r do die after all, said Cipriano Algor as he went into the house with the dog following behind him, having dropped off his son-in-law at work, I shouldn't think anyone ever doubted it, replied Marta, everyone knows they've got their own cemetery in there, You can't see the cemetery from the road, but you can see the smoke, What smoke, The smoke from the crematorium, There isn't a crematorium in the Center, There wasn't, but there is now, Who told you, marçal did, when we were driving down the avenue, I saw the smoke rising up from the roof, it's something they've been discussing, apparently, and now it's happened, according to marçal they were beginning to run out of space, What I find odd is the smoke, I'd have thought that modern technology would have done away with that, They might be experimenting and burning other things, old things that have gone out of fashion, like our plates, Forget about the plates, we've got lots of work to do, Well, I came home as quickly as I could, I dropped marçal at his work and drove straight back, said Cipriano Algor. He omitted the little detour that had allowed him to go past Isaura Estudiosa's house and did not realize that his words sounded like an excuse, or else he did realize, but was unable to avoid it. It's true that he had lacked the courage to stop the van and go and knock on the door of the widow of Joaquim Estudioso, but that was not the only reason why, to use a somewhat blunt expression, he lost his nerve, what he feared above all was finding himself standing like a fool in front of the woman and having nothing to say, and, in desperation, asking her about the water jug. One important doubt will remain forever unresolved, that is, had Cipriano Algor spoken for, say, two minutes with Isaura Estudiosa, would he have come into the house talking about death, smoke, and crematoria, or, on the contrary, would the pleasures of a doorstep conversation have brought a more pleasing subject to mind, for example, the return of the swallows and the abundance of flowers already blooming in the fields. Marta placed on the kitchen table the six designs from the last preparatory phase, in the order that they had chosen them, the jester, the clown, the nurse, the Eskimo, the mandarin, and the bearded Assyrian, identical to those sent to be judged by the head of the buying department, apart from one or two tiny differences of detail, which were not enough to consider them as different versions of the proposed figurines. Marta drew up a chair for her father, while she remained standing. He was resting his hands on the tabletop, looking at the drawings one by one, then he said, It's a shame we haven't got drawings of them in profile too, Why, To give us a clearer indication of how to make them, My idea, remember, was to make them all naked and then paint the clothes on afterward, But I don't honestly think that's a viable solution, Why not, You're forgetting that there are one thousand two hundred of them, Yes, I know there are one thousand two hundred of them, Well, modeling one thousand two hundred naked figurines and then putting clothes on each of them, one by one, would just be doing the same thing twice, it would double the workload, You're right, of course, it was stupid of me not to have thought of that, Well, if it comes to it, I was as stupid as you were, we thought the Center would choose at most three or four figurines, and it never occurred to either of us that the first order would be so large, So there's only one way of working, said Marta, Exactly, We model the six figurines that we will use for the molds, fire them, make the wooden mold frames, decide if we're going to work using casting slip or press molding, Well, I don't think we're experienced enough to use casting slip, knowing the theory of it simply isn't enough, we've always done press molding before, said Cipriano Algor, Fine, then that's what we'll continue to do, As for the mold frames, we can get a carpenter to make them, But first I've got to draw the profiles, said Marta, as well as the backs of the figurines, of course, You'll have to make it up, That won't be difficult, just a few simple lines to show the basic shape. They were two peaceful generals studying the operations map, drawing up strategy and tactics, calculating the costs, assessing the sacrifices to be made. The enemies to beat are these six dolls, half-serious, half-grotesque, made out of painted paper, they will have to be forced into surrender using the weapons of clay and water, wood and plaster, paints and fire, not to mention the tireless stroking of hands, for it is not only love that requires both stroking and hands. That was when Cipriano Algor said, There's one thing we must consider, we should have only two mold pieces, any more will just complicate matters further, Two would be enough I reckon, the dolls are very simple, just front and back and there you are, I daren't even think about the difficulties we would have had if we'd tried making the halberdier or the fencer, the navvy or the flautist, or the lancer on horseback, or the musketeer with his plumed hat, said Marta, Or the skeleton with wings and a scythe, or the holy trinity, said Cipriano Algor, Did it have wings, Which do you mean, The skeleton, Yes, it did, although Lord knows why they depict death with wings when death is everywhere, even in the Center, as I saw this morning, Does it date back to your youth that saying about how if you talk about a boat, it's because you want to embark, commented Marta, No, it's not, it's from the days of your great-grandfather, who