Dwarf heard the nearsighted man moan. It struck him as an extraordinary thing for that man—so reserved, so gloomy, so glacial—to have said. He sensed a great anxiety behind that face pulled taut by the scar. No shooting, barking of dogs, reciting of litanies could be heard, only the buzzing of a bumblebee bumping against the wall. The Dwarf’s heart was pounding; it was not fear but a feeling of warmth and compassion toward that man with the disfigured face who was staring intently at Jurema by the light of the little lamp, waiting. He could hear the nearsighted man’s anxious breathing. Jurema did not say a word. Pajeú began to speak again, uttering each word slowly and distinctly. He had not been married before, not in the way the Church, the Father, the Counselor demanded. His eyes never left Jurema, they didn’t even blink, and the Dwarf thought that it was stupid of him to feel pity for a man so greatly feared. But at that moment Pajeú seemed like a terribly lonely man. He had had passing love affairs, of the sort that leave no trace, but no family, no children. His way of life had not permitted such a thing: always moving about, fleeing, fighting. Hence he understood the Counselor very well when he explained that the weary earth, exhausted from being made to bring forth the same thing again and again, one day asks to rest in peace. That was what Belo Monte had been for Pajeú, something like the earth’s repose. His life had been empty of love. But now…The Dwarf noticed that he was swallowing hard and the thought crossed his mind that the Sardelinha sisters had awakened and were lying in the dark listening to Pajeú. It was a worry of his, something that woke him up in the night: had his heart hardened forever for lack of love? He stammered and the Dwarf thought: “Neither the blind man nor I exist for him.” No, it had not hardened: he had seen Jurema in the caatinga and suddenly realized that. Something strange happened to his scar: it was the flame of the little lamp, which as it flickered made his face look even more disfigured. “His hand is trembling,” the Dwarf thought in amazement. That day his heart, his feelings, his soul began to speak. Thanks to Jurema he had discovered that he was not hard inside. Her face, her body, her voice were always present here and here. With a brusque gesture, he touched his head and his breast, and the little flame went up and down. Again he fell silent, waiting, and the bee could again be heard buzzing and thudding against the wall. Jurema still said nothing. The Dwarf looked at her out of the corner of his eye: sitting there all hunched up as though to protect herself, she was gravely meeting the caboclo’s gaze.
“We can’t get married right now. Right now I have another obligation,” Pajeú added, as though in apology. “When the dogs have gone away.”
The Dwarf heard the nearsighted man moan. This time, too, the caboclo’s eyes never left Jurema to look at her neighbor. But there was one thing…Something he’d thought a lot about, these days, as he tracked the atheists and shot them down. Something that would gladden his heart. He fell silent, was overcome with embarrassment, struggled to get the words out: would Jurema bring food, water, to him at Fazenda Velha? It was something he envied the others for, something that he, too, would like to have. Would she do that?
“Yes, yes, she’ll do it, she’ll bring them to you,” the Dwarf, to his stupefaction, heard the nearsighted man say. “She’ll do it, she’ll do it.”
But even this time the caboclo’s eyes did not turn his way. “What is he to you?” the Dwarf heard him ask Jurema, his voice as cutting as a knife now. “He’s not your husband, is he?”
“No,” she answered very softly. “He’s…like my son.”
The night rang with shots. First one volley, then another, extremely heavy fire. They heard shouts, feet running, an explosion.
“I’m happy to have come, to have talked to you,” the caboclo said. “I must go now. Praised be the Blessed Jesus.”
A moment later the store was plunged into total darkness again and instead of the bumblebee they heard scattered