Part One

Before I fell for any woman, I lost my heart to a sensation. Call it Intensity. No fainting sensitivities, no tender looks and confidences for me. More than a lover, I was always the subjugator. My lips did not know how to plead. And yet, I still believed in the ideal of love, still wanted the divine gift of spiritual fire to spread over my body like flames over tinder.

When Alicia’s eyes worked their unfortunate magic on me, I had almost given up hope. My arms, grown tired of liberty, had reached out to many women—seeking to be enchained—but no one guessed my secret dreams, nor disturbed the silence in my heart.

Alicia required little effort. She gave herself without hesitation, all for the love she hoped to find in me. She was not thinking about marriage, even after her family conspired to fix everything, with the help of the priest, by force if need be. She revealed their plans to me, saying that she would never marry, that she would not stand in the way of my future happiness.

Then, when her family cast her out and the judge informed my lawyer that I would be going to jail for ravishment, I went to Alicia’s hiding place and declared my resolve not to abandon her.

“My future is yours. Promise me your love, and we’ll escape together to somewhere far from Bogota.”

And we were off to the Casanare territory.

That night, the first in Casanare, my confidant was Insomnia.

Through the mosquito netting, in the limitless heavens, I watched the winking stars. The palms under which we camped stopped their rustling, and an infinite silence floated in the air, making it thicker and bluer. Beside my string hammock, Alicia slept, breathing heavily, in her narrow cot.

“What have you done?” I thought. “What of your future, your dreams of glory, and the beginnings of your literary success? And what about this young woman, whom you sacrifice to your desire? Idiot! Once your desire is satisfied, what good is the body that you have acquired at such a high price? Because Alicia’s spirit has never really belonged to you. Even now, when you can feel the heat and murmur of her breathing at your shoulder, you remain as far away from her spiritually as from that constellation sliding toward the horizon over there.”

I felt less emboldened now, not because I feared to confront the consequences of my actions, but rather because after the intensity of love and possession comes something else. I was already bored with Alicia.

The hair-raising stories about Casanare did not frighten me. My instincts impelled me to defy the dangers of the wild frontier. I was certain that I would survive to tell the tale and later, amid the civilized comforts of some city as yet unknown to me, look back on the dangers of Casanare with nostalgia. Alicia, on the other hand, weighed on me like an iron shackle around my ankle. She had left Bogota in a great upset and demonstrated her complete uselessness the first day on the road. Why couldn’t she be a little tougher and more capable? She had never ridden a horse and could not even stand to be in the direct sun very long. She kept dismounting and saying that she preferred to walk, obliging me to do the same.

I was amazingly patient with her. There we were, supposedly fugitives, ambling along at a snail’s pace, leading our mounts as if on a Sunday stroll, unable to get off the road to avoid meeting the occasional travelers coming in the other direction. Most were simple country people who stopped to ask me, with concerned expressions and hat in hand, why the young lady was crying.

Several times I tried with a rope to pull down the telegraph wire that ran along the road, but I gave up the attempt, possibly because of a vague desire to be captured. At least that way I would be free of Alicia and would recover the liberty of spirit that physical detention cannot take away. Arriving in sight of the town of Caqueza, which lay squarely in our path, we stopped to await the cover of darkness. The authorities there might have been informed of our flight. Skirting the town, we slipped into the sugarcane fields that flanked the river, our nags munching noisily on the cane without pausing in their stride. It was harvest time, and we approached a sugar mill that was working all night. Taking shelter under a makeshift canopy of palm fronds, we listened to the groaning of the wooden grinders crushing cane. Shadows passed across the flickering glow of the fire that reduced the sap to cane syrup: first, the large shadow of the oxen that walked a circular path to drive the machinery, then, the small shadow of the little boy who followed behind, prodding the oxen with a pointed stick to keep them moving. Some women were preparing a meal, and they gave Alicia an infusion of herbs with medicinal properties.

We stayed with them for a week.

Meanwhile, I paid one of the sugar workers to bring me news from Bogota, and the news was disturbing. My flight with Alicia had created a great scandal, and the story was on everyone’s lips. The whisperings of my personal enemies fanned the flames, and the newspapers took advantage of the public’s prurient interest. I had sent a letter to a friend requesting his help, and his reply was discouraging indeed. It concluded: “If you return, you’ll surely be arrested. Casanare is now your only refuge, I’m afraid. Who will look for a man like you in a place like that?”

That same afternoon, Alicia warned me that the owner of the mill considered us suspicious. His wife had asked Alicia whether we were brother and sister, man and wife, or perhaps merely friends, and she said that if we happened to be counterfeiters, “there being nothing wrong with that, in view of the present regime,” she would like to see a sample. So we left the next day before dawn.

“Don’t you think, Alicia, that we may really have no reason to flee? Wouldn’t it be better to return to Bogota?”

“Now I’m sure you’re tired of me!” she wailed. “Why did you bring me, then? It was your idea! Get out of here! Go to Casanare by yourself, and leave me alone!”

She started sobbing again.

And again I felt sorry for her. By now she had revealed to me the whole sad story. While still quite young, she had fallen in love with her cousin, an inconsequential boy not much older than herself, and they secretly swore to be married one day. Her mother and father had other ideas, however. They intended to marry her to a rich old landowner who was not to Alicia’s taste in the slightest. Then I appeared on the scene, and the aging suitor, fearing the new competition, redoubled his suit. The value and frequency of his gifts increased and, with the help of Alicia’s enraptured family, he seemed about to attain the prize. That is when Alicia, seeking to escape at all cost, hurled herself into my arms. But the danger had not passed, because the old landowner still wanted to marry her, it seemed, in spite of everything.

“I won’t go back,” she insisted, jumping off her horse. “Leave me! I don’t want anything from you. I’ll walk along this road and ask everyone for charity before I accept anything from you. Bastard!”

And she sat down in the grass. Having lived long enough, I knew better than to reason with a woman in that state, so I remained firmly mute while she sat pulling grass up convulsively by the fistful.

“Alicia, this only proves that you never loved me.”

“Never!”

She looked away as she complained bitterly about my shameless deceptions.

“Do you think I didn’t see you looking at that girl back there? Oh, you’re the sly one! And telling me that we had to stay there for days because I wasn’t well. If that’s now, what will later be like? Get out of here! I won’t go anywhere at all with you, much less to Casanare!”

Her reproaches made me blush, tongue-tied, but her jealousy was agreeable to my pride, and it set me free. I had the impulse to jump off my horse to give her a farewell embrace. It couldn’t be my fault, after all, if she sent me away.

As I was dismounting to improvise a good-bye, we saw a man come galloping down the hill toward us. Alicia clutched my arm in fright.

The man dismounted a short distance away and approached, hat in hand.

“Permit me a word, sir.”

“Me?” I answered with an energetic voice.

“Yes, if you please,” and throwing a corner of his poncho over his shoulder, he extended a hand holding a piece of paper. “My godfather sends you this notification.”

“Who is your godfather?”

“The judge and mayor of Caqueza.”

“This isn’t for me,” I said, returning the document to him without having read it.

“You aren’t the ones who were at the sugar mill, then?”

“Absolutely not. I’m the new intendant of Villavicencio, which is where I’m headed now, with my wife.”

The man hesitated, unsure of what to say.

“I thought that you were counterfeiters,” he managed. “They sent word about you from the sugar mill, but my godfather is at his ranch, because he only comes to the town hall on market days, and keeps the office locked up other days. There were a couple of telegrams, too, and since I’m the main deputy now . . .”

Without allowing him further time for explanations, I ordered him to hold my wife’s horse so that she could mount. Alicia concealed her face so that the stranger would not notice her pallor. He watched us ride away without uttering a word, but he then climbed on his worthless mare to follow us. Soon he was alongside of us, smiling.

“If you please, sir, sign the notification so that my godfather will see that it was served and I did what I’m supposed to do. You can sign as intendant of Villavicencio.”

“Do you have a pen?”

“No, but we’ll get one up ahead. It’s that . . . if you don’t sign, I’ll end up

• -1 n in jail.

“How so?” I inquired, without slowing down.

“God willing you’ll help me, sir, if you’re really an authority. I’ve had the misfortune that I’m accused of stealing a cow, and I was brought to Caqueza to face charges, but my godfather let me be on house arrest, and since I had no house, that meant anywhere in town, and then he needed a deputy, so he honored me with the position. My name is Pepe Morillo Nieto, but they call me Pipa.”

The talkative fellow offered to carry some of my baggage on his nag and, when I obliged him, continued to ride beside me, relating his tale of woe.

“I don’t have money for a decent poncho and haven’t worn shoes for a while. And the hat on my head is more than two years old. It’s from Casanare.”

