The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [179]
Hence he, too, was having difficulty falling asleep. What was going to happen? War was close at hand once again, and this time it would be worse than when the elect and the dogs had clashed at O Taboleirinho. There would be fighting in the streets, there would be more dead and wounded, and he would be one of the first to die. No one would come to his rescue, as the Counselor had rescued him in Natuba. He had gone off with him out of gratitude, and out of gratitude he had followed the saint everywhere, despite the superhuman effort those long journeys meant for him, since he was obliged to hop about on all fours. The Lion understood why many followers missed those bygone days of wandering. There were only a handful of them then, and they had the Counselor all to themselves. How things had changed! He thought of the thousands who envied him for being able to be at the saint’s side night and day. Even he, however, no longer had a chance to be by himself with the Counselor and speak alone with the only man who had always treated him as though he were like everyone else. For the Lion had never noticed the slightest sign that the Counselor saw him as that creature with a crooked back and a giant head who looked like a strange animal born by mistake among human beings.
He remembered the night on the outskirts of Tepidó, many years before. How many pilgrims were with the Counselor then? After they had prayed, they had begun to make confession aloud. When his turn came, in an unexpected rush of emotion the Lion of Natuba suddenly said something that nobody had ever heard him say before: “I don’t believe in God or in religion. Only in you, Father, because you make me feel human.” There was a deep silence. Trembling at his temerity, he felt the shocked gaze of all the pilgrims fall upon him. He now heard once again the Counselor’s words that night: “You have suffered much more than even devils must suffer. The Father knows that your soul is pure because your every moment is an expiation. You have nothing to repent, Lion: your life is a penance.”
He repeated in his mind: “Your life is a penance.” But in it were also moments of incomparable happiness. Finding something new to read, for example, a few lines of a book, a page of a magazine, some little bit of printed matter, and learning the fabulous things that letters said. Or imagining that Almudia was still alive, still the beautiful young girl in Natuba, and that he sang to her, and instead of bewitching her and killing her, his songs made her smile. Or resting his head on the Counselor’s knees and feeling his fingers making their way through his thick locks, separating them, rubbing his scalp. It was soothing; a warm sensation came over him from head to foot, and he felt that, thanks to that hand in his hair and those bones against his cheek, he was receiving his recompense for the bad moments he had had in his life.
He was unfair; the Counselor was not the only one to whom he owed a debt of gratitude. Hadn’t the others carried him in their arms when his strength had given out? Hadn’t they all prayed fervently, the Little Blessed One especially, that he be given faith? Wasn’t Maria Quadrado good, kind, generous to him? He tried to feel tenderness in his heart toward the Mother of Men as he thought of her. She had done everything possible to gain his affection. In their days as pilgrims, when she saw that he was worn out, she would massage his body for a long time, just as she massaged the limbs of the Little Blessed One. And when he had attacks of fever, she had him sleep in her arms to keep him warm. She found him the clothes he wore, and the ingenious combination glove and shoe, of wood and leather, that made walking on all fours easier for him had been her idea. Why, then, didn’t he love her? No doubt because he had also heard the Superior of the Sacred Choir accuse herself, when the pilgrims would halt for the night in the desert, of having felt repugnance