Pascual rode up on his cart, ready to pick up the coffin. He jumped down and approached Jacinto.
‘I’ve brought the priests,’ he said, meaning the evangelists, ‘and she’s all dressed and ready to go. All that’s missing is the coffin.’
‘And the grave,’ added Jacinto.
Pascual smiled without really wanting to. He walked around the coffin, inspecting it carefully.
‘Hey, didn’t you make it sort of big?’
Jacinto looked over his work and shook his head.
‘No, it’s the right size.’
Pascual took two paces.
‘It’s two paces long,’ he said, ‘and the girl wasn’t that long.’
Jacinto looked up at the moonless sky and slowly turned toward Pascual. ‘They say the dead, the more they die, the bigger and wider they get.’
‘Yeah, so they say,’ murmured Pascual.
He grabbed the coffin at one end and motioned to Jacinto to pick up the other.
Chapter VII
The Murderer
1
They buried Adela in the old cemetery on the banks of the Guayalejo river, near the place where she had been murdered. They dug a deep grave so that she would not be uncovered and dragged away when the river rose in the rainy season. For many of the villagers it was the saddest funeral they had ever attended, more so even than that of Doña Paulita Estrada or Don Refugio López, founders of the village. There were no cries or lamentations, just silence and a moonless night.
Caught up in the general depression, the evangelists limited themselves to a brief farewell and a short blessing. The ceremony over, the villagers dispersed in tight groups, heading toward Loma Grande in the darkness that covered the trails overgrown with weeds.
Most of the men followed Ramón to the store. There was still a lot to be cleared up and no better way to do it than with cold beer in hand.
Ramón knew perfectly well that for him the night was barely beginning. Caught as he was in an invisible love affair, there was no way he could back out and deny the romance without being accused of cowardice and of being less than a man. From then on he would have to live that imaginary past as reality.
2
Nothing was ever resolved directly or unequivocally in Loma Grande, not even crime. First a web of pointless conversation would, little by little, have to be woven towards the heart of the matter. It was for this reason that Justino Tellez, after bolting a gulp of beer to refresh his gullet, asked Lucio Estrada how much the government was paying per ton of sorghum.
‘Three hundred and fifty pesos,’ answered Lucio, somewhat irritated.
‘That doesn’t even pay for the seed,’ broke in Torcuato Garduño.
‘Let alone the rental of the threshing machines,’ added Amador Cendejas.
‘That’s why I don’t grow it any more,’ said Ranulfo Quirarte, nicknamed ‘Old Friendly’ for his habit of striking up conversation with anyone, anywhere, and who made his living selling the meat of deer he shot at night by dazzling them from a bicycle and shooting them remorselessly with a 16-gauge double-barreled shotgun.
‘We aren’t going to plant any either,’ declared Melquiades, Lucio and Pedro Estrada’s younger brother. ‘We’re going into the fish biz.’
‘We’ve bought four nets to set in the reservoir reeds,’ added Lucio.
‘Is there a lot of mojarra there?’ inquired Justino Tellez.
‘Lots,’ confirmed Melquiades. ‘We caught two hundred kilos last week.’
‘Are you still filleting them?’ asked Justino.
‘Not any more,’ answered Lucio. ‘Not since my filleting knife was stolen.’
‘Which one?’
‘The knife Mr Larre gave me; it was long, thin and sharp.’
‘Larre?’
‘Yeah, the hunter who comes from Mexico City to shoot goose. A tall heavy-set guy.’
‘Ahh, yes.’ Justino took another mouthful of beer, rinsed several times and spat it out.
‘What about the knife? Who do you think stole it from you?’
Lucio grinned at the question. ‘I don’t know. If I did, I would have taken it away from him.’
‘Well I wish you knew,’ continued Justino Téllez, ‘’cause I’ve got a hunch that was the knife that killed the girl.’
Lucio and the rest fell silent. Ramón remembered seeing it. Justino was right: only a knife of that size and edge could have cut through Adela so cleanly.
Torcuato Garduño changed the subject.