Alicia fixed her startled eyes on the man.

“Have you lived in Casanare?”

“Yes ma’am, I have. I know the llanos and I know the rubber fields of Amazonia, as well. Plenty of tigers and snakes I’ve killed, too, with God’s help.”

Just then we met some muleteers with their train of mules, and Pipa spoke to them.

“Do you have a pencil to lend, there? It’s for a signature.”

“We don’t carry pencils,” said the men.

As we rode on, I addressed Pipa under my breath.

“Don’t mention Casanare in front of my wife.” And, in a normal voice: “Come with us, then, and later you can inform me of matters relating to the Intendencia.”

Pipa was overjoyed. He became Alicia’s personal attendant for the rest of the day, ingratiating himself with his loquacity, and camped with us not far from Villavicencio. But that night he sneaked away with my horse and saddle.

A reddish glow interrupted my remembrance. It was old Rafo, don Rafael, blowing on the embers of the fire. In Casanare, travelers let a fire burn all night near their hammocks to fend off tigers and other nocturnal threats. Old Rafo knelt before the fire and bowed down, as if before a divinity, to enliven it with his breath. Silence still reigned in the melancholy solitude of the llanos, and a sense of the infinite descended on my spirit from the wide and starry skies.

Memories filled my mind again, the enigma of my relationship with Alicia, my decision to begin a new life so different from the old, a life that would surely consume what remained of my youth and dreams. Alicia must have those same thoughts, I reflected, which gave me reason for both remorse and comfort. Like me, she was a seed borne by the wind, ignorant and fearful of where she might come to ground.

She was so passionate and mercurial in her reactions. Sometimes the fatality of her situation triumphed over timidity, and she acted decisively. Most other times, however, she’d rather have swallowed poison to escape the position in which her family, her rich old suitor, and I had placed her. Still in Bogota, she had reproached me for demanding her love. She may not love me the way I wanted, but what of it? Wasn’t I the man who had rescued her from inexperience only to leave her in disgrace? How could she learn to forgive me and not fear abandonment? How could I earn her trust? It wouldn’t be by making love to the country girls at each stop on our journey, if that’s what I had in mind. In her opinion, everything depended on me.

“You know that I have no money, right?”

“Oh, my family told me that often enough when you came courting,” she laughed bitterly. “It’s not the protection of your money I’m asking for, but of your heart.”

“Alicia, you are asking for no more than I offered you, spontaneously, long ago. I’ve given up everything for you, and I’ve no idea if you’ll have the courage to face hardship and believe in me.”

“Didn’t I give everything up for you, too?”

“But you are afraid of Casanare.”

“It’s you who makes me afraid.”

“We’ll face everything together.”

That was the dialogue that we had one night in a poor house in Villavicencio, as we waited for the chief of the local constabulary, a short, round, little man dressed in khaki with an alcoholic countenance and a scruffy salt-and-pepper mustache.

“Good evening, sir,” I said to him in an unfriendly tone when he rested the scabbard of his saber in the doorway.

“My dear poet,” he exclaimed, ogling Alicia and then puffing his alcoholic breath in my face, “this girl is a worthy sister of the muses, indeed! You must share with your friends!”

He sat on the bench beside her, rubbing his fat body against hers and grabbing her wrists.

“What a doll” he puffed. “Don’t you remember me, doll? I’m Gamez y Roca, General Gamez y Roca. When you were little, I used to dandle you on my knee.”

He tried to pull her into his lap, but Alicia cried out and pushed him away.

“What is it that you want?” I growled, closing the door and spitting on him for good measure.

“My dear poet, how you behave! Is this the way you repay someone who’s had the courtesy not to arrest you? Leave the girl with me! I’m a friend of the family, you see, and besides, in Casanare she’ll just die on you. Leave her with me, and I’ll keep all your secrets. She’s the evidence of your crime, right? So just leave her, and you’re a free man!”

Before he could finish, I grabbed one of Alicia’s shoes with a reflexive jerk, slammed the man against the boards, and began to hammer his head and face with the heel of it. The blubbering drunkard collapsed on the bags of rice that occupied a corner of the room.

He was still there, snoring, half an hour later, when Alicia, old Rafo, and I set out, at last, onto the endless plains.

“Here’s coffee,” said don Rafo, standing in front of the mosquito netting. “Rise and shine, children! This is Casanare!”

Alicia awoke and greeted us with a clean spirit and a heartfelt tone:

“Is the sun really about to rise?”

“Not just yet,” said Rafo, and he pointed at the moon descending to the Andes on the western horizon. “Say good-bye to the mountains, because we won’t see anything from now on but plains, plains, and more plains.”

As we gulped our coffee, the predawn breeze brought us the fresh scent of grass, green firewood, newly turned earth, and also faint whispers to insinuate themselves among the fans of the moriche palms. Occasionally, under the transparent starlight, one of them shook its fronds and bowed toward the east. An unexpected thrill pulsed in our veins, our spirits flowed out across the wide, open spaces and rose in gladness at life and creation.

“Casanare is beautiful,” murmured Alicia several times. “I’m not sure why, but as soon as we set foot in the llanos, the place started to seem less frightening.”

“This country pulls you in,” said don Rafo. “It gives you what you need to withstand it and thrive on it. It’s a wilderness where nobody feels alone, where the sun, wind, and storms are our brothers. Nobody fears them or curses them.”

Don Rafo then asked me whether I rode as well as my father, and whether I was as brave in the face of danger.

“The fruit never falls far from the tree!” I responded brashly, while Alicia, her face illuminated by the glow of the fire, smiled with confidence.

Don Rafo was more than sixty years old and had been my father’s comrade during one of our many civil wars. Kindly and sympathetic, he retained the dignified look of a man who once occupied a higher station in life. His graying beard, balding pate, and tranquil visage suited his middling stature. On hearing my name in Villavicencio—that I was to be arrested—he came to me with the good news that Gamez y Roca had promised protection. From that moment Rafo bought what we needed in Villavicencio, attending to all of Alicia’s requests. He offered to be our guide, both outbound and upon our return. He had met us in Villavicencio by chance. Rafo was headed for a more northerly part of the llanos, Arauca, and on the way, he would leave us in Casanare at a friend’s cattle ranch, returning from Arauca several months later to reclaim us and guide us back.

Old and widowed, don Rafo had taken a liking to the llanos. Now he earned a livelihood by making an annual expedition across the plains, trading in livestock and peddling retail odds and ends from a pair of pack mules. His son-in-law provided the modest capital required. He never bought more than fifty cattle and filled out his complement by driving half-wild mustangs to buyers in the ranching districts of the lower Rio Meta.

“You’re sure that we’re free of the general?”

“Absolutely.”

“That beast scared me to death!” said Alicia. “Appearing at midnight! And saying that he knew me! I was shaking like a leaf. At least he got what he deserved.”

Don Rafo gleefully celebrated my derring-do. A man for Casanare, indeed!

As he spoke, he began to remove the hobbles from our horses’ feet and to ease the bridles over their ears. I lent a hand, and we were soon ready to be on our way. Alicia, who helped by holding the lantern, pleaded that we await sunrise.

“So that fellow Pipa is a famous bandit?” I asked don Rafo.

“The foxiest of them all. He’s landed in jail more than once, and after he does his time, he goes right back to banditry. He also occasionally leads a band of savages and can speak the language of several tribes. He knows the llanos like the back of his hand, rivers and everything.”

“And he’s totally sneaky, lying, and obsequious,” added Alicia.

“You are lucky he got away with only one horse! I’m sure he’s out here somewhere, not so far away . . .”

Alicia looked at me nervously, but don Rafo’s spirited anecdotes put her at ease.

And dawn rose up before our eyes. Without our realizing exactly when, a lightly blushing haze had ascended from the long grass to float above it like an undulating veil. The stars faded away to sleep, and on the opal horizon, the sky caught fire—a brushstroke of violet, then a glowing clot of crimson. Across the glory of the dawning sky shot whiny ducks, followed by darting, emerald-green parrots, egrets floating like snowflakes, and multicolored guacamayas. And from everywhere, from the grassy plains and the diaphanous atmosphere, from the vast wetlands and the clumps of palms, arose a breath of joy, a subtle accent, a kind of clarity and palpitation. Meanwhile, the first ray of the sun streaked across the enormous sky, and slowly, the dome of the sun emerged from the horizon before the amazed eyes of man and beast, to roll there redly before climbing into the blue.

Alicia embraced me, tearful and exalted, murmuring “My God, the sun, My God, the sun,” as if in prayer. And with that, the three of us set out once more, to bury ourselves in the immensity.

