He grew oat, and he had a lot of livestock, mainly cows and goats, and he owned good pastures.
He was extremely active. He woke everyone up very early in the morning, and he himself worked hardest of all. His horse was white, with huge brown spots. He used to ride it round the farm all day long. Nobody could have a free moment till evening. He even abolished siesta[6] – the oldest of the traditions. “You will have eternal siesta when you decease,” he used to say. He sold his bacon in Cartagena. He hated to go to Bogotá. It took him a week to get to Cartagena, but he still preferred going there. He was fascinated by this seaside town. He felt a sort of nostalgia towards it, for he had spent there a year and a half.
He liked everything in this port: the harbor, the tourists, the exotic fruit, and the liners from Cuba, Honduras and Panama. In the evening, one could see a lot of various people sitting in the cheap restaurants and cafés scattered all along the beach. Some were drinking mulled wine, some others – grog; the sailors preferred brandy. They got dead drunk, and could get to their vessels with great difficulty. Drunken brawls and fisticuffs were too usual. He himself liked the Portuguese wine best of all. It cleared his mind and he felt sort of exhilirated. Then he was searching for the brawls and fights himself. He even felt some kind of drive at those instances. He was an excellent fighter. And he scarcely bit the sand. He was always carrying magnum 44 with him, and a navaha – a huge Spanish jack-knife. But he would never use them. It was only once that he stabbed a giant boatswain between his ribs. After the fight, he discovered two big wounds on his left arm, but he didn’t suffer for a long time; a Jamaican whore killed his pain in the hotel “Maracaibo.”.
He knew he belonged there, it was his own world, but he never stayed there for more than a week. His family was still his top priority.
He sent his sons to sell oat in Bogotá. He hated this huge city. The boys took after their mother – they were calm and never lost their balance. But they looked like their father – both were tall, healthy and handsome, and both reminded bronze sculptures.
He hardly spoke at home. He loved Esther, but he knew there was a huge difference between them. Sometimes her calmness got on his nerves. At such instances he rode his horse far from the farm and shot his magnum 44 at the dry tree until he used all his bullets. He killed his irritation in such a way. On coming home, he always regretted his behavior, for the bullets were scarce and pretty expensive.
He had taken part in rodeo several times, but couldn’t show good results. So, in the end, he started to hate this cowboy fun.
He was a successful farmer but never considered himself a cowboy. He hated everything that was related to the countryside; even the country music.
Once he brought a gramophone from Cartagena and listened to the urban songs all day long. He was looking forward to visiting Cartagena again. When the date of the trip was near, he felt very excited and delighted. He dreamt of the port at night – its bars and the Portuguese wine, the laughing women with guitars, the drunken brawls of the sailors, the southern dances, and the sleepless nights at his favorite “Maracaibo”.
In the morning he would enjoy some cold beer and a pleasant talk with some sailors on the verandah. It was always him who paid for the beer, and they talked about the high tides in the bay of California, about the dangers of the port Lapas, about the shipwreck at Barbados, and about the disastrous aftermaths of the tsunami on the cost of Paramaribo.
Then his thoughts would carry him back to his farm: “Ester never understood me; the boys follow in her footsteps too. I hate cows. If it were up to me, I would burn down those oat fields.”
Thus thinking, he walked along the shore. Then he approached the ship “Guainia” and asked one of the sailors:
“Where are you going, buddy?”
“To Vera-cruses”.
“At what time are you leaving”?
“At dawn, when the high tide comes in”.
“Don’t you need a help on board? I mean a free help?”
The sailor looked at him in amazement.
“You must have drunk too much, man.”
“No, I’m sober, I swear. I don’t need your money, and I can work hard!”
“What’s your name?”
“Camillo Chaver.”
“All right. I’ll talk to the assistant captain.”
And the sailor went slowly up the gangway.
Soon the sailor appeared on the deck together with the assistant captain. He pointed to Camillo and said something laughing. Then they waved at him inviting him on board.
“So, my dear man, explain to me what you want.”
“Nothing much. I’d like to get to Vera-cruses. I’ll do any job free. Then we’ll see.”
The assistant captain hesitated for some time. Then he asked:
“Is the police after you?”
“Oh, no!” Camillo Chaver answered crossing himself.”
“Okay. We’re leaving at five in the morning. Be here at five sharp. We can’t wait for you.”
“I’ll be here,” Camillo said beaming all over, “By all means!”
That evening he wrote a letter sitting on the verandah, and asked the waiter to send it. Then he went to bed in the room of his favorite hotel for the last time.
This is what the letter said:
My dear Ester,
I’m sure, you will understand me and explain everything to the boys properly. I am not able to proceed like this any longer. I have always hated the cows, and the goats, and the oat. God be my witness, it’s not my calling. I’ve been trying to get used to it for twenty long years, but nothing came out. It seems, I can never make a good farmer because I am a nomad deep in my heart. I love you! And I ask you to understand me and forgive me. Tomorrow I’m leaving for Vera-cruses. If anything good is going to come out of my venture, I’ll let you know. Then sell everything and join me there. I know, it will be rather hard for you, but if you still love me and want to be with me, you should do as I tell you.. If I don’t find a proper job and can’t settle down there, then I have no idea what will become of us. What I know for sure is that I can never be able to live in the country, and I can’t return to the farm.
Yours forever,
Camillo.
P.S. Give my love to the boys and ask them to forgive me if they can.
***
At dawn “Guainia” announced by a loud signal that she was leaving Cartagena.
***
Four months later, there came a note to the farm “Guapore”. The note was sent from the Prefecture of the Mexican town Siudad-Madderos. It said:
Your husband, Camillo Chaver, deceased from the multiple wounds that he got in a street fight. He has been buried in the cemetery in the outskirts of the town Santa-Cruses.
Best regards,
Emilio Corrominas,
The prefect of the town Siudad-Madderos.
A FRAGMENT
Gio was delirious all night through. His face was covered with big round drops. The drops got together and ran down his face onto the pillow. He could feel nothing. Only his body convulsed strangely at times. Someone changed the bottle on his drip twice at night. The drops disappeared in turns in the plastic drain.
It was rather stuffy in the room. The windows didn’t open and there was an odd smell in the whole building.
He didn’t remember anything. He had been wounded in the evening and was operated on late at night. Another youth had been wounded on the way to the hospital too, but nothing serious was the matter with him.