The Killer's Tears

by Anne-Laure Bondoux

  Later, as he slumped on a bench, a drunken girl fell asleep against him, her head on his shoulder. She smelled of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat. He shook her. In her blurry eyes, he saw his reflection: his chiseled face, his dirty beard, and the grin of a man consumed by madness. A flash went through him. He lifted the girl's head to his mouth—to kiss or bite her, he no longer knew. Around them, the jubilant crowd turned round and round in a frenzied circle. Angel felt his arms lose their strength. The girl slid down against the back of the bench onto the dirty floor. She was laughing and talking, but Angel understood nothing of what she said. He got up and put the palms of his hands on the wall to catch his breath. Under him, he could see the girl, breathing. She had gone back to sleep. Angel's throat tightened. No, this time he did not want this girl. Or Delia. Or any other.

  He got up and elbowed his way through the crowd of revelers.

  For the rest of the night he walked the streets around the harbor, with no idea of the time, simply spitting and shouting into the darkness. He was sick of himself and of the world. More than anything, he badly wanted to be someone else!

  Finally, as the sun began to peek through the sky, he stopped. A ray of vivid light colored the surface of the sea. He felt cold and aware that his fever had subsided. He shook himself and decided to go back to the inn. Paolo would be waking up soon. What would he think if he found himself all alone? Abandoned, that was what!

  Angel started to run through town. He inhaled the crisp early-morning air and exhaled all the hatred and violence left within him.

  When he entered his room at the inn, he was glad to see Paolo sleeping calmly, curled up in the middle of the bed. He sat on the side of the mattress and stroked the child's forehead very gently with the tips of his fingers. He stayed like this for an hour, not moving, with the impression that he was finally absorbing the meaning of life. The shy birth of dawn, the breath of a sleeping child, and a man with the huge hands of a killer, seated in the dark, suffering: that was life.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PAOLO AWOKE, DISTURBED by something heavy on his legs. He sat up and saw Angel lying across the bed, fully dressed, his body weighing on Paolo's legs. Paolo freed himself and bent over the face of the man. He felt his warm breath and was reassured. In the daze of waking up, he had thought that Angel had been overcome by a mysterious force and had died. He pushed the blankets away and got out of bed. As he put his clothes on, he contemplated the painting that he had placed on the dresser. The harbor, the boat, the yellow spots of the slickers, the sea. He squinted and had the feeling that he was entering the picture. He could smell the fish. His heart swelled like a sponge and something trembled deep in his body. It was both an upsetting and an immensely pleasant feeling.

  Angel was snoring on the bed as Paolo left the room.

  Paolo did not find Luis downstairs and did not dare to knock on his door. Instead, he decided to tend to the don-key and horse: after all, the animals were just as worthy as the two men.

  An overcast day had risen on the muddy backyard. Paolo hopped over puddles to reach the canopy where the animals were prancing with hunger, their fur wet and shining. He found some hay at the back of the shelter and sat on an old saddle to watch them eat. Behind him, attached to rusty nails, was a lot of equipment forgotten by strangers passing through: saddle covers, straps, currycombs, halters. … Paolo got hold of a leather riding whip and hit the ground with it, making the straw fly around. Then he made marks in the loamy soil with the tip of the whip. At first, he drew all sorts of lines. Then he discovered that the whip was flexible, and he came down from the saddle to pay more attention to what he was doing. Words took shape in the mud, almost more easily than on Luis's white sheets of paper: Paolo—Chile—fox—knife—pitcher. He considered the result. After thinking it over, he traced a P, followed by an I, K, S, U, R, E. PIKSURE.

  The child was startled when he saw Delia approach, and his face reddened. He trampled over the mud to erase the words he had just written and quickly covered the spot with straw. Wrapped in her shawl, Delia came to him under the canopy. She stroked the neck of the donkey, then that of the horse.

  “Are they yours?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You take good care of them, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  She crouched in front0 of him. “I hear that you came to Punta Arenas for the cattle fair.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one is really your father? Luis or Angel?”

