At last I hear the terrified voice of a man.
“Throw that good and far away, profesor. What are you doing?”
Then the echo of another voice, a woman, shooing the children away.
“Go home,” she yells.
The children do not obey. Silent, impassive, they are surely waiting to see an old man blow up in front of them, never supposing that they too would be blown up. The doors of more houses open, the woman’s voice is now screeching.
I head straight for the cliff. I cross the street in front of Mauricio Rey’s house, almost running. I stop at the edge of the cliff. Now the children come too close, one of them, the smallest one, naked from the waist down, is even holding onto my sleeve.
“Get away from here,” I say.
Sweat forces me to close my eyes. I am sure that when I raise my arm and throw the grenade, just from the force I shall need to use to throw it, it will blow up in my hand and I will burst apart, surrounded by children, accompanied by a bunch of children; God knows, sooner or later someone in town will laugh about this: When Professor Pasos blew up he took with him a good number of children, I say to myself, noticing the hard surface of the grenade in my hand, an animal with jaws of fire that will dissolve me in a breath; if I were alone, at least, this would be painless, I would no longer have to wait for you; Otilia, did I not tell you that I would be the first to go?
The children remain behind me, I make one last and vain attempt to get rid of them, I endeavor to scare them with gestures, and, instead, they crowd closer around me, voices of men and women call them from afar. I raise my hand and throw the animal over the cliff, we hear the bang, we are dazzled by the little flashes leaping up from below, the colorful lights that thunderously climb the branches of the trees, to the sky. I turn to the children: their faces are happy, absorbed — as if they were watching fireworks.
I return home, past the flushed faces of women; they have only just heard and have come for their children; some hug them, others scold them, spank them as if it were their fault, I think, hearing that the men are questioning me, for now it is men and women who follow me.
“Where was that grenade, profesor?”
“On my street,” and inside, I am riddled with a shame I cannot yet admit: I forgot about that grenade for months: the grass must have grown up around it, covering it — I think, to justify myself — disguising it as a grey flower, burying it.
Men and women come home with me, and come in, as if into their own homes. What are we celebrating? Who have we defeated? It is better this way, it has been ages since anyone came into this house as if for an impromptu party; what if Otilia suddenly appeared from the kitchen? They congratulate me, someone chants my name, more people find out, in a minute; I only want to sit down and read my daughter’s letters, but on my own. Impossible. Now Chepe arrives with those who were drinking at his café. One of them hands me a shot of aguardiente, which I drink down in one. People applaud. I notice my hand shaking: was I afraid? Of course I was afraid, I have wet myself, I discover, but not from fear, I repeat, it is old age, just old age — and I go into my room to change my clothes. There no shame invades me, it is not my fault that I have lost my memory, no old man is at fault for that, I tell myself I have put on a fresh pair of trousers and stay like that, sitting on the bed, the letters in my hand. I recognize my daughter’s handwriting again, but I want to read them alone, I shall have to see these friends out.
“What’s the matter, profesor?” they call from the other side of the door. “Come out and see us,” and they laugh and applaud when I come out. “Profesor, don’t you have any music?”
The same children who found the grenade walk around the garden, probably looking for more grenades to prolong the party, admiring the tree split down the middle, the carbonized orange tree, the rubble of the fish pond, the withered flowers among the remains — Otilia will be sad when she comes back, because I forgot to water her flowers.
Several of the neighborhood women take over the kitchen, they light the coal stove and make coffee for everyone.
“What do you live on, profesor? God will have to take pity on you, Otilia will be back, have faith, we pray for her every day.”
The two Survivors, filled with fear, watch the crowd from the wall. Through the breach appears the black figure of Geraldina, accompanied by her dumbstruck son. Some of the ladies tell her about the grenade. Again I am offered a shot, which I drink again, in one gulp.
The truth is — I tell Chepe in secret, as if shouting — I would have liked to blow myself up, but alone.
“I know what you mean, profesor, I know what you mean,” he tells me, with reddened eyes.
From the group of women Ana Cuenco and Rosita Viterbo come forward and take me aside.
“Profesor, why don’t you come home with us, with our families?” they ask me.
I tell them I do not understand.
“We beg you, profesor, we’ve got it all arranged, we’re going today. In Bogotá you can wait for Otilia, from there things will seem clearer. Or go to your daughter’s house, but go as soon as you can, leave this town.”
“I am not leaving,” I tell them. “It hadn’t occurred to me.”
After beating around the bush a little they say they want to buy, to take with them as a souvenir, our old wooden Saint Anthony.
“He is miraculous, and, in any case, we will take better care of him for Otilia than you can.”
“Miraculous?” I say. “Well, he forgot to bring any miracles here,” and I tell them they can have the wooden saint. “You can take it whenever you want.”
They do not need to be told twice, they know their way. With extreme care, it seems to me, they disappear with the small statue of Saint Anthony, cradled in their arms like a baby, just when I start to have doubts and wonder whether Otilia would agree with my decision to give it to them, but I do not manage to call them: at that moment people make way for someone and pull back from me, as if pointing me out.
It is the young journalist, the cameraman, two officers.
“Allow me to congratulate you,” she says, and holds out a soft hand, too soft, with which she gently pulls me to her. And she has given me a kiss on the cheek without letting go of my hand: it is the same smile she uses to begin her broadcasts.
The cameraman sets up his camera, leans for a moment over the instrument, presses one of the buttons.
“Just a couple of questions, profesor,” she goes on saying.
She smells of soap, as if she had just bathed; why should the smell of soap on a woman unsettle me at this time? She is beautiful, her hair red and damp, the white hat in her hand, but she does not seem real, beside me. She and her cameraman strike me as otherworldly; what world do they come from? They smile with rare indifference; is it the dark sunglasses? They want to be quick, you can tell from the way they move, she says something else to me, which I do not hear, I do not want to listen, I make an effort to understand her, she is simply carrying out her work, she could be my own daughter working, but she could not be my daughter, I do not want to speak nor can I: I take a step back, with a finger I point to my mouth, once, twice, three times, indicating that I am mute.
She half opens her mouth, and looks at me in disbelief, as if she is going to laugh. No. Something like indignation inspires her.
“What a rude man,” she says.
“Today the teacher has decided to be mute,” someone yells.
An explosion of laughter follows.
I go to my room, close the door, and there I stay, standing with my forehead resting against the wood, hearing the people gradually leave. The nearby mewing of the Survivors encourages me to come out. There is nobody in the house, but they have left the door open. What time is it? Unbelievable: it is nightfall. Not even hunger tells me the time anymore. I have to remind myself to eat. I must have forgotten, surely, because there is no power. I go to the front door, out by the pavement, and sink into Otilia’s chair, to wait for her, while I read María’s letters in the last light of dusk. In both letters she tells us the same thing: to come and live with her, in Popayán, that her husband thinks so too, that he demands it. She asks that you write to her, Otilia, wonders why you have not written. Now I shall have to write for you. And what shall I tell her? I shall tell her that Otilia is unwell, that she cannot write and sends her greetings; it will be bad news — but with a scrap of hope, a thousand times better than telling her the worst is true, that her mother is missing. We still do not want to leave, I shall tell her; what should we leave for, at this stage? Those would be your own words, Otilia: but thank you for the offer and may God bless you, we will keep your support in mind, but will have to think about it: we need time to leave this house, time to leave what we have to leave, time to pack up what we need to take, time to say goodbye forever, time for time. If we have spent our whole lives here, why not a few weeks more? We are still hoping that the situation here will change, and if it does not change then we shall see, or we shall go or we shall die, as God wills, let God’s will be done, whatever pleases God, whatever he feels like.