milk. Since you’ve opened that bottle, why don’t you drink it?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“C’mon, Señora Merceditas, don’t be like that. Drink to my health.”
“I don’t want to.”
The man’s face goes sour. “Are you deaf? I told you to drink that bottle. Cheers!”
The woman raises the bottle with both hands and drinks slowly in small sips. On the dirty, scratched counter a bottle of milk glitters. With a swipe of his hand, the man scares off the flies circling around it, raises the bottle and takes a long drink. His lips are covered with a muzzle of cream, which his tongue, seconds later, noisily wipes away.
“Ah!” he says, licking again. “That milk really was good, Señora Merceditas. Goat’s milk, isn’t it? I liked it a lot. Have you finished that bottle yet? Why don’t you open up another? Cheers!”
The woman obeys without protest; the man devours two bananas and an orange.
“Listen, Señora Merceditas, don’t go so fast. The beer’s running down your neck. It’s going to get your dress wet. Don’t waste things that way. Open up another bottle and drink to Numa. Cheers!”
The man goes on repeating “Cheers!” until there are four empty bottles on the counter. The woman’s eyes are glassy; she belches, spits, sits down on a sack of fruit.
“My God!” says the man. “Some woman! You’re a regular drunk, Señora Merceditas. Excuse me for telling you so.”
“You’re going to be sorry for what you’re doing to a poor old lady. You’ll see, Jamaican, you’ll see.” Her tongue is a little thick.
“Really?” the man says, bored. “By the way, what time’s Numa coming?”
“Numa?”
“Oh, you’re really awful, Señora Merceditas, when you don’t want to understand something. What time’s he coming?”
“You’re a filthy nigger, Jamaican. Numa’s going to kill you.”
“Don’t talk that way, Señora Merceditas!” He yawns. “All right, I think we’ve still got a while yet. Definitely until nighttime. We’re going to take a little nap, that okay with you?”
He gets up and goes out. He heads toward the goat. The animal looks at him suspiciously. He unties it. He goes back to the inn, swinging the cord like a propeller and whistling; the woman is gone. The lazy, lewd calmness of his gestures disappears immediately. Swearing, he runs around the place in great leaps. Then he heads toward the wood, followed by the goat. The animal finds the woman behind a tree and begins to lick her. The Jamaican laughs, seeing the angry looks the woman flings at the goat. He makes a simple gesture and Doña Merceditas heads toward the inn.
“You really are an awful woman, yessiree. What notions you’ve got!”
He ties her feet and hands. Then he picks her up easily and deposits her on the counter. He stands there looking at her wickedly and, suddenly, starts tickling the broad, wrinkled soles of her feet. The woman writhes with laughter; her face shows her desperation. The counter is narrow and with her shaking Doña Merceditas nears the edge; finally, she rolls heavily onto the floor.
“What an awful woman, yessiree!” he repeats. “You pretend to faint and you’re spying on me out of one eye. There’s no curing you, Señora Merceditas!”
Its head thrust into the room, the goat stares at the woman attentively.
The neighing of the horses cuts through the end of the afternoon: it is already growing dark. Señora Merceditas raises her head and listens, her eyes wide open.
“It’s them,” says the Jamaican. He jumps up. The horses keep neighing and pawing. From the door of the inn, the man shouts angrily:
“You gone nuts, Lieutenant? You gone nuts?”
Out of a rocky bend in the hill the lieutenant appears: he is short and thick-set; he is wearing riding boots and his face is sweaty. He looks around warily.
“You nuts?” repeats the Jamaican. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Don’t raise your voice at me, nigger,” says the
“I don’t feel like it.”
“C’mon, Señora Merceditas, don’t be like that. Drink to my health.”
“I don’t want to.”
The man’s face goes sour. “Are you deaf? I told you to drink that bottle. Cheers!”
The woman raises the bottle with both hands and drinks slowly in small sips. On the dirty, scratched counter a bottle of milk glitters. With a swipe of his hand, the man scares off the flies circling around it, raises the bottle and takes a long drink. His lips are covered with a muzzle of cream, which his tongue, seconds later, noisily wipes away.
“Ah!” he says, licking again. “That milk really was good, Señora Merceditas. Goat’s milk, isn’t it? I liked it a lot. Have you finished that bottle yet? Why don’t you open up another? Cheers!”
The woman obeys without protest; the man devours two bananas and an orange.
“Listen, Señora Merceditas, don’t go so fast. The beer’s running down your neck. It’s going to get your dress wet. Don’t waste things that way. Open up another bottle and drink to Numa. Cheers!”
The man goes on repeating “Cheers!” until there are four empty bottles on the counter. The woman’s eyes are glassy; she belches, spits, sits down on a sack of fruit.
“My God!” says the man. “Some woman! You’re a regular drunk, Señora Merceditas. Excuse me for telling you so.”
“You’re going to be sorry for what you’re doing to a poor old lady. You’ll see, Jamaican, you’ll see.” Her tongue is a little thick.
“Really?” the man says, bored. “By the way, what time’s Numa coming?”
“Numa?”
“Oh, you’re really awful, Señora Merceditas, when you don’t want to understand something. What time’s he coming?”
“You’re a filthy nigger, Jamaican. Numa’s going to kill you.”
“Don’t talk that way, Señora Merceditas!” He yawns. “All right, I think we’ve still got a while yet. Definitely until nighttime. We’re going to take a little nap, that okay with you?”
He gets up and goes out. He heads toward the goat. The animal looks at him suspiciously. He unties it. He goes back to the inn, swinging the cord like a propeller and whistling; the woman is gone. The lazy, lewd calmness of his gestures disappears immediately. Swearing, he runs around the place in great leaps. Then he heads toward the wood, followed by the goat. The animal finds the woman behind a tree and begins to lick her. The Jamaican laughs, seeing the angry looks the woman flings at the goat. He makes a simple gesture and Doña Merceditas heads toward the inn.
“You really are an awful woman, yessiree. What notions you’ve got!”
He ties her feet and hands. Then he picks her up easily and deposits her on the counter. He stands there looking at her wickedly and, suddenly, starts tickling the broad, wrinkled soles of her feet. The woman writhes with laughter; her face shows her desperation. The counter is narrow and with her shaking Doña Merceditas nears the edge; finally, she rolls heavily onto the floor.
“What an awful woman, yessiree!” he repeats. “You pretend to faint and you’re spying on me out of one eye. There’s no curing you, Señora Merceditas!”
Its head thrust into the room, the goat stares at the woman attentively.
The neighing of the horses cuts through the end of the afternoon: it is already growing dark. Señora Merceditas raises her head and listens, her eyes wide open.
“It’s them,” says the Jamaican. He jumps up. The horses keep neighing and pawing. From the door of the inn, the man shouts angrily:
“You gone nuts, Lieutenant? You gone nuts?”
Out of a rocky bend in the hill the lieutenant appears: he is short and thick-set; he is wearing riding boots and his face is sweaty. He looks around warily.
“You nuts?” repeats the Jamaican. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Don’t raise your voice at me, nigger,” says the
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