| Agustín’s year isn’t up yet.’ Someone guffawed. ‘It’s a clock.’ Hernán came out with the package. ‘It wasn’t anything,’ he said. ‘If you like I’ll go home with you to level it.’ The colonel refused his offer. ‘How much do I owe you?’ ‘Don’t worry about it, colonel,’ replied Hernán, taking his place in the group. ‘In January, the rooster will pay for it.’ The colonel now found the chance he was looking for. ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he said. ‘What?’ ‘I’ll give you the rooster.’ He examined the circle of faces. ‘I’ll give the rooster to all of you.’ Hernán looked at him in confusion. ‘I’m too old now for that,’ the colonel continued. He gave his voice a convincing severity. ‘It’s too much responsibility for me. For days now I’ve had the impression that the animal is dying.’ ‘Don’t worry about it, colonel,’ Alfonso said. ‘The trouble is that the rooster is molting now. He’s got a fever in his quills.’ ‘He’ll be better next month,’ Hernán said. ‘I don’t want him anyway,’ the colonel said. Hernán’s pupils bore into his. ‘Realize how things are, colonel,’ he insisted. ‘The main thing is for you to be the one who puts Agustín’s rooster into the ring.’ The colonel thought about it. ‘I realize,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’ve kept him until now.’ He clenched his teeth, and felt he could go on: ‘The trouble is there are still two months.’ Hernán was the one who understood. ‘If it’s |
umbrella. Now Agustín was dead, and the bright satin material had been eaten away by the moths. ‘Look what’s left of our circus clown’s umbrella,’ said the colonel with one of his old phrases. Above his head a mysterious system of little metal rods opened. ‘The only thing it’s good for now is to count the stars.’ He smiled. But the woman didn’t take the trouble to look at the umbrella. ‘Everything’s that way,’ she whispered. ‘We’re rotting alive.’ And she closed her eyes so she could concentrate on the dead man. After shaving himself by touch – since he’d lacked a mirror for a long time – the colonel dressed silently. His trousers, almost as tight on his legs as long underwear, closed at the ankles with slip-knotted drawstrings, were held up at the waist by two straps of the same material which passed through two gilt buckles sewn on at kidney height. He didn’t use a belt. His shirt, the color of old Manila paper, and as stiff, fastened with a copper stud which served at the same time to hold the detachable collar. But the detachable collar was torn, so the colonel gave up on the idea of a tie. He did each thing as if it were a transcendent act. The bones in his hands were covered by taut, translucent skin, with light spots like the skin on his neck. Before he put on his patent-leather shoes, he scraped the dried mud from the stitching. His wife saw |