Little by little chattiness gave way to tiredness. We had asked many questions that don Rafael answered with firm authority. We had learned to recognize a small clump of trees as a “mata,” wide expanses of grassy shallow water as “esteros” (or perhaps, if covered with enormous termite mounds, as “zurales”), and flowing watercourses as “canos.” Alicia finally saw a deer. Half a dozen were grazing in an estero, and when they got wind of us, their ears swiveled in our direction.

“Don’t waste bullets trying to bag one with a pistol,” instructed don Rafo. “I know they look close, but they’re actually five hundred meters off. It’s a known optical illusion of the llanos.”

It was rather difficult to chat, anyway, as don Rafo rode ahead leading a pack animal, others trotting after them in the hot, dry grass. The atmosphere dazzled like a sheet of glowing metal, a dark mass of low trees in the distance. Now and then, the brilliance became so intense that it seemed to buzz.

I dismounted frequently to refresh Alicia’s temples with a green lemon. As a parasol she wore a white shawl over her hat, and she wiped her eyes with the dangling corners of it whenever pangs of homesickness overcame her. Although I pretended to ignore her tears, the more-than-rosy color of her cheeks made me a bit fearful of heat exhaustion. But it was absolutely impossible to stop in the sun for a midday rest. There was no shade of any kind for miles, not a palm or even a hole in the ground.

“Do you want to rest?”

To my worried question, she replied, smiling:

“When we reach the shade!”

“Cover your face, then! The glare itself will cause sunburn!”

Toward afternoon, fantastic cities appeared on the horizon. The distant profiles of trees to the west bloomed into fairy-tale mirages, the ceibas and copeyes becoming red-tile roofs. The untethered horses that followed don Rafo, now feeling oriented on the llano, began to gallop around us at a considerable distance.

“They smell water,” observed our guide. “It’s still half an hour away, but there are trees, too, and we can cook there.”

Our campsite was a wooded island surrounded by stinking swamp water and crusts of floating muck across which skittered tiny aquatic birds, keening loudly, their tail feathers flicking back and forth. After going almost all the way around the swamp to find our way into its dry, wooded center, we edged in along the bank, and I hobbled the horses, which stood considerably shorter in the mud. Don Rafo’s machete cleared a space at the base of an enormous tree, all covered with creepers, whose yellow flowers, to Alicia’s horror, occasionally rained harmless greenish worms on our heads. And we slung a hammock for Alicia and covered her with mosquito netting to keep away the bees, which, with an evident taste for her sweat, kept getting tangled in her hair. Once the fire began to smoke, however, we could all relax.

I added more firewood, tossed to me by Rafo as he chopped it, and Alicia even offered to help me.

“That’s not a job for the gentleman traveler,” she said.

“Don’t try my patience, please. I ordered you to rest, and you should obey.”

Resentful of my brusqueness, she sent her hammock swinging with a kick of her foot. But when Rafo and I went for water, she pleaded not to be left alone.

“Come if you want to,” I told her, and she followed us down the overgrown trail.

Leaves floated on the yellowish pond. Among them small turtles poked their red heads above water, while miniature alligators, likewise floating below the surface, showed only their lidless eyes. Herons that stood meditating on one leg suddenly stirred and wrinkled the scum with their long beaks, releasing fetid emanations that wafted under the trees like a mortuary veil. Breaking a branch, I leaned over to clear the water surface, when Alicia screamed and don Rafo pulled me back. An anaconda as thick as a man’s thigh emerged from the water, preparing to ensnare me. A couple of shots from my pistol sent it writhing away submerged, stirring up the swamp water, which lapped gently at our feet.

And we returned to camp with water containers empty.

Back at camp, Alicia lay trembling in panic under the mosquito netting. She felt faint and nauseous. A few sips of beer settled her stomach, but not before terror arose in the pit of mine. Intuiting the cause of her nausea, I embraced the expectant mother and wept.

Once she was asleep, don Rafael and I stepped away from the camp, and sitting with him on a large tree root, I heard his unforgettable advice:

It was better not to alert Alicia, during our time on the llano, to the reality of her delicate state. We should take the best care of her, not travel too far each day, and return to Bogota within three months. Then everything would be fine.

As for the rest, all children, whether conceived in wedlock or not, came from the same place, and you loved them the same. That’s the way it was in Casanare.

Yes, he’d once wanted to make a brilliant marriage himself, but it seemed that destiny had other ideas. Fate steered him down an unexpected path. The young woman he chose proved better than the wife he’d imagined because, not thinking herself a grand lady, she’d dressed modestly and always thought herself lucky to have what he gave her. As it turned out, he’d had a happier home life than his brother, whose wife was a slave to pedigrees and social appearances. And now, here he was.

No, one should never retreat in the face of conflicts, because only by seeing them close-up did one know if they could be overcome. True, he did expect there to be a scandal among my relatives if I got a house and kept Alicia, even if I took her to the altar. But it was better not to worry too much ahead of time because fears always exceed possibilities. Maybe marriage was just not my fate, or if it were, why should my wife be anyone different from the woman fate gave me? What was wrong with Alicia? Wasn’t she intelligent and well-bred, simple and respectable? Just where, by what rule, calculus, or statute, had I learned that prejudices must prevail over realities? What, other than my literary works, made me better than anyone else? A man of talent should act like death, which obeys no social distinctions. Why would I place another above Alicia? Was it the contagious foolishness of polite society, or perhaps the lure of wealth? And wasn’t wealth often ill-gotten and relative, as well? Weren’t even our local potentates insignificant in comparison with those elsewhere? Wouldn’t I surely be all right, economically, one way or another? So why did I need to pay attention to the blandishments of the multitude? One has a principal challenge—all others pale in comparison—and that is to make enough money to support a modest life. The rest will follow.

Silently, I sorted truth from exaggeration in his arguments.

“Don Rafo,” I said, “I look at things a bit differently. I don’t question your reasoning, but the concerns you raise don’t preoccupy me for now. They are on my horizon, but far away. In regard to Alicia, the most serious problem is that I don’t love her. Instead, I have to pretend all the time, compensating for the absent sentiments with gallant attitudes and fearing that my gallantry will lead me to sacrifice myself for a woman who isn’t really mine, in the name of a love that I have never really felt.

“I have acquired the reputation of a passionate lover in the eyes of many women, but always, always pretending, as a way to salve my inner loneliness. I searched for the true path diligently and sincerely, but all my hopes were chimeras, constructed by rampant fantasy, destroyed by inevitable disappointment and repudiation. In my self-deception, repeatedly I sample a simulacrum of love, and each time I tire of it and set my sights on a new, even more exaggerated illusion. I seek a flesh-and-blood person whom I believe to possess the key to love, success, and well-being. And yet the days pass, my youth has begun to wither, and still I search in vain. I’ve lived with natural women and not found simplicity, consorted with the most romantic and not found love, befriended the pious and not found faith. My heart is like a stone covered with damp moss, a teardrop always glistening on it somewhere. You’ve seen me crying today not because of weakness but because of resentment. I’m crying for my disappointed hopes, for my vanished dreams, for what I haven’t become in life, and now, apparently, never will!”

Gradually speaking louder and louder, I realized that Alicia was awake. I moved toward her and caught her eavesdropping.

“Do you need something?” I inquired and was disconcerted to receive no reply.

It was time to continue our journey toward the stretch of palm-studded high ground where don Rafo planned for us to spend the night. The place where we had stopped for water was extremely dangerous, being the only watering hole for miles around. After dark, all the wild beasts would come. We led our mounts out of the trees as the evening breeze began to sigh, rode miles farther before dismounting to camp under the fading sunset. As don Rafo lit a fire, I stepped away into the high grass to tie the horses for the night. At irregular intervals, the breeze brought to my ears a sound like a woman’s lament. Naturally, I thought of Alicia, who approached me, asking:

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

Together we again heard the mournful sound and looked searchingly in its direction, without discovering its mysterious origin: a slender sort of palm frond that, vibrating in the breeze, moaned disconsolately in the twilight.

A week later we sighted our destination, the ranch house of La Maporita. The pond near the corral lay golden under the sun. Several enormous dogs ran toward us barking excitedly and scattering our pack animals. A red poncho hung over the front gate, where don Rafo reined his horse in, stood in his stirrups, and gave customary notice of our approach at the top of his lungs: “Praise be to God!”

“And to his Holy Mother!” responded a woman’s voice, completing the age-old formula.

“Can’t someone call off these dogs?”

“They’ll be right there!”

“Where’s Griselda?”

“Missy’s down by the river.”

