The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [357]
“But you have no chance at all of getting out—neither you nor anyone else who goes with you to the dogs’ camp,” Antônio Vilanova moaned. He was weeping. He grabbed the caboclo by the arms and begged him: “I don’t want to leave Belo Monte, much less if it means your sacrificing yourself. You’re needed here more than I am. Pajeú! Pajeú!”
The caboclo slipped out of his grasp with a sort of annoyance. “It has to be before it gets light,” he said curtly. “After that, you won’t be able to make it.”
He turned to Jurema, the nearsighted man, and the Dwarf, who were standing there petrified. “You’re to go too, because that’s what the Counselor wishes,” he said, as though talking past the three of them to someone they couldn’t see. “First to Fazenda Velha, in Indian file, crouching down. And there where the youngsters tell you, you’re to wait for the whistles to blow. Then you’re to dash through the camp and down to the river. You’ll get through, if it be the Father’s will.”
He fell silent and looked at the nearsighted man, standing with his arms around Jurema and trembling like a leaf. “Sneeze now,” Pajeú said to him, in the same tone of voice. “Not then. Not when you’re waiting for the whistles to blow. If you sneeze then, they’ll plunge a knife in your heart. It wouldn’t be right if they captured everyone on account of your sneezes. Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor.”
When he hears them, Private Queluz is dreaming of Captain Oliveira’s orderly, a pale young private whom he has been prowling around for some time and saw shitting this morning, crouched behind a little pile of rocks near the wells down by the Vaza-Barris. He has kept intact the image of those hairless legs and those white buttocks that he glimpsed, bared to the dawn air like an invitation. The image is so clear, steady, and vivid that Private Queluz’s cock gets hard, swelling against his uniform and awakening him. His desire is so overpowering that even though he can hear voices nearby, and even though he is forced to recognize that they are the voices of traitors and not of patriots, his immediate reaction is not to grab his rifle but to raise his hands to his trousers fly to stroke his cock inflamed by the memory of the round buttocks of Captain Oliveira’s orderly. Suddenly the thought is borne in upon him that he is alone, in open country, with the enemy close at hand, and instantly he is wide awake, every muscle tense, his heart in his mouth. What has happened to Leopoldinho? Have they killed Leopoldinho? They’ve killed him: he sees quite clearly now