making an ass of yourself, Lituma.
He felt a mounting wave of anger, and shouted: “Keep your eyes open, boys. At the first false move, mow ’em all down, corporal!”
And screwing up his courage, agile despite his years and his heavy greatcoat, he got down on all fours and crawled through the opening. Once inside, he got quickly to his feet, ran on tiptoe to one side, and leaned his back against the wall. He couldn’t see a thing, but didn’t want to turn his flashlight on. He couldn’t hear a sound, but again he was absolutely certain. There was somebody there, hiding in the dark as he was, listening and trying to see. He thought he could make out the sound of someone breathing, a panting noise. He had his finger on the trigger, holding the pistol at chest height. He counted to three and turned the flashlight on. The cry that followed came as such a surprise that in his fear the flashlight slipped out of his hand and rolled to the floor, revealing big bulky shapes that appeared to be bales of cotton, barrels, planks, and (fleeting, totally unexpected, beggaring belief) the figure of the black, hunched over and stark-naked, trying to cover his face with his hands, yet at the same time peeking through his fingers with panic-stricken eyes, staring at the flashlight as though the one danger confronting him was light.
“Stay right where you are or I’ll shoot! Freeze, sambo, or you’re a dead man!” Lituma roared, in such a loud voice it made his throat hurt, as he crouched down and fumbled about for the flashlight. And then, with savage satisfaction: “You’ve had it, sambo! You fucked up, sambo!”
He was yelling so hard he felt dizzy. He’d recovered the flashlight and the beam of light swept about, searching for the black. He hadn’t escaped, he was still right there, and Lituma stared at him in open-eyed amazement, unable to believe what he was seeing. It wasn’t his imagination, it wasn’t a dream. He was really stark-naked, as naked as the day he was born: no shoes, no underpants, no shirt, no nothing. And he didn’t seem to be embarrassed or even realize that he was naked, since he made no move to cover his privates, swinging gaily back and forth in the beam of the flashlight. He simply crouched there, his face half hidden behind his fingers, not moving, hypnotized by the little round beam of light.
“Hands on top of your head, sambo,” the sergeant ordered, without stepping any closer to him. “Just cool it if you don’t want to get pumped full of lead. You’re under arrest for breaking into private property and for going around with your nuts dangling in the air.”
And at the same time—his ears alert for the least little sound that would reveal the presence of an accomplice in the pitch-black darkness of the warehouse—the sergeant said to himself: This guy’s not a thief. He’s a madman. Not only because he was bare-ass naked in the middle of winter, but because of the cry he’d given on being discovered. Not the cry of a normal man, the sergeant thought. It had been a really strange sound, something between a howl, a bray, a burst of laughter, and a bark. A sound that didn’t seem to have come only from his throat, but from his belly, his heart, his soul as well.
“Hands on your head, I said, damn it,” the sergeant bellowed, taking a step toward the man. The latter didn’t obey, didn’t move a muscle. He was very dark and so thin that in the dim light Lituma could make out the ridges of his ribs distending the black skin and his pipestem legs, but he had a huge belly that drooped down over his pubis, and Lituma was immediately reminded of the skeletonlike children of the slums with bellies swollen with parasites. The black just stood there, not moving, hiding his face, and the sergeant took two more steps toward him, watching him closely, certain that at any moment he’d start running. Madmen don’t respect revolvers, he thought, and took two more steps. He was now only a few
He felt a mounting wave of anger, and shouted: “Keep your eyes open, boys. At the first false move, mow ’em all down, corporal!”
And screwing up his courage, agile despite his years and his heavy greatcoat, he got down on all fours and crawled through the opening. Once inside, he got quickly to his feet, ran on tiptoe to one side, and leaned his back against the wall. He couldn’t see a thing, but didn’t want to turn his flashlight on. He couldn’t hear a sound, but again he was absolutely certain. There was somebody there, hiding in the dark as he was, listening and trying to see. He thought he could make out the sound of someone breathing, a panting noise. He had his finger on the trigger, holding the pistol at chest height. He counted to three and turned the flashlight on. The cry that followed came as such a surprise that in his fear the flashlight slipped out of his hand and rolled to the floor, revealing big bulky shapes that appeared to be bales of cotton, barrels, planks, and (fleeting, totally unexpected, beggaring belief) the figure of the black, hunched over and stark-naked, trying to cover his face with his hands, yet at the same time peeking through his fingers with panic-stricken eyes, staring at the flashlight as though the one danger confronting him was light.
“Stay right where you are or I’ll shoot! Freeze, sambo, or you’re a dead man!” Lituma roared, in such a loud voice it made his throat hurt, as he crouched down and fumbled about for the flashlight. And then, with savage satisfaction: “You’ve had it, sambo! You fucked up, sambo!”
He was yelling so hard he felt dizzy. He’d recovered the flashlight and the beam of light swept about, searching for the black. He hadn’t escaped, he was still right there, and Lituma stared at him in open-eyed amazement, unable to believe what he was seeing. It wasn’t his imagination, it wasn’t a dream. He was really stark-naked, as naked as the day he was born: no shoes, no underpants, no shirt, no nothing. And he didn’t seem to be embarrassed or even realize that he was naked, since he made no move to cover his privates, swinging gaily back and forth in the beam of the flashlight. He simply crouched there, his face half hidden behind his fingers, not moving, hypnotized by the little round beam of light.
“Hands on top of your head, sambo,” the sergeant ordered, without stepping any closer to him. “Just cool it if you don’t want to get pumped full of lead. You’re under arrest for breaking into private property and for going around with your nuts dangling in the air.”
And at the same time—his ears alert for the least little sound that would reveal the presence of an accomplice in the pitch-black darkness of the warehouse—the sergeant said to himself: This guy’s not a thief. He’s a madman. Not only because he was bare-ass naked in the middle of winter, but because of the cry he’d given on being discovered. Not the cry of a normal man, the sergeant thought. It had been a really strange sound, something between a howl, a bray, a burst of laughter, and a bark. A sound that didn’t seem to have come only from his throat, but from his belly, his heart, his soul as well.
“Hands on your head, I said, damn it,” the sergeant bellowed, taking a step toward the man. The latter didn’t obey, didn’t move a muscle. He was very dark and so thin that in the dim light Lituma could make out the ridges of his ribs distending the black skin and his pipestem legs, but he had a huge belly that drooped down over his pubis, and Lituma was immediately reminded of the skeletonlike children of the slums with bellies swollen with parasites. The black just stood there, not moving, hiding his face, and the sergeant took two more steps toward him, watching him closely, certain that at any moment he’d start running. Madmen don’t respect revolvers, he thought, and took two more steps. He was now only a few
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