The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [300]
The curé of Cumbe blinked several times and the Dwarf felt a chill down his spine, as he always did whenever the nearsighted man predicted the imminent death of all of them.
“I don’t want to die like a rat in a trap either,” the little priest said, lingering over each syllable and grimacing. “I, too, have nothing to do with this war. And yet…” He shook his head, as though to banish an image from his mind. “I can’t help you, even though I’d like to. The only ones to leave Canudos are armed bands, to fight. I trust you don’t think I could join one of them?” He gave a bitter little wave of his hand. “If you believe in God, put yourself in His hands. He is the only one who can save us now. And if you don’t believe in Him, I’m afraid that there’s no one who can help you, my friend.”
He went off, his feet dragging, stoop-shouldered and sad. They did not have time to discuss his visit since at that moment the Vilanova brothers came into the store, followed by several men. From their conversation, the Dwarf gathered that the jagunços were digging a new line of trenches to the west of Fazenda Velha, following the curve of the Vaza-Barris opposite O Taboleirinho, for part of the troops had pulled out of A Favela and were gradually encircling O Cambaio, probably to take up positions in that sector. When the Vilanovas left, taking arms with them, the Dwarf and Jurema consoled the nearsighted man, who was so upset by his conversation with Father Joaquim that tears were running down his cheeks and his teeth were chattering.
That same evening the Dwarf accompanied Jurema as she went to take food to Pajeú at Fazenda Velha. She had asked the nearsighted man to come with her too, but he was so terrified by the caboclo and the thought of the risk he’d be running by going all the way across Canudos that he refused. The food for the jagunços was prepared in the little street of São Cipriano, where they slaughtered the cattle still left from Abbot João’s raid. They stood in a long line till they reached Catarina, Abbot João’s gaunt wife, who, along with the other women, was handing out chunks of meat and manioc flour and water from leather canteens that “youngsters” went to the water source of São Pedro to fill. The Street Commander’s wife gave them a basket full of food and they joined the line of people going out to the trenches. They had to go along the little narrow street of São Crispim and then hunch over or crawl on all fours along the ravines of the Vaza-Barris, whose dips and hollows served them as cover from the bullets. From the river on, the women could no longer make their way in groups, but instead went on one by one, running in a zigzag line, or—the most prudent of them—crawling on their hands and knees. It was about three hundred yards from the ravines to the trenches, and as he ran along, clinging to Jurema’s skirts, the Dwarf could see the towers of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, crawling with sharpshooters, on his right, and on his left the mountainsides of A Favela, where he was certain there were thousands of rifles aimed at them. Drenched with sweat, he reached the edge of the trench, and two arms lifted him down into it. He caught sight of Pajeú’s disfigured face.
The former cangaceiro did not seem surprised to see him there. He helped Jurema down into the trench, picking her up as though she were as light as a feather and greeting her with a nod of his head, without smiling, his manner so natural that anyone would have thought she had been coming there for many days now. He took the basket and motioned to them to move to one side, since they were in the way of the women who were working. The Dwarf walked about amid jagunços who were squatting on their heels eating, talking with the women who had just arrived, or peeking out through lengths of pipe or hollowed-out tree trunks that allowed them to shoot without being seen. The redoubt finally widened out into a semicircular space. There was room for more people there, and Pajeú sat down in one corner.