never even saw the sea, and if his grandson keeps talking about boats, it's in order to remind himself that he doesn't want to set sail quite yet, Truce, Pa, Why, I see no white flag, Here it is, said Marta, giving him a kiss. Cipriano Algor gathered together the drawings, the battle plan had been drawn up, all that was needed now was to blow the bugle and give the order to attack, Forward, prepare for battle, but at the last mo ment he saw that a nail was missing from the shoe of a horse belonging to the general staff, the fate of the war might well depend on that horse, that horseshoe and that nail, everyone knows that a lame horse can carry no messages, or, if it does, it risks losing them along the way, There's one other thing, the last I hope, said Cipriano Algor, Now what, The molds, We've already discussed the molds, We've only discussed the matrixes, the wooden mold frames, which we'll keep, but what about the actual molds we'll use, we can't make two hundred figurines from just one mold, it wouldn't last very long, we'd start off with a clean-shaven clown and end up with a bearded nurse. Marta had looked away when she heard his first words, she felt the blood rushing to her face and she could do nothing to force it back down into the protective thickness of veins and arteries where shame and embarrassment go disguised as nonchalance and candor, the fault lay with that word, matrix, and the other words that spring from it, mater, maternity, maternal, the fault lay with her silence, Let's not say anything to my father just yet, she had said, and now she could not keep silent, it's true that being two days late, or even three if we count today, is nothing for most women, but she had always been exact, mathematical, very, very regular, a biological pendulum, so to speak, and had there been the slightest doubt in her mind she would not have immediately told marçal, but what should she do now, her father is waiting for a reply, her father is looking at her, bemused, she hadn't even laughed at his joke about the bearded nurse, she simply hadn't heard it, Why are you blushing, and she cannot possibly tell him that it's not true, that she isn't blushing, in a little while she will be able to say so, because she will suddenly grow pale, there is no defense against this telltale blood and its two opposing ways of pointing the finger, Pa, I think I'm pregnant, she said and lowered her eyes. Cipriano Algor's eyebrows suddenly shot up, the expression on his face changed from puzzlement to surprised perplexity to confusion, then he seemed to be looking for the most appropriate words in the circumstances, but could find only these, Why are you telling me now, why are you telling me like this, obviously she can't say, Oh, I suddenly remembered, there's been quite enough pretense already, It was because you used the word matrix, Did I really use that word, Yes, when you were talking about the molds, You're right, I did. The dialogue was sliding rapidly into absurdity, into comedy, Marta felt a mad desire to laugh, but then suddenly her eyes filled with tears, the color returned to her face, it is not uncommon for such opposing, contrary emotions to manifest themselves in such similar ways, I think I am, Pa, I think I'm pregnant, But you're not certain yet, Yes, I am, Why did you say that you only thought you were pregnant, then, Oh, I don't know, anxiety, nerves, it's the first time it's happened to me, Presumably marçal knows, Yes, I told him when he came home, So that's why you both seemed so different yesterday morning, Don't be silly, that's just your imagination, we were the same as we always are, And I suppose you think your mother and I were the same as we always were when we found out about you, No, of course not, forgive me. The question that Marta could see coming from the very beginning of that conversation finally arrived, So why didn't you tell me before, We've got quite enough to worry about, Pa, Do you see me looking worried now that I know, asked Cipriano Algor, Well, you don't look exactly happy, remarked Marta, trying to change the way the conversation was going, I'm happy inside, very happy, but you surely don't expect me to break into a dance, it's not really my style, Oh, Pa, I'm sorry, I've hurt you, Yes, you have, if I hadn't used that word matrix, how much longer would I have remained in ignorance of the fact that my daughter is pregnant, how much longer would I have looked at you without knowing that, Pa, please, Probably until it began to show, until you started to feel sick, then I would be the one asking are-you-ill-your-stomach's-all-distended, and you would say don't-be-silly-Pa-I'm-pregnant-and-I-forgot-to-tell-you, Pa, please, said Marta, crying now, today shouldn't be a day for tears, You're right, I'm being selfish, It's not that, No, I am being selfish, but I just can't understand why you didn't tell me, you mentioned worries, well, my worries are exactly the same as yours, the pottery, the pots, the dolls, the future, if you share one thing, you share them all. Marta quickly wiped away her tears with her hands, There was a reason, but it was just some childish idea of mine, imagining feelings that probably don't even exist, and if they do exist, I shouldn't be sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong, What are you talking about, what do you mean, asked Cipriano Algor, but his tone of voice had changed, that allusion to vague feelings whose existence seemed doubtful one minute and perfectly believable the next, had troubled him, I'm talking about Isaura Estudiosa, said