Pedro Paramo Page 10

  "Oh, that don Pedro!" said Damiana. "He never gets over chasing the girls. What I don't understand is why he insists on doing things on the sly. If he'd just let me know, I would have told Margarita that the patron had need of her tonight, and he wouldn't have had the bother of leaving his bed."

  She closed the window when she heard the bulls still bellowing. She lay down on her cot and pulled the cover up over her ears, and then lay there thinking about what must be happening to young Margarita.

  A little later she had to get up and strip off her nightgown, because the night seemed to have turned hot. . . .

  "Damiana!" she heard.

  And she was a girl again.

  "Open the door, Damiana!"

  Her heart had leapt like a toad hopping beneath her ribs.

  "But why, patron!"

  "Open up, Damiana!"

  "But I'm fast asleep, patron."

  Then she had heard don Pedro stalking off down the long corridor, his heels clicking loudly, as they did when he was angry.

  The next night, to avoid angering him again, she left the door ajar, and even went to bed naked to make things easy for him. But Pedro Paramo had never returned.

  And so tonight, now that she was the head of all the Media Luna servants, and was old and had earned her respect, she still thought of that night when the patron had called, "Open the door, Damiana!"

  And she fell asleep thinking how happy young Margarita must be at this hour.

  Later, she again heard knocking, but this time at the main door, as if someone were trying to beat it down with the butt of a gun.

  A second time she opened the window and looked out into the night. She saw nothing, although it seemed to her the earth was steaming, as it does after a rain when the earth is roiling with worms. She could sense something rising, something like the heat of many men. She heard frogs croaking, and crickets: a quiet night in the rainy season. Then once again she heard the pounding at the door.

  A lamp spilled its light on the faces of a band of men. Then it went out.

  "These things have nothing to do with me," said Damiana Cisneros, and closed her window.

  I heard you got your tail whipped, Damasio. Why did you let that happen?"

  "You got the wrong story, patron. Nothing happened to me. I didn't lose a man. I have seven hundred of my own, and a few tagalongs. What happened was that a few of the old-timers got bored with not seeing any action and started firing at a patrol of shave-heads who turned out to be a whole army. Those Villistas, you know."

  "Where had they come from?"

  "From the North, leveling everything they found in their path. It seems, as far as we can make out, that they're riding all through here getting the lay of the land. They're powerful.

  You can't take that from them."

  "Well, why don't you join up with them? I've told you before we have to be on the side of whoever's winning."

  "I've already done it."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "We need money, patron. We're tired of eating nothing but meat. We don't have a taste for it anymore. And no one wants to give us credit. That's why we've come, hoping you can buy us provisions and we won't have to steal from anyone. If we were way off somewhere, we wouldn't mind 'borrowing' a little from the locals, but everyone around here is a relative, and we'd feel bad robbing them. It's money we need, to buy food, even if only a few tortillas and chilis. We're sick of meat."

  "So now you're making demands on me, Damasio?"

  "Oh, no, patron. I'm speaking for the boys. I don't want nothing for myself."

  "It speaks well for you that you're looking after your men, but go somewhere else to get what you need. I've already given you money. Be happy with what you've got. Now I don't want to offer this as advice, but haven't you thought of riding on Contla? Why do you think you're fighting a revolution? Only a dunce would be asking for handouts. You might as well go home and help your wife look after the hens. Go raid some town! You're risking your skin, so why the hell don't others do their part? Contla is crawling with rich men. Take a little out of their hides. Or maybe you think you're their nursemaid and have to look after their interests? No, Damasio. Show them that you're not just out for a good time. Rough them up a little, and the centavos will flow."

  "I'll do like you say, patron. I can always count on good advice from you."

  "Well, make good use of it."

  Pedro Paramo watched as the men rode away. He could hear horses trotting past, invisible in the darkness. Sweat and dust; trembling earth. When the light of fireflies again dotted the sky, he knew all the men had left. Only he remained, alone, like a sturdy tree beginning to rot inside.