Our delighted eyes took in the neatly swept patio full of poppies, oleanders, siemprevivas, and many other flowers. Around the house a grove of banana trees offered cooling shade and the steady musical whisper of its large leaves, which the wind had split into a rough confetti of rustling green strips. A strong fence of guadua canes, as thick as a man’s arm, surrounded the entire establishment for protection. Atop it strutted a glittering peacock.

A decrepit old woman, neither black nor white, finally emerged from the door of the separate kitchen, drying her hands on her skirt.

“Scat!”

She threw a piece of fruit rind at the chickens that pecked the ground around us, scattering them.

“Make yourselves at home,” she said to us. “Missy Griselda is bathing at the river. Don’t worry about the dogs, they’ve already bit all they’re going to bite.”

And she returned to her chores.

Finding nobody else around, we entered the sitting room of the main house, sparsely furnished with an improvised cot, two hammocks, two chairs of rawhide, three trunks, and a Singer sewing machine.

Alicia, who could hardly breathe because of the heat, collapsed into a hammock and swung, pondering the extent of her exhaustion. In walked

Griselda, barefoot, a bathing costume over her arm, a gourd with pieces of soap in her hand, a comb buried in the curly hair on the top of her head.

“Excuse us!” we said.

“At your service, I’m sure! Didn’t Rafael come, too? Where is he?”

Stepping outside, she called to him familiarly:

“Don’t tell me you forgot my dress patterns again, don Rafo! Don’t tell me you did, because you’ll have a fight on your hands!”

She was dark, wiry, of medium height and round-faced, with merry eyes. She laughed, revealing her broad, white smile, her hands busily squeezing drops of water from her hair onto her partially unbuttoned blouse. Turning to us, she asked:

“Did they bring you coffee yet?”

“Don’t go to any trouble, please . . .”

“Sebastiana!” she called to the old mulata. “Where are you?”

Sitting in the hammock beside Alicia, she inquired whether her diamond earrings were “legal,” and whether she had any for sale.

“If you like them, they’re yours,” responded Alicia.

“I’ll trade you for the sewing machine!”

“Always the sharp trader!” laughed don Rafael, full of praise.

“Not a bit! We’re getting rid of everything we can’t carry, is all.”

And she excitedly explained that a labor recruiter by the name of Barrera had come to sign up rubber tappers to work in the Vichada region.

“Like I told Fidel Franco, it’s the opportunity for us to get ahead. Barrera pays five pesos a day, plus food.”

“And which Barrera is this?” inquired don Rafo.

“Narciso Barrera, who’s got gold coins coming out his ears and merchandise practically to give away!”

“And you believe that liar?”

“Hush, don Rafo! Don’t say anything that will discourage Fidel, please! Barrera is offering a cash advance, and even so my husband can’t make up his mind to get out of here. That man loves his cattle more than his wife! And we went to Pore to get hitched good and proper, so we’re legally married.”

Alicia gave me a sidelong look and smiled.

“Sounds like that might be a risky plan, Griselda.”

“Don Rafo! Nothing ventured, nothing gained! The offer has made everybody giddy. You think it’s not real? Why, soon enough, there’s not going to be a single cowboy left in this part of the llano. Over at the main ranch, Hato Grande, the old man’s having a hard time finding enough hands to finish the roundup. Nobody wants to do anything but dance all night! And with that hussy Clarita over there, well, just imagine. I told Fidel not to stay, but he didn’t listen. He’s been gone since Monday. I’m expecting him tomorrow, though.”

“You say Barrera brought a lot of stuff and sold it cheap?”

“Yes, don Rafo. You might as well leave your merchandise all packed up. Everybody’s bought what they need already. And you haven’t brought my dress patterns when it’s most important? I’m going to need nice clothes!”

“Oh, I reckon I’ve got something somewhere.”

“God bless you!”

Old Sebastiana, as shriveled as a dried fig, head and arms trembling perilously, distributed cups of coffee so strong and bitter that neither Alicia nor I could drink it. Rafo poured the contents of his cup into the saucer to speed its cooling, while Griselda went in search of a sweetener and returned with a jug of dark honey.

“Thank you, senora.”

“This pretty thing is your wife? You’re don Rafo’s son-in-law?”

“Just as if I were!”

“And you’re from Tolima, too?”

“I am. Alicia is from Bogota.”

“Why, you look like you’re dressed for a dance, you do. What a nice dress, and look at them shoes! Did you cut that dress yourself?”

“No, but I do know a bit about dressmaking. I had the class for three years in school.”

“Will you teach me? You will, won’t you? That’s why I bought the sewing machine. Just look at this nice fabric. Barrera gave it to me the day he was here. He gave some to Sebastiana, too. Where did you put it, Sebastiana?”

“It’s hanging up. I’ll bring it,” replied the servant, and she left the room.

Griselda produced a key and excitedly opened one of the trunks to show us several brightly colored pieces of cloth.

“That’s very ordinary stuff,” sniffed don Rafo, but Griselda wasn’t listening.

“Pure silk,” she insisted. “Barrera is so generous! And look at these pictures of the rubber-collecting station on the Vichada River, where he wants to take us. Be honest, now. Tell me if they aren’t pretty! Barrera’s giving them to everybody. Look at them!”

They were colored picture postcards. They showed several two-story structures on an overgrown riverbank, with groups of people along the porch railings and a number of steam launches moored in front, wisps of smoke trailing from their narrow smokestacks.

“More than a thousand men live there, and they all earn a pound sterling every day. So I’ll be cooking for them, and imagine how much I’ll get just for that! Then add what Fidel is going to earn! See those woods in the background? Right there’s where the rubber trees grow. No wonder Barrera says an opportunity like this won’t come again!”

“If I weren’t so decrepit and worn out, I’d go along,” announced old Se-bastiana, who had retrieved the gaudy red material that Barrera had given her.

She squatted on her heels with her back against the wall and held it out to Griselda.

“Here it is.”

“Make a dress of that, and people will think you’ve burst into flames,” I laughed.

“Better than them not looking at all, white boy,” said Sebastiana.

“Go get fodder for don Rafo’s horses,” Griselda ordered the old woman, “get some red bananas if you can find them. First, though, tell Miguel to get out of that hammock. Laying around won’t cure his fevers. Tell him to bail out the canoe and go see if there are any fish on the trotline or if the piranhas stole the bait again, more likely. And get us all something to eat. Our white guests have traveled a long way today.”

Then she turned her attention to Alicia.

“Come on, let’s go freshen up. You’ll be sleeping in my room.”

And to me, with a smirk: “I’m taking her with me! You didn’t have no reservations, right?”

I felt truly sorry at the failure of don Rafael’s business venture. Griselda was right. Everybody had already bought what they needed.

Still, two days after our arrival, some men came from Hato Grande ranch, rail-thin characters who draped their ponchos over their knees to dissimulate the alarming condition of their sweaty mounts. They called to us, from the other side of the river, to paddle over and pick them up and, thinking themselves unheard, fired Winchesters into the air. No one responded, and after a time, they forced their horses into the water and swam with them, their clothes tied in bundles on their heads.

Eventually, they approached the house. They wore the normal llanero clothing of light, loose-fitting cotton under broad-brimmed felt hats. They rode barefoot and held the stirrup rings with their big toes.

“Good morning,” they announced in melancholic tones, their utterance nearly inaudible amid the din of barking dogs.

“Good morning for shooting guns?” asked Griselda.

“We were calling for the canoe.”

“You think I’m in the business of ferrying the likes of you?”

“We came to see the merchandise . . .”

“Come on in, then, but leave your nags outside the gate.”

The men dismounted, tied their horses in the shade of the spreading saman tree using crude ropes made of the animals’ mane and tail, and entered the yard with their ponchos over their shoulders. Don Rafo had spread a hide on the ground to display his baubles for the llaneros’ consideration. They sank indolently onto their heels around the display.

“Take a look at this belt and holster, the extra reinforcement here. And the quality of these knives. Everything first class.”

“Selling quinine?”

“First class. And pills for fevers and shakes.”

“How much is the thread?”

“Ten cents a bunch.”

“How about five cents?”

“Nine and we won’t argue.”

The men picked through the merchandise unceremoniously and examined it almost without speaking. To see if a fabric was likely to fade, they wet their fingers with saliva and rubbed the sample vigorously. Don Rafo, the measuring stick in his hand, enumerated the virtues of each and every item. They didn’t like anything.

“How about letting go of that pocketknife for two pesos and a half?”

“All right.”

“I’ll pay what I said for those buttons.”

“Take them.”

“But throw the needle in, to put them on.”

“Take it.”

Each customer’s total purchase amounted to two or three pesos. Only the man with a carbine was disposed to spend more. Unknotting his handkerchief, he produced a gold coin and tapped it against the barrel of his gun.

