The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [61]
“He said he wasn’t going to go off with the railroad men from Jacobina,” Galileo mutters, cupping the bowl in his hands, his eyes seeking hers. “Why did he change his mind?”
“He wasn’t going to go because they didn’t want to give him as much money as he was asking them for,” Jurema answers quietly, blowing on the bowl steaming in her hands. “He changed his mind because they came to tell him they’d pay him what he was asking. He went looking for you yesterday at the Our Lady of Grace boarding house and you’d taken off without leaving word where you were going or whether you’d be back. Rufino couldn’t afford to pass up that work.”
Galileo sighs in annoyance. He decides to take a sip from his bowl, burns his palate, makes a wry face. He blows on the bowl and takes another swallow. His forehead is furrowed with fatigue and irritation and there are dark circles under his eyes. Every so often he bites his lower lip. He is panting, sweating.
“How long is that damned trip going to take him?” he growls after a time, sipping from his bowl.
“Three or four days.” Jurema has sat down facing him, on the edge of an old trunk with leather straps. “He said you could wait for him, and when he got back he’d take you to Canudos.”
“Three or four days!” Gall groans, turning his eyes heavenward in exasperation. “Three or four centuries, you mean.”
The sound of tinkling sheep bells is heard outside, and the woolly dog barks loudly and leaps against the door, wanting to go out. Galileo gets to his feet, walks over to the palings, and takes a look outside: the canvas-covered wagon is where he has left it, next to the enclosure alongside the cabin in which a few sheep are penned. The animals’ eyes are open but they are still drowsy and their bells have stopped tinkling. The dwelling is on the top of a rise and on a sunny day one can see Queimadas; but not on this gray dawn with an overcast sky, when the only thing to be seen is the rolling, rocky stretch of desert below. Galileo walks back to the hammock. Jurema refills his bowl. The woolly dog barks and paws the dirt just inside the door.
“Three or four days,” Gall thinks. Three or four centuries during which a thousand mishaps could happen. Should he look for another guide? Should he take off by himself to Monte Santo and hire someone else to show him the way to Canudos? Anything rather than stay here with the arms: his impatience would make the wait unbearable. Moreover, it was quite possible, as Epaminondas Gonçalves feared, that Major Brito’s expeditionary force would arrive in Queimadas before he could get away.
“Weren’t you the one responsible for Rufino’s going off with the railroad men from Jacobina?” Gall mutters. Jurema is putting the fire out with a stick. “You’ve never liked the idea of Rufino’s taking me to Canudos.”
“No, I’ve never liked the idea,” she agrees with such bluntness that for a moment Galileo feels his anger evaporate and nearly bursts out laughing. But she has spoken these words in all seriousness and looks him straight in the eye without blinking. Her face is an elongated oval, with prominent cheek and chin bones beneath her taut skin. Can the bones hidden beneath her hair be as prominent, as sharp, as eloquent, as revealing? “They