  He thought of Susana San Juan. He thought of the young girl he had just slept with. Of the small, frightened, trembling body, and the thudding of a heart that seemed about to leap from her chest. "You sweet little handful," he had said to her. And embraced her, trying to transform her into Susana San Juan. "A woman who is not of this world."

  As dawn breaks, the day turns, stopping and starting. The rusty gears of the earth are almost audible: the vibration of this ancient earth overturning darkness.

  "Is it true that night is filled with sins, Justina?"

  "Yes, Susana."

  "Really true?"

  "It must be, Susana."

  "And what do you think life is, Justina, if not sin? Don't you hear? Don't you hear how the earth is creaking?"

  "No, Susana, I can't hear anything. My fate is not as grand as yours."

  "You would be frightened. I'm telling you, you would be frightened if you heard what I hear."

  Justina went on cleaning the room. Again and again she passed the rag over the wet floorboards. She cleaned up the water from the shattered vase. She picked up the flowers.

  She put the broken pieces into the pail.

  "How many birds have you killed in your lifetime, Justina?"

  "Many, Susana."

  "And you never felt sad?"

  "I did, Susana."

  "Then, what are you waiting for to die?"

  "I'm waiting for Death, Susana."

  "If that's all, it will come. Don't worry."

  Susana San Juan was sitting propped up against her pillows. Her uneasy eyes searching every corner. Her hands were clasped over her belly like a protective shell. A humming like wings sounded above her head. And the creaking of the pulley in the well. The sounds of people waking up.

  "Do you believe in hell, Justina?"

  "Yes, Susana. And in heaven, too."

  "I only believe in hell," Susana said. And closed her eyes.

  When Justina left the room, Susana San Juan fell asleep again, while outside the sun sparkled. Justina met Pedro Paramo in the hall.

  "How is the senora?"

  "Bad," she replied, ducking her head.

  "Is she complaining?"

  "No, senor. She doesn't complain about anything; but they say the dead never complain.

  The senora is lost to us all."

  "Has Father Renteria been to see her?"

  "He came last night to hear her confession. She should have taken Communion today but she must not be in a state of grace, because padre Renteria hasn't brought it. He said he'd be here early, but you see the sun's up and he hasn't come. She must not be in a state of grace."

  "Whose grace?"

  "God's grace, senor."

  "Don't be silly, Justina."

  "As you say, senor."

  Pedro Paramo opened the door and stood beside it, letting a ray of light fall upon Susana San Juan. He saw eyes pressed tightly shut as if in pain; a moist, half-open mouth; sheets thrown back by insentient hands to reveal the nakedness of a body beginning to twist and turn in convulsions.

  He rushed across the brief space separating him from the bed and covered the naked body writhing like a worm in more and more violent contortions. He spoke into her ear, "Susana!"

  He repeated, "Susana!"

  The door opened and Father Renter
ia entered quietly, saying only:

  "I've come to give you Communion, my child." He waited until Pedro Paramo helped her sit up and arranged her pillows against the headboard. Susana San Juan, still half-asleep, held out her tongue and swallowed the Host. Then she said, "We had a glorious day, Florencio." And sank back down into the tomb of her sheets.

  You see that window, dona Fausta, there at the Media Luna where the light is always on?"

  "No, Angeles. I don't see any window."

  "That's because the room is dark now. Don't you think that means something bad is going on over there? There's been a light in that window for more than three years, night after night.

  People who've been there say that's the room of Pedro Paramo's wife, a poor crazy woman who's afraid of the dark. And look, now the light's out. Isn't that a bad sign?"

  "Maybe she died. She's been real sick. They say she doesn't know people anymore, and that she talks to herself. It's a fitting punishment for Pedro Paramo, being married to that woman."

  "Poor don Pedro."

  "No, Fausta, he deserves it. That and more."

  "See, the window is still dark."