“Got change?”

“Why don’t you take everything that’s left?”

“Those prices are out of range,” he said, scowling. “Want to see stuff for sale cheap? Come over to the big ranch.”

“Good-bye, then.”

The men mounted.

“Friend,” said the worst-looking of the lot, turning back as the other horses exited the gate. “Barrera sent us to take away your merchandise, so you better get it out of here. You’ve been warned, all right? Out of here! We’re not taking it, because it ain’t worth the bother. But Barrera wants no competition, hear?”

“You miserable good-for-nothing!” I shouted, unsheathing my knife to the women’s agitation. “Do you imagine that this old man is alone?”

“Under my feet, the whole wide world, but over my head, only my hat,” replied the cowboy with disdain. “I wasn’t talking to you, but if you want trouble . . . there’s enough to go around.”

Spurring his pony, he tossed his purchases in my face and galloped away with his companions across the wide llano.

Frank and faithful in name and deed, Fidel Franco showed up around ten o’clock that night. Although his boat slipped soundlessly through the deep water, the dogs sensed its approach and instantly raised the alarm.

“It’s Fidel. It’s Fidel,” said Griselda, ducking around our hammocks as she made her way across the sitting room. She went out in her nightgown with a dark shawl over her head and don Rafael on her heels.

Alicia, alone and fearful in the darkness, began to call to me from the other room:

“Arturo, did you hear that? People are arriving.”

“Yes, but it’s all right, don’t get up. It’s the owner of the house.”

When I went outside, still in undergarments and without a hat, I saw people carrying a torch through the banana grove. The boat’s chain made a sound as it was secured to the dock, and two armed men disembarked.

“What’s going on here?” asked one, giving Griselda a peremptory hug.

“Nothing. Why are you getting home at this hour of the night?”

“Who are the guests in our house?”

“Don Rafael and two friends of his, a man and a woman.”

Franco and don Rafo embraced in greeting and led the group back toward the kitchen.

“I came at this hour because I was worried. I finished bringing in some bulls this afternoon and heard, when I got to the ranch house, that Barrera had sent men here. Nobody wanted to lend me a horse, so once the partying started I borrowed their canoe. What did those men want here?”

“They wanted to take away my stuff,” replied don Rafo humbly.

“And what happened then, Griselda?”

“Nothing, because this city fellow here faced them down with his pigsticker. A real big fuss. Us women was wailing!

“Go on inside,” added Griselda, a bit livid and tremulous, “and while they’re making coffee you can hang your hammock under the walkway because the city lady is sleeping in our room, with me.”

“No, that cannot be,“ I insisted, stepping toward them, “Alicia and I can sleep outside.”

“You don’t give the orders here,” replied Griselda, forcing a smile. “Let me introduce you to my llanero.”

“Your servant, sir,” I said, responding to the man’s fraternal embrace.

“Any friend of don Rafael is my friend,” he said, “and you can count on that.”

“And you should see the woman that he’s got with him. Just as blushing and fine as you please. And a steady hand to cut silk, and a good way of explaining, too.”

“We are at your service,” repeated Franco.

He was wiry and pale, of middling height, possibly a little older than I. His surname aptly described his character, which was not so visible on the surface, his face and his tongue being less eloquent than his heart. His features were well proportioned, and his accent and way of shaking a man’s hand indicated social quality. He was a llanero not born of the llanos, but rather, one who had chosen them.

“Are you originally from Antioquia?”

“That’s right. I went to school in Bogota, joined the army, got sent to the llanos, to Arauca, and deserted there because I couldn’t stomach my captain. Then I came here with Griselda, to this nice little house, and now I won’t leave for anything.” And he underlined the last part: “Not for anything!”

Griselda pursed her lips bitterly and remained silent. Discovering herself to be not properly dressed, she withdrew to her room with the pretext of dressing, cupping her hand around the candle flame and carrying the light away.

And she didn’t come back.

In the meantime, Sebastiana revived the fire, and flames flickered out among the three large stones that flanked it, sending up occasional tongues to lick at the wire that dangled above, by which one might hang a pot or kettle. We huddled around the blinking light on low stools made of cane or alligator skulls. Franco’s companion, hardly more than a boy, looked at me with friendly interest, holding a double-barreled shotgun between his bare knees. Because they were soaking wet, he rolled his trouser legs down over his calves bulging with knotty muscles so that the fabric would dry in the heat of the fire. His name was Antonio Correa, and he was old Sebasti-ana’s son. His skin was the same color as hers, and his chest and back were so square and solid that he seemed to have been carved from stone like an indigenous idol.

“Mama” he said, scratching his head, “who sent word to the big ranch that don Rafo had merchandise for sale here?”

“That’s nothing bad. That’s the way to sell.”

“I know, but . . . the very day they got here?”

“What do I know? Maybe it was Griselda.”

Now it was Franco’s turn to purse his lips. After a short silence, he asked Sebastiana:

“Old woman, how many times has Barrera been here?”

“I haven’t noticed. I have enough to do minding my kitchen.”

Sipping his coffee, after don Rafael recounted an incident of our journey, Franco returned to his obstinate line of questioning. What had Miguel and Jesus been doing? Had they found the pigs and fixed the gate? Had they been milking cows? How many?

“They only milked two, the two whose calves are weaned already. Griselda had us turn the rest out to pasture because them mosquitoes is so bad, they’ll about kill a calf.”

“Where are those two lazy good-for-nothings, anyway?”

“Miguel got the fever and doesn’t want to do the treatment. Look, it’s five borraja leaves, but they’ve got to be pulled off the plant like this, upwards, see? If you pull them downwards, like this, they cause vomiting. He’s got what I cooked for him, but he won’t drink it. And he says he’s headed for the rubber fields. All he does is play cards with Jesus, who can’t wait to leave, either.”

“Well, let them get started right now. They can take Barrera’s canoe back, and never show their faces here again. I won’t tolerate a bunch of spies in my house. Old woman, go out there right now and tell them to get their stuff and leave. Say them and me is even. They don’t owe me, and I don’t owe them.”

When Sebastiana left the kitchen, don Rafael asked about things at Hato Grande. Were they as topsy-turvy as they say?

“Barrera’s messed it all up. It’s not a fit place to live, anymore. Gone to wrack and ruin. Might as well torch it.”

He told how work had been discontinued at the big ranch because the hired hands bought Barrera’s liquor every day and stayed permanently drunk. At roundup time, they let the bulls gore the horses, got tangled up in their own lassos, and stupidly killed or crippled the animals when not themselves. They won and lost vast sums betting on horse races. Clarita was doing plenty of business, too. And nobody tried to correct the disorder or normalize the situation because everybody expected soon to become rich tapping rubber. Nobody wanted to work on the eve of becoming rich. So there weren’t any saddle horses to ride, only half-broken colts, and no more cowboys, only celebrants. And old Zubieta, the drunk, gout-ridden owner of Hato Grande, had become oblivious to everything that was happening. He lay sprawled in his hammock all day, letting Barrera take his money at dice as Clarita filled his mouth with dribbles of rum from her own lips. He also let Barrera’s men slaughter up to five steers every day. Sometimes they killed an animal that, once skinned, they regarded as too lean to eat, so they discarded the carcass and slaughtered another.

Worst of all, the Guahibo Indians of the Guanapalo River area, who commonly killed hundreds of cattle, had recently raided the ranch outpost at Hatico, carrying away the women and killing the men. They set fire to the pasture, but the river fortunately contained the blaze. Still, one could see the glow in the sky for who knows how many nights.

“What do you intend to do about it?” I asked Franco.

“Defend the outpost. Get me ten riders worth their salt, with carbines and sufficient ammunition, and we won’t leave a single Indian alive.”

At that moment Sebastiana returned.

“They’re leaving.”

“Mama, make sure they don’t take my guitar.”

“They’re asking if you want to send any message.”

“Yes. They should tell old Zubieta that I quit as ranch foreman. I’ll come back when he finds some better cowboys to do the work.”

We followed Sebastiana out of the kitchen. The night was dark and had begun to drizzle. In the house, Franco lay down on the makeshift cot. Outside, the hired hands he’d fired could be heard singing a llanero ditty. The splash of their paddles and the slap of the driving rain soon drowned out their harmony.

I didn’t sleep well that night. Not until the cocks began crowing did I finally drift off. Then I dreamt that Alicia was walking by herself across a dark plain toward a sinister place where a man, possibly Barrera, awaited. I crouched in the high grass and watched her, holding in my hands the young man’s double-barreled shotgun. But every time I tried to aim the firearm at Alicia’s seducer, it turned into a cold, rigid serpent in my hands. Don Rafo called from the corral, waving his hat and exclaiming:

“Come with me! That’s a lost cause!”

