‘Asleep?’ asked Justino thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes,’ assented Evelia.

  ‘About what time did they leave the house?’

  ‘A little before dawn, they said.’

  The people around them listened attentively. Evelia was reputed to be a judicious woman, not given to fabrication. Whatever she said was considered true and credible. Evelia knew this and wasted few words; nor was she wasting words when she said, shortly, ‘Someone killed the only daughter they had left.’

  The sentence spread among the onlookers in a whisper. Hearing the news, some of them, a minority, were abashed at intruding on another’s tragedy, and left the school. Others, the majority, became even more interested in witnessing the proceedings to the bitter end.

  2

  Sudden expressions of sympathy, ambiguous glances, cautious condolences, impertinent questions aroused in Ramón the conviction that what was said about his relationship with Adela was no longer a joke, or a rumor, but a new and definitive truth, which grew by the minute and required more and more effort to deny. Adela was becoming a trap and a mystery. His memory of her became confused. One by one, the images overlaid each other: Adela wearing a white blouse and yellow skirt, buying parsley in his store; Adela disappearing down the village streets; Adela naked, lying quietly in the silence of a sorghum field. Adela the murdered daughter, Adela soaked in blood, Adela soaking him with her blood. Adela reflected in her father’s face, in her mother’s pain. Adela, Adela, Adela. The Adela he had smelled and carried. Adela, the fear of Adela, the love for Adela. Who was Adela?

  Concentrating as he was, Ramón was unaware that Adela’s mother had stood up and was coming toward him. He did not discover her until they were face to face. It was then that he looked at her damp, wrinkled features scrutinizing his and he felt fear. She, seeming to guess it, softened her expression and said gently: ‘Adela loved you very much…’

  The remark hit Ramón like a solid punch. He wanted to get out of there, to leave Adela with her stench of death and the lie of their love, curse her mother, push her and yell at her to leave him in peace, flee the whirlpool of murmurs swallowing him up, put an end to the farce, announce that there was no truth in anything that was said about him and Adela.

  Instead, in a languid voice which did not sound to him like his own, Ramón said: ‘So did I. I loved her very much too.’

  3

  Natalio Figueroa and his wife, Clotilde Aranda, had come to Loma Grande six months before, from a village called San Jerónimo, close to the city of León, Guanjuato. Adela was the youngest of their five children, all of whom were now dead. The oldest had died in their arms, of dysentery, at the age of four. The second had broken his neck at eleven, falling from a runaway horse. The third, a girl, had drowned at fourteen trying to cross the Rio Grande in the company of a boy with whom she had run off only a few days before. A stray bullet from a drunken brawl had smashed the head of their fourth as he walked past a cantina when he was nine.

  ‘We don’t know who stabbed Adela,’ explained Justino, ‘but we will find out soon enough.’

  Natalio listened without looking at him. He breathed with difficulty, still unwilling to believe what had happened.

  Natalio knew that sooner or later the name of his daughter’s killer would be heard around the village. For the time being he was more concerned with other obligations than with finding out the circumstances of the crime. ‘Is there no way we could get a priest?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘I want one to bless my Adela.’

  Justino looked at him with a touch of pity: ‘No, there is no way at all.’

  The nearest priest was in Ciudad Mante and there was no transport to get there, the only two pick-up trucks in Loma Grande having broken down, and the bus passing through only on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. On horseback, the trip was too long and tiring, no less than ten hours each way. It would be impossible to bring a priest.

  Justino said nothing about this to Natalio. Instead he said, ‘We’ll get one right away,’ and sent someone to get the two evangelists living on the Pastores Ejido.

  They, too, were a kind of priest, he thought: they also prayed and blessed.

  Rodolfo Horner and Luis Fernando Brehm, both evangelists, were descendants of German merchants who had come to Mexico at the beginning of the century. They looked like father and son, but were not. Every Sunday they came to Loma Grande to preach, early in the morning, beating snare drum and tambourine, and shouting religious slogans that invited sinners to repent their evil ways. The first time they had arrived, there were few in the village who had attended more than one mass in their lifetime or could haltingly recite the Lord’s Prayer. They had listened to the two with respect and deference. Touched, several gave them pigs, chickens, turkeys. Others, in the hope of gaining eternal forgiveness and avoiding the road to purgatory, confessed their sins. The evangelists heard them politely, explaining that they did not hear confession and did so now only to comfort the faithful, not because they thought it was necessary.

  With the passage of time, the evangelists had begun to scold the sinners, threatening them with implacable chastisement by the divine fist. The villagers became bored and decided to make fun of them: Tomás Lima confessed he had killed eight men for sheer pleasure. Torcuato Garduño talked to them about the several flavors of human flesh and Gertrudis Sánchez excited them with detailed descriptions of the love triangles she carried on with her brother and father.

  It had taken them a while to discover the plot, but when they did, they were furious. They redoubled their threats and the villagers made even more fun of them. This did not deter them from preaching in Loma Grande every Sunday; and if they did not appear in the village on the Sunday Adela was murdered, it was because Rodolfo Horner, the younger of the two, had been stung by a scorpion.