  Paolo frowned and lowered his head. What was the answer? Neither man was his real father, but how was he to decide? Angel had taken care of him, fed him, and given him the fox. Luis had taught him the alphabet and the beauty of poems, and had given him the painting. Both men made him suffer and live at the same time, just as fathers do. Delia guessed his embarrassment and changed the subject.

  “How many lambs would you like to buy?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Ten?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need a lot of money for ten lambs!”

  “And also a cow!”

  “Luis is really rich, then?”

  “Very. He goes to the bank and asks a nice lady for money. She gives him bills. She gave me …”

  Paolo stopped. He did not feel like talking about the sweet, his talisman. He feared that to reveal its existence would break its magical power.

  “She gave you what?”

  “Nothing. A glass of water.”

  Delia laughed. “You're a funny boy!”

  She passed her cool hand through Paolo's unkempt hair and gathered him in her arms. Then she kissed his cheek. Just as quickly, she crossed the yard to go back to the inn. Seeing her go, Paolo felt overcome by a sadness that he had never felt before, even when thinking about his dead mother under the mound. It was a deep, strong sadness—one that encom-passed a very private and important truth. He looked at the whip that he still held in his hand. The words pitcher, Chile, even piksure could not express his feelings.

  When he woke up, Angel noticed that Paolo was no longer in the bed, and it was he who felt totally abandoned. He opened the tap of the sink, splashed water over his face, and looked at himself in the rust-spotted mirror. Did he deserve to live? he wondered. He was going to be thirty-seven, the very age his father had been when he had died of tuber-culosis. Angel put a hand on his chest. Weren't his lungs on fire too? Wouldn't it be fair if he died, even if his death did not avenge all those he had killed? Tuberculosis was a filthy disease. He had been five when his father had convulsed with pain and spat up black blood. Ever since, the smell of blood had stayed with him.

  While he had been sleeping, Paolo had left. With Luis? With Luis and Delia? If that was the case, he would make sure to die this very day, because his life would be unbearable.

  He dried his face with the back of his sleeve and walked out of the room. There was no one in the corridor, but he could hear whispers and laughter coming from Luis's room. He knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Angel!”

  “One minute!”

  He heard muffled noises and steps. Then Luis appeared at the door, his hair disheveled.

  “Where's Paolo?” Angel asked.

  “I don't know.”

  “I saw him with the horses under the canopy,” Delia said behind Luis.

  Angel looked into Luis's eyes. Unexpectedly, he smiled. Luis did not understand the meaning of this smile, but for Angel it signaled the beginning of a beautiful day. It was one more day to live and spend with Paolo, who was waiting for him under the canopy. It did not matter that Luis had spent the night with Delia; the happiness of others was not important.

  “Give me some money,” he said. “I want to take the child to the harbor and treat him to a good meal.”

  Luis nodded and pushed the door closed before returning with two bills.

  “Treat yourself too,” he said, handing the money to Angel. “As for me, I buy paintings.” He winked.
>
  “Thanks,” said Angel.

  He turned on his heels and went down the stairs, making each step creak. He no longer felt jealous. Delia could do whatever she wanted. Luis could open a museum. He didn't care. Paolo had not abandoned him. He had only risen early.

  But Paolo was not under the canopy, and the donkey had disappeared. Suddenly Angel felt as if someone had plunged a knife into his stomach. Paolo had left! Why? What had happened? What foolish idea had come to the child's mind? Angel rushed over to the horse and rode off at a gallop. The donkey's hoofs had left some mud traces on the pavement, but not enough to guide Angel in a precise direction. Instinctively, Angel headed straight for the har-bor. He was beginning to understand Paolo's ways. He needed to look for him where the trawlers came and went, where the artists painted them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CONTRARY TO WHAT Angel thought, Paolo had not gone to the harbor. He had headed east of town, following a rocky path that reminded him of the one that led to his house. But this path didn't lead to a windy and desolate expanse of land. It ended at the top of cliffs overlooking the Strait of Magellan.

