The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [219]
Just then she spied the caboclo without a nose standing alongside her, looking at her with gentle mockery in his eyes: “Who won the fight? Your husband or the lunatic?”
“The two of them killed each other,” she panted.
“All the better for you,” Pajeú commented with a smile. “You can look for another husband now, in Belo Monte.”
The Dwarf was at her side, gasping for breath, too. She caught a glimpse of Canudos. It was spread out there in front of her, the entire length and breadth of it, shaken by explosions, licked by tongues of fire, drifted over with scattered clouds of smoke, as overhead a clear blue sky belied this disorder and a bright sun beat down. Her eyes filled with tears and she felt a sudden hatred against that city and those men, killing each other in those narrow little streets like burrows. Her misfortunes had begun because of this place; the stranger had come to her house because of Canudos, and that had been the start of the misadventures that had left her without anything or anybody in the world, lost in the midst of a war. She wished with all her heart for a miracle, for nothing to have happened, for Rufino and her to be as they had been before, back, in Queimadas.
“Don’t cry, girl,” the caboclo said to her. “Don’t you know the dead are going to be brought back to life? Haven’t you heard? There’s such a thing as the resurrection of the flesh.”
His voice was calm, as though he and his men had not just had a gunfight with the soldiers. She dried her tears with her hand and looked around, reconnoitering the place. It was a shortcut between the hills, a sort of tunnel. To her left was an overhanging wall of stones and rocks without vegetation that hid the mountain from view, and to her right the somewhat sparse caatinga descended till it gave way to a rocky stretch of ground which, beyond a broad river, was transformed into a jumble of little jerry-built dwellings with reddish roofs. Pajeú placed something in her hand, and without looking to see what it was, she raised it to her mouth. She ate the soft, sour fruit in little bites. The men in the grass mantles were gradually scattering, hugging the bushes, disappearing in hiding places dug in the ground. Again the chubby little hand sought hers. She felt pity and tenderness toward this familiar presence. “Hide in here,” Pajeú ordered, pushing aside some branches. Once the two of them had crouched down in the ditch, he explained to them, pointing to the rocks: “The dogs are up there.” In the hole was another jagunço, a toothless man who hunched up to make room for them. He had a crossbow and a quiver full of arrows.
“What’s going to happen?” the Dwarf whispered.
“Be still,” the jagunço said. “Didn’t you hear? the heretics are right above us.”
Jurema peeked out through the branches. The shots continued, sparse and intermittent now, followed by puffs of smoke and the flames of fires, but from their hiding place she could not see the little uniformed figures she’d spied crossing the river and disappearing into the town. “Don’t move,” the jagunço said, and for the second time that day soldiers appeared out of nowhere. This time they were cavalrymen, two abreast, mounted on whinnying brown, black, bay, speckled horses, who suddenly emerged, incredibly close at hand, below the rock wall on her left and galloped on toward the river. They appeared to be about to roll down the almost