“It’s not known for sure whether Bolívar dismounted. They say he waited on horseback, and that what happened there took place with the Liberator up on his white horse.”
“He dismounted: ‘Let them bring her out,’ the Liberator said.”
“That voice, like a bird’s, could only be Bolívar’s.
“There was the Liberator, halfway up the stone path that led to the door: hands on hips; chin up; eyes ‘like a hawk,’ as his chroniclers describe him. The fixer stepped aside, discreet but wary. Bolívar’s voice was enough; it was not necessary to knock on the door again, it opened in an instant. And the burly widow Hilaria Ocampo appeared before the Liberator, the same woman who had crossed the Cariaco ravine under enemy fire on the Sunday of Bomboná and had climbed the hill, defeating him — the same woman. Only now she carried no weapon other than a girl. She held her up in just one arm: dressed in white, Fátima’s long black hair dripped water over her shoulders.”
“Here you are, Liberator,” Hilaria Ocampo said, and she offered her up.
It’s not me, Polina Agrado, telling you this. The soldier Fabricio Urdaneta tells it, the barber-soldier who was actually there, born in Riohacha and raised in Ocaña; he would stay on to live in Pasto, with the passing of the years; in Pasto he would have children; in Pasto he would die, of old age; I heard him tell the tale myself, as a girl. He told it, the first record of the story passed by word of mouth, and you, Doctor, you tell me whether or not it’s true, he told us that the Liberator came up to receive Fátima “without a doubt in his mind,” and that he held out both arms “without hesitation,” he went to receive her “even rather impatiently,” and they saw him lean in and then take a sudden step backwards and stride rapidly in the direction of his horse, ashen-faced: “Christ,” they were able to hear him say, “she’s dead.”
And he told us that Bolívar set upon a tree, kicking it, and that afterwards he knelt behind that same tree and started to vomit. Fabricio Urdaneta, barber-soldier, says he does not know how it was he didn’t have them shot. The whole lot of them.
8
Gales of laughter united them like a colossal embrace — in the living room, which was all ashake.
“If it didn’t happen that way,” the professor said, “it should have done.”
“Impossible to check whether the story is completely accurate, but it did happen,” the doctor said with great difficulty, and laughed along with the rest, including the Bishop of Pasto.
And the fact was, Fátima and her grandmother’s end, their tragedy, had strangely overexcited them, to the point of hysteria. Once again, they drank aguardiente—as they had been doing during the whole unfolding of the tale. Once again, Primavera offered it generously around to each of them — with genuine affection? — the professor wondered. She offered it right on the back of the guffawing which boomed out, a manly sound; that’s how Primavera heard it, from all sides, like the laughter of hairy hunters around the fireplace applauding a joke, she thought, and I’m the only woman here: the fire.
Arcaín Chivo, slumped in his easy chair, was adoring her. And he suffered, sighing over her, when she leaned towards him, offering aguardiente. He snatched up a glass and drank it down in one, stole another straight away, and slurped from it noisily.
“When it comes to drinking,” he said, “I drink like a poet, and if a woman like you is pouring the booze, Primavera, what other hope is there but to drink? You are the unattainable woman, the impossible dream.”
Doctor Proceso heard him too. At that point the mayor spoke into his ear:
“Wouldn’t it be best, Justo Pastor, to wind up the evening now? Our dear Chivo is starting to flirt with your wife.”
“Ah, Chivo,” the doctor replied in a whisper. “Chivo the wise, Chivo the temperate, his intelligence overwhelmed by a good pair of legs, my wife’s legs.”
“What are you laughing about?” the bishop asked, swapping to a nearby seat. “Are you going to let me in on the joke?”
Doctor Proceso felt a little tipsy; he had thought the mayor and bishop were not far behind him, but as the story unfolded he had discovered quite the opposite: Primavera’s presence did not captivate them, and they were not even drunk. They’re pretending to drink, he realized, and in the last exchange he detected their eagerness to find any excuse and disappear. Worse still, as far as Bolívar’s carriage was concerned, they had not confirmed whether they approved of it or not. They’ll wash their hands of it and go, he thought.
“And the music?” Chivo said, “Shouldn’t we round off the sad tale we brought back to life with some music?”
“It’s a bit late for music,” Primavera said, taking them by surprise, given that not long before she had been offering around the aguardiente and laughing. “My daughters are sleeping. I think it’d be best to make coffee, would you like some?”
The Bishop of Pasto thanked her by quickly clapping his hands.
“It’ll be coffee for the road,” he said. “We really must go, it won’t be long till dawn.”
“We need coffee,” said the mayor, and threw the professor a sardonic look.
Arcaín Chivo took another glass, in a hurry. He set off behind Primavera, who was already on her way down the corridor:
“Allow me to keep you company while you make that coffee, señora. Let me tell you another story about independence, one worthy of your ears.”
Primavera neither consented nor refused. She headed silently for the kitchen; she felt pursued by the professor as if by a dog, she thought, a dog sniffing about. The others had already picked up their conversation again, but, nonetheless, the professor did not go straight into the kitchen: he seemed to hesitate at the bend in the corridor, as if an inopportune moment of lucidity were going to prevent him committing his indiscretion. Then he went back to the living room, but no-one there paid him any attention now, they were once again embroiled in plans for the carnival float, the bishop insisting on scrapping the spectacle: “You’ll run into serious problems, Justo Pastor, nobody’s going to allow it.” Matías Serrano described the idea as picturesque, but pointless: he said the world would go on as ever.
Chivo sank down into his chair, panting. For a few minutes he felt sorry for the doctor, with his obvious efforts to get his influential friends to commit to the undertaking. Efforts the bishop and the mayor repaid with little conviction. “Count on us in any case,” the mayor said, “to the extent that we’re permitted.” The bishop fretted: “We need to arrange another get-together; we could meet on the second of January.” Chivo was watching them — how ugly they looked, he thought, how horrible, how old, how skeletal; cheerio, corpses, I’m out of here with the beauty, he yelled in his head. The bishop’s indifference encouraged him to drink more aguardiente, and to run stealthily in pursuit of the fleeing Primavera.
Primavera was in front of the stove, about to filter the coffee, when Professor Chivo came in, hot on her trail. Dishevelled, his face shiny with sweat, he threw himself without thinking at Primavera’s tiny feet — more naked than ever in the rope-soled alpargatas—he knelt before them as if in ecstasy and kissed her toes rapidly, silently, many times.
“What are you doing?” Primavera asked. And then provided the answer herself, unable to credit it: he’s kissing my feet.