The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [301]
For some time, the caboclo didn’t say a word, sitting there eating and drinking without even looking at the two beside him. Jurema did not look at him either, and the Dwarf thought to himself that it was stupid of her to refuse to marry this man who could solve all her problems. Why should she care if he was ugly-looking? Every so often, he looked at Pajeú. He found it hard to believe that this man who was sitting there coldly and doggedly chewing, with an indifferent expression on his face—he had leaned his rifle against the side of the trench but did not remove the knife and the machete tucked into his belt or the cartridge belts across his chest—was the same man who had said all those things about love to Jurema in a trembling, desperate voice. There was no steady gunfire at the moment, only occasional shots, something the Dwarf’s ears had grown accustomed to. What he couldn’t get used to was the shelling. The deafening explosions always left in their wake clouds of dirt and dust, falling debris, great gaping craters in the ground, the terrified wails of children and, often, dismembered corpses. When a cannon roared, he was the first to fling himself headlong and lie there with his eyes closed, drenched with cold sweat, clinging to Jurema and the nearsighted man if they were close by, and trying to pray.
To break this silence, he timidly asked whether it was true that Joaquim Macambira and his sons had destroyed A Matadeira before they were killed. Pajeú answered no. But A Matadeira blew up on the Freemasons a few days later, and apparently three or four of the gun crew were blown up with it. Maybe the Father had done this to reward the Macambiras for their martyrdom. The caboclo’s eyes avoided Jurema’s, and she did not seem to hear what he said. Still addressing him, Pajeú added that the situation of the atheists on A Favela was becoming worse and worse; they were dying of hunger and thirst and desperate at suffering so many casualties at the hands of the Catholics. Even here, they could be heard moaning and weeping at night. Did that mean, then, that they’d be going away soon?
Pajeú looked dubious. “The problem lies back there,” he murmured, pointing toward the south with his chin. “In Queimadas and Monte Santo. More Freemasons, more rifles, more cannons, more livestock, more grain shipments keep arriving. There’s another convoy on the way with reinforcements and food. And we’re running out of everything.”
The scar puckered slightly in his pale yellow face. “I’m the one who’s going to stop the convoy this time,” he said, turning to Jurema. The Dwarf suddenly felt as though he’d dismissed him, sent him many leagues away. “It’s a pity I must leave just at this time.”
Jurema gazed back at the former cangaceiro with a docile, absent expression on her face, and said nothing.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be away. We’re going to take them by surprise up around Jueté. Three or four days, at least.”
Jurema’s lips parted but she did not say anything. She had not spoken a word since she arrived.
At that moment there was a commotion in the trench, and the Dwarf saw a whole crowd of jagunços coming their way, with much yelling and shouting. Pajeú leapt to his feet and grabbed his rifle. In a rush, knocking over others sitting down or squatting on their heels, several of the jagunços reached their side. They surrounded Pajeú and stood there for a moment looking at him, none of them saying a word.
Finally an old man with a hairy mole on the nape of his neck spoke up. “Taramela’s dead,” he said. “He got a bullet through the ear as he was eating.” He spat, and looking down at the ground he growled: “You’ve lost your good luck, Pajeú.”
“They rot before they die,” young Teotônio Leal Cavalcanti says aloud, believing that he’s merely thinking to himself, not speaking out loud. But there is no