‘Well, I’ve got a feeling,’ he said, looking southward, ‘it’s going to start raining next week.’
‘For sure,’ continued Macedonio; ‘there seems to have been a breeze from the Huasteca for the last three days.’
‘A little water wouldn’t hurt,’ said Amador Cendejas; ‘it would help the sorghum grow.’
‘Goddam sorghum,’ interrupted Torcuato. ‘If I’d known they were paying three-fifty, I’d never have planted.’
‘We should have planted safflower seed, like Ethiel,’ said Pedro Salgado.
‘Yeah, right,’ declared Justino. ‘A ton of safflower is worth twice that; but we planted sorghum, so we’re stuck with it.’
Conversation languished for a few seconds.
Suddenly Torcuato burst out, ‘I’ll bet it’s ten-twenty.’
Everyone looked at him in surprise.
‘I’ll bet,’ insisted Torcuato.
‘Why?’ asked Pedro Salgado.
‘Because they say that every twenty minutes an angel passes over and that’s why people stop talking.’
‘Well you’re right. It is ten-twenty.’
Torcuato smiled triumphantly. ‘You see?’ he said.
Another angel passed over them, because they fell silent again. Ranulfo Quirarte—Old Friendly—watched the angel in its flight until it disappeared, and then said straight out, ‘I know who killed the girl.’
‘And how do you know?’ asked Marcelino Huitrón.
Old Friendly pondered his answer for two swallows of beer.
‘Because a little while ago, when we were talking about the safflower, I remembered that last night I was out with my lamp on Ethiel’s land and since there weren’t any deer I rode over to the fields by the river…’
Old Friendly stopped in mid-sentence to take another pull at his bottle. He wiped the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand and continued, ‘I was riding with the lamp off when I heard someone on the path. I turned on the spotlight and about fifty meters away I saw some guy with his hands on a woman with a torn blouse…’
He broke off again. He rarely had such a captive audience and wasn’t about to waste it.
‘I’m out of beer,’ he said to Ramón; ‘pass me another.’
Ramón went into the store and brought one from the cooler. He wiped it with a rag, opened it and handed it over. Ranulfo continued his story.
‘I think I scared them because they ran off into the dark. When I saw they’d dived into the huisache, I turned off the lamp ’cause I thought, Why the hell should I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong? and you’ll agree it’s the wrong thing to do, right?’
Justino, whom Old Friendly had been addressing, nodded and the rest followed suit.
Ranulfo went on, ‘And though I wasn’t sticking my nose in, I clearly saw it was the Gypsy.’ Again Old Friendly interrupted his story, knowing that no one would take over or change the subject, as would have happened on other occasions. He drank again, savoring the beer and proceeded:
‘Last night I couldn’t tell who was with him. It’s just now that it hit me; it was the dead girl.’
Justino kept his eyes on him, questioningly. ‘You’re sure you’re not making this up?’
Ranulfo kissed thumb and index finger in the shape of a cross. ‘As God is my witness.’
‘And about what time was that?’ asked Marcelino.
‘About four or five in the morning,’ answered Old Friendly immediately.
Suddenly Lucio
Estrada slapped his forehead. ‘Now that I think of it,’ he said, ‘that goddam Gypsy was always admiring my knife…I’m sure he snatched it.’
Excited, Torcuato intervened. ‘That’s the son of a bitch who killed her. If not, he’d be here, cool as ever, talking to us, and I haven’t seen him since yesterday.’
For the rest of the night, cold beer inflamed the heads of those men.
Chapter VIII
Gabriela Bautista
1
Night. The heat seems unrelenting. As does the dust. Heat and dust anoint people’s bodies. Their skin exudes earth. Swarms of gnats and mosquitoes float in the motionless, searing air. They buzz in the ear, stinging implacably. A trio of coyotes howls on the hillside. Rattlesnakes slither along the burning gravel of the footpaths. Cattle crowd against the mesquites, taking shelter from a sun that burns even in the dark. In the distance, the river growls softly. And the heat, the damned heat, overcoming everything.
