The Dark Bride by Laura Restrepo Page A

tin can of hot coffee. “Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday I’ll have it. Two Sundays a month for you, two Sundays for me.”
    â€œMonday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday,” corrected Sacramento, “the first son of a bitch who lets down his guard tonight will have to limp around, because I’m going to steal a left shoe.”
    â€œWhy would they have only stolen one?”
    â€œIt must have been some damned one-legged thief.”
    â€œIt won’t be hard to recognize him then.”
    â€œWhat if the thief has all of his legs, and if someone else had stolen only one of his shoes too?”
    â€œThen that means that a cycle has begun that not even God can end.”
    Sacramento and Payanés racked their brains trying to imagine what luck could befall two men with three shoes, when toward them came an old man, ill-humored and mumbling curses.
    â€œI’m getting out of here,” he said, chewing his words, as Sacramento studied the sturdy pair of raised-heel boots with leather straps the old man was wearing. “If you want my place you can have it. I’d rather die of hunger in my homeland than leave my bones buried in these shitty swamps. They’re plagued with bugs, look, there goes one, and there’s another. They say they bite, the filthy creatures. I’m getting out of here, yessir, before a fucking bug eats me.”
    â€œWell, if you’re leaving, why don’t you do me the favor of leaving me your boots?” proposed Sacramento, inspired by the muses of his desperation.
    Astonished, Payanés looked at him.
    â€œWhat do you mean, my boots?” the old man shot back. “Do you by chance have a million pesos to give me for them?”
    â€œI don’t have anything to give you for them, but look at my situation and you’ll understand, somebody stole my shoe, which there is a great need for around here, and since you’re going home and probably have another pair waiting for you there . . .”
    â€œAnd how am I supposed to get home, fly? Stupid idiot. That’s just what I need, some blockhead to start asking me for presents. Maybe you think I look like baby Jesus?”
    Stubborn in his foolishness, Sacramento kept arguing reasons for mercy and heaping on descriptions of his misfortune, refusing to recognize that there is no human power that can convince a stranger to cross the mass of the Andes unshod, of his own will, for no good reason and without receiving anything in return.
    â€œWhat do you mean that you’re leaving us your place?” Payanés, who was sharper at this sort of dealing, asked the old man.
    â€œThere’s plenty of work to go around here, what there’s not enough of is willing men. The only requirement for a man is that he have two hands, bring his own tool, and be willing to work like an animal and leave the child’s play behind. And your shovels? Where are your shovels?”
    â€œWe don’t have shovels.”
    â€œThey only hire personnel with tools.”
    â€œSerious problem, hermano, ” said Payanés to Sacramento, removing his red baseball cap to scratch his head.
    â€œWell, if you want I’ll sell you my shovel.”
    â€œWell, seeing that it’s an old shovel, and I’m not exactly rich . . .”
    The give and take of the negotiation started high, rapidly descended to midrange, and stagnated with the bartering of trifles—the shovel for the red cap, a pound of coffee and the shovel for the missal that Sacramento was carrying, the coffee for the red cap—until the old man convinced himself of the calamitous insolvency of his opponents and chose to move on to look for a higher bidder.
    â€œDon’t go,” said Sacramento, grabbing him by the sleeve. “I’ll give you my shoe for your shovel.”
    â€œWhat in the hell do I need with a single shoe?”
    â€œIn case someone steals one of