that no one could lose his heart to a station, so I made some inquiries. The
estancia
and its chapel turned
out to be over that featureless horizon, and seven miles away. There must have been other
estancias
over other bits of horizon, for dirt tracks radiated away from the station into the
purple haze of the evening.
The
fonda
was the usual drink-shop plus general store plus hotel. It was owned by the stationmaster, an old Hungarian immigrant called Timoteo who had been there for the last thirty
years and made himself pretty comfortable. He had sunk an artesian well, and installed some very classy pale-green sanitary ware – which must have been left on his hands when one of the local
cattlemen went bust. In spite of the blowing dust and corrugated iron and the feeling of being all alone at the center of an invisible world, the
fonda
was an oasis of civilization. I
gladly took a room for the night.
Timoteo was overpleased to see me. There was no doubt that he was harassed and in need of help, like those chaps in ghost stories who have been all alone till the stranger pulls the doorbell. At
the time I put down his manner to alarmed anticipation of the next day. The guests were to have a light breakfast on the train and start straightaway for the
estancia,
but Timoteo was sure
to be overwhelmed by politicians demanding drinks in a pious whisper.
Well, I had a bath and an excellent meal, cooked and served by the mestiza staff, and shared by Timoteo’s tomcat: a great, friendly, short-haired beast who stood much higher on his fore
legs than his hind, and looked like an amiable hyena. In a joint of that sort you’d have expected nothing but canned goods, but there were fresh fruits and vegetables and meat in plenty
– good evidence that somewhere across the savanna was rich country which Covadillas could well have chosen as a resting place for his spare parts.
There was no one in the drink-shop. It was between paydays. So Timoteo and I took our glasses and settled down on the terrace. It was a night of black velvet, and there wasn’t a sound in
the soft heat but the muffled thump of the electric power plant.
Timoteo felt he should apologize for making his home at the center of an empty circle. I asked who lived in the two iron huts. His staff. Two men in each hut. A stationmaster, he explained with
patient dignity, could not be expected to load and unload trucks. I protested that such a thought had never occurred to me, that my question was mere idle curiosity, that I had noticed there was no
sign of life in the huts – no light, no guitar, no woman complaining of the universe. Oh, he said, they had all gone off to collect the cars and buses from the neighborhood and see that they
got to the station in good time. It was obvious that Timoteo, as a former subject of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, still considered he should set an example to the weaker Latin brother. A
stationmaster was a public servant; there could be no hitch allowed in his arrangements.
After a while the thump of the power plant seemed to me to have developed a disturbing echo. I was about to suggest that we go and see if the big end had broken, when the thump became a gallop
– a real gallop, though still very distant. Timoteo listened and cheered up at once. He put his glass under his chair and took out a comb and swept the drooping gray hairs out of his mouth
until his mustache looked decently stationmasterish.
Four cavalrymen charged up into the light of the doorway, covered with dust and sweat and all in full-dress uniform, as if they’d just finished an old-fashioned battle. There were a
captain, a sergeant and two troopers, themselves and their horses bristling with firearms. So much lethal modernity was incongruous with all that pale blue and gold.
Timoteo trotted happily down the steps to meet them, and got a reception that startled him. The captain jumped off his horse and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Are you mad?” he
estancia
and its chapel turned
out to be over that featureless horizon, and seven miles away. There must have been other
estancias
over other bits of horizon, for dirt tracks radiated away from the station into the
purple haze of the evening.
The
fonda
was the usual drink-shop plus general store plus hotel. It was owned by the stationmaster, an old Hungarian immigrant called Timoteo who had been there for the last thirty
years and made himself pretty comfortable. He had sunk an artesian well, and installed some very classy pale-green sanitary ware – which must have been left on his hands when one of the local
cattlemen went bust. In spite of the blowing dust and corrugated iron and the feeling of being all alone at the center of an invisible world, the
fonda
was an oasis of civilization. I
gladly took a room for the night.
Timoteo was overpleased to see me. There was no doubt that he was harassed and in need of help, like those chaps in ghost stories who have been all alone till the stranger pulls the doorbell. At
the time I put down his manner to alarmed anticipation of the next day. The guests were to have a light breakfast on the train and start straightaway for the
estancia,
but Timoteo was sure
to be overwhelmed by politicians demanding drinks in a pious whisper.
Well, I had a bath and an excellent meal, cooked and served by the mestiza staff, and shared by Timoteo’s tomcat: a great, friendly, short-haired beast who stood much higher on his fore
legs than his hind, and looked like an amiable hyena. In a joint of that sort you’d have expected nothing but canned goods, but there were fresh fruits and vegetables and meat in plenty
– good evidence that somewhere across the savanna was rich country which Covadillas could well have chosen as a resting place for his spare parts.
There was no one in the drink-shop. It was between paydays. So Timoteo and I took our glasses and settled down on the terrace. It was a night of black velvet, and there wasn’t a sound in
the soft heat but the muffled thump of the electric power plant.
Timoteo felt he should apologize for making his home at the center of an empty circle. I asked who lived in the two iron huts. His staff. Two men in each hut. A stationmaster, he explained with
patient dignity, could not be expected to load and unload trucks. I protested that such a thought had never occurred to me, that my question was mere idle curiosity, that I had noticed there was no
sign of life in the huts – no light, no guitar, no woman complaining of the universe. Oh, he said, they had all gone off to collect the cars and buses from the neighborhood and see that they
got to the station in good time. It was obvious that Timoteo, as a former subject of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, still considered he should set an example to the weaker Latin brother. A
stationmaster was a public servant; there could be no hitch allowed in his arrangements.
After a while the thump of the power plant seemed to me to have developed a disturbing echo. I was about to suggest that we go and see if the big end had broken, when the thump became a gallop
– a real gallop, though still very distant. Timoteo listened and cheered up at once. He put his glass under his chair and took out a comb and swept the drooping gray hairs out of his mouth
until his mustache looked decently stationmasterish.
Four cavalrymen charged up into the light of the doorway, covered with dust and sweat and all in full-dress uniform, as if they’d just finished an old-fashioned battle. There were a
captain, a sergeant and two troopers, themselves and their horses bristling with firearms. So much lethal modernity was incongruous with all that pale blue and gold.
Timoteo trotted happily down the steps to meet them, and got a reception that startled him. The captain jumped off his horse and grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Are you mad?” he
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