Tierra del Fuego by Francisco Coloane

money in a hiding place only you and he knew about, and now you’ve grabbed it!”
    Foster again wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and tried to smile. He lifted the glass to his lips, inviting the others to do the same.
    â€œYou were going to drink alone, weren’t you, old man?” another of the sailors said.
    â€œDon’t be like that. I always drink alone, and with my own money!”
    â€œSo why not get a whole bottle of gin?” the redheaded sailor exclaimed. “Old Foster’s paying!”
    The barman uncorked an earthenware bottle and put it on the counter . . . The sailors leaned forward and read on the label: Its pale amber color is proof of age . They started pouring it out.
    Outside, the blizzard was turning into a thick snowstorm, and Martín was alone now but for the dead wings of the snow, which fell like an offering from heaven on his abandoned casket.
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    If the green goes with the green
    And the red goes with the red
    Then all is for the best
    And I’ll sleep easy in my bed . . .
    Â 
    They all sang the refrain with which the helmsman Martín would recall the position of the lights when ships passed each other at night. It was a refrain often repeated by helmsmen to avoid taking a wrong turn in such situations.
    The lights had also come on inside the bar, as night had ­fallen without the sailors having realized it. Seamen and fishermen were drinking noisily, and the air in the bar was thick with smoke from their pipes and cigars. From time to time someone would put a nickel coin in the slot of a music box on the wall, and the chords of some old march, polka, or waltz would rise into the air with a great crash of drums and cymbals.
    One of the sailors looked out the window at the night and sat for a moment contemplating with a touch of melancholy how the snowflakes swirled around the window panes, like a group of butterflies fighting to get through the glass to the light, then slid like big tears down the steamed-up pane. The music, the irregular rhythm of those winged feet of snow as they danced against the panes . . . whatever it was, something aroused an old itch in the sailor, and he stood up and said something in the ear of one of the barmen. Then he stood there pensively for a while, leaning on the bar counter and looking over toward his four comrades. Old Foster was dozing and the other three were drinking slowly, already drowning in alcohol. He let out a low whistle, heard only by the redheaded sailor with the world-weary face, who immediately went up to the bar.
    â€œShall we go have a bit of fun?” he suggested.
    â€œAll right!” the redhead replied, clicking his tongue, but then added, dubiously, “What about Martín?”
    â€œLet them bury him . . . if they can!” he replied, with a contemptuous gesture toward the men still sitting at the table.
    They crept out and the night swallowed them up. Only after a fair amount of time had passed did the others notice their absence. But they had gotten drunk so quickly that they were barely aware of the time or the situation they were in.
    â€œLet’s go . . . bury Martín,” one of them stuttered.
    â€œWhen the others come back!” the other replied.
    Foster was still dozing, and woke up from time to time only to stretch out his hand and lift the glass unsteadily to his withered lips, which came back to life for a few moments at contact with the burning alcohol.
    â€œPoor Martín!” one of the men sniveled.
    â€œPoor guy!” the other said, as if reciting a litany.
    â€œRemember the time he bought us all drinks in Tocopilla?”
    â€œYes, I remember, he treated the whole lot of us.”
    â€œHe played better music than this stuff, on his harmonica . . .”
    For a few moments, the unforgettable image of the helmsman of the Gastelu , the best of all their shipmates, passed through the minds of the two drunks. They remembered the way he would