The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [185]
“I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m tired, I don’t want to live any longer,” he hears her sob. “Kill me and get it over with.”
“I’m going to,” he says. “But not here. In Calumbi. So people will see you die.”
A long time goes by, as Jurema’s sobs grow quieter and finally die away altogether.
“You’re not the Rufino you were,” he hears her murmur.
“You’re not the woman you were either,” he says. “You have a milk inside you now that isn’t mine. I know now why God punished you for so long, not letting you get pregnant.”
The light of the moon suddenly filters obliquely into the room through the doors and windows, revealing the motes of dust suspended in the air. The Dwarf curls up at Jurema’s feet and Rufino stretches out on his mattress. How long does he lie there with clenched teeth, thinking, remembering? When he hears the two of them talking, it’s as though he were waking up, but he hasn’t closed his eyes.
“Why are you staying here if nobody’s forcing you to?” Jurema is asking the Dwarf. “How can you bear this stench, the thought of what’s going to happen? Go off to Canudos instead.”
“I’m afraid to go and I’m afraid to stay,” the Dwarf whimpers. “I don’t know how to be by myself, I’ve never been alone since the Gypsy bought me. I’m afraid of dying, like everybody else.”
“The women who were waiting for the soldiers weren’t afraid,” Jurema says.
“Because they were sure they’d rise from the dead,” the Dwarf squeals. “If I were that sure, I wouldn’t be afraid either.”
“I’m not afraid of dying and I don’t know if I’m going to rise from the dead,” Jurema declares, and Rufino understands that she is not speaking to the Dwarf now but to him.
Something awakens him when the dawn is scarcely more than a faint blue-green glow. The whipping of the wind? No, something else. Jurema and the Dwarf both open their eyes at the same moment, and the latter begins to stretch and yawn, but Rufino shuts him up: “Shhh, shhh.” Crouching behind the door, he peeks out. The elongated silhouette of a man, without a shotgun, is coming down Caracatá’s one street, poking his head in each of the shacks. As the man is almost upon them, Rufino recognizes him: Ulpino, the guide from Calumbi. He sees him cup both hands about his mouth and call: “Rufino! Rufino!” He steps out from behind the door and shows himself. When he recognizes him, Ulpino’s eyes open wide with relief and he calls to him. Rufino goes out to meet him, gripping the handle of his knife. He doesn’t utter a single word of greeting. He can see, from the looks of him, that he has come a long way on foot.
“I’ve been searching for you since early last evening,” Ulpino exclaims in a friendly tone of voice. “I was told you were on your way to Canudos. But then I met up with the jagunços who killed the soldiers. I’ve been walking all night long.”
Rufino listens to him without opening his mouth, his face grave. Ulpino looks at him sympathetically, as though reminding him that they have been friends. “I’ve brought him to you,” he murmurs slowly. “The baron ordered me to guide him to Canudos. But I talked things over with Aristarco and we decided that if I could find you, he was for you.”
Rufino’s face betrays his utter astonishment, his disbelief. “You’ve brought him to me? The stranger?”
“He’s a bastard without honor.” To emphasize his disgust, Ulpino spits on the ground. “He doesn’t care if you kill his woman, the one he took away from you. He didn’t want to talk about it. He lied and said she wasn’t his.”
“Where is he?” Rufino blinks and passes his tongue over his lips. “It’s not true,” he thinks, “he hasn’t brought him.”
But Ulpino explains in great detail where he can be found. “Though it’s none of my business, there’s something I’d like to know,” he adds. “Have you killed Jurema?”
He makes no comment when Rufino shakes his head in reply. For a moment he appears to be ashamed of his curiosity. He points