B004QGYWKI EBOK by Mario Vargas Llosa Page A

but his throat was making strange sounds independently, snorting. “He’s seen me, he’s seen me,” Don Eulogio said to himself in panic. But looking at him, he knew immediately that the boy had not seen him, that his grandson could not see anything but that flaming head. His eyes were fixed, with a deep, everlasting terror painted in them. Everything had been simultaneous: the sudden blaze, the howl, the vision of that figure in short pants suddenly possessed by terror. Enthusiastically he was thinking that things had turned out even more perfectly than he had planned, when he heard approaching voices and footsteps; and then, not caring about the noise, he turned, and jumping off the path, trampling the beds of chrysanthemums and roses, which he glimpsed as the reflection of the flame reached them, he crossed the space separating him from the door. He ran through, accompanied by the woman’s scream, also strident but less genuine than his grandson’s. He did not stop; he did not look back. Out on the street, a cold wind cut through his forehead and his few hairs, but he did not notice it and continued walking, slowly, rubbing the garden wall with his shoulder, smiling in satisfaction, breathing better, more calmly.

A Visitor
     
    The sands lap the front of the inn and come to an end there: from the hole serving as a door or from among the reeds, the view slides over a white, languid surface until it meets the sky. Behind the inn, the land is hard and rugged, and less than a mile away begin the burnished, closely ranged hills, each taller than the preceding one, their peaks piercing the clouds like needles or axes. To the left, the narrow, winding wood stretches along the border of the sand and grows without a break until it disappears between two hills, far beyond the inn: underbrush, wild plants and a dry, rampant grass that hides everything—the uneven terrain, the snakes, the tiny swamps. But the wood is only a hint of the forest, a foretaste: it stops at the end of a ravine, at the foot of a massive hill beyond which the real forest begins. And Doña Merceditas knows it: once, years ago, she climbed to the top of that mountain and with astonished eyes gazed through the large patches of cloud floating beneath her feet at the green platform stretching far and wide without a clearing.
    Now Doña Merceditas dozes, lying across two sacks. A little farther away, the goat pokes his nose in the sand, stubbornly chews a splinter of wood or bleats in the cool afternoon air. Suddenly, it pricks up its ears and freezes. The woman half opens her eyes.
    “What’s up, Cuera?”
    The animal pulls on the cord tying it to the stake. The woman laboriously stands up. Some fifty yards away, the man is silhouetted sharply against the horizon, his shadow preceding him across the sand. The woman shades her forehead with one hand. She looks around quickly; then she stands motionless. The man is very close; he is tall, emaciated, quite dark, with curly hair and mocking eyes. His faded shirt flutters outside his flannel pants, which are rolled up to his knees. His legs look like two black pegs.
    “Good afternoon, Doña Merceditas.” His voice is melodious and sarcastic. The woman has turned pale.
    “What do you want?” she murmurs.
    “You recognize me, right? Well, good for you. If you’d be so kind, I’d like something to eat. And drink. I’m really thirsty.”
    “There’s beer and fruit inside.”
    “Thanks, Señora Merceditas. You’re very kind. Like always. Will you join me?”
    “What for?” The woman looks at him distrustfully. She is fat and well along in years, but with smooth skin. She is barefoot. “You know the place already.”
    “Oh!” the man says in a cordial way. “I don’t like to eat alone. Makes me sad.”
    The woman hesitates for a moment. Then she walks toward the inn, dragging her feet in the sand. She goes in. She opens a bottle of beer.
    “Thanks, thanks a lot, Señora Merceditas. But I prefer