  "Just let the window be, and let's get home to bed. It's late for two old women like us to be out roaming the streets."

  And the two women, who had left the church about eleven, disappeared beneath the arches of the arcade, watching the shadow of a man crossing the plaza in the direction of the Media Luna.

  "Look, dona Fausta. Do you think that man over there is Doctor Valencia?"

  "It looks like him, although I'm so blind I wouldn't recognize him if he was right in front of me."

  "But you remember, he always wears those white pants and a black coat. I'll bet something bad is happening out at the Media Luna. Look how fast he's walking, as if he had a real reason to hurry."

  "Which makes me think it really is serious. I feel like I ought to go by and tell padre Renteria to get out there; that poor woman shouldn't die without confessing."

  "God forbid, Angeles. What a terrible thought. After all she's suffered in this world no one would want her to go without the last rites and then suffer forever in the next life. Although the psychics always say that crazy people don't need to confess, that even if they have sin in their soul, they're innocents. God only knows. . . . Look! Now the light's back on in the window. I hope everything turns out all right. If someone dies in that house imagine what would happen to all the work we've gone to to decorate the church for Christmas. As important as don Pedro is, our celebration would go right up in smoke."

  "You always think of the worst, dona Fausta. You should do what I do: put everything in the hands of Divine Providence. Say an Ave Maria to the Virgin, and I'm sure nothing will go wrong between now and morning. And then, let God's will be done. After all, she can't be very happy in this life."

  "Believe me, Angeles, I always take comfort from what you say. I can go to sleep with those good thoughts on my mind. They say that our sleeping thoughts go straight to Heaven. I hope mine make it that far. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Until tomorrow, Fausta."

  The two old women slipped through the half-open doors of their homes. And the silence of the night again fell over the village.

  My mouth is filled with earth."

  "Yes, Father."

  "Don't say, 'Yes, Father.' Repeat with me the words I am saying."

  "What are you going to say? You want me to confess again? Why again?"

  "This isn't a confession, Susana. I've just come to talk with you. To prepare you for death."

  "I'm going to die?'

  "Yes, daughter."

  "Then why don't you leave me in peace? I want to rest. Someone must have told you to come keep me awake. To stay with me until sleep is gone forever. Then what can I do to find him? Nothing, Father. Why don't you just go away and leave me alone?"

  "I will leave you in peace, Susana. As you repeat the words I tell you, you will drift off, as if you were crooning yourself to sleep. And once you are asleep, no one will wake you. . . .

  You will never wake again."

  "All right, Father. I will do what you say."

  Father Renteria, seated on the edge of the bed, his hands on Susana San Juan's shoulders, his mouth almost touching her ear to keep from being overheard, formed each word in a secretive whisper: "My mouth is filled with earth." Then he paused. He looked to see whether her lips were moving. He saw her mouthing words, though no sound emerged: "My mouth is filled with you, with your mouth. Your tightly closed lips, pressing hard, biting into mine. . . ."

  She, too, paused. She looked at Father Renteria from the corner of her eye; he seemed far away, as if behind a misted glass.

  Again she heard his voice, warm in her ear:

  "I swallow foamy saliva; I chew clumps of dirt crawling with worms that knot in my throat and push against the roof of my

  mouth. . . . My mouth caves in, contorted, lacerated by gnawing, devouring teeth. My nose grows spongy. My eyeballs liquefy. My hair burns in a single bright blaze.. . . ."

  He was surprised by Susana San Juan's calm. He wished he could divine her thoughts and see her heart struggling to reject the images he was sowing within her. He looked into her eyes, and she returned his gaze. It seemed as if her twitching lips were forming a slight smile.

  "There is more. The vision of God. The soft light of his infinite Heaven. The rejoicing of the cherubim and song of the seraphim. The joy in the eyes of God, which is the last, fleeting vision of those condemned to eternal suffering. Eternal suffering joined to earthly pain. The marrow of our bones becomes like live coals and the blood in our veins threads of fire, inflicting unbelievable agony that never abates, for it is fanned constantly by the wrath of God."

