Paul Bowles - The Delicate Prey - And Other Stories

“Muy bien, muy bien,” he grumbled. The first small drops of rain alighted softly on their heads, but neither noticed them. “Do I pay you or Señor Ong?” said Don Anastasio, pocketing the envelope.

Nicho’s heart beat harder for a few seconds: Señor Ong must not know of this. But he could not ask Don Anastasio not to tell him. He cleared his throat and said: “Me.” But his voice sounded feeble.

“Aha!” said Don Anastasio, smiling a little; and he ruffled Nicho’s hair in paternal fashion. Finding it wet, he looked up vacantly at the sky. “It’s raining,” he commented, a note of surprise in his voice.

“Sí, señor,” assented Nicho weakly.

“How much?” said Don Anastasio, looking at him very hard. In the valley the thunder groaned faintly.

Nicho felt he must answer immediately, but he had no idea what to say. “Is a peso all right?”

Don Anastasio stared at him even harder; he felt that the old man’s eyes would cut through him in another instant. Then Don Anastasio’s countenance changed suddenly, and he said: “A peso. Good.” And he handed him a silver coin. “Next week you come to my store with another envelope. I’ll give you an extra twenty centavos for making the trip. And—sssst!” He put his fingers to his lips, rolling his eyes upward. “Ssst!” He patted Nicho on the shoulder, looking very pleased, and went up the street.

Señor Ong came back earlier than usual, wet through, and in rather a bad humor. Nicho never had paid any attention to the conversations that passed between his aunt and Señor Ong. Now from the kitchen he listened, and heard him say: “I have no confidence in Ha. They tell me he was in town here two days ago. Of course he swears he was in Tlaltepec all the time.”

“Three thousand pesos thrown into the street!” declared his aunt savagely. “I told you so then. I told you he would go on selling here as well as in Tlaltepec. Yo te lo dije, hombre!”

“I am not sure yet,” said Señor Ong, and Nicho could imagine his soft smile as he said the words. Now that he had stolen from him he disliked him more than ever; in a sense he almost wished Señor Ong might discover the theft and accuse him, thereby creating the opportunity for him to say: “Yes, I stole from you, and I hate you.” But he knew that he himself would do nothing to hasten such a moment. He went out through the rain to his tree. The earth’s dark breath rose all around him, hung in the wet air. He took out the can of sand and dropped the peso into it.

It rained all day and through the night; Nicho did not see Luz until the following day. Then he adopted a mysterious, baffled air and conducted her to the tree.

“Look!” he cried, showing her the tin can. “The silver has made a peso!”

Luz was convinced and delighted, but she did not seem really surprised. “Qué bueno!” she murmured.

“Do you want to take it?” He held up the coin. But he was careful to keep his hand over the envelope in the tree’s hollow.

“No, no! Leave it! Maybe it will make more. Put it back! Put it back!”

He was a little crestfallen to find that she took his miracle so nearly for granted. They stamped their feet to knock off the ants that were beginning to climb up their legs.

“And the gold?” she whispered. “Did you get it back for your aunt? Was it heavy? What did Señor Ong say?”

“There was nothing there at all,” said Nicho, feeling uncomfortable without knowing why.

“Oh.” She was disappointed.

They took a long walk down the river, and came upon an enormous iguana sunning himself on a rock above a pool. Nicho threw a stone, and the monster lumbered away into the leaves. Luz clutched his arm tightly as it disappeared from sight; there was the heavy sound of its body dragging through the underbrush. All at once Nicho shook himself free, pulled off his shirt and trousers, and gave a running leap into the pool. He splashed about, beating wildly at the water with his arms and legs, yelling loudly all the while. With an uncertain gait Luz approached the edge, where she sat down and watched him. Presently she said: “Find some more silver.” She did not seem at all shocked by his nudity. He sank to the bottom and scrabbled about, touching only rock. Up again, he shouted: “There isn’t any!” Her white head followed his movements as he cavorted around the pool. When he came out, he sat on the opposite side, letting the sun dry him. Behind the hill the machine-gun practice was again in progress.

“In San Lucas do you think they’d throw stones at me?” he shouted.

“Why?” she called. “No, no! Claro quenó! For boys it’s all right.”

The next few days were sunny, and they came each afternoon to the pool.

One morning, the other little envelope in his pocket, Nicho went into the center of town to Don Anastasio’s shop. The old man seemed very glad to see him. He opened the envelope behind the counter and lookd carefully at its contents. Then he handed Nicho a peso and a half.

“I have no change,” said Nicho.

“The tostón is for you,” said Don Anastasio gruffly. “There’s a cinema tonight. Come back next week. Don’t forget.”

Nicho ran down the street, wondering when he would have the chance to fill another envelope for Don Anastasio. It was about time for Señor Ong to make a trip to Tlaltepec.

A moment before he got to the bridge a tall woman stepped out of a shop and confronted him. She had very large eyes and a rather frightening face.

“Hola, chico!”

“Si, señora.” He stood still and stared at her.

“Have you got something for me?”

“Something for you?” he repeated blankly.

“A little envelope?” She held out two pesos. Nicho looked at them and said: “No, señora.”

Her face became more frightening. “Yes. Yes. You have,” she insisted, moving toward him. He glanced up and down the street: there was no one. The shop seemed to be empty. It was the hot hour of the day. He was suddenly terrified by her face. “Tomorrow,” he cried, ducking to one side in order to dart past her. But she caught hold of his neck. “Today,” she said roughly; her long fingernails were pushing into his skin. “Si, señora.” He did not dare look up at her. “On the bridge,” she grated. “This afternoon.”

“Sí, señora.”

She let go and he walked on, sobbing a little with anger and shame for having been afraid.

In the sala Señor Ong and his aunt were talking excitedly. He did not go in, but climbed into a hammock in the patio and listened. Don Anastasio’s name was mentioned. Nicho’s heart skipped ahead: something had happened!

“Now I am almost sure,” Señor Ong said slowly. “It is two weeks since he has been here, and Saenz tells me he is perfectly happy. That means only one thing: Ha must be supplying him directly.”

“Of course,” said his aunt bitterly. “You needn’t have waited two weeks to know that. Three thousand pesos dropped into the river. What a waste! Qué idiota, tú!”

Señor Ong paid no attention to her. “There’s also the Fernandez woman,” he mused. “She should have been around a few days ago. I know she has no money, but so far she has always managed to scrape together something.”

“That old hagl” said his aunt contemptuously. “With her face now, she’ll be lucky if she can raise twenty, not to speak of fifty.”

“She can raise it,” said Señor Ong with confidence in his voice. “The question is, has Ha already found her and is he giving it to her for less?”

“Don’t ask me all these questions!” cried his aunt with impatience. “Go to Tlaltepec and ask the old man himself!”