Because the last time there was dancing.
“Let them dance,” Hortensia Galindo said, coming out to the lighted patio, where the young people were happily switching partners. “Marcos would like it. He always was, and is, a joyful man. The best party will be the day he comes home.”
That was last year, and Father Albornoz left, extremely annoyed by her decision.
“So he could be alive, or he could be dead,” he said, “but either way, there has to be dancing.” And he left the house.
He could not have heard, nor did he want to hear, Hortensia Galindo’s reply.
“Even if he is dead: it was on the dance floor that I fell in love with him.”
* * *
We do not know if after what happened Father Albornoz will want to call on Hortensia Galindo today. Possibly not. My wife and I wonder as we cross the town. Hortensia’s house is on the far side from ours, and, arm in arm, we encourage each other to walk, or rather, she encourages me; the only exercise I take these days is climbing the ladder, stretching as far as I can, as if on a vertical bed, and collecting the oranges from the trees of my orchard; it is enjoyable exercise, unhurried, that suits me in the morning hours — what with all there is to look at.
Walking has become torture for me of late: my left knee hurts, my feet swell; but I do not complain in front of others, as my wife does, of varicose veins. Nor do I want to use a walking stick; I do not go to see Dr. Orduz because I am sure he would prescribe a stick, and I associate these sticks with death and have done so since I was a boy: the first dead man I saw, as a child, was my grandfather, leaning against his avocado tree, his head drooping, straw hat covering half his face, and a walking stick made from a guayacan branch between his knees, his stiff hands fastened to the handle. I thought he was asleep, but soon I heard my grandmother crying: “So you’ve finally died and left me, tell me what should I do now, die myself?”
“Listen,” I say to Otilia. “I want to think about what you said last night. You’ve made me ashamed to face people, what was that about me drooling in the streets? No, don’t answer. I’d rather be by myself for a few minutes. I’m going to drink a cup of coffee at Chepe’s and I’ll catch up with you.”
she stops walking and stares at me openmouthed.
“Do you feel alright?”
“I’ve never felt better. It’s just that I don’t want to go to Hortensia’s yet. I’ll be there soon.”
“Good that you’ve learned your lesson,” she says. “But it’s not the end of the world.”
Right where we are, on the corner of the street, is Chepe’s café. It is five in the afternoon and the tables — the ones near the pavement — are empty still. I make for one of those tables. My wife does not move: she is a white dress with red flowers in the middle of the road.
“I’ll wait for you there,” she says. “Don’t be long. It’s bad manners for a couple to come calling at separate times.” And she goes on her way.
I take hold of the nearest chair, drop into it. My knee is boiling inside. “Oh, God,” I sigh to myself, “I’m still here only because I have been incapable of killing myself.”
"What music would you like to hear, profesor?”
Chepe has emerged from his shop, and brings me a beer.
“Whatever music you prefer, Chepe, and I don’t want beer, thank you, bring me a coffee good and black, please.”
“Why the long face, profesor? It bores you to visit Hortensia? The food is good there, is it not?”
“Tired, Chepe, tired from a short walk. I promised to join Otilia in ten minutes.”
“Well then, I’m going to bring you a coffee so black you won’t be able to sleep.”
But he puts the beer down on the table.
“Compliments of the house.”
Despite the cooling afternoon, the other pain, the one within, persists in burning my knee: all the heat of the earth seems to take refuge there. I drink half the beer, but the fire in my knee has become so unbearable that, after making sure Chepe is not keeping an eye on me from behind the counter, I roll up my trouser leg and pour the rest of the beer over my knee. Even this does nothing for the burning. “I’ll have to go and see Orduz,” I say to myself, resigned.
It begins to get dark; the street lights come on: yellow and weak, they produce large shadows, as if instead of illuminating they darken. I do not know how long a table next to mine has been occupied by two ladies; two chattery birds that I remember, two ladies who were once my pupils. And they see that I see them.
“Profesor,” says one of them.
I reply to her greeting by bowing my head.
“Profesor,” she repeats.
I recognize her, and begin to remember: was it her? When she was a little girl, at primary school, behind the dusty schoolyard cacao trees, I saw her hitch up the skirt of her uniform and show herself split in the middle to a little boy, barely a step away, possibly more frightened than she was, both of them blushing and stupefied; I didn’t say anything to them: how could I have interrupted them? I wonder what Otilia would have done in my place.
The women are old now, though quite a bit younger than Otilia; they were my pupils, I remind myself, flaunting my memory, I identify them: Rosita Viterbo, Ana Cuenco. Now each of them has more than five children, at least. The boy who was disturbed by Rosita’s charm, the hitching up of her skirt, was it not Emilio Forero? Always solitary, he was not yet twenty when he was killed, in the street, by a stray bullet, without anyone knowing who, where from, how.
They greet me with affection.
“How hot it was at midday, wasn’t it, profesor?”
I do not respond, however, to their apparent appeal for a chat; I go on as if I had not heard: let them think me senile. Beauty overwhelms, dazzles: I could never keep from averting my eyes from the eyes of the beauty who looks back, but the mature woman, like these who brush hands as they talk, or the women full of old age, or those ones who are much older than those full of age, tend to be only good or great friends, faithful confidantes, wise advisers. They do not inspire my compassion (any more than I inspire it), or love either (any more than I inspire it). Someone young and unknown is always more bewitching.
That is what I am thinking — like an invocation — when I hear someone call me “sir” and the air beside me is permeated by the musky draught of the slender Geraldina, accompanied by her son and Gracielita. They sit down at my pupils’ table; Geraldina orders curuba juice for everyone, greets the ladies warmly, questions them, they reply yes, we too are going to Hortensia’s house, and we are here — adds Ana Cuenco — because look what a fine example the teacher sets, as soon as we saw him we felt like keeping him company while he had a rest.
“Thanks for that,” I say. “All the same, when I die will you keep me company?”
Unanimous and singsong laughter surrounds me: more than feminine, it slips through the air, crosses the night: what forest am I in, with little birds?
“Don’t be a pessimist, sir”—Geraldina is speaking, and everything seems to indicate that she will never again call me neighbor—”maybe we’ll die first.”