“Those are not even worth the float’s hooter,” Zulia Iscuandé said.
“Very good, Señora Zulia,” Don Furibundo replied. “I should have let you have your say from the beginning. You’re right. I didn’t come here to offer these chickens in exchange for your goodwill. These are for you to cook and for us to sit down to eat and talk like friends and negotiate. Now,” he said, scratching his head, “if you are not decent enough to negotiate like this, I’m going to stop wasting your time: either you take the float apart or I’ll get drunk and tear it apart with my bare hands and then I’ll shoot the lot of you. I’m only too aware you’ve worked all year on this mockery, but is it my fault I only just found out about it? Just yesterday a little bird came to my window and asked me to please pop in to Maestro Abril’s workshop, as they were preparing a nice carnival surprise for me. I didn’t believe it at first, but I came along, and what do I see? I see that anything’s possible in Pasto when it comes to making fun of your fellow man and that it’s me who’s the victim. No, Tulio. I won’t allow it. I’ll blow you to bits, float and all, right now, all by myself, unaided.”
“No-one, not you, not anybody will make me take this float apart,” Maestro Abril said, unmoved.
And then:
“Fire as many bullets as you like.”
It was as if he considered the conversation over.
“Your wife has more common sense,” Don Furibundo replied. “She said six chickens aren’t worth the hooter. And she’s right.”
Zulia Iscuandé opened her mouth, but did not say a word.
“How much is first prize?” Don Furibundo asked everyone.
No-one answered.
“How much did the winning float get this past January?” he asked again, encouraging them. And as they still did not answer he added: “I’m playing my last card here, gentlemen, how much?”
“Lots of pesos,” came the sudden voice of one of the men who worked with Maestro Abril.
“Lots of pesos?” Don Furibundo laughed. “Well, find out how many there are in lots and I’ll sign you a promissory note for the same amount right now, and Bob’s your uncle, we all live happily ever after.”
Tulio Abril looked reproachfully at the artisan who had spoken. Then he sought out his wife, and, lastly, Don Furibundo. With great sadness in his voice, he said: “It can’t be done, señor, forgive me.”
“It can be done, Tulio. It can. Everything in this life can be done. In the next life, I don’t know. In this one, it can. Remember what our grandmas used to say: Yesterday came the dressmaker, tomorrow comes the undertaker. That means, in pure Pasto-ese: eat, drink and be merry. Think again, Tulio. Here, in front of my friend Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso Lopéz, I give my word of honour that you will get the same amount of money as the winning float in the carnival. Isn’t that enough for you? This is the money I pay for the work you have put into mocking me this year, it’s me that comes out the loser, dammit, don’t you get it? Where has this been seen before? Paying so as not to be made fun of? In Pasto, of course. You’re the one who should be paying me, you great prick, for mocking me.”
He did not manage to say any more. He could not. But he left the workshop unhurriedly, like someone going for a walk, and got into his Willys. Doctor Proceso wondered if he should accompany him, speak to him, calm him down, leave with him, but Don Furibundo did not start the engine: he simply sat behind the steering wheel, sighed, scratched one cheek, smoothed down his hair, leant towards the glove compartment.
“He’s taken out a bottle of aguardiente,” one of the smallest boys reported, perched on top of the wall, right at the corner by the doorway. “He’s drinking it, he’s still drinking it, he’s drinking it all up, he’s started to get drunk.”
“Are you Doctor Justo Pastor?” Maestro Abril asked meanwhile. His wife and the artisans had already gathered around the doctor.
“God bless you again,” his wife said, “forgive us for not recognizing you, would you like a nice cup of coffee?”
“Salvador, Salvador, where’s Salvador?” Maestro Abril asked all around.
One of the children came forward; he was just like all the others: ragged, face black with mud.
“Say how do you do to Doctor Justo Pastor, who helped you come into the world,” the maestro said, and Salvador held out his hand. At that same moment they heard from the boy up on the wall. A sort of delighted astonishment was apparent in his voice.
“Now he’s drinking another bottle. He’ll get even drunker.”
They all turned to look at the Willys: Furibundo Pita was slugging down what was left of a second bottle of aguardiente, as if it were water.
“If he carries on drinking at that rate he’s going to die,” Zulia Iscuandé said.
“And now what are we going to do?” the maestro asked his wife. “What are we going to do with that bastard? By God, I’m not about to wreck my float, Zulia, not for all the money in the world.”
“You should consider it,” his wife said.
Her husband’s steadfast gaze dissuaded her.
They heard the shattering of a bottle against the pavement: it was Don Furibundo, who had just smashed the bottle and got out of the Willys. His budding drunkenness clouded his eyes, he came straight towards the maestro, faced him once more:
“So?”
After an encouraging silence, came the maestro’s voice:
“No.”
And, very earnestly:
“Go back where you came from, señor. If you don’t want to see the float, don’t see it: don’t go out that day, pretend you don’t exist. Sooner or later everyone will forget all about it.”
“Dammit!” Don Furibundo was stunned. “I’m offering you what you’d win for first prize, and all because you’re making fun of me. What more do you want, Tulio, tell me what more you could possibly want? Tell me!”
Zulia Iscuandé sighed deeply.
The other artisans were also noticeably rattled: the thing was, hand on heart, during that whole year working on “Don Furibundo Chasing his Wife”—that was what the float was called — they had never imagined getting first prize. Maybe third, if God was on their side. So the offer unsettled them to the point of exasperation.
“Convince this pig-headed fool,” Don Furibundo urged them.
“No,” the maestro replied, “Nobody here is going to convince me of anything, and nobody comes here to shout at me either.”
“Well I won’t shout any more then,” Don Furibundo shouted. His voice had changed. He had become someone else.
And again they saw him run off towards his car.
Instinctively, they all took a step backwards.
This man is truly insane, the doctor thought, witnessing Furibundo Pita dash off, get in the jeep and poke about in the glove compartment again. They thought he might be looking for another bottle. He was not.
“He’s got out a gun,” the watchboy exclaimed, his delight now running over.
And so he had: Furibundo Pita came at them flat out, brandishing the weapon, his face ablaze. Maestro Abril set off at a run too, and could think of no better direction to head in than where the float was being built: he disappeared behind the monumental shape, closely followed by Furibundo.
And it was while watching Furibundo Pita pelt past that Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso Lopéz suddenly realized who it was he looked like.
“Simón Bolívar,” he said out loud. “He’s identical.” He was able to confirm this by lifting his eyes to the colossal figure on the float—“It’s Simón Bolívar himself”—because, in fact, the Furibundo Pita on the float looked even more like Simón Bolívar, but a hundred times bigger, he really was just as portrayed by the artists of the time, the selfsame so-called Liberator, Simón Bolívar, he thought.