The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [233]
The fit of sneezing overtakes him so completely that he does not have time to raise his hands to his face, to hold his glasses on: they fly off, and as one burst of sneezes follows another and he doubles over, he is sure he hears them hit the pebbles underfoot. As soon as he is able to, he squats down and fumbles about. He finds them immediately. Now, yes, on running his fingers over them and feeling that the lenses are smashed to smithereens, the nightmare of last night, of this morning at dawn, of a few moments ago returns.
“Stop! Stop!” he shouts, putting the glasses on, looking out at a shattered, cracked, crazed world. “I can’t see anything. Please, I beg you.”
He feels in his right hand a hand that—from its size, from its pressure—can only be that of the barefoot woman. She pulls him along, without a word, guiding him in this world suddenly become inapprehensible, blind.
The first thing that surprised Epaminondas Gonçalves on entering the town house of the Baron de Canabrava, in which he had never before set foot, was the odor of vinegar and aromatic herbs that filled the rooms through which a black servant led him, lighting his way with an oil lamp. He showed him into a study with shelves full of books, illuminated by a lamp with green glass panels that lent a sylvan appearance to the oval writing desk, the easy chairs, and the little tables with bibelots. He was examining an old map, on which he managed to read the name Calumbi in ornate Gothic letters, when the baron entered the room. They shook hands without warmth, like two persons who scarcely know each other.
“I thank you for coming,” the baron said, offering him a chair. “Perhaps it would have been better to hold this meeting in a neutral place, but I took the liberty of proposing my house to you because my wife is not feeling well and I prefer not to go out.”
“I wish her a prompt recovery,” Epaminondas Gonçalves said, refusing a cigar from the box the baron held out to him. “All of Bahia hopes to see her very soon in as radiant health and as beautiful as ever.”
The baron looked much thinner and older, and the owner-publisher of the Jornal de Notícias wondered whether those wrinkles and that dejection were due to the ravages of time or of recent events.
“As a matter of fact, Estela is physically well; her body has recovered,” the baron said sharply. “It’s her mind that is still affected. The fire that destroyed Calumbi was a great shock to her.”
“A disaster that concerns all us Bahians,” Epaminondas murmured. He raised his eyes to follow the baron, who had risen to his feet and was pouring them two glasses of cognac. “I said as much in the Assembly and in the Jornal de Notícias. The destruction of property is a crime that affects all of us, allies and adversaries alike.”
The baron nodded. He handed Epaminondas his cognac and they clinked glasses in silence before drinking. Epaminondas set his glass down on the little table and the baron held his between his palms, warming the reddish liquid and swirling it about the glass. “I thought it would be a good idea for us to talk together,” he said slowly. “The success of the negotiations between the Republican Party and the Autonomist Party depends on the two of us reaching an agreement.”
“I must warn you that I have not been authorized by my political friends to negotiate anything tonight,” Epaminondas interrupted him.
“You don’t need their authorization,” the baron replied with an ironic smile. “My dear Epaminondas, let’s not put on a Chinese shadow play. There isn’t time. The situation is extremely serious and