  "He sheltered me in his arms. He gave me love."

  Father Renteria glanced at the figures gathered around them, waiting for the last moment. Pedro Paramo waited by the door, with crossed arms; Doctor Valencia and other men stood beside him. Farther back in the shadows, a small group of women eager to begin the prayer for the dead.

  He meant to rise. To anoint the dying woman with the holy oils and say, "I have finished."

  But no, he hadn't finished yet. He could not administer the sacraments to this woman without knowing the measure of her repentance.

  He hesitated. Perhaps she had nothing to repent of. Maybe there was nothing for him to pardon. He bent over her once more and said in a low voice, shaking her by the shoulders: "You are going into the presence of God. And He is cruel in His judgment of sinners."

  Then he tried once more to speak into her ear, but she shook her head:

  "Go away, Father. Don't bother yourself over me. I am at peace, and very sleepy."

  A sob burst forth from one of the women hidden in the shadows.

  Susana San Juan seemed to revive for a moment. She sat straight up in bed and said: "Justina, please go somewhere else if you're going to cry!"

  Then she felt as if her head had fallen upon her belly. She tried to lift it, to push aside the belly that was pressing into her eyes and cutting off her breath, but with each effort she sank deeper into the night.

  I. . . I saw dona Susanita die." "What are you saying, Dorotea?"

  "What I just told you."

  Dawn. People were awakened by the pealing of bells. It was the morning of December eighth.

  A gray morning. Not cold, but gray. The pealing began with the largest bell. The others chimed in. Some thought the bells were ringing for High Mass, and doors began to open wide. Not all the doors opened; some remained closed where the indolent still lay in bed waiting for the bells to advise them that morning had come. But the ringing lasted longer than it should have.

  And it was not only the bells of the large church, but those in Sangre de Cristo, in Cruz Verde, and the Santuario. Noon came, and the tolling continued. Night fell. And day and night the bells continued, all of them, stronger and louder, until the ringing blended into a deafening lament. People had to s
hout to hear what they were trying to say. "What could it be?" they asked each other.

  After three days everyone was deaf. It was impossible to talk above the clanging that filled the air. But the bells kept ringing, ringing, some cracked, with a hollow sound like a clay pitcher.

  "Dona Susana died."

  "Died? Who?"

  "The senora."

  "Your senora?"

  "Pedro Paramo's senora."

  People began arriving from other places, drawn by the endless pealing. They came from Contla, as if on a pilgrimage. And even farther. A circus showed up, who knows from where, with a whirligig and flying chairs. And musicians. First they came as if they were onlookers, but after a while they settled in and even played concerts. And so, little by little, the event turned into a fiesta. Comala was bustling with people, boisterous and noisy, just like the feast days when it was nearly impossible to move through the village.

  The bells fell silent, but the fiesta continued. There was no way to convince people that this was an occasion for mourning. Nor was there any way to get them to leave. Just the opposite, more kept arriving.

  The Media Luna was lonely and silent. The servants walked around with bare feet, and spoke in low voices. Susana San Juan was buried, and few people in Comala even realized it. They were having a fair. There were cockfights and music, lotteries, and the howls of drunken men. The light from the village reached as far as the Media Luna, like an aureole in the gray skies. Because those were grey days, melancholy days for the Media Luna. Don Pedro spoke to no one. He never left his room. He swore to wreak vengeance on Comala: "I will cross my arms and Comala will die of hunger." And that was what happened.

  El Tilcuajte continued to report: —"With Carranza now."

  "Fine."

  "Now we're riding with General Obregon."

  "Fine."

  "They've declared peace. We're dismissed."

  "Wait. Don't disband your men. This won't last long."

  "Father Renteria's fighting now. Are we with him or against him?"

  "No question. You're on the side of the government."

  "But we're irregulars. They consider us rebels."

  "Then take a rest."