Juan Rulfo - Pedro Páramo

“Maybe he did, Donis. I know so little about people. I never go out. I’ve been right here for what seems forever. Well, maybe not that long. Just since he made me his woman. Ever since then, I’ve been closed up here, because I’m afraid to be seen. He doesn’t want to believe it, but isn’t it true I would give anyone a scare?” She walked to stand in the sunlight.

“Look at my face!”

It was an ordinary face.

“What is it you want me to see?”

“Don’t you see my sin? Don’t you see those purplish spots? Like impetigo? I’m covered with them. And that’s only on the outside; inside, I’m a sea of mud.”

“But who’s going to see you if there’s no one here? I’ve been through the whole town and not seen anyone.”

“You think you haven’t, but there are still a few people around. Haven’t you seen Filomeno? Or Dorotea or Melquiades or old Prudencio? And aren’t Sostenes and all of them still alive? What happens is that they stay close to home. I don’t know what they do by day, but I know they spend their nights locked up indoors. Nights around here are filled with ghosts. You should see all the spirits walking through the streets. As soon as it’s dark they begin to come out. No one likes to see them. There’s so many of them and so few of us that we don’t even make the effort to pray for them anymore, to help them out of their purgatory. We don’t have enough prayers to go around. Maybe a few words of the Lord’s Prayer for each one. But that’s not going to do them any good. Then there are our sins on top of theirs. None of us still living is in God’s grace. We can’t lift up our eyes, because they’re filled with shame. And shame doesn’t help. At least that’s what the Bishop said. He came through here some time ago giving confirmation, and I went to him and confessed everything:

“‘I can’t pardon you,’ he said.

“‘I’m filled with shame.’

“That isn’t the answer.’

“‘Marry us!’

“‘Live apart!’

“I tried to tell him that life had joined us together, herded us like animals, forced us on each other. We were so alone here; we were the only two left. And somehow the village had to have people again. I told him now maybe there would be someone for him to confirm when he came back.”

“‘Go your separate ways. There’s no other way.’

“‘But how will we live?’

“‘Like anyone lives.’

“And he rode off on his mule, his face hard, without looking back, as if he was leaving an image of damnation behind him. He’s never come back. And that’s why this place is swarming with spirits: hordes of restless souls who died without forgiveness, and people would never have won forgiveness in any case — even less if they had to depend on us. He’s coming. You hear?”

“Yes, I hear.”

“It’s him.”

The door opened.

“Did you find the calf?” she asked.

“It took it in its head not to come, but I followed its tracks and I’ll soon find where it is.

Tonight I’ll catch it.”

“You’re going to leave me alone at night?”

“I may have to.”

“But I can’t stand it. I need you here with me. That’s the only time I feel comfortable.

That time of night.”

“But tonight I’m going after the calf.”

“I just learned,” I interrupted, “that you two are brother and sister.”

“You just learned that? I’ve known it a lot longer than you. So don’t be sticking your nose into it. We don’t like people talking about us.”

“I only mentioned it to show I understand. That’s all.”

“Understand what?”

The woman went to stand beside him, leaning against his shoulder, and repeated in turn: “You understand what?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I understand less by the minute.” And added: “All I want is to go back where I came from. I should use what little light’s left of the day.”

“You’d better wait,” he told me. “Wait till morning. It’ll be dark soon, and all the roads are grown over. You might get lost. I’ll start you off in the right direction tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Through the hole in the roof I watched the thrushes, those birds that flock at dusk before the darkness seals their way. Then, a few clouds already scattered by the wind that comes to carry off the day.

Later the evening star came out; then, still later, the moon.

The man and woman were not around. They had gone out through the patio and by the time they returned it was already dark. So they had no way of knowing what had happened while they were gone.

And this was what happened:

A woman came into the room from the street. She was ancient, and so thin she looked as if her hide had shrunk to her bones. She looked around the room with big round eyes. She may even have seen me. Perhaps she thought I was sleeping. She went straight to the bed and pulled a leather trunk from beneath it. She searched through it. Then she clutched some sheets beneath her arm and tiptoed out as if not to wake me.

I lay rigid, holding my breath, trying to look anywhere but at her. Finally I worked up the courage to twist my head and look in her direction, toward the place where the evening star had converged on the moon.

“Drink this,” I heard.

I did not dare turn my head.

“Drink it! It will do you good. It’s orange-blossom tea. I know you’re scared because you’re trembling. This will ease your fright.”

I recognized the hands, and as I raised my eyes I recognized the face. The man, who was standing behind her, asked:

“Do you feel sick?”

“I don’t know. I see things and people where you may not see anything. A woman was just here. You must have seen her leave.”

“Come on,” he said to his wife. “Leave him alone. He talks like a mystic.”

“We should let him have the bed. Look how he’s trembling. He must have a fever.”

“Don’t pay him any mind. People like him work themselves into a state to get attention. I knew one over at the Media Luna who called himself a divine. What he never ‘divined’ was that he was going to die as soon as the patron ‘divined’ what a bungler he was. This one’s just like him. They spend their lives going from town to town ‘to see what the Good Lord has to offer,’ but he’ll not find anyone here to give him so much as a bite to eat. You see how he stopped trembling? He hears what we’re saying.”

It was as if time had turned backward. Once again I saw the star nestling close to the moon.

Scattering clouds. Flocks of thrushes. And suddenly, bright afternoon light.

Walls were reflecting the afternoon sun. My footsteps sounded on the cobblestones. The burro driver was saying, “Look up dona Eduviges, if she’s still alive!”

Then a dark room. A woman snoring by my side. I noticed that her breathing was uneven, as if she were dreaming, or as if she were awake and merely imitating the sounds of sleep. The cot was a platform of reeds covered with gunnysacks that smelled of piss, as if they’d never been aired in the sun. The pillow was a saddle pad wrapped around a log or a roll of wool so hard and sweaty it felt as solid as a rock.

I could feel a woman’s naked legs against my knee, and her breath upon my face. I sat up in the bed, supporting myself on the adobe-hard pillow.

“You’re not asleep?” she asked.

“I’m not sleepy. I slept all day long. Where’s your brother?”

“He went off somewhere. You heard him say where he had to go. He may not come back tonight.”

“So he went anyway? In spite of what you wanted?”

“Yes. And he may never come back. That’s how they all do. ‘I have to go down there; I have to go on out that way.’ Until they’ve gone so far that it’s easier not to come back. He’s been trying and trying to leave, and I think this is the time. Maybe, though he didn’t say so, he left me here for you to take care of. He saw his chance. The business of the stray was just an excuse. You’ll see. He’s not coming back.”