Juan Rulfo - Pedro Páramo

“All right,” said the last to leave. “But remember, if you don’t live up to your word, you’ll hear 54

from Perseverancio, and that’s me.”

Pedro Paramo shook the man’s hand as he left.

Which one of them do you think is the leader?” he asked El Tilcuate after they’d gone.

“Well, I think maybe the one in the middle, the one with the big belly who never even looked up. I have a feeling he’s the one. I’m not often wrong, don Pedro.”

“You are this time, Damasio. You’re the leader. Or would you rather not get tied up in this revolution?”

“Well, I have been a little slow getting to it. Considering how much I like a good scrap.”

“You have an idea now what it’s all about, so you don’t need my advice. Get yourself three hundred men you can trust and sign up with these rebels. Tell them you’re bringing the men I promised them. You’ll know how to take care of the rest.”

“And what do I tell them about the money? Do I hand that over, too?”

“I’ll give you ten pesos for each man. Just enough for their most pressing needs. You tell them I’m keeping the rest here for them. That it isn’t a good idea to haul so much money around in times like these. By the way, how would you like that little rancho over in Puerta de Piedra? Fine. It’s yours, as of this minute. Take this note to my lawyer in Comala, old Gerardo Trujillo, and he’ll put the property in your name then and there. How does that sound, Damasio?”

“No need to ask, patron. Though I’d be happy to do this with or without the rancho — just for the hell of it. You know me. At any rate, I’m grateful to you. My old woman will have something to keep her busy while I’m off roaring around.”

“And look, while you’re at it, round up a few head of cattle. What that rancho needs is a little activity.”

“Would you mind if I took Brahmas?”

“Choose any you want, your wife can look after them. Now, to get back to our business.

Try not to get too far away from my land, so that when anyone comes they’ll find men already here. And come by whenever you can, or when you have news.”

“Be seeing you, patron.”

What is it she’s saying, Juan Preciado?”

“She’s saying she used to hide her feet between his legs. Feet icy as cold stones, and that he warmed them, like bread baking in the oven. She says he nibbled her feet, saying they were like golden loaves from the oven. And that she slept cuddled close to him, inside his skin, lost in nothingness as she felt her flesh part like a furrow turned by a plow first burning, then warm and gentle, thrusting against her soft flesh, deeper, deeper, until she cried out.

But she says his death hurt her much much more. That’s what she said.”

“Whose death does she mean?”

“Must have been someone who died before she did.”

“But who could it have been?”

“I don’t know. She says that the night he was late coming home, she felt sure he’d come back very late, maybe about dawn. She thought that because her poor cold feet felt as if they’d been wrapped in something, as if someone had covered them and warmed them.

When she woke up she found that her feet were under the newspaper she had been reading while she was waiting for him; although the paper had fallen to the floor when she couldn’t stay awake any longer, her feet were wrapped in it when they came to tell her he was dead.”

“The box they buried her in must have split open, because I hear something like boards creaking.”

“Yes, I hear it, too.”

That night she had the dreams again. Why such intense remembering of so many things?

Why not simply his death, instead of this tender music from the past? “Florencio is dead, senora.”

How big the man was! How tall! And how hard his voice was. Dry as the driest dirt. She couldn’t see his body clearly; or had it become blurred in memory? As if rain were falling between them. What was it he had said? Florencio? What Florencio? Mine? Oh, why didn’t I weep then and drown myself in tears to wash away my anguish? Oh, God! You are not in Your heaven! I asked You to protect him. To look after him. I asked that of You. But all You care about is souls. And what I want is his body. Naked and hot with love; boiling with desire; stroking my trembling breasts and arms.

My transparent body suspended from his. My lustful body held and released by his strength.

What shall I do now with my lips without his lips to cover them? What shall become of my poor lips?

While Susana San Juan tossed and turned, Pedro Paramo, standing by the door, watched her and counted the seconds of this long new dream. The oil in the lamp sputtered, and the flame flickered and grew weaker. Soon it would go out.

If only she were suffering pain, and not these relentless, interminable, exhausting dreams, he could find some way to comfort her. Those were Pedro Paramo’s thoughts as he stood watching Susana San Juan, following her every movement. What would he do if she died like the flame of the pale light that allowed him to watch her?

He left the room, noiselessly closing the door behind him. Outside, the cool night air erased Susana San Juan’s image from his mind.

Just before dawn, Susana awakened. She was sweating. She threw the heavy covers to the floor, and freed herself of the heat of the sheets. She was naked, cooled by the early morning air. She sighed, and then fell back to sleep.

That was how Father Renteria found her hours later; naked and sleeping.

Have you heard, don Pedro? They got the best of El Tilcuate.”

“I knew there was shooting last night, because I could hear the racket. But that’s all I knew. Who told you this, Gerardo?”

“Some of the wounded made it to Comala. My wife helped bandage them.

They said they’d been with Damasio, and that a lot of men died. Seems like they met up with some men who called themselves Villistas.”

“Good God, Gerardo! I see bad times ahead. What do you plan to do?”

“I’m leaving, don Pedro. For Sayula. I’ll start over there.”

“You lawyers have the advantage; you can take your fortune with you anywhere, as long as they don’t knock you off.”

“Don’t you believe it, don Pedro. We have our problems. Besides, it hurts to leave people like you; all your courtesies will be sorely missed. It’s fair to say that our world is constantly changing. Where would you like me to leave your papers?”

“Don’t leave them. Take them with you. Or won’t you be able to look after my affairs where you’re going?”

“I appreciate your confidence, don Pedro. Truly I do. Although I venture to say that it won’t be possible for me to continue. Certain irregularities… Let’s say… information no one but you should have. Your papers could be put to bad use if they fell into the wrong hands. The surest thing would be to leave them with you.”

“You’re right, Gerardo. Leave them here. I’ll burn them. With papers or without them, who’s going to argue with me over my property.”

“No one, I’m sure of that, don Pedro. No one. Now I must be going.”

“Go with God, Gerardo.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, may God be with you.”

Gerardo Trujillo, lawyer left very slowly. He was old, but not so old he had to walk so haltingly, so reluctantly. The truth was that he had expected a reward. He had served don Lucas — might he rest in peace — don Pedro’s father; then, and up till now, don Pedro.

Even Miguel, don Pedro’s son. The truth was that he expected some recognition. A large, and welcome, return for his services. He had told his wife:

“I’m going over to tell don Pedro I’m leaving. I know he’ll want to thank me. Let me say that with the money he gives me we can establish ourselves in Sayula and live in comfort for the rest of our days.”