  The donkey was tired. Paolo stuck the bridle between two rocks. His heart was anguished by many strange feelings, and he went near the edge of the cliff to contemplate the sea.

  Things happen when you watch the sea for long periods of time. And gradually, as Paolo observed the waves, spume,and birds flying against the wind, his body began to feel weightless, as if he were floating between the sky and the earth, as light as a snowflake. He could almost feel the swell of the sea, the rip currents, and when he looked down the cliff, he had the impression of crashing against the rocks, of becoming a wave. Only his hands resting on the moss kept him in touch with the planet. He had never studied geogra-phy, geology, or astronomy, but he could clearly see his role in the universe, as if a veil had been lifted, and the truth revealed.

  He thought about his birth and the narrow passageway he must have opened in his mother's belly. With each breath he took, he felt he was tasting the air for the first time. He could hear himself uttering his first cry as a new-born, a cry that was in answer to all the cries given from the beginning of time, by all the generations of human beings.

  What had become of these millions of babies? Some had died, others had grown up. Among them, there had been beggars, kings, sailors, and farmers; some had fought proudly with their conquistadores' swords; others had shaken with fear and surrendered, kneeling on the ground and the ashes of their homes as they prayed madly to God, or gently like wounded poets. All this humanity was churning in Paolo before the sad truth of what was breaking his heart became obvious to him: he missed the love of a mother.

  He cried, alone, facing the sea.

  He cried a long time.

  And he cried some more.

  The wind dried his tears and made white furrows on his skin. It wasn't so much the death of his mother that made him cry as the fact that he could not remember if she had ever kissed his cheek. He couldn't remember if he had ever felt from her the warmth that he had experienced when Delia had taken him in her arms. How had he been able to live without this warmth?

  Behind him, the donkey brayed.

  Paolo spat into the sea.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE HORSE'S HOOVES pounded on the asphalt and its nostrils were dilated; Angel stood up in the stirrups shouting Paolo's name. He could see nothing but spots of colors and blurred shapes fleeing in front of him.

  “Crazy horseman! Crazy horseman!” the people yelled.

  Angel and his horse plowed their way through the crowd. They rushed toward the boats, jumped over moorings and stacks of barrels, scattered groups of fishermen and crates of fish. It was hard to distinguish who was neighing: the man or the horse. Both had feverish eyes.

  “Call the police!” a woman shouted.

  “And the loony bin!” added another.

  With each leap of the horse, Angel's coattails went flying around him. He looked like a specter, a sorrowful creature who had come from some lost world.

  At last, the specter reached the end of the wharf. The horse reared in front of the sea. Again, the man shouted a name. “Paolo!” Behind him, the people in the harbor were recovering from their bewilderment. Such a spectacle had never been seen before. The police had to be alerted.

  While phone lines started to buzz, Angel disappeared. But when the police arrived at the harbor, several onlookers gave concurring descriptions of the horseman, so it was going to be easy to make a composite sketch. Had this man damaged anything? the police inquired. Yes. He had overturned a few fish crates and crushed some dead fish. Had this man hurt anyone? Yes. He had caused a frightened fisherman to fall into the cold and dirty waters of the harbor. As a measure of precaution, the police researched the records of other provinces and communicated the madman's profile as far as Santiago.

  Angel had left at full gallop on his horse, his eyes filled with tears. He sped along the shore, on paved roads, then on wild paths where the wind played with the grass. All the while he shouted Paolo's name. Anything could have happened to him!

  “Paolo-o! Paolo-o!”

  Suddenly, Angel saw the donkey browsing at the edge of a cliff. He pulled on the horse's bridle to slow it down. His heart stopped beating. He couldn't see the child. One step at a time, slowly, slowly, good. He didn't want to scare him.

  As he rounded a thorny bush, he spotted Paolo's small body right behind the donkey. Angel's heart started to beat again. But what was Paolo doing seated at the edge of the cliff? As silent as a snake, Angel got off his horse and moved toward the child. The wind was whistling in his ears. It was fiercely cold. The vast sea spread out in front of him, and the cliff seemed to be pitching like a ship in distress.