  When Pascual Ortega arrived to take them to the wake, they were delighted. It was the first time they had been asked to take part in a religious ceremony. After breaking their backs day after day, withstanding rejection, ridicule and long walks under the burning sun, their efforts were bearing fruit. However, when they found out they were to officiate for the soul of a woman murdered in shady circumstances, they backed out. They had no desire to get mixed up in other people’s problems and tried to excuse themselves on the grounds that Rodolfo was still weak from the effects of the scorpion sting and might get worse if he rode a horse.

  ‘The poison could go to his head,’ explained Luis Fernando.

  Pascual smiled sardonically: pure baloney. He had been stung by more than ten scorpions and knew that, outside of the choking sensation of having swallowed air, which lasted a few hours, and inflammation at the site of the sting, which disappeared in a week, nothing serious ever happened.

  Pascual’s sarcastic and challenging attitude suggested to the evangelists that their excuse was not entirely convincing. The choice was either spending the night inventing absurd pretexts, or going to Loma Grande and officiating as discreetly as possible, so as not to become involved in the crime.

  They left the Pastores Ejido in the late afternoon, Pascual Ortega leading them to Loma Grande via the shortest route, which crossed the field of sorghum where Adela had been killed. As they passed the spot, Pascual pointed with his chin at a d
ark patch that was undefinable at that hour of the afternoon. ‘That’s where they killed her,’ he declared.

  The evangelists huddled in their saddles and murmured a few prayers for the salvation of her soul.

  They reached the village at nightfall and found no one in the streets or the school. Adela’s body had been taken to her parents’ home.

  Chapter VI

  A Black Skirt and a Blue Blouse

  1

  As he entered Natalio Figueroa and Clotilde Aranda’s house, Ramón looked it over. It was a poor dwelling: four walls at right angles, covered with a thatched roof. A single, undivided enclosure, with an adobe-block stove in the center, a cot on one side and a bed on the other; a table and three chairs, blue enamel plates, red plastic cups; greasy frying pans, the smell of burnt food; a large unpainted cupboard; illustrations of the Virgin of Guadalupe and the child Jesus; oil-lamp wicks in Nescafé jars; two windows: one north, the other south; two stained rags for curtains, and a threadbare sheet shrouding Adela stretched on the cot on which she had awoken for the last time.

  Natalio pulled up a chair and offered it to Ramón, who thanked him and, making as if to sit, finally remained standing. Justino and Evelia sat on the other two chairs while Clotilde Aranda curled up among the blankets on the bed. Only these five remained inside the house. The other villagers gathered on the level ground around the house.

  ‘Coffee?’ asked Natalio of no one in particular. Justino and Ramón turned down the offer. Evelia, tired from so much running, not having eaten anything since morning, accepted it. Clotilde Aranda stood up to make the coffee. She wiped away her tears and stepped up to the stove, placed a clay pot over the still-glowing embers and blew on them to rouse a flame. She waited, her eyes fixed on the water, which slowly began to boil, while the others watched her in silence.

  Steam began to rise from the coffee but Clotilde remained in the same position. Natalio gently shook her out of her absorption, startling her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Natalio stretched one of his bony hands toward the stove. ‘The coffee…it’s ready.’

  Clotilde looked at the pot, hung her head and began to moan: ‘Adela…my Adela…’

  Natalio rose and put his arm around her, leading her to the bed and helping her lie down.

  Ramón had difficulty breathing. Exuding death, Adela seemed to steal the air in that cramped room, rarefying it.

  ‘Don’t you want any coffee?’

  Ramón raised his eyes to the voice and looked at the cup Natalio was waving in front of him. No, he didn’t want any coffee. What he wanted was to flee, to run as far as he could, until he burst. To flee as fast as possible from that huge body that was Adela.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, receiving the steaming cup with both hands.

  He took a sip and sat in the chair Natalio had offered him earlier.

  2

  After whimpering for a long time, Clotilde recovered her composure and set about looking for clothes in which to dress Adela for her burial. She opened the cupboard and examined its contents carefully. She took out two blouses and looked again, as if for something she had lost. Desperately, she emptied the cupboard and inspected its contents one by one. Finally she bit her lip and twisted her face towards her husband.

  ‘Her black skirt and blue blouse aren’t here,’ she said, defeated.

  They were Adela’s best, her favorite outfit. She had used them only on two occasions she had considered very special: the first, when she had turned fifteen and her birthday had been celebrated with the traditional presentation dance in San Jerónimo; and the second, the day she had received her grade school diploma. She had not worn them again until that Sunday.

  Clotilde’s depression worsened at not finding the black skirt and blue blouse. She had planned to dress her daughter in them for the funeral. Disconsolate, she leaned against the empty cupboard, nodding her head back and forth.

  Natalio approached his wife, picking up the articles of clothing on the floor and setting aside a white blouse and a yellow skirt.

  ‘Put these on her,’ he said, handing them to her.

  Clotilde accepted them as if they were of great value; she held them to her breast and caressed them longingly.

