Pedro Paramo Page 4

  "Leave that for later. You're not to worry about fences. There 're not going to be any fences. The land's not to be divided up. Think about that, Fulgor, but don't tell anyone just yet. For now, first thing, set it up with Lola. Sure you won't sit down?"

  "I will, don Pedro. God's truth, I'm beginning to like working with you."

  "You string Lola a line, and tell her I love her. That's important. It's true, Sedano, I do love her. Because of her eyes, you know? You do that first thing in the morning. And I'll relieve you of some of your administrative duties. You can leave the Media Luna to me."

  I wonder where in hell the boy learned those tricks, Fulgor Sedano thought on his second trip to the Media Luna. I never expected anything from him. "He's worthless," my old patron don Lucas used to say. "A born weakling." And I couldn't argue. "When I die, Fulgor, you look for another job." "I will, don Lucas." "I tell you, Fulgor, I tried sending him to the seminary, hoping that at least he would have enough to eat and could look after his mother when I'm no longer here. But he didn't even stick with that." "You deserve better, don Lucas." "Don't count on him for anything, not even to care for me when I'm old. He's turned out bad, Fulgor, and that's that." "That's a real shame, don Lucas." And now this. If the Media Luna hadn't meant so much to him, he'd never have called on Miguel. He'd have left without contacting him. But he loved that land: the barren hills that had been worked year in and year out and still accepted the plow, giving more every year. . . . Beloved Media Luna . . . And each new addition, like Enmedio's land: "Come to me, sweetheart." He could see it, as easy as if it were already done. And what does a woman matter, after all. "Damn right!" he said, slapping the whip against his leg as he walked through the main door of the hacienda.

  It had been easy enough to gull Dolores. Her eyes shone and her face showed her discomposure.

  "Forgive me for blushing, don Fulgor. I can't believe don Pedro ever noticed me."

  "He can't sleep for thinking about you." "But he has so many to choose from. There are so many pretty girls in Comala. What will they say when they find out?" "He thinks of no one but you, Dolores. Nobody but you." "You give me the shivers, don Fulgor. I never dreamed . . ." "It's because he's a man of so few words. Don Lucas Paramo, may he rest in peace, actually told him you weren't good enough for him. So out of obedience he kept his silence.

  But now his father's gone, there's nothing to stand in the way. It was his first decision - although I've been slow to carry it out because of all the things I had to do. We'll set the wedding tor day after tomorrow. How does that suit you?"

  "Isn't that awfully soon? I don't have anything ready. I'll need time to get my trousseau together. I'll want to write my sister. No, I'll send her a letter by messenger. But no matter what, I won't be ready before the eighth of April. Today is the first. Yes, the earliest would be the eighth. Ask him to wait just a few short days longer."

  "He wishes it were this minute. If it's just a matter of your wedding dress, we'll provide that. Don Pedro's dear dead mother would want you to have hers. It's a family custom."

  "But there's another reason I want those extra days. It's a woman's matter, you know.

  Oh! I'm so embarrassed to say this, don Fulgor. My face must be a hundred colors. But it's my time of the month. Oh, I'm so ashamed."

  "What does that have to do with it? Marriage isn't a question of your time or not your time.

  It's a matter of loving each other. When you have that, nothing else matters."

  "But you don't understand what I'm saying, don Fulgor."

  "I understand. The wedding will be day after tomorrow."

  And he left her with arms outstretched, begging for one week, just one week.

  I mustn't forget to tell don Pedro - God, that Pedro's a sharp boy! — I mustn't forget to tell him, remember to tell the judge to put the property in joint ownership. Don't forget, now, Fulgor, to tell him first thing tomorrow.

  Meanwhile, Dolores was running to the kitchen with a water jug to set water to boil.

  "I'll have to try to bring it on sooner. This very night. But whatever I do, it will still last three days. There's no way around it. But oh, I'm so happy. So happy! Thank you, God, for giving me don Pedro." And then she added. "Even if later he does get tired of me."

