The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [71]
In what way would what had happened alter his life? Did his decision made in Rome still hold good now? Ought he to renew or alter his vow after this accident? Was it an accident? How to explain scientifically what had occurred as dawn was breaking this morning? Without his being aware of it, during all these years he had been storing up in his soul—no, in his mind; the word “soul” was contaminated with religious filth—all the appetites he thought he had rooted out, all the energies he had presumed were directed toward better ends than pleasure. And that secret accumulation had exploded this morning, ignited by circumstances, that is to say, nervousness, tension, fear, the surprise of the attack, the theft, the shooting, the deaths. Was that the correct explanation? Ah, if only he could have examined all this as though it were a problem concerning someone else, objectively, with someone like old Cubí. And he remembered those conversations that the phrenologist called Socratic, as they walked about the port area of Barcelona and through the labyrinth of the Barrio Gótico, and felt pangs of nostalgia in his heart. No, it would be imprudent, dimwitted, stupid to hold to the decision made in Rome; it would be paving the way for a repetition in the future of what had happened this morning, or something even worse. He thought or dreamed, with bitter sarcasm: “You must resign yourself to fornicating, Galileo.”
He thought of Jurema. Was she a thinking being? A little domestic animal, rather. Diligent, submissive, capable of believing that statues of St. Anthony escape from churches and return to the grottoes where they were carved; trained like the baron’s other female servants to care for chickens and sheep, to prepare her husband’s food, to wash his clothes, and to open her legs only for him. He thought: “Perhaps she’ll be roused from her lethargy now and discover injustice.” He thought: “I’m your injustice.” He thought: “Perhaps you’ve done her a service.”
He thought of the men who had attacked him and made off with the wagon and of the two that he had killed. Were they the Counselor’s men? Was their leader the man he’d met at the tannery in Queimadas, the one called Pajeú? Wasn’t it more likely that it had been Pajeú, that he’d taken him to be an army spy or a merchant eager to swindle his people and had had him watched, and then, on discovering that he had arms in his possession, had made off with them so as to supply Canudos? He hoped that that was what had happened, that at that very moment the wagon with those rifles was heading up to Canudos at a fast gallop to reinforce the jagunços as they prepared to face what would soon be upon them. Why would Pajeú have trusted him? How could he have trusted a stranger who pronounced his language badly and had obscure ideas? “You’ve killed two comrades, Gall,” he thought. He was awake: that heat is the morning sun, those sounds the tinkling of the sheep bells. And what if the rifles were in the hands of mere outlaws? They might have followed him and the guide in leather the night before, as they carried the arms off from the hacienda where Epaminondas had handed them over to him. Didn’t everyone say that the region was teeming with cangaceiros? Had he gone about things in too much of a hurry, been imprudent? He thought: “I should have unloaded the arms and brought them inside here.” He thought: “Then you’d be dead now and they’d have made off with them anyway.” He was consumed with doubts. Would he go back to Bahia? Would he still go on to Canudos? Would he open his eyes? Would he get up out of his hammock? Would he finally face reality? He could still hear the sheep bells tinkling, he could hear barking, and now he also heard