  “Paolo,” Angel whispered.

  The child looked over his shoulder. Two or three meters separated them.

  “I'm going to jump,” Paolo said.

  Angel held back a scream. Already, small stones were crumbling under the fingers of the crying child. It would take very little to make him fall down the cliff.

  “Why do you want to jump?” Angel asked.

  “I want to die.”

  “Why do you want to die?”

  Paolo did not answer and turned his head toward the sea. Angel took a cautious step forward like someone playing Red Light, Green Light. Then he stopped, realizing just how fragile was the thread that linked the child to this world.

  “May I come next to you?” he asked.

  “No, you're going to keep me from jumping.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Paolo looked at Angel.

  “In your opinion,” Angel went on, “why would I pre-vent you from jumping?”

  “Because …” The donkey twitched his ears. “Because you do all you can to annoy me,” Paolo finally said.

  “That's not the real reason.”

  “Oh, no? So why did you kill my parents? Why did you come to my house? Why did you give me a fox?”

  Angel tried to think fast.

  “I did all that, it's true,” he said. “Why? Because I'm clumsy.”

  The trace of a smile came over the child's lips. “Very clumsy,” he agreed. Then his mood darkened again. “I'm going to jump now.”

  “Wait! I'm not finished talking.”

  The horse blew air through his nostrils. Birds cried out in the sky, high above them. Between two clouds the moon was visible, even though it was broad daylight.

  “Luis gave me some money,” Angel said. “One bill for you, one for me. Why don't we go eat a good meal in town?”

  “I'm not hungry.”

  “We could look at the shops, at the boats, dream about another life.”

  “I'm not—”

  “Wait!” Angel cut him short. “Here's what I want to tell you. It's the real reason I looked for you in the harbor and shouted your name all over town. Do you know why?”

  Paolo curled his fingers and felt gravel lodge und
er his nails.

  “Because you love me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Angel had managed to come closer. Only one meter separated them now. He could see Paolo's red eyes and tearstained cheeks.

  “Do you really love me?” the child asked.

  “Yes.”

  Angel saw the child push against the cliff with his legs. He saw his bottom rise and his body tip over. Angel screamed and threw himself forward.

  There was a jumble of arms, legs, kicks, stones, blows, and shouts. Angel had closed his arms around Paolo's thin chest and held him tight. All his strength was concentrated in his arms. He crawled back, far from the edge, the child fighting him. Even once the danger of the cliff was gone, Angel kept his hold around Paolo's shoulders. Their eyes met.

  “But you'll never be my mother,” Paolo whispered.

  “That's true,” Angel answered.

  He sat on the ground, lifted the child onto his lap, and cradled him, slowly rocking back and forth. Without thinking, he started to sing. He didn't know how the song came to his lips—whether his own mother had sung it to him when he was too young to realize she was dying, or whether he had heard it through an open window and stolen it like everything else. It didn't matter, though. He was singing for Paolo with the sincerity of someone who has never sung before and whose voice rises suddenly, out of necessity, with the only purpose to comfort.

  “I'm just a murderer,” Angel whispered, “but I know one thing. When you're sad and have the good fortune to find a shoulder to cry on, you shouldn't hesitate.” He tightened his embrace. “Cry,” he added.

  And so Paolo cried. He could feel the sweet, his talis-man, stuck in the fold of his pants pocket, pressing against his thigh as if to prove to him that he was truly alive.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IT WAS ALMOST twilight when Angel and Paolo returned to the inn. Their bellies were full, their hands frozen, their eyes shining, and their hearts as raw as a fresh skin wound. In the dining hall, the tables had been set for dinner with worn and stained checkered tablecloths, soup bowls, and pitchers of red wine. Indifferent to the smell of sautéing onions wafting into the room, Delia and Luis were kissing near the fireplace, holding hands.