  I've asked her, and she's for it. The priest wants sixty pesos to overlook the matter of the banns. I told him he'd get it in due time. He says he needs it to fix the altar, and that his dining room table is on its last legs. I promised that we'd send him a new table. He says you never come to mass. I promised him you would. And since your grandmother died, he says, no one over here has tithed. I told him not to worry. He'll go along."

  "You didn't ask for a little advance from Dolores?"

  "No, patron. I didn't dare. That's the truth. She was so happy I didn't want to dim her enthusiasm."

  "What a baby you are."

  A baby he says? Me, with all my fifty-five years? Look at him, just beginning to live, and me only a few steps from the grave. "I didn't want to spoil her happiness."

  "In spite of everything, you're still a kid."

  "Anything you say, patron."

  "Next week, I want you to go over to see Aldrete. Tell him to check his fences. He's on Media Luna land."

  "He did a good job measuring the boundary lines. I can vouch for that."

  "Well, tell him he made a mistake. That he didn't figure right. If necessary, tear down the fences."

  "And the law?"

  "What law, Fulgor? From now on, we're the law. Do you have any hardasses working on the Media Luna?"

  "Well, there's one or two."

  "Send them over to do business with Aldrete. You draw up a complaint accusing him of squatting on our land, or whatever occurs to you. And remind him that Lucas Paramo is dead.

  And that from now on he'll be dealing with me."

  There were only a few clouds in the still-blue sky. Higher up, air was stirring but down below it was still and hot.

  Again he knocked with the butt of the whip, if only to assert his presence, since he knew by now that no one would open until Pedro Paramo fancied. Seeing the black bows above the door, he thought: Those ribbons look pretty; one for each.

  At that moment the door opened, and he stepped inside.

  "Come in, Fulgor. Did you take care of Toribio Aldrete?"

  "That job's done, patron."

  "We still have the matter of the Fregosos. We'll let that ride. Right now I'm all wrapped up in my honeymoon."

  This town is filled with echoes. It's like they were trapped behind the walls, or beneath the cobblestones. When you walk you feel like someone's behind you, stepping in your footsteps.

  You hear rustlings. And people laughing. Laughter that sounds used up. And voices worn away by the years. Sounds like that. But I think the day will come when those sounds fade away."

  That was what Damiana Cisneros was telling me as we walked through the town.

  "There was a time when night after night I could hear the sounds of a fiesta. I could hear the noise clear out at the Media Luna. I would walk into town to see what the uproar was about, and this is what I would see: just what we're seeing now. Nothing. No one. The streets as empty as they are now.

  "Then I didn't hear anything anymore. You know, you can get worn out celebrating. That's why I wasn't surprised when it ended.

  "Yes," Damiana Cisneros repeated. "This town is filled with echoes. I'm not afraid anymore.

  I hear the dogs howling, and I let them howl. And on windy days I see the wind blowing leaves from the trees, when anyone can see that there aren't any trees here. There must have been once. Otherwise, where do the leaves come from?

  "And the worst of all is when you hear people talking and the voices seem to be coming through a crack, and yet so clear you can recognize who's speaking. In fact, just now as I was coming here I happened upon a wake. I stopped to recite the Lord's Prayer. And while I was praying, one woman stepped away from the others and came t
oward me and said, 'Damiana! Pray for me, Damiana!'

  "Her rebozo fell away from her face and I recognized my sister Sixtina.

  "'What are you doing here?' I asked her.

  "Then she ran back and hid among the other women.

  "In case you didn't know, my sister Sixtina died when I was twelve years old. She was the oldest. There were sixteen of us, so you can figure how long she's been dead. And look at her now, still wandering through the field. So don't be afraid if you hear newer echoes, Juan Preciado."

  Was it my mother who told you I was coming?" I asked.

  "No. And by the way, whatever happened to your mother?"

  "She died," I replied. . "Died? What of?"

