The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [180]
He wondered, remembering the last procession, whether he should attend any more of them. How frightened he had been! How many times he had been nearly smothered to death, trampled to death by the crowd trying to get closer to the Counselor! The Catholic Guard had all it could do not to be overrun by believers who wanted to reach out their hands and touch the saint amid the torches and the incense. The Lion found himself being badly jostled, then pushed to the ground, and had to yell to the Catholic Guard to lift him up just as the human tide was about to engulf him. In recent days, he hardly dared set foot outside the Sanctuary, for it had become dangerous for him to be out on the streets. People rushed up to touch his crooked back, believing that it would bring them luck, and snatched him away from each other as though he were a doll; or else they kept him at their houses for hours asking him questions about the Counselor. Would he be obliged to spend the rest of his days shut up between these four adobe walls? There was no bottom to unhappiness; the stores of suffering were inexhaustible.
He could hear by the Counselor’s breathing that he was asleep now. He turned an ear in the direction of the cubicle where the women of the Choir spent the nights all huddled together: they, too, were sleeping, even Alexandrinha Correa. Was it the thought of the war that was keeping him awake? It was imminent: neither Abbot João nor Pajeú nor Macambira nor Pedrão nor Taramela nor those who were guarding the roads and the trenches had come to the counsels, and the Lion had seen the armed men behind the parapets erected around the churches and the ones going back and forth with blunderbusses, shotguns, bandoleers, crossbows, clubs, pitchforks, as though they were expecting the attack at any moment.
He heard the cock crow; day was breaking between the reeds. When the water carriers began to blow their conch shells to announce that water was being distributed, the Counselor awakened and fell to his knees. Maria Quadrado came into the Sanctuary immediately. The Lion was already up, despite the sleepless night he had spent, ready to record the saint’s thoughts. The latter prayed for a long time, then sat with his eyes closed as the women washed his feet with a damp cloth and put his sandals on his feet. He drank the little bowl of milk that Maria Quadrado handed him, however, and ate a maize cake. But he did not stroke the little lamb. “It’s not just because of Father Joaquim that he’s so sad,” the Lion of Natuba thought. “It’s also because of the war.”
At that moment Abbot João, Big João, and Taramela entered. It was the first time that the Lion had seen the latter in the Sanctuary. When the Street Commander and the head of the Catholic Guard rose to their feet after kissing the Counselor’s hand, Pajeú’s lieutenant remained on his knees.
“Taramela received news last night, Father,” Abbot João said.
It occurred to the Lion that the Street Commander had no doubt not slept a wink all night either. He was sweaty, dirty, preoccupied. Big João downed with gusto the bowl of milk that Maria Quadrado had just handed him. The Lion imagined the two men running all night long from trench to trench, from one entrance to the town to another, bringing gunpowder, inspecting weapons, talking the situation over. “It’ll be today,” he thought. Taramela was still on his knees, crushing his leather hat in his hand. He had two shotguns and so many bandoleers around his neck that they looked like festive carnival necklaces. He was biting his lips, unable to get