got at Plaza San Martin dropped him off behind his house, on Orrantia. Night had fallen. In the cold semidarkness of the street he paused for a moment, fearing that the door might be locked. Weakly he stretched out his arm, and he gave a jump for joy when he realized that the handle was turning and the door was giving way with a tiny squeak.
At that moment he heard voices in the pergola. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had even forgotten the reason for his feverish activity. The voices and the movement were so unforeseen that his heart seemed like an oxygen tank connected to a dying man. His first impulse was to crouch down, but he did it so clumsily that he slipped off the rock and slid flat on his face. He felt a sharp pain in his forehead and a disagreeable taste of wet earth in his mouth, but he made no effort to stand up and stayed there, half buried in the grass, breathing laboriously, trembling. In his fall, he had had time to raise the hand that held the skull, so it had remained up in the air, a few inches from the ground, still clean.
The pergola was some fifty yards from his hiding place, and Don Eulogio heard the voices as a delicate murmuring without making out what they were saying. He got up painfully. Spying, he then saw in the middle of the arc of large apple trees, whose roots reached to the foundation of the dining room, a precise, slender silhouette, and he realized that it was his son. Next to him was a woman, still sharper and smaller, reclining with a certain abandon. It was his son’s wife. Blinking, rubbing his eyes, he tried anxiously but in vain to catch a glimpse of the boy. Then he heard him laugh: a boy’s crystalline laugh, spontaneous and open, that crossed the garden like a bird. He did not wait any longer; he took the candle out of his jacket and gropingly collected branches, clods of earth and pebbles, working quickly to fix the candle securely on the rock and to place the rock like an obstacle in the middle of the path. Then, with extreme precision to keep the candle balanced, he placed the skull over it. Seized with great excitement, putting his eyelashes up to the solid, oily object, he felt happy: the height was right, the candle’s small white point stuck out through the hole in the cranium like a spikenard. He could not stay watching. The father had raised his voice and although his words were still incomprehensible, the old man knew they were addressed to the boy. There was something of an exchange of words among the three people: the father’s heavy voice, increasingly vigorous, the melodious sound of the woman, his grandson’s shrill yelps. Suddenly the noise stopped. The silence was very brief; his grandson exploded it, shrieking: “But remember—my punishment ends today. You said seven days and it’s over today. Tomorrow I’m not going.” With the last words he heard hurried footsteps.
Was he coming running? It was the decisive moment. Don Eulogio overcame the anguish strangling him and carried out his plan. The first match gave off only a brief blue thread. The second took fire. Burning his nails, but not feeling any pain, he kept it next to the skull, even seconds after the candle was lit. He hesitated because what he saw was not exactly what he had imagined, but then a sudden flame shot up between his hands with an abrupt crackling, like a heavy footstep in a pile of dead leaves, and the skull was completely illuminated, throwing out light from the eye sockets, the cranium, the nose and mouth. “It’s all lit up,” he exclaimed in wonder. He stood still and repeated like a record: “It was the olive oil, it was the olive oil,” stupefied, bewitched before the fascinating skull enveloped in flames.
Exactly at that instant he heard the shout. A savage shout, the howl of an animal pierced by many javelins. The boy was in front of him, his hands extended, his fingers convulsed. Livid, shaking, his eyes and mouth open, he was mute now and stiff,
At that moment he heard voices in the pergola. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had even forgotten the reason for his feverish activity. The voices and the movement were so unforeseen that his heart seemed like an oxygen tank connected to a dying man. His first impulse was to crouch down, but he did it so clumsily that he slipped off the rock and slid flat on his face. He felt a sharp pain in his forehead and a disagreeable taste of wet earth in his mouth, but he made no effort to stand up and stayed there, half buried in the grass, breathing laboriously, trembling. In his fall, he had had time to raise the hand that held the skull, so it had remained up in the air, a few inches from the ground, still clean.
The pergola was some fifty yards from his hiding place, and Don Eulogio heard the voices as a delicate murmuring without making out what they were saying. He got up painfully. Spying, he then saw in the middle of the arc of large apple trees, whose roots reached to the foundation of the dining room, a precise, slender silhouette, and he realized that it was his son. Next to him was a woman, still sharper and smaller, reclining with a certain abandon. It was his son’s wife. Blinking, rubbing his eyes, he tried anxiously but in vain to catch a glimpse of the boy. Then he heard him laugh: a boy’s crystalline laugh, spontaneous and open, that crossed the garden like a bird. He did not wait any longer; he took the candle out of his jacket and gropingly collected branches, clods of earth and pebbles, working quickly to fix the candle securely on the rock and to place the rock like an obstacle in the middle of the path. Then, with extreme precision to keep the candle balanced, he placed the skull over it. Seized with great excitement, putting his eyelashes up to the solid, oily object, he felt happy: the height was right, the candle’s small white point stuck out through the hole in the cranium like a spikenard. He could not stay watching. The father had raised his voice and although his words were still incomprehensible, the old man knew they were addressed to the boy. There was something of an exchange of words among the three people: the father’s heavy voice, increasingly vigorous, the melodious sound of the woman, his grandson’s shrill yelps. Suddenly the noise stopped. The silence was very brief; his grandson exploded it, shrieking: “But remember—my punishment ends today. You said seven days and it’s over today. Tomorrow I’m not going.” With the last words he heard hurried footsteps.
Was he coming running? It was the decisive moment. Don Eulogio overcame the anguish strangling him and carried out his plan. The first match gave off only a brief blue thread. The second took fire. Burning his nails, but not feeling any pain, he kept it next to the skull, even seconds after the candle was lit. He hesitated because what he saw was not exactly what he had imagined, but then a sudden flame shot up between his hands with an abrupt crackling, like a heavy footstep in a pile of dead leaves, and the skull was completely illuminated, throwing out light from the eye sockets, the cranium, the nose and mouth. “It’s all lit up,” he exclaimed in wonder. He stood still and repeated like a record: “It was the olive oil, it was the olive oil,” stupefied, bewitched before the fascinating skull enveloped in flames.
Exactly at that instant he heard the shout. A savage shout, the howl of an animal pierced by many javelins. The boy was in front of him, his hands extended, his fingers convulsed. Livid, shaking, his eyes and mouth open, he was mute now and stiff,
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