  I don't really know. Sadness, maybe. She sighed a lot."

  "That's bad. Every sigh is like a drop of your life being swallowed up. Well, so she's dead."

  "Yes. I thought maybe you knew."

  "Why would I know? I haven't heard a thing from her in years."

  "Then how did you know about me?"

  Damiana did not answer.

  "Are you alive, Damiana? Tell me, Damiana!"

  Suddenly I was alone in those empty streets. Through the windows of roofless houses you could see the tough stems of tall weeds. And meager thatch revealing crumbling adobe.

  "Damiana!" I called. "Damiana Cisneros!"

  The echo replied: " . . . ana . . . neros! . . . ana . . . neros!"

  I heard dogs barking, as if I had roused them. I saw a man crossing the street.

  "Hey, you!" I called.

  "Hey, you!" came back my own voice.

  And as if they were just around the next corner, I heard two women talking:

  "Well, look who's coming toward us. Isn't that Filoteo Are-chiga?"

  "The very one. Pretend you don't see him."

  "Even better, let's leave. And if he walks after us, it means he wants something of one of us. Which one of us do you think he's following?"

  "It must be you."

  "Well, I figure it's you he wants."

  "Oh, we don't have to run anymore. He stopped back on the corner."

  "Then it wasn't either of us. You see?"

  "But what if it had been? What then?"

  "Don't get ideas."

  "It's a good thing he didn't. Everyone says that he's the one who gets the girls for don Pedro. Which just missed being us."

  "Is that right? Well, I don't want to have anything to do with that old man."

  "We better go."

  "Yes, let's. Let's go home."

  Night. Long after midnight. And the voices:

  "I'm telling you that if we have a good corn crop this year I'll be able to pay you. But if we lose it, well, you'll just have to wait."

  "I'm not pushing you. You know I've been patient with you. But it's not your land. You've been working land that's not yours. So where are you going to get the money to pay me?"

  "And who says the land isn't mine?"

  "I heard you sold it to Pedro Paramo."

  "I haven't been anywhere near him. The land's still mine."

  "That's what you say. But everyone is saying it's his."

  "Just let them say that to me."

  "Look, Galileo, just between the two of us, in confidence, I like you a lot. After all, you're my sister's husband. And I never heard anyone say you don't treat her well. But don't try to tell me you didn't sell the land."

  "I do tell you, I haven't sold it to anyone."

  "Well, it belongs to Pedro Paramo. I know that's how he means it to be. Didn't don Fulgor come see you?"

  "No."

  "Then you can be sure he'll be here tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, some day soon."

  "Then one of us will die, but he's not going to get his way on this."

  "Rest in peace, Amen, dear brother-in-law. Just in case."

  "I'll be around, you'll see. Don't worry about me. My mother tanned my hide enough to make me good and tough."

  "Till tomorrow, then. Tell Felicitas that I won't be to dinner tonight. I wouldn't want to have to say later, 'I was with him the night before he died."'

  "We'll save something for you in case you change your mind at the last minute."

  Receding footsteps sounded to the jingle of spurs.

  Tomorrow morning at dawn you're coming with me, Chona. I have the team hitched up."

  "And what if my father has a fit and dies? As old as he is . . . I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him because of me. I'm the only one he has to see that he takes care of himself. There's no one else. Why are you in such a hurry to steal me from him? Wait just a little longer. It won't be long till he dies."

  "That's what you told me last year. You even taunted me for not being willing to take a chance, and from what you said then, you were fed up with everything. I've harnessed the mules and they're ready. Are you coming with me?"

  "Let me think about it."

  "Chona! You don't know how much I want you. I can't stand it any longer, Chona. One way or another, you're coming with me."

  "I need to think about it. Try to understand. We have to wait until he dies. It won't be long now. Then I'll go with you and we won't have to run away."

  "You told me that, too, a year ago."

  "And so?"

  "Chona, I had to hire the mules. They're ready. They're just waiting for you. Let him get along on his own. You're pretty. You're young. Some old woman will come look after him.

