journalists who had been drawn there by the magnitude of the rumors. The family, overcoming their timidity, invited them inside, in accord with the unvarying tradition of hospitality of the inhabitants of that land.
*Â Â *Â Â *
Soon the first visitors began to arrive and made themselves comfortable on the Ranquileosâ patio. In the morning light, Francisco focused on Irene as she was talking with the family, to capture her unawares because she did not like to pose for the camera. Photographs deceive time, she said, freezing it on a piece of cardboard where the soul is silent. The clean air, and her enthusiasm, lent her the air of a woodland creature. She moved about the Ranquileo property with the freedom and confidence of someone born there, talking, laughing, helping serve the refreshments, threading through the dogs that were thumping their tails docilely. The children followed her, astounded by her strange hair, extravagant clothing, constant laughter, and the charm of her movements.
A group of evangelicals arrived with their guitars, flutes, and bass drums, and began to intone hymns under the direction of the Reverend, who turned out to be a tiny man in a shiny jacket and funereal hat. The plaintive chorus and instruments were never quite in tune, though no one except Irene and Francisco seemed to notice. All the others had been hearing the music for several weeks, and by now their ears were accustomed to the discord.
Father Cirilo also appeared, panting from the enormous exertion of pedaling his bicycle from the church to the Ranquileo home. Seated beneath the grape arbor, lost in melancholy divagations or prayers learned by memory, he moved his lips and swayed his white beard, which from a distance looked like a spray of orange blossoms pinned to his chest. Perhaps he had realized that the rosary of Santa Gemita blessed by the hands of the Pope was as ineffective in this case as the chanting of his Protestant colleague or the many-colored pills of the doctor from Los Riscos. From time to time, he consulted his pocket watch to verify the punctuality of the trance. Other persons, lured by the possibility of miracles, sat silent beneath the eaves of the house, in chairs lined up in the shade. Some discussed with deliberation the next planting, or a long-ago soccer match heard over the radio, never at any moment mentioning what had attracted them there, out of respect for the owners of the house, or because they were shy.
Evangelina and her mother attended the guests, offering cool water with toasted flour and honey. Nothing in the girlâs aspect appeared in any way abnormal; she seemed tranquil, with a slightly foolish smile on her red-cheeked apple face. She was happy to be the center of attention in this small gathering.
Hipólito Ranquileo spent a long while rounding up the dogs and tying them to the trees. They were barking too much. Then he explained to Francisco that they had to kill one of the bitches because she had dropped a litter the day before and eaten her own whelps, a crime as grave as a hen crowing like a rooster. Certain vices of nature must be rooted out to avoid infecting other animals. On this subject he was very delicate.
It was at this point that the Reverend planted himself in the center of the patio and began an impassioned discourse delivered at the top of his lungs. All those present listened, not wanting to slight him, although it was evident that everyone except the evangelicals felt uncomfortable. âRising prices! The high cost of living! This is a well-known problem. There is more than one way to stop it: jail, fines, strikes, among others. What is the heart of the problem? What is its cause? What is this ball of fire that inflames manâs greed? Behind it all lies a dangerous tendency toward the sin of avarice, the unrestrained appetite for earthly pleasure. This leads man away from our Holy Lord, it produces human, moral, economic, and spiritual instability,
*Â Â *Â Â *
Soon the first visitors began to arrive and made themselves comfortable on the Ranquileosâ patio. In the morning light, Francisco focused on Irene as she was talking with the family, to capture her unawares because she did not like to pose for the camera. Photographs deceive time, she said, freezing it on a piece of cardboard where the soul is silent. The clean air, and her enthusiasm, lent her the air of a woodland creature. She moved about the Ranquileo property with the freedom and confidence of someone born there, talking, laughing, helping serve the refreshments, threading through the dogs that were thumping their tails docilely. The children followed her, astounded by her strange hair, extravagant clothing, constant laughter, and the charm of her movements.
A group of evangelicals arrived with their guitars, flutes, and bass drums, and began to intone hymns under the direction of the Reverend, who turned out to be a tiny man in a shiny jacket and funereal hat. The plaintive chorus and instruments were never quite in tune, though no one except Irene and Francisco seemed to notice. All the others had been hearing the music for several weeks, and by now their ears were accustomed to the discord.
Father Cirilo also appeared, panting from the enormous exertion of pedaling his bicycle from the church to the Ranquileo home. Seated beneath the grape arbor, lost in melancholy divagations or prayers learned by memory, he moved his lips and swayed his white beard, which from a distance looked like a spray of orange blossoms pinned to his chest. Perhaps he had realized that the rosary of Santa Gemita blessed by the hands of the Pope was as ineffective in this case as the chanting of his Protestant colleague or the many-colored pills of the doctor from Los Riscos. From time to time, he consulted his pocket watch to verify the punctuality of the trance. Other persons, lured by the possibility of miracles, sat silent beneath the eaves of the house, in chairs lined up in the shade. Some discussed with deliberation the next planting, or a long-ago soccer match heard over the radio, never at any moment mentioning what had attracted them there, out of respect for the owners of the house, or because they were shy.
Evangelina and her mother attended the guests, offering cool water with toasted flour and honey. Nothing in the girlâs aspect appeared in any way abnormal; she seemed tranquil, with a slightly foolish smile on her red-cheeked apple face. She was happy to be the center of attention in this small gathering.
Hipólito Ranquileo spent a long while rounding up the dogs and tying them to the trees. They were barking too much. Then he explained to Francisco that they had to kill one of the bitches because she had dropped a litter the day before and eaten her own whelps, a crime as grave as a hen crowing like a rooster. Certain vices of nature must be rooted out to avoid infecting other animals. On this subject he was very delicate.
It was at this point that the Reverend planted himself in the center of the patio and began an impassioned discourse delivered at the top of his lungs. All those present listened, not wanting to slight him, although it was evident that everyone except the evangelicals felt uncomfortable. âRising prices! The high cost of living! This is a well-known problem. There is more than one way to stop it: jail, fines, strikes, among others. What is the heart of the problem? What is its cause? What is this ball of fire that inflames manâs greed? Behind it all lies a dangerous tendency toward the sin of avarice, the unrestrained appetite for earthly pleasure. This leads man away from our Holy Lord, it produces human, moral, economic, and spiritual instability,
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