The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [134]
“He can only swallow soft things,” Jurema explained to the men. “He’s been sick.”
“He’s a foreigner,” the Dwarf added. “He talks languages.”
“Only my enemies look at me like that,” the leader of the cangaço said in a harsh voice. “Stop staring at me; it bothers me.”
Because, even as he was vomiting, Gall’s eyes had never left him. They all turned toward him. Still scrutinizing the man, Galileo took a few steps forward, thus bringing himself within reach of him. “The only thing that interests me is your head,” he said very slowly. “Allow me to touch it.”
The bandit reached for his knife, as though he were about to attack him. Gall calmed him down by giving him a friendly smile.
“Let him touch you,” the Bearded Lady muttered. “He’ll tell you your secrets.”
His curiosity aroused, the outlaw looked Gall over from head to foot. He had a piece of meat in his mouth, but he had stopped chewing. “Are you a magician?” he asked, the cruelty in his eyes suddenly evaporating.
Gall smiled at him again and took another step forward. He was so close now that his body lightly brushed the bandit’s. He was taller than the cangaceiro, whose bushy head of hair barely came up to his shoulder. Circus people and bandits alike stared at the two of them, intrigued. Still holding the knife in his hand, Toughbeard seemed wary, but also curious. Galileo raised his two hands, placed them on Toughbeard’s head, and began to palpate it.
“At one time I set out to be one,” he answered, pronouncing each syllable carefully as his fingers moved slowly, parting the locks of hair, skillfully exploring the bandit’s scalp. “The police didn’t give me time.”
“The flying brigades?” Toughbeard said understandingly.
“We have one thing in common at least,” Gall said. “We have the same enemy.”
Toughbeard’s beady eyes were suddenly full of anxiety, as though he were helplessly trapped. “I want to know how I’m going to die,” he said in a half whisper, forcing himself to reveal what was preying most on his mind.
Gall’s fingers poked about in the outlaw’s mane, lingering for an especially long while above and behind his ears. His face was very serious, and his eyes had the same feverish gleam as in his moments of euphoria. Science was not wrong: his fingertips could clearly feel the organ of Combativeness, the organ of those inclined to attack, of those who enjoy fighting, of those who are rash and unruly; it was right there beneath his fingers, a round, contumelious bump, in both hemispheres. But, above all, it was the organ of Destructiveness, the organ of those who are vengeful, given to extremes, cruel, the organ that makes for bloodthirsty monsters when its effects are not counteracted by moral and intellectual powers, that was abnormally prominent: two hard, hot swellings, above the ears. “The predatory man,” he thought.
“Didn’t you hear?” Toughbeard roared, moving his head away from the touch of Gall’s fingers with such a violent jerk that it made the latter stagger. “How am I going to die?”
Gall shook his head apologetically. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not written in your bones.”
The band of cangaceiros standing watching dispersed, returning to the fire in search of more roast meat. But the circus people stayed where they were, next to Gall and Toughbeard.
The bandit looked pensive. “There’s nothing I’m afraid of,” he said gravely. “When I’m awake. At night it’s different. I see my skeleton sometimes. As though it was there waiting for me, do you follow me?”
He gestured in annoyance, rubbed his hand across his mouth, spat. He was visibly upset, and everyone stood there in silence for a time, listening to the flies, the wasps, the bluebottles buzzing about the remains of the burro.
“It’s not a dream I’ve just had recently,” the brigand added. “I used to have it as a child back in Cariri, long before I came to Bahia. And also when I was with Pajeú. Sometimes years go by