Juan Rulfo - Pedro Páramo

“So now you’re making demands on me, Damasio?”

“Oh, no, patron. I’m speaking for the boys. I don’t want nothing for myself.”

“It speaks well for you that you’re looking after your men, but go somewhere else to get what you need. I’ve already given you money. Be happy with what you’ve got. Now I don’t want to offer this as advice, but haven’t you thought of riding on Contla? Why do you think you’re fighting a revolution? Only a dunce would be asking for handouts. You might as well go home and help your wife look after the hens. Go raid some town! You’re risking your skin, so why the hell don’t others do their part? Contla is crawling with rich men. Take a little out of their hides. Or maybe you think you’re their nursemaid and have to look after their interests? No, Damasio. Show them that you’re not just out for a good time. Rough them up a little, and the centavos will flow.”

“I’ll do like you say, patron. I can always count on good advice from you.”

“Well, make good use of it.”

Pedro Paramo watched as the men rode away. He could hear horses trotting past, invisible in the darkness. Sweat and dust; trembling earth. When the light of fireflies again dotted the sky, he knew all the men had left. Only he remained, alone, like a sturdy tree beginning to rot inside.

He thought of Susana San Juan. He thought of the young girl he had just slept with. Of the small, frightened, trembling body, and the thudding of a heart that seemed about to leap from her chest. “You sweet little handful,” he had said to her. And embraced her, trying to transform her into Susana San Juan. “A woman who is not of this world.”

As dawn breaks, the day turns, stopping and starting. The rusty gears of the earth are almost audible: the vibration of this ancient earth overturning darkness.

“Is it true that night is filled with sins, Justina?”

“Yes, Susana.”

“Really true?”

“It must be, Susana.”

“And what do you think life is, Justina, if not sin? Don’t you hear? Don’t you hear how the earth is creaking?”

“No, Susana, I can’t hear anything. My fate is not as grand as yours.”

“You would be frightened. I’m telling you, you would be frightened if you heard what I hear.”

Justina went on cleaning the room. Again and again she passed the rag over the wet floorboards. She cleaned up the water from the shattered vase. She picked up the flowers.

She put the broken pieces into the pail.

“How many birds have you killed in your lifetime, Justina?”

“Many, Susana.”

“And you never felt sad?”

“I did, Susana.”

“Then, what are you waiting for to die?”

“I’m waiting for Death, Susana.”

“If that’s all, it will come. Don’t worry.”

Susana San Juan was sitting propped up against her pillows. Her uneasy eyes searching every corner. Her hands were clasped over her belly like a protective shell. A humming like wings sounded above her head. And the creaking of the pulley in the well. The sounds of people waking up.

“Do you believe in hell, Justina?”

“Yes, Susana. And in heaven, too.”

“I only believe in hell,” Susana said. And closed her eyes.

When Justina left the room, Susana San Juan fell asleep again, while outside the sun sparkled. Justina met Pedro Paramo in the hall.

“How is the senora?”

“Bad,” she replied, ducking her head.

“Is she complaining?”

“No, senor. She doesn’t complain about anything; but they say the dead never complain.

The senora is lost to us all.”

“Has Father Renteria been to see her?”

“He came last night to hear her confession. She should have taken Communion today but she must not be in a state of grace, because padre Renteria hasn’t brought it. He said he’d be here early, but you see the sun’s up and he hasn’t come. She must not be in a state of grace.”

“Whose grace?”

“God’s grace, senor.”

“Don’t be silly, Justina.”

“As you say, senor.”

Pedro Paramo opened the door and stood beside it, letting a ray of light fall upon Susana San Juan. He saw eyes pressed tightly shut as if in pain; a moist, half-open mouth; sheets thrown back by insentient hands to reveal the nakedness of a body beginning to twist and turn in convulsions.

He rushed across the brief space separating him from the bed and covered the naked body writhing like a worm in more and more violent contortions. He spoke into her ear, “Susana!”

He repeated, “Susana!”

The door opened and Father Renteria entered quietly, saying only:

“I’ve come to give you Communion, my child.” He waited until Pedro Paramo helped her sit up and arranged her pillows against the headboard. Susana San Juan, still half-asleep, held out her tongue and swallowed the Host. Then she said, “We had a glorious day, Florencio.” And sank back down into the tomb of her sheets.

You see that window, dona Fausta, there at the Media Luna where the light is always on?”

“No, Angeles. I don’t see any window.”

“That’s because the room is dark now. Don’t you think that means something bad is going on over there? There’s been a light in that window for more than three years, night after night.

People who’ve been there say that’s the room of Pedro Paramo’s wife, a poor crazy woman who’s afraid of the dark. And look, now the light’s out. Isn’t that a bad sign?”

“Maybe she died. She’s been real sick. They say she doesn’t know people anymore, and that she talks to herself. It’s a fitting punishment for Pedro Paramo, being married to that woman.”

“Poor don Pedro.”

“No, Fausta, he deserves it. That and more.”

“See, the window is still dark.”

“Just let the window be, and let’s get home to bed. It’s late for two old women like us to be out roaming the streets.”

And the two women, who had left the church about eleven, disappeared beneath the arches of the arcade, watching the shadow of a man crossing the plaza in the direction of the Media Luna.

“Look, dona Fausta. Do you think that man over there is Doctor Valencia?”

“It looks like him, although I’m so blind I wouldn’t recognize him if he was right in front of me.”

“But you remember, he always wears those white pants and a black coat. I’ll bet something bad is happening out at the Media Luna. Look how fast he’s walking, as if he had a real reason to hurry.”

“Which makes me think it really is serious. I feel like I ought to go by and tell padre Renteria to get out there; that poor woman shouldn’t die without confessing.”

“God forbid, Angeles. What a terrible thought. After all she’s suffered in this world no one would want her to go without the last rites and then suffer forever in the next life. Although the psychics always say that crazy people don’t need to confess, that even if they have sin in their soul, they’re innocents. God only knows…. Look! Now the light’s back on in the window. I hope everything turns out all right. If someone dies in that house imagine what would happen to all the work we’ve gone to to decorate the church for Christmas. As important as don Pedro is, our celebration would go right up in smoke.”

“You always think of the worst, dona Fausta. You should do what I do: put everything in the hands of Divine Providence. Say an Ave Maria to the Virgin, and I’m sure nothing will go wrong between now and morning. And then, let God’s will be done. After all, she can’t be very happy in this life.”

“Believe me, Angeles, I always take comfort from what you say. I can go to sleep with those good thoughts on my mind. They say that our sleeping thoughts go straight to Heaven. I hope mine make it that far. I’ll see you tomorrow.”