Then I saw “Missy Griselda,” arrayed in gold. She stood on a high peak, surrounded by a strange country. Below her, a stream bubbled with the white latex sap of the rubber tree. Along the flow, innumerable men lay prone to drink from it. Franco was there, standing on a pile of carbines and telling the thirsty multitude to beware what lay beyond the trees. At the base of each tree lay a dying man. My task was to collect their skulls and load them into a boat for export down a gloomy, silent river.

I saw Alicia again, bedraggled and naked, fleeing from me through the leafy branches of a nocturnal forest, illuminated by colossal fireflies. I carried a hatchet in my hand and, hanging from my belt, a small metallic con-tainer—the outfit of a rubber tapper. I stopped by a purple-flowered araucaria, which resembles the rubber tree, and I began to cut the bark to release the latex sap. “Why have you opened my veins?” moaned a faint voice. “I am your Alicia, and I’ve become a parasite.”

I awoke agitated and sweating at about nine o’clock. The sky had been washed blue by the night’s rainfall. A cautious breeze softened the great heat.

“Here’s your breakfast, white boy,” murmured Sebastiana. “The men are riding around, and the women are at the river bathing.”

As I ate, she sat on the floor and, using her teeth, commenced to adjust the links of the small neck chain that supported her saint’s medal, newly donned, as she explained, to enlist its miraculous powers. Hopefully it would persuade her son Antonio to take her with him to the rubber fields.

“And I put the heart of a piapoco bird in his coffee, too. The way that works is, he can go wherever he wants, but when he hears a piapoco sing, he’ll feel sad and woebegone and remember his home place and the little house where he was born. And if he don’t come back, he’ll die of a broken heart.”

By her calculation, the saint’s medal would reinforce this effect if hung around the neck of a departing family member.

“So Antonio’s headed for Vichada, too?”

“Who knows? Franco don’t want to pull up roots, but his wife’s got her heart set on going. Antonio will do whatever the boss says.”

“Why did those two fellows have to leave last night?”

“The boss done had enough of them, I reckon. He’s suspicious. Jesus went to Hato Grande the day you got here to tell Barrera not to come around. That’s all. But the man got suspicious and sent them away.”

“Does Barrera come around frequently?”

“I don’t know. If he chats with Griselda, it’s down by the river, because she’s always down there in the canoe, seems like, checking the trotline. Barrera’s got more to show than the boss. Barrera is an opportunity, let’s say. But don Fidel’s got a temper, and Griselda is scared of him because of what happened in Arauca. Somebody whispered that his captain was after her, so the boss waited for him and . . . one, two . . .”

The old woman’s hand stabbed the air to illustrate her words, but we were interrupted, just at that moment, by the appearance of an animated trio consisting in Alicia, Griselda, and an elegant gentleman in a white suit, high boots, and gray felt hat.

“Here’s Barrera, “ said Sebastiana. “You wanted to meet him, right?”

“Kind sir,” the man exclaimed, bowing deeply, “doubly fortunate am I to find myself, unexpectedly, at the feet of a husband so worthy of his lovely wife.”

And without waiting for a better excuse, he kissed the hand of Alicia right in front of me. Shaking mine, he extended his flattery:

“Praise be to the creator of such precious stanzas, a balm to my soul they were, during my stay in Brazil, making me sigh with nostalgia for Colombia. To bind errant sons to their native land, that is the privilege of true poets! I have asked much of Fortune, but I never dared imagine that one day I’d have the honor of declaring to you, face-to-face, my sincerest admiration.”

Although I had braced myself against this man, I confess that I was sensitive to his adulation. His words tempered my annoyance at his gallantry toward the lovely Alicia.

Barrera apologized for entering the house in his riding boots, and after inquiring about the health of its owner, he begged me to accept a glass of Scotch. I had already noticed that Griselda had the bottle in her hand.

When Sebastiana set out some cups and Barrera leaned over to fill them with whiskey, I observed that he wore a nickel-plated revolver at his belt and that the bottle was not full.

Alicia caught my eye, indicating that she did not want to drink.

“Have another drink, senora! You already saw how mild it is!”

“What?” I frowned at Alicia. “You’ve been drinking, too?”

“Senor Barrera insisted. And he gave me this bottle of perfume,” she mumbled, producing it from wherever she had it hidden.

“An insignificant little gift. Please excuse it. I brought it especially . . .”

“But not especially for my wife. Possibly for Griselda. Or had the three of you already met?”

“Absolutely not, Senor Cova. My happiness had not soared to that height.” Alicia and Griselda blushed.

“I found out that you were here,” he clarified, “only last night from a couple of cowhands who appeared at the ranch. I was immensely sorry to learn that six total scoundrels had pretended to represent me and attempted to abscond in my name with your merchandise. So at dawn I came in haste to protest against their dastardly act. The whiskey and the perfume are but humble offerings, intended to corroborate the fervent esteem that I profess toward the people of this house.”

“Did you hear that, Alicia? Give the bottle of perfume to Griselda.” “Aren’t you people of this house, too?” asked Griselda in a hurt tone.

“I naturally regard you as such,” continued Barrera, “because so charming a couple must always seem ‘of the house’ within a few days of arriving anywhere.”

Undeterred by my aggressive attitude, the fellow took a different tack. With the things that went on these days in Casanare, it was sad to think what might become of that privileged land, cradle of such honest, hospitable, and industrious folk. But one simply could not live with the Venezuelan refugees who infested everything like a cloud of locusts. How he had suffered from the hordes of Venezuelan volunteers who responded to his recruitment! They all claimed to be fleeing political persecution, of course, but they were nothing more, in fact, than common criminals, felons who had escaped from the penitentiary. One couldn’t refuse outright to hire them, however, for fear of a violent reaction. Undoubtedly, the six men who had tried to take don Rafael’s merchandise were of precisely this ilk. No, the rubber company of Vichada could never repay him adequately for all the trouble he’d had. True, he had to recognize that the company did treat him well in some respects. First, they charged him with taking a large shipment of rubber to Brazil, residence of the company’s primary stockholders. The company had even wanted him to supervise further rubber collection in Vichada, a distinct honor that he had modestly declined. Ah, but had he known then that he would meet, in the wilderness, such a man as myself! In fact, if I had a candidate for the job right now, it would be his distinct pleasure to propose it to the company’s directors. And if that candidate were to accompany him to Vichada, well, he could be certain of a positive outcome . . .

“Senor Barrera,” I interrupted, “I’d never heard of a company as big as yours in Vichada.”

“Oh no, it’s not mine. I am merely an employee who earns two thousand pounds sterling a year, plus expenses.”

He rested his brazen eyes on my face, mopped his own with the silk handkerchief, fondled the knot of his necktie, and took his leave, repeatedly leaving his regards to those who were absent and reiterating his disgust at the actions of the six ill-mannered intruders who had molested us. He intended to return another day to deliver those sentiments in person to the absent don Rafo.

Griselda walked with him to the river, and she stayed there longer than it normally takes to say good-bye.

“Where did that fellow come from?” I said brusquely to Alicia as soon as we were alone.

“He came on horseback to the other side of the river, and Griselda brought him across in the canoe.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“Are you interested in him?”

“No.”

“Are you going to accept the perfume?”

“No.”

Grabbing the small bottle from Alicia’s apron pocket, I broke it on the stones of the patio, almost at the feet of Griselda, just back from the river.

“Have you gone crazy?” she said.

A bit surprised and a bit humiliated, Alicia opened the sewing machine and began to sew. There were moments when one heard only the sound of the pedals and the chattering of the parrot on its perch.

Griselda, smiling and clever and thinking it better not to leave us alone, made conversation.

“That Barrera is so funny! He’s convinced he needs some emeralds, and he’s got his eyes on the ones in my earrings. I bet he’d steal them right off my head!”

“Careful you don’t lose your head,” I remarked, with a laugh to underline the double meaning.

“Huh? Better not fuss at me!”

I went out to the corral, without staying to hear Griselda’s alarmed excuses and explanations.

Climbing atop the heavy fence that surrounds the corral to vent my frustration at the sun, I saw a dark, undulating cloud of dust rise over the palms on the horizon. Then I saw the silhouette of a horseman flying headlong over the grassy waves of the llano, turning abruptly this way and that and twirling his lasso. The ground shook with the pounding of a great many hooves, and several other riders appeared before I saw the herd of horses that they had gathered for the roundup. Occasionally, a half-wild colt, mad with youth, flung itself away from the herd, bucking playfully. Now I could clearly hear the voices of the riders calling for us to open the gate of the corral. I hardly had time to open it before the leading animals thundered into the enclosure and began to mill around nervously, huffing and puffing.

