“Like us,” Puelles said.
“What can come of it?” the doctor repeated.
“Dreams, you said it.”
The last groups of children were dispersing now: kids with their costumes over their shoulders, almost asleep, some still singing, holding their parents’ hands, others whistling, climbing trees, precariously balanced, rebellious birds, we don’t want to go home, it’s Carnavalito. Were they actually drunk? Very possibly, Rodolfo Puelles replied; the doctor said children were happy because they did not know about love. And above all they don’t know about old age, the young Puelles added. They laughed over that for a minute, ludicrously, howling, choking, they could hardly manage to speak, saying in unison: “poor kids when they get old.”
Another great swig steadied them.
A truck went by, full of young people protesting about the shoddy government, political slogans right in the middle of Carnavalito — against Yankee imperialism, against the bloodsucking oligarchy: “And the living and the dumb, kill them every one,” they chorused, “And the donkey and the horse, one by one, of course.” So the revolution comes from there, the doctor said. Did Puelles really believe in that? Revolution with those animals, no way, Puelles rebelled. Revolutionaries killing to left and right, the doctor went on, did you hear them? They included donkeys and horses on their list, with such a project in hand I don’t think they’ll die in the attempt, they’ll die old, still trying. I’m not involved in that anymore, Puelles said, exasperated. How to proclaim it to the four corners of the earth that he was a poet, that when he spoke, he was voicing his poetry? If I was up to it, I’d recite at the top of my voice all this humorous love that is springing from my pores, and sooner or later some girl would redeem me, he thought.
They were sitting very close together on one of the wooden benches in the children’s park, a few blocks from the doctor’s house, their clothes soggy with aguardiente; someone had stolen the doctor’s hat — a hand stretching down from a balcony — Puelles’s eyes were red, staring, as if he were hallucinating, his hands were shaking, they were each drinking from their own bottle; my problem, Puelles suddenly said as if renouncing life, isn’t being alone, it’s being with myself, Doctor, imagine a man who couldn’t even be friend to a dog anymore. Want me to tell you something, señor? I’ve killed; do you realize what I just said? I’m a murderer; do you know what that means? It takes an enormous effort just for me to be with myself, and Puelles wondered if he was going to cry. Don’t say that, the doctor said and tried to stand up, or are you going to murder me? Never — Puelles said in surprise — and the doctor countered: one death is enough? Better kill me off at once, don’t keep me hanging about, and a shared fit of the giggles surfaced again, choking them, the doctor attempted to get up and did not manage it.
“I have to go home,” he said, “Mandarina can wait till tomorrow.”
“Doctor,” Puelles asked, facing him, and clutching one of his arms, “why don’t you leave Bolívar in peace? Put an end to this aggravation and everything will be alright.” The doctor waved his hands about, drank:
“You can’t leave the dead in peace if they won’t leave the living in peace,” he announced. “Well,” he corrected himself, stunned, “I thought that once, now I don’t know what I think. I’m at peace with the living and the dead: the, only, thing, I, want, is, to, love.”
“Really?” Puelles said, reviving. “Go back to the merry widow? You’re after fresh bread, how lovely she is, widows here are often almost girls, Doctor; pastures new for the old bull, eh?” Unlike the doctor, Puelles was able to get up and he opened his arms wide, flapped them, leapt up onto the bench, pulled himself erect — my freedom takes flight within me, he shouted without knowing why, still as a statue, the doctor sat looking up at him from below. Statues have mattered very little to me my whole life, but today I started to despise them; there are a great many statues in Pasto to pull down, we could do it — the doctor proposed excitedly — it always seemed outrageous to me that such a cretin of Liberty should have it his own way all these years, his great big lie rides through every village on horseback, every park, every town square, inside every brick — it should be buried in Pasto cemetery. What good does it do to broadcast that truth? I don’t know, but I’m not going to stop my float from fulfilling its destiny: it is my hope, do you see? So — Puelles said, apropos of nothing, as if in response — you don’t believe they torture our lot? Of course, the doctor said — it seemed they had been talking about torture for ages — and I’m sure, what’s more, that you people torture the others, and torture comes and torture goes, and generations pass by. The doctor tried to get up again, a hand stopped him, he sat down — what was Professor Arcaín Chivo doing there? Since when?
So, Arcaín Chivo, emeritus educator, was sitting beside him, and his probable A-grade student was standing opposite them, swaying and listening, how much time had gone by? Am I imagining you, Chivo? — the doctor asked. You’re not imagining me, Justo Pastor, I was passing by and stumbled upon you celebrating Carnavalito like any other child in the park, and you look happy, but I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you: it sometimes falls to us to be the bearers of bad tidings. Matías has left us — departed — our dear Matías Serrano died in his sleep, last night. What were you doing, Justo Pastor? We’ve looked all over Pasto for you. The doctor shrugged, as if it did not matter. Just from that, Professor Chivo was able to judge the extent of his drunkenness, he reproached him: And what’ll we do when all our friends start dying, Justo Pastor, just shrug? The doctor shrugged again, but this time he spoke: We’ll die too, what if we didn’t? How would one go on living among strangers? The professor gave up, his eyes found the explanation in the empty bottles of aguardiente scattered around and the ghostly student swaying about listening to them, so he repeated his greeting: You look happy, Justo Pastor, and in the company of this disoriented soul, no less. Your name is Rodolfo Puelles, am I right? Thanks for reminding me, Puelles said, I needed the orientation, either I’m very young or you’re very old. Don’t mention it, Chivo replied, and became animated. Indignant? Well, yes, he said, the world is divided into young and old, would you like me to finish orienting you? I know very well who you are, you’re one of Enrique Quiroz’s merry band, am I right? More disoriented souls. What do you know about orientation? Puelles said, and spat. Chivo pounced: Would you like me to remind you of Kierkegaard? — he asked — disorientation ensues because one comes to speak highly of the opposite of what one would really like to, such as occurs when one moves abstractly within dialectic definitions, where not only does it happen that a person says one thing and refers to another, but one says the other: what one thinks one says, one does not say, but quite the opposite. Do you follow me? Do at least try to understand me, as you won’t later. Oh, what a hassle it is to catch your drift — Puelles said — and the doctor added: Chivo my friend, you seem drunker than we are — he was trying in vain to stand up — did Matías really die in his sleep? What a very wise way to die — and once again he could not get up. Let me help you, I’ll take you home, Chivo said. Leave him with me, I’ll take him, Puelles said. Nobody need take me, I’ll take myself — the doctor failed to get up — what was he dreaming about when he died? Either I get up or I’m done for, I must get back to the woman who doesn’t love me, my wife.