Marta as if she were forcing herself to plunge into a bath of cold water, What, exclaimed her father, It's just that if you were interested in her, as it seems to me sometimes you are, I thought that perhaps coming to you and telling you that you're about to have a grandchild, look, I know it's silly, but I couldn't help it, Couldn't help what, Oh, I don't know, it might make you realize, perhaps make you think that, That I'm being imbecilic, ridiculous, Those are your words, not mine, Put another way, there's the old widower out preening himself and making sheep's eyes at the young widow woman, and along comes the old boy's daughter and tells him he's going to be a grandfather, which is tantamount to saying your time is up and all you can look forward to now is taking your little grandchild out for walks and giving thanks to heaven that you've lived so long, Oh, Pa, You will have great difficulty in convincing me that this wasn't precisely the sort of thinking that lay behind your decision to keep silent about something you should have told me about immediately, I'm so sorry, murmured Marta, giving up, and this time there was no holding back her tears. Her father slowly stroked her hair and said, It's all right, time is a master of ceremonies who always ends up putting us in our rightful place, we advance, stop, and retreat according to his orders, our mistake lies in imagining that we can catch him out. Marta took his hand, which he was about to withdraw, and kissed it, pressing it hard against her lips, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, she said again. Cipriano Algor tried to console her, but the words that came out, It's all right, nothing's that important, were probably not the best suited to the purpose. He went out into the yard with a vague sense that he had been unfair to his daughter, but, more than that, he was aware that he had just said about himself what until today he had refused to admit, that his time as a man had reached its end, that during the last few days a woman called Isaura Estudiosa had been merely a fantasy in his head, an illusion gladly accepted, a last invention by the mind for the consolation of his sad flesh, a trick played on him by the fading evening light, an ephemeral breeze that passed and left no trace, a tiny drop of rain that fell and soon evaporated. The dog Found noticed that once again his master was not in the best of moods, even yesterday, when he had gone to see him at the kiln, he had been surprised by the absent look on his face, that of someone who enjoys thinking about things that are hard to understand. He touched his master's hand with his cold, damp nose, someone really should have taught this primitive animal to proffer one of his front paws as all dogs trained in the social graces end up doing perfectly naturally, moreover, there is no other way of preventing the master's beloved hand from abruptly fleeing that contact, proof, if it were needed, that not all has been resolved in the relationship between human persons and canine persons, perhaps because that dampness and coldness awakens old fears in the most ancient part of our brain, the slow, viscous caress of some giant slug, the chill, undulating touch of a serpent, the glacial breath of a cave inhabited by beings from another world. So much so that Cipriano Algor really does withdraw his hand, although the fact that he immediately strokes Found's head, clearly by way of an apology, must be interpreted as a sign that one day he might react differently, always supposing, of course, that their shared life together lasts long enough for what currently manifests itself as instinctive repugnance to become mere habit. The dog Found cannot understand these subtleties, the use he makes of his nose is natural, it comes to him from nature, and is therefore more healthily authentic than the way humans shake each other's hands, however cordial that may seem to our eyes and touch. What the dog Found wants to know is where his master will go when he finally emerges from the state of distracted immobility in which he sees him now. In order to communicate to him that he is awaiting a decision, he again touches him with his nose, and when Cipriano Algor immediately headed off toward the kiln, Found's animal mind, which, regardless of what others may say, is the most logical of all the minds to be found in the world, led him to conclude that in the lives of humans once is never enough. While Cipriano Algor sat down heavily on the stone bench, the dog devoted himself to sniffing the large pebble from beneath which the lizard had appeared, but his master's evident concerns weighed more in his mind than the seductions of what would doubtless prove to be a futile hunt, and so it was not long before he had lain down in front of him, prepared for an interesting conversation. The first words that the potter said, So that's that, then, a precise, laconic sentence with no ifs, ands, or buts, did not seem to promise any further developments, however, in these cases, the best thing a dog can do is to remain silent until the silence of his master grows weary, dogs know that human nature is, by definition, a talkative one, imprudent, indiscreet, gossipy, incapable of closing its mouth and keeping it closed. Indeed, we can never imagine the abyssal depths of introspection reached by such an animal when it looks at us, we think he is doing simply that, looking, and we do not realize that he only appears to be looking at us, when the truth is that, having seen us, he moves on, leaving us to flounder like id