Franco, don Rafael, and Sebastiana’s boy Antonio Correa dismounted their sweaty, winded mounts, which shook their heads and rubbed them roughly against the wall of the corral.

“That looks like fun. Why didn’t you invite me?”

“Early to bed, early to rise, my friend! We’ll see how you throw a lasso some other time.”

The men solidly barred the corral gate by pushing a number of long poles across it from side to side, as the women approached to peer through. Inside, the herd of mares and colts whirled in an anxious circle, searching for a way out of the enclosure. Alicia, holding a piece of sewing in her hand, squealed with excitement at the confusion of pelting hooves, glistening flanks, and whipping manes and tails. The air was full of breathless commentaries—that’s the one I want, no, that one—while the twitching muscles, rebellious whinnies, and churning mud created a sensation of raw power.

Antonio Correa was beside himself.

“We got him! See? The big black bronco with white feet! Everybody’s been afraid to lay hands on him before now. Now his time has come.”

“Mulato,” recommended the boy’s mother, “you better be careful!”

Stimulated by our presence, the young man told Alicia that he planned to tame the bronco in her honor, right after lunch.

“Smells like a woman,” he said, his nostrils dilating as if gathering pheromones from all those recently vented outside the house.

All he wanted to eat was a piece of meat and a fistful of fried plantains. He wet his tongue with a drop of bitter coffee, grabbed his riding gear, and was out the door, disregarding old Sebastiana’s worried sounds, to wait for us at the corral.

We did not want much to eat, either, excited by the coming spectacle. Alicia said a quick, silent prayer for the boy, hoping to call down a measure of divine protection.

Sebastiana prayed, “Don’t let that animal kill my nappy head, please.”

We took out the ropes braided of rawhide and the powerful hobbles, half a meter long with a ring at each end, to fasten on the black horse’s feet.

The black horse had avoided being lassoed, meanwhile, by keeping its head down and staying in the middle of the tumult that still filled the corral. Franco therefore had all the horses except the black one let out of the corral into a connecting enclosure. Finding itself alone, the animal reared and put its forefeet up on the fence surrounding the corral, allowing Antonio to throw his lasso around its neck. The animal lowered its head and gave a series of great leaps around the botalon, a high forked pole, eight inches thick, to which the lasso bound it ever more tightly. Antonio coaxed the bronco round and round the botalon. The heavy rope hummed taut with the force of the untamed beast, and the friction, where the rope wound around the botalon, was so intense that it made the wood smoke. Finally wound tight, the horse hung from the fork with its tongue out, strangling itself in anguished hiccups before finally crashing to the ground, its legs jerking, only semiconscious.

Franco sat on the animal’s flank and, grabbing its ears, twisted its proud neck to immobilize it, while Antonio swiftly fastened on a headstall, hobbled its feet, and tied a rope to its tail. The poor thing continued to thrash in the dirt as several men pulled it out of the corral by its tail. Once outside, they allowed it to rise and covered its eyes. For the first time, the stallion felt a saddle on its once indomitable back. During the tussle, its mares were released and made for the open llano. Facing the plain, the stallion trembled with distress and fury.

The horsebreaker shouted, as he prepared to remove the hobbles:

“Mama, bring my saint’s medal.”

Both Franco and don Rafael called for their mounts, but Antonio wanted to do it all alone. He mounted.

“No, no. Stay behind. If he tries to roll over on me, don’t let him.”

Then, amid Sebastiana’s excited shouting, he dangled the saint’s medal around his neck, crossed himself, and uncovered the horse’s eyes.

Not a wild mule, when the jaguar springs onto its neck; not a manatee, when the harpoon stabs home; not a fighting bull, when tormented with fluttering banderillas—nothing could react more violently than did the black stallion at the first stinging blow of Antonio’s whip. With a shuddering, equine roar, it launched itself onto the llano, its hooves churning earth and air, speeding away, as we watched amazed. Two would-be assistants ran ineffectually behind, waving their ponchos. In tremendous leaps, the new Pegasus flew back and forth across the grassland, occasionally whirling like a dust devil, its rider pitched this way and that but firmly stuck on its back. Eventually, the uneven movements of the rider’s white shirt were all that could be clearly discerned in the distance.

At the end of the afternoon, horse and rider returned. The palms greeted them with a nodding, nervous flutter of fronds. The black stallion was exhausted, broken in spirit, covered with sweat, largely unresponsive to spur or whip. Without bothering to cover its eyes, but not without a few blows and kicks for good measure, the men unsaddled the animal and left it hobbled for the night, alone, silent, and motionless on the edge of the plain.

Excited abrazos greeted Antonio Correa. Sebastiana was beside herself with pride and relief.

“How about my boy, now? How about him?”

“We owe it all to the mulato,” explained Franco. “We went out for the mares, and just look what happened. We got a stallion out of it! It’s mine, but at your disposal, whenever.”

As darkness descended and a full moon rose, the former monarch of the plains, humbled and hurting, bid his kingdom farewell with a desolate whinny.

I confess, contritely, that I did something bad that week. For some reason, I made love to “Missy Griselda,” with fabulous success. While Alicia had her fevers, Griselda and I lavished tender care on her. My enthusiasm stemmed, as I later reflected, more from interest in the nurse than concern for the patient.

Griselda passed close beside my hammock one day, and I reached with an insinuating hand to squeeze her thigh. She made a fist, as if about to punch me, glanced in the direction of sleeping Alicia, and tickled my ribs forcefully with her other hand.

“Rascal! I knew you were.”

As she leaned over me, her earrings swung forward onto her cheeks and dangled in my face.

“These are the emeralds that Barrera wanted?”

“Yes, but I’ll let you have them instead.”

“How can I get them off you?”

“Like this,” she said, biting my ear quite hard, and disappeared, choking with laughter, only to reappear a second later, with a sly finger between her lips and an urgent plea.

“My man can’t find out! Or your woman! Hear?”

Loyalty triumphed over lust, however. I disdained to submit any further to temptation. I was jaded to the allure of voluptuous delights, having enjoyed so many in the past. Was I really going to dishonor a friend by seducing his wife, especially when she was no more to me than a random female, and a vulgar one at that? What really drove my new resolve was another idea. Alicia’s indifference toward me had changed, now, into lightly veiled disdain. Now I began to fall in love with her, even idolize her.

Somehow, I’d been blind to her superiority before now. It’s true that she isn’t beautiful, but when she passes by, men smile. Another of her charms, one that I adored, was her limpid gaze, her hauteur alloyed with melancholy. She had been burned, it proclaimed, by bad luck. Her voice had become a soft, expressive whisper; her eyelashes closed over her dark, almond-shaped eyes to reply in the affirmative. Her pale skin had darkened a bit during our time in the llanos, and she seemed both fleshier and taller than before. When she smiled, her dimples stood out more.

When I first met her, she had seemed a passionate and impulsive child. Then I’d watched her bear the bad news of her pregnancy seriously, with dignity. When I pushed her to the supreme revelation, that of her delicate state, she reacted almost with anger.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

When she sat at the sewing machine, I lay in a hammock nearby and pretended not to watch her, clothed in lighted-colored cotton, showing a bit of cleavage, her hair negligently arrayed, with its blue butterfly bow that seemed to move its wings when she turned her head to watch the needle. Her coldness filled me with impatience, to the point that I demanded, more than once:

“Do you hear me talking to you?”

Dying to find the reason for her withdrawal, I wondered if it might be jealousy, and I made an allusion to Griselda, with whom she had become close. The two not infrequently cried together.

“What does Griselda have to say about me?”

“That Barrera is better.”

“What? How does she mean?”

“I don’t know.”

This revelation definitively put Franco’s honor out of danger, because Griselda repulsed me from that moment on.

“Better because he’s after her and I’m not?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what if I went after her?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Alicia, have you seen something?”

“What? Why do you think everybody’s in love with you?”

For an instant, my wounded pride suggested that I show her the bite mark Griselda had left on me and ask her if she could imagine how I got it.

Don Rafael appeared in the doorway.

He had just returned from the big ranch, where he had gone early in the morning with news of the mares we’d gathered during the roundup. Franco and Griselda had gone with him and would be back in the afternoon. Rafael had returned ahead of them, taking advantage of the canoe, to consult me and, hopefully, get my approval for a business proposition. Old Zubieta was offering us an excellent deal—a thousand bulls or more that ran loose on his vast property—at a very low price, as long as we caught them ourselves. Furthermore, we could pay him after the bulls were driven to market, but Zubieta did require guarantees and collateral. Franco was willing to put everything he owned on the line, but he needed partners. This was our big chance; the profits would be spectacular.