  In the semi-darkness, Ramón became aware of what the woman held in her hands, and an icy shiver welled up from deep inside him: they were the same clothes Adela had worn the afternoon he had first seen her. And again, Adela took hold of him, the other Adela, the one with clear eyes, a fresh glance, a smooth neck, a slightly hoarse voice and an imperceptible laugh. Adela again, fragile, naked, silent, he holding her and she scorching him. And Adela and the enormous body that was Adela. And Ramón and the two Adelas, and Adela dead. Far too dead.

  3

  Clotilde Aranda was helpless. She could not face the swollen flesh and bone she had once called her daughter. She dared not looked at her. Much less touch her. She was unable to dress her, unable to comb her tangled hair, unable to caress her, to remove the smile of death from her lips. Natalio looked at his defeated wife. She had fulfilled to the last the arduous task of preparing and shrouding all her other dead children. But shrouding Adela implied shrouding a piece of herself, all that she had left of hope.

  Silently, Natalio took the white blouse and yellow skirt from his wife’s hand and held them out to Evelia. Though she immediately understood the meaning of the gesture, she was too tired to face what was being asked of her, and could not find it in herself to refuse. She took the garments, half-closed her eyes and asked: ‘What shoes shall I put on her?’

  Natalio turned to his wife in search of an answer.

  Clotilde shook her head. Adela owned only one pair of shoes and had, undoubtedly, worn them that morning.

  ‘She hasn’t any,’ answered the mother, ashamed.

  Evelia remained alone with the body. She sat on the edge of the cot, took a last sip of coffee, ruffled her hair and sighed. Taking a corner of the sheet that covered Adela, she removed it slowly. Free of its temporary shroud, the naked body gave off a penetrating odor that stung Evelia’s nostrils. She quickly covered them with her hand. The rush of pestilence quickly dissipated in the darkness, leaving a faint smell of vinegar in the room. The corpse’s skin, dried by the concoction injected into it, felt like cardboard. Violet stripes marked arms and legs; but the face had acquired a serene expression as if Adela was finally resting from all the confusion she herself had caused.

  Evelia raised her eyes to avoid being overcome by the sight of the corpse. She tried to think of something entirely different, but to no avail: there was too much death in the room. She realized that by herself she would not be able to prepare Adela. She pushed herself away from the cot with her hands. Standing, she shrugged her shoulders and stepped out the door.

  Natalio approached her hurriedly. ‘Is she ready?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘No, not yet…I need someone to help me.’

  Evelia took a step forward, searching among the dozens of shadows around her. She looked them over slowly. Close to the wire fence bordering the property she made out the silhouettes of Astrid Monge and Anita Novoa, two girls who lived nearby, whom she had known since they were children. She had seen them both occasionally with Adela.

  Evelia called them and they came, impelled by curiosity.

  ‘Will you help me dress her?’ she asked the two faces dimmed by the night.

  For a few seconds she heard only the girls’ breathing as they made up their minds.

  ‘Not me,’ answered Anita shortly.

  Evelia turned to Astrid and in the darkness divined a slight nod of the head.

  They went back into the house in silence. By the faint light of the oil wicks, Astrid could see the corpse lying on the cot. A cloud of flies buzzed over Adela’s half-opened eyes, trying to drink her last tears. A thick nausea rose in Astrid’s throat and reached her palate. She wanted to spit out not only her revulsion but her fury as well: fury at the flies, at so much silence
, at Adela’s obstinate stillness.

  Evelia shook a rag to chase off the flies, which dispersed briefly and then returned to settle on the dead girl’s eyes.

  ‘Help me raise her,’ she said to Astrid.

  Astrid clenched her teeth and fists to give her strength. Plucking up courage, and with extreme care, she put her hands on Adela’s back. Barely grazing the rough skin, she became aware of the great difference between touching death and just looking at it. She discovered that what was lying there was not Adela—at least not the Adela she had known for the last few months and with whom she had become close friends. Not the Adela with whom she had talked, laughed and confessed secrets. Not the Adela of the transparent glance. No, that pasty, cardboard mass was not Adela.

  ‘Don’t get upset,’ said Evelia warmly, seeing her confusion, ‘because if you do, so will I, and there won’t be anyone to dress her.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ answered Astrid sadly. ‘It’s just that I can’t get used to seeing her like this.’

  Evelia showed her the blouse. ‘We’ve got to hurry.’

  Astrid smoothed Adela’s hair. ‘The other day she asked me to braid her hair,’ she said with the same sadness.

  In the distance, they could hear the blows of a hammer.

  ‘She was in love,’ she said, still caressing the hair.

  ‘In love with whom?’ asked Evelia.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘With Ramón?’

  ‘Who knows? I don’t.’

  Astrid could not go on. Pressing her lips together, she held back her tears and resolutely raised the cardboard body so that they could begin to dress it.

  Jacinto Cruz finished hammering, and sanded the wood on the inside of the coffin. He had built it with boards left over from the abandoned house in which Jeremías Martínez had lived out the last years of his life. That house supplied most of the coffins required in Loma Grande.