The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [67]
The fate of Celestino Pardinas’s youngest son took a decided turn for the worse the day that the tinsmith Zózimo’s young daughter, Almudia, the only one of his six children to have survived, the others having been stillborn or died within a few days of their birth, fell sick, with a high fever and vomiting. Dom Abelardo’s remedies and spells, like her parents’ prayers, had proved to be of no avail. The healer solemnly delivered himself of the opinion that the girl was a victim of the evil eye and that any antidote would be ineffective so long as the person who had put the evil eye upon her remained unknown. In despair at the fate that threatened this daughter who was the light of their lives, Zózimo and his wife Eufrásia made the rounds of the huts of Natuba, seeking information. And thus it was that they heard, from the mouths of three persons, the rumor that the girl had been seen in the company of the Lion, in a strange meeting on the bank of the irrigation ditch leading to the Mirândola hacienda. On being questioned, the sick girl confessed, half delirious, that on that particular morning, as she passed by the irrigation ditch on her way to the house of her godfather, Dom Náutilo, the Lion had asked her if he might sing a song that he had composed for her. And he had done so, before Almudia could take to her heels. It was the one time he had ever spoken to her, although before that she had noticed that, as if by chance, she often came across the Lion as she went about the town, and something about the way he hunched over as she passed made her surmise that he wanted to talk to her.
Zózimo grabbed up his shotgun and, accompanied by nephews, brothers-in-law, and compadres, also armed, and followed by a crowd of people, went to the Pardinases’ house, cornered the Lion, pointed the shotgun straight between his eyes, and demanded that he repeat the song so that Dom Abelardo could exorcise it. The Lion, struck dumb, stared at him wide-eyed, distraught. After repeating several times that if he did not reveal the magic spell he would blow his big ugly head off, the tinsmith cocked his gun. For the space of a second the Lion’s big intelligent eyes gleamed in utter panic. “If you kill me, you’ll never learn the magic spell and Almudia will die,” his little piping voice murmured, so terrified it was unrecognizable. A total silence ensued. Zózimo was sweating heavily. His relatives kept Celestino Pardinas and his sons at bay with their shotguns. “Will you let me go if I tell you what it was?” they heard the piping voice of the monster say. Zózimo nodded. Then, choking up, his voice breaking like an adolescent’s, the Lion began to sing. He sang—as the townspeople of Natuba who were present and those who were not but swore that they had been reported, remembered, recounted far and wide—a love song, in which Almudia’s name was mentioned. When he finished singing, the Lion’s eyes were filled with embarrassment. “Let me go now,” he roared. “I’ll let you go when my daughter is cured,” the tinsmith answered dully. “And if she is not cured, I’ll burn you to death at her graveside. I swear it on my soul.” He looked round at the Pardinases—father, mother, brothers frozen motionless by the shotguns—and added in a tone of voice that left no doubt in their minds as to his resolve: “I’ll burn you alive even if my family and yours will then be forced to kill each other for centuries on end.”
Almudia died that same night, after vomiting up blood. The townspeople thought that Zózimo would weep, tear out his hair, curse God, or drink cane brandy till he fell into a stupor. But he did no such thing. His reckless behavior of recent days gave way to cold determination as he planned, at one and the same time, his daughter’s funeral and the death of the sorcerer who had cast his spell over her. He had never been a