  There's more than enough kind souls to go around."

  "I can't."

  "Yes you can."

  "I can't. It hurts me, you know that. But he is my father." "Then there's nothing more to say. I'll go see Juliana, she's crazy about me."

  "Fine. I won't tell you not to."

  "Then you don't want to see me tomorrow?"

  "No. I don't ever want to see you again."

  Sounds. Voices. Murmurs. Distant singing: My sweetheart gave me a

  lace-bordered handkerchief to dry my tears . . . High voices. As if it were women singing.

  I watched the carts creaking by. The slowly moving oxen. The crunching of stones beneath the wheels. The men, seeming to doze.

  . . . Every morning early the town trembles from the passing carts. They come from everywhere, loaded with niter, ears of corn, and fodder. The wheels creak and groan until the windows rattle and wake the people inside. That's also the hour when the ovens are opened and you can smell the new-baked bread. Suddenly it will thunder. And rain. Maybe spring's on its way. You'll get used to the "suddenlys" there, my son.

  Empty carts, churning the silence of the streets. Fading into the dark road of night. And shadows. The echo of shadows.

  I thought of leaving. Up the hill I could sense the track I had followed when I came, like an open wound through the blackness of the mountains.

  Then someone touched my shoulder.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to look for . . . " I was going to say the name, but stopped. "I came to look for my father."

  "Why don't you come in?"

  I went in. Half the roof had fallen in on the house. The tiles lay on the ground. The roof on the ground. And in the other half were a man and a woman.

  "Are you dead?" I asked them.

  The woman smiled. The man's gaze was serious.

  "He's drunk," the man said.

  "He's just scared," said the woman.

  There was an oil stove. A reed cot, and a crude chair where the woman's clothes were laid. Because she was naked, just as God had sent her into the world. And the man, too.

  "We heard someone moaning and butting his head against our door. And there you were. What happened to you?"

  "So many things have happened that all I want to do is sleep."

  "That's what we were doing."

  "Let's all sleep, then."

  My memories began to fade with the light of dawn.

  From time to time I heard the sound of words, and marked a difference. Because until then, I real
ized, the words I had heard had been silent. There had been no sound, I had sensed them. But silently, the way you hear words in your dreams.

  "Who could he be?" the woman was asking.

  "Who knows?" the man replied.

  "I wonder what brought him here?"

  "Who knows?"

  "I think I heard him say something about his father."

  "I heard him say that, too."

  "You don't think he's lost? Remember when those people happened by who said they were lost? They were looking for a place called Los Confines, and you told them you didn't know where it was."

  "Yes, I remember. But let me sleep. It's not dawn yet."

  "But it will be before long. And I'm talking to you because I want you to wake up. You told me to remind you before dawn. That's why I'm doing it. Get up!"

  "Why do you want me to get up?"

  "I don't know why. You told me last night to wake you. You didn't tell me why."

  "If that's your only reason, let me sleep. Didn't you hear what the man said when he came? To let him sleep. That was all he had to say."

  It seemed as if the voices were moving away. Fading. Being choked off. No one was saying anything now. It was a dream.

  But after a while, it began again:

  "He moved. I'll bet he's about to wake up. And if he sees us here he'll ask questions."

  "What questions can he ask?"

  "Well. He'll have to say something, won't he?"

  "Leave him alone. He must be very tired."

  "You think so?"

  "That's enough, woman."

  "Look, he's moving. See how he's tossing? Like something inside him was jerking him around. I know, because that's happened to me."

  "What's happened to you?"

  "That."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I wouldn't mention it except that when I see him tossing in his sleep like that I remember what happened to me the first time you did it to me. How it hurt, and how bad I felt about doing it."

  "What do you mean, 'it'?"

  "How I felt right after you did it to me, and how, whether you like it or not, I knew it wasn't done right."

  "Are you going to start that again? Why don't you go to sleep, and let me sleep, too."