The boy went back to his room. He felt like going after him and slapping him to make him water the carnations. He was sure the boy had heard him. “It doesn’t matter.” He didn’t feel like doing anything either. If it was less hot, he could have gone to the cinema. Gone out. Dropped everything and left.
The boy came back to the dining room and went up to him.
“Good night, Papà.”
He knew both of them were thinking about the unwatered carnations. He would go to bed too, and if he couldn’t sleep because of the heat, he would go out on the balcony and lie on the floor till morning. He took off his shirt, his trousers, all his clothes, and slipped into bed gently, to avoid waking his wife. Perhaps he would see her again tomorrow. His wife turned over. She was small and weak. She had been very sick three or four years ago and looked the worse for it. She tired easily and coughed all winter. The doctor said it wasn’t anything serious. All of a sudden, she sighed. A brief sigh, just enough to show she was alive. He was filled with grief. Yes, a deep grief, without really knowing why.
GUINEA FOWLS
They had just moved. This was the first night in the new apartment. Everything was upside down, utter chaos: clothes not hung in the wardrobes, pans and plates on the dining room floor, lamps unassembled, bags of coal in the hall beside the sewing machine, two mirrors parked in a corner facing the wall, some paintings and a calendar on the table.
Quimet had slept poorly. Through a chink in the poorly adjusted shutter, a stream of light, straight as a sword, filtered into the room as soon as it was day, and with it came all the noise of the market. He dreamt that an older boy was eating a chocolate bar and turning black little by little.
His mother washed his face and combed his hair. He had a stubborn cowlick in the middle of his head that nothing could tame, a skinned knee, rather dirty nails, a brown freckle on his forehead, and ears that were somewhat fan-like.
“Go down and play. Just be sure you don’t leave the square. Here’s some bread and chocolate. When you’ve eaten it, come up and drink your milk. Be a good boy now and don’t eat the chocolate by itself.”
Wearing baggy, knee-length trousers, made from an old pair of his father’s, and a white, faded sweater that was a little too tight, Quimet went out onto the landing.
He bit into the slice of bread; when he finished it, he would eat the chocolate. It was better by itself: sweet and soft. It stuck to your teeth and the roof of your mouth. With his tongue he would gradually loosen it, and it would turn into heavenly syrup. Slowly, he trudged down the stairs, one hand on the banister, moving cautiously, a step at a time.
He went outside and sat down on the doorstep, feeling out of place. The plaça was round, not too large, intersected by four streets. The market stood in the center. It had four tall portals, each one facing a street, draped with large red-and-white-striped canvas curtains.
Quimet glanced around. The sky was cloudy, discolored, an autumn sky free of swallows. The garbage was piled up in front of him, at the edge of the sidewalk. As he munched calmly on the bread, he poked through the pile and discovered a bouquet of wilted flowers, a dark, still fresh carnation, cabbage and lettuce leaves, leak stems, and a few squashed tomatoes full of shiny white seeds. He was tempted to pick up the seeds and put them in the empty matchbox in his pocket; he could plant them in a flowerpot and put it on the balcony. But he was feeling lazy after the sleepless night. His thumb started worming a hole into the chocolate bar.
Women scurried past with their baskets and disappeared into the market, from which a loud din emerged. An old woman with a wart on the tip of her chin marched resolutely by, carrying a shopping basket filled with goods. She almost bumped into him. A rabbit’s head was sticking out of one side of the basket. He was spellbound. Those huge ears and the pink, nervous-looking snout, the long whiskers just waiting to be pulled. .
On the opposite side he saw a man dressed in blue approaching, pushing a wagon filled to the top with poultry cages. Hens and chickens poked their heads through the wooden bars. In the top cage, mixed with the hens, a white Asian goose was stretching its long neck. It had a striking yellow beak and black eyes like pins with glass heads.
If he were mine, Quimet thought, I’d tie a rope around his leg and take him for a walk. I’d call him Avellaneta, Little Hazelnut.
He stood up and followed the man with the wagon. When the man reached the entrance to the market, he began to unload the cages.
Quimet planted himself in front of the man and stared intently at him. The man picked up a cage and entered the market; Quimet followed. The boy had the impression that the goose had noticed. Those inexpressive eyes were fixed on him.
The light inside the market was rather gloomy. Huge stacks of vegetables and fruit sat on the shelves and counters. Vendors were talking to shoppers. An explosion of color and life. A large bushel of eggplants was flanked by two small baskets — one holding plump, ripe, red tomatoes, the other thin green beans. A complex scent of flowers and fish wafted from the stalls at the back.
Quimet and the wagon man reached the poultry area. From iron hooks hung dead rabbits, chickens with wings crossed meekly across their backs, dappled partridges, geese partially split open with fatty stomachs, their flesh bloody.
All of a sudden the racket of flapping wings made him raise his head. He was petrified.
Five Guinea fowls were hanging by their necks in a row. The last one was still struggling, flapping its wings, uselessly attempting to fly. Two tall, stout men had stopped to watch.
“They don’t kill them like that in my country.”
A wasted-looking woman dressed in mourning ran the stall. She was wearing an apron and white oversleeves, her thin lips tightly shut. She was absorbed in her work. Without waiting for the hen to die, she took the whole row off the hooks and threw them in a pile on the counter where another twenty or so lay dead.
She took a piece of string from her apron pocket, went over to the cage that was half filled with hens, and removed one. It immediately began to screech. It was dark gray, its feathers covered with tiny white spots, a touch of white erupting on the tip of each wing.
With considerable difficulty she tied its neck with the string, then pulled with all her strength, and hung it up. The hen seemed startled for a moment, not moving, its small head twisted, eyes protruding. Then it spread its wings, its feet tucked into its stomach, ready for a last, deadly flight.
Quimet watched the scene breathlessly, the entire chocolate bar in his fingers, a half-chewed piece of bread in his mouth.
The woman returned to the cage and pulled out another hen. The creature let loose a terrifying, plaintive coo. The dying hen that had been hung up began to close its eyes and stretch out its legs, string dangling from its neck. The woman tied the leftover string around the neck of the next hen, which she then hung up. The tragedy was repeated. At first the second hen was stunned. Suddenly it spread its wings wide, as if it had been crucified, and started to struggle desperately, till finally, with twitching claws, it grabbed the head of the neighboring hen, which again started to make a racket. The more they struggled, the more the string tightened around them, till the neck feathers were damp on both sides from sweat or blood. A third was hung up to keep them company, then a fourth, then a fifth. The last was gray, but less dark, whitish, with a larger head, but the same elegant neck as the others. This hen’s beak remained open for a moment, then it gasped violently, causing its breast feathers to undulate. The beak closed abruptly, then slowly reopened, the thin tongue, pointed like a pistil, throbbing helplessly. This one took longer to die. Every time Quimet thought, “It’s over,” the hen moved its wings. It spread them slowly, then flapped them furiously, the sudden gust of air making the whole row of hanging hens dance. Finally, without warning, it let out a screech. It was a final cry for help, directed to the fields and blue sky, to the space traversed by birds, filled with light and pollen. Its eyelids rolled back. Behind the motionless curtain the eyes grew glassy.