Gabriela Bautista cannot sleep; her nerves will not let her. Nor will her fear. Tensely she awaits the moment when her husband will return to beat her mercilessly and probably kill her. She has nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide. She holds on to the shadow of hope that he will not know; but no; by this time, he must have discovered her infidelity. If he is late, it is because he has gone to get even with the Gypsy for the affront.
The door creaks. Gabriela Bautista crouches behind the bed. It is he, and he will kill her. Another minute passes slowly. And then another. There is no repetition of the creak. Gabriela Bautista rests her head on the bed and closes her eyes. She oozes perspiration from her very depths. The same that ran through her the night before when a brutal shaft of light found her rubbing her flesh against the Gypsy’s. A nameless light, insistent, silent, blinding them in the night, examining their nakedness.
‘Good night,’ yelled the Gypsy at the wordless shaft of light.
There was no answer, only silence and the light.
Gabriela Bautista hid behind the Gypsy and perspired, sweating fear.
‘Good night,’ repeated the Gypsy.
Nothing; light and silence; the cold fear of being silently hunted. In the dark, the Gypsy caught the glint of a rifle barrel. He pushed Gabriela towards the hill and both broke into a run with the shaft of light after them and an unknown pursuer behind them. They ran as long as they could, stumbling, burning their feet in the underbrush, scratching arms and legs, till the light ceased to penetrate the dense tangle of brush and branches. They curled up under the leaves of a hat-thorn acacia, panting, choking on the hot night air. Not a word passed between them. She nestled on top of him and he kissed her and caressed her and Gabriela Bautista let herself be kissed and caressed and kissed and caressed, growing more and more frightened of herself.
They made love. When he finished, the Gypsy stood up, buttoned his pants and walked away amid the huisache. Gabriela remained still, smeared with sex and fear. She heard the distant rumble of the Gypsy’s pick-up as it departed along the dirt road. She listened as it disappeared into the dawn. She stood up, dusted and straightened her clothes, and began to walk awkwardly. They had been discovered and she had no idea where to run. She reached her house and hid in the only place she thought might give her cover: behind the bed, where she remained for the rest of that Sunday and from where she now hears the creaking of the door. She watches it open and sees her husband, Pedro Salgado, come in.
2
He drove as far as the dam and stopped his pick-up at the side of the road. He turned the motor off and stretched out on the seat. Again he savored Gabriela Bautista’s kisses one by one. The woman drove him crazy and he her, but he knew he could not return to Loma Grande for a good while. He would have to wait for news and refrain from going back until he was sure there had been no clamor in the village.
He got out of the truck and walked to the edge of the reservoir. His ankles, forehead, forearms and hands were badly scratched. He removed his clothes, made a bundle and hid it under some bushes. Slipping into the tepid water, he rubbed himself with mud to disinfect the scratches and soothe the itch. A flock of green-winged teal flew low overhead, and the swish of their wings startled him, making him jump backwards. ‘Shit,’ he thought, ‘I’m still nervous from last night’s chase.’
He rinsed off the crust of mud, and splashed about, amusing himself for a while, trying to catch minnows with his hands. Out of the water, he dried himself with his shirt and put on his pants. He had no wish to remain naked, as it was early Sunday and sometimes cars with families traveled that road. Resting against one of the huge rocks set into the dam, he fell asleep.
Hardly anyone knew his name: José Echeverri-Berriozábal. Most everyone simply called him the Gypsy. He had been born in Tampico, the casual child of a Basque seaman and a waitress at the Elite ice-cream parlor. He inherited his stature and green eyes from his father. From his mother, broad bones, a slim and muscular build, and a precise control of adversity.
Since adolescence, he had developed the habit of getting involved with married women. He never discovered a reason for the preference, but his friends justified it by the fact that his mother had never married. At fifteen, an enraged husband had sliced him up with a machete. The Gypsy had barely survived the five gashes in his back. They had healed and he had worn the scars with pride ever since.
Three years later, it was the wife of a customs inspector. The man had caught them in bed and fired three 32-caliber slugs into his chest from a Browning automatic.
