Evelio Rosero - Feast of the Innocents

“I’m just going out to walk. For a bit.”

“You’ll get soaked, Doctor. Remember it’s Innocents’ Day. The ones playing out there have no respect for anybody, can’t you hear them chucking water about? You’ll catch a cold.”

But he closed the door behind him.

He remained lost in thought — as though he did not recognize the world — facing the lonely square block occupied by his house, in that residential neighbourhood known as “Las Cuadras,” its houses as large as they were faded, each with a terrace and front garden.

Then a blue pickup truck flew past him: it was carrying a gang of sprites in the back who were flinging waves of water to left and right with their pointed hats; no wave caught him but, in one second, a girl dancing in the middle of the sprites suddenly shot at him, from her red open mouth, from her throat — as if it were a narrow fountain — shot at his mouth, which was open in astonishment, a blue jet of water, a tiny wave against his face; he felt the droplets, more than warm, splash over his eyelashes and nose and then dash between his lips — he recognized the bittersweet water, its intimacy, drawn from who knows what female depths, he thought, he managed to think.

The pickup disappeared around the corner, with a screeching of tyres.

He asked himself, too late, if it would not have been better to heed Sinfín’s advice. He was revived by Pasto’s wind, whistling icily around. There was no-one else on the street, apart from the heads — the eyes and smiles of those who peeped from terraces to spy on him, innocent victim of Holy Innocents’ Day. But he walked in any old direction, as if it did not matter to him.

Disturbing his tranquillity, on the corner he ran smack into a Pasto pedestrian who was taking, leading or moving himself along by pulling his own nose; at least that is what he saw, or understood: that there was a man hauling himself along by the nose, one of his hands gripping the end, and he was dragging himself who knows where. It must be another Innocents’ prank, he thought, as he watched the passer-by disappear off down the pavement. “Or maybe,” he said aloud, “it’s some idiot who knows me and decided to make fun of me.” Just then he heard a honk, and another: it was his neighbour Arcángel de los Ríos, Don Furibundo Pita, who had just pulled out of the garage in his Willys, and honked at him three, four times. Furibundo Pita’s jeep, with its two-man cab, was carrying six trussed hens and a milk churn in the back that morning.

“Get in, Pastor,” he heard him shout. “Get in quick or they’ll soak you.”

The doctor wondered whether he should jump and hurl himself into the back, among the hens. The hesitation cost him dear: the door of a neighbouring house suddenly opened and a group of monks appeared, each with a bucket of water, who surrounded the doctor and doused him. In spite of having his raincoat on, he felt the water enter under his collar and shiver its way down his back. Don Furibundo had already opened the passenger door and the doctor got in the cab, pursued by further lashings of water at the nape of his neck.

“Get back, you bastards,” came Furibundo Pita’s formidable bellow. Small-framed, but his voice, though shrill, was that of three men. As if by magic, the monks retreated: Don Furibundo Pita was the only person in Pasto capable of crossing the city on foot on a December 28 without anyone daring to soak him, throw a pinch of flour at him, sing him a ditty or dance around him.

Out of danger, soaked to the marrow, Doctor Proceso thanked his neighbour.

“The worst thing about that lot,” Furibundo said, “is that they use dirty water. They are Martínez’s sons, well disguised, they may have soaked you in their urine, the wretches. Did they pee on you, Justo Pastor? Poor Doctor Justo.”

And he laughed, gunning his Willys through the streets, honking left and right for no reason.

“No,” the doctor replied, recalling the gardener’s head. “It’s clean water.”

At least that is what he wanted to believe, without much conviction.

Furibundo Pita was one of the richest men in Pasto. He did not keep his money in the bank; he had it buried under the courtyard of his house, where he raised his guinea pigs. He attributed the origin of his fortune to horse racing: he had bet all his savings on the speedy Cincomil, and won. He did not bet again, and increased the capital. He was the owner of a trucking company and four cheese-producing farms, and had not lost the habit of escaping to relax each morning in the humblest of his fincas , in Genoy. But that morning he was not going to Genoy, and this was the first thing he told the doctor:

“I’m not going to Genoy today. I’m going to defend my honour.”

The doctor did not reply, what was that about defending honour? He was quite familiar with his neighbour’s eccentric way of thinking, his quarrelsome character, especially when he succumbed to his weekly drinking spree.

“If you want me to give you a lift anywhere,” Don Furibundo went on, “I don’t mind delaying the salvation of my honour.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the doctor said.

“You went out so they could soak you, and they soaked you, Doctor.”

The cab seat, covered in calfskin, was sopping wet all over.

“I forgot what day it was today,” the doctor said.

“Shall we go? Will you come with me?”

“Where to?”

“To defend my honour. I’m going to Tulio Abril’s — the maestro. Do you know him?”

Maestro Tulio Abril was one of the most famous craftsmen in Pasto, who devoted his energy every year to the construction of a carnival float that would compete in the competitions on January 6. Doctor Proceso remembered him: a short, robust man who must be going on seventy and who, one midnight ten years ago, turned up at his house to request his services; he’d brought his wife, Zulia Iscuandé, lying on a handcart: her ninth labour had become complicated in the hands of a midwife. Doctor Proceso managed to save Zulia and the baby. Out of gratitude, Zulia Iscuandé baptised the newborn with the doctor’s names: “Justo Pastor,” adding a third—“Salvador.”

“Let’s go,” the doctor said. He wanted to know how honour was saved.

Now on Avenida de los Estudiantes they saw the truck belonging to Pasto’s firefighters go by like a reddish meteorite, firemen aloft like drunken acrobats, not off to put out fires and dam floods but taking part in the fiesta: they shot great jets of water from the hose, straight at a dense knot of revellers dancing up on the sloping parapet around the Obelisk, the jets denser still, like blows, pushing them to the ground, sweeping them along amid shrieks of delight; one of these white jets, worse than a clout, hit the back of Furibundo Pita’s jeep, instantly drowning the six hens he was carrying; Don Furibundo wanted to brake, but thought better of it. “I’ll charge my hens to the firefighters,” he said. “They’ll pay me for every last feather, dammit,” and he roared with colossal laughter and accelerated, honking at all and sundry.

They left the avenue heading for Chachagüí, near the airport, but soon abandoned the main highway and went up a dirt road, bordered by large brick houses, submerged in mist, facing into the void. Half-dressed children were playing in the mud, celebrating Innocents’ Day in their own way: they threw lumps of sludge in each other’s faces, ran off, returned to the fray. Furibundo Pita’s jeep did not escape the onslaught: it was hard to make out the track through the filthy windscreen; Don Furibundo hurled curses out the window; honked incessantly; on one of the bends he had to get out to clean the windscreen: that was when the children, a dozen or more, surrounded them, perplexed. “It’s him,” they shouted, “it’s really him.” No-one threw any more mud; they looked at Don Furibundo in panicked silence. And when Furibundo set off again they ran behind, escorting them; they managed to catch up to the driver’s window, pointing at him and shouting: “It’s him, it’s really him.”