After he got over them, he swore vengeance. He found out that his attacker was lying up in Tempoal, and went to look for him without success, but fell in with a traveling salesman, who broke him in to the business of selling household items. From then on, he had rolled from one village to the next under the nickname ‘the Gypsy.’
In time, he discovered the advantage of adding contraband Taiwanese electronics to his stock. If a frying pan doubled his profits, a quartz watch sextupled them. Even when he had to share his booty with rural, undercover state and federal police, mayors, and ejido delegates, he always came out ahead.
With his savings, he bought a Dodge pick-up with an aluminum cab and built himself a little house in Tampico. Even so, he never maintained a permanent residence, spending the night in his pick-up off dirt roads, or exchanging merchandise for a roof and a meal. He usually visited Loma Grande twice a year, until one January afternoon he began his affair with Gabriela Bautista. From then on, he increased the frequency of his visits to one a month.
In Loma Grande, he stayed at the home of Rutilio Buenaventura, an aged, blind campesino who had discovered a new way to lighten the darkness in which he lived, thanks to a Walkman the Gypsy had given him. In gratitude, Rutilio offered him his roof and his friendship, food being out of the question since he barely survived on the product of a dozen hens. They had become such close friends that only the old man knew why the Gypsy was so eager to come back to Loma Grande.
3
The lies, not the beers, were what finally intoxicated Ranulfo Quirarte—Old Friendly. He had invented the business of the Gypsy and Adela to take over the conversation, to titillate the curiosity of his hearers, so that he could put the finishing touches to his gossip as he pleased. His lies had submerged him in a hopeless orgy of drunken falsehoods from which he was neither able nor willing to extricate himself. His lies turned out to be so inebriating that he believed them himself. The other story—what had really happened—meant nothing. Only his story was now valid.
Only he knew that he had not been hunting by lamplight among the pastures along the river, but on the other side, in the huisache-covered fields leading to the slopes of El Bernal. Only he knew that the semi-nude torso, the bare breasts and the frightened face he had lit up that night belonged to Gabriela Bautista and not to the girl who had been knifed through the heart. Only he knew that the couple he had seen in the rays of his lamp were a pair of adulterers slaking their lust, not a murderer wrestling with his victim. Only he and no o
ne else knew that.
Ranulfo realized that the hoax he had unleashed would become more ferocious and more dangerous, and that there was no longer any way to hold it back. He had intoxicated the other men in the village with his lies, and to all of them the Gypsy was guilty. This was the new truth and Ranulfo would have to believe it for ever.
4
The Gypsy felt a scorpion crawling over his ribs and slapped his chest hard, only to discover a slithering drop of sweat was what had really woken him up. He opened his eyes more than once to shake the sleep from them. Finally awake, it took him several seconds to recognize his surroundings, until the lapping of water against stones reminded him. He raised his head to see the sun reflected in a pool of perspiration gathered on his stomach. He stood up awkwardly, trying to put as little weight as possible on his numb left leg. A faint breeze blew across the reservoir and he shook his head to dry the perspiration dampening the nape of his neck. Looking up at the sky, he figured it was after noon. He had slept at least five hours, time enough with his face to the sun for his lips to be parched. He wet them with saliva and rubbed saliva into his stinging eyelids as well. Then he kneaded his thigh to get rid of the prickling numbness. While he massaged it, he tried to remember a dream, but none came to mind. And Gabriela Bautista’s kisses were still so fresh on his tongue that he assumed he had dreamt of her.
Removing his pants, he took a running dive into the reservoir. The water, though lukewarm, provided some relief from the heat that was beginning to exasperate him. He floated face up, watching the loons fly across the water.
He amused himself in the reservoir until he felt hungry and then, getting out of the water, stood on a stone to dry himself in the sunlight. In the distance he could hear tractors turning earth over in a field. He enjoyed the sound, which reminded him of tugs maneuvering ships at the entrance to the port of Tampico.
A Sweet Scent of Death Page 4