“Whatever you want,” I told don Rafo, joyfully, and added to Alicia, hugging her with both arms: “The money will be for you!”

“I’ll leave you some horses and go, meanwhile, to Arauca, where I’ll collect the money that people there owe me,” said don Rafo. “I ought to get something like a thousand pesos, which will pay for part of our costs, hired hands and such. And we’ll get more when Zubieta decides to bring Franco back as foreman, which he is sure to do now that work has been paralyzed because of the cowboys’ misbehavior.”

“I’ve got thirty pounds sterling in my pocket, take them, here they are! I’m keeping only a bit for Alicia’s expenses and what we owe Fidel for our stay in his house.”

“Fine. I’ll leave in three days’ time and be back by the middle of next month, before the big rains. The rainy season isn’t far off. We will be in

Villavicencio with the bulls by the end ofJune, and then . . . to Bogota! To Bogota!”

When Alicia and don Rafael went outside, my fantasies spread their wings.

I envisioned myself back among my university classmates, telling of my adventures in Casanare, exaggerating my sudden enrichment, seeing them congratulate me with surprise and envy on their faces. I would invite them all to dine at my house because by then I’d have one, already paid in full, with a garden just outside the window of my study. I’d assemble them there to hear me read my latest poems. Alicia would have to excuse herself frequently to attend to the wails of our little one, named Rafael, in memory of our traveling companion.

My family would finally move to Bogota, and although my stern parents would no doubt maintain their disapproval of my marriage, I’d wear them down by sending the nanny to their house with little Rafael at every opportunity. At first, they’d refuse to look at him, but my sisters would accept, and they’d lift up the baby and say, “He looks just like Arturo.” And then my mother would go, bathed in tears, and fondle the little one blissfully, calling to my father to come see the baby, and the unbending old man would withdraw to his bedroom, adamant in his refusal but trembling with emotion.

Little by little, my literary success would win them over, eventually resulting in a full pardon. I ought more to be pitied than censured, my mother would say. After my graduation from the university, all would be forgotten. Even my former girlfriends, intrigued by my new behavior, would divert attention from my past, explaining everything with this phrase: “Arturo is Arturo!”

“Come here, you dreamer, you! And you, Alicia!”

Don Rafo interrupted my reverie, inviting me to drink the last of his brandy, as he lightened his saddlebags for the journey that lay ahead.

“Here’s to fortune, and to love!”

How deluded. We might as well have toasted to suffering and death.

For a few days, I thought of nothing but riches. So obsessed did I become with the idea of great wealth that I imagined myself already a magnate, visiting Casanare for the purpose of promoting economic activities on the llanos. I took even Alicia’s heedlessness as a sign of supreme confidence in the future based on abundance in the present. True, she continued to be hermetic and moody, but I rationalized that as well. Wasn’t that just like a young lady of leisure?

When Fidel Franco informed me that our business contract had been finalized, I wasn’t a bit impressed. It was as though the man paid to administer my affairs was merely reporting on his efficient execution of my instructions.

“Franco, this is going to work out perfectly. And, just in case, my copious resources will remediate any shortfall.”

Then Fidel inquired, for the first time, about the object of my stay on the llanos. Immediately wondering whether my traveling companion might have committed some indiscretion, I replied:

“You haven’t talked about that with don Rafael?” And I added, following his negative response: “I’ve a wish to travel, nothing more! I had the idea of going to Arauca, then down the Orinoco River to the sea, and on to Europe. But poor Alicia is having such a hard time that I’m at my wit’s end. And besides, this business venture doesn’t sound bad at all. I think it’s going to pay off.”

“Well, I’m sorry that silly Griselda is trying to turn your lady into a seamstress or something.”

“Don’t worry. Alicia finds it amusing to apply what she learned in her classes. At home, if she’s not embroidering, she’s painting, making lace, or playing the piano.”

“I’ve been wondering, did don Rafael leave those horses with you?”

“See why I regard him so highly? My best horse got stolen, with saddle, bridle, and everything.”

“Yes, don Rafael told me. There are still some good ones, though.”

“Not too good. The saddle horses are all right, though.”

“Old Zubieta is going to be pleased, anyway. I can’t figure out why that suspicious old coot is offering us so much credit. Probably he’s just trying to get ahead of Barrera. I sure never saw him sell bulls that way. ‘I ain’t got nothing to sell,’ he used to say. ‘I’ve only got five critters left.’ To get him to sell, you had to deposit the cash with him ahead of time, for safekeeping, supposedly. One time he got a deposit from a fellow from Sogamoso, a sharp trader who’d been around and knew a thing or two. The guy even spent several days drinking with Zubieta, becoming best buddies, don’t you know. And then, when it came time to take the animals, the old man spread his poncho on the ground outside the corral and, opening the bag of deposited coins, told the fellow from Sogamoso: ‘Toss a gold coin on my poncho for each bull that leaves the gate, so I can see, because I’m not too good with numbers.’ The coins soon ran out, the guy acted surprised. ‘I’m a little short,’ he pleaded. ‘Let me have the rest on credit.’ But no way! ‘You’re not so short on money, I’m just long on bulls, is all,’ guffawed Zubieta.”

And with that, the old man had gathered up his poncho-load of gold and left.

I entertained the anecdote with a confident smile.

“Franco,” I said, punching him playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t be surprised! The old man knows what he’s doing, offering us credit, I mean. He must have heard my name!”

“Hey, weathercock, which way you pointing today?”

“Good morning, Griselda, but listen, that’s too familiar a way to talk to me.”

“Too familiar, is it? Has the big business deal got you all puffed up, weathercock? For big money, the place to go is pure Vichada. Take me there! I want to go with you!”

She tried to embrace me, but my elbow pushed her away. Surprised, Griselda hesitated, then:

“I know what it is! My husband puts you off!”

“You’re the one who puts me off!”

“You sorry fool! Miss Alicia don’t know nothing about us, but she did tell me not to believe anything you say!”

“She told you what? She told you what?”

“El llanero es sincero, as they say, but I can’t trust a big-city boy like you, from Bogota.”

I blanched with fury and stepped into the next room.

“Alicia, I disapprove of your familiarity with Griselda. Her vulgarity may be contagious. I prefer that you do not continue to sleep in her bedroom.”

“Now you want me to leave her alone for you? You won’t respect Franco even under his own roof?”

“What? So now your idiotic jealousy is back?”

I left Alicia to weep and went to the outbuildings where the hired hands spent their time. Sebastiana was mending the mulato Antonio’s shirt while he awaited bare-chested, his seminude body stretched on a cowhide on the ground, his head reclining on his hands.

“Catch a breeze, white boy,” said the old woman, “while I take care of curly here. These string hammocks are the thing today. Heat’s going to bring rain, too.

I climbed into a hammock but tried in vain to sleep. One hen on the roof beams annoyed me with her insistent clucking, while the others slumped in the shade with their beaks open, panting and ignoring the rooster that, despite the heat, made passes at them. Sebastiana shooed the chickens.

“Scat! Blasted birds won’t let anyone sleep.”

“Mulata, where are you from?”

“From right where I am.”

“You’re Colombiana?”

“Llanera, more than Colombiana, born over toward Manare. The whole llano is my country, so pretty and so wide, over in Venezuela, too. What more country do I need? As they say, no need to go looking for what you ain’t lost!”

“And who’s your father?” I asked Antonio.

“My mother’s the one who knows.”

“Son, just be glad you were born.”

With a sympathetic smile I asked:

“Mulato, are you headed for the Vichada River?”

“I was, but the boss found out and gave me a talking-to. Because they say it’s all jungle and big trees there, where horses and cattle can’t go, and what’s that good for? That ain’t for a llanero. I like my liberty and the open plain.”

“The woods is for Indians,” added his mother.

“They don’t mind the llanos, though,” insisted Antonio, “to judge by the damage they do. Naked savages! Christians have to work hard to lasso a bull, with a horse that’s willing and knows its part, but somehow the savages do it chasing after them on foot, and they’ll bring down maybe forty animals, lickety-split, in a single day, and eat maybe one of them, leaving the rest as carrion. And they are uppity with people, too. Look at what happened to old Jaspe, may he rest in peace, when they ambushed him, jumping out of the brush almost under his horse. He took off, but not fast enough. And hollering at them didn’t do nothing. Imagine, unarmed, with twenty-some savages shooting arrows all over the place.”

His mother, tightening the handkerchief that she wore around her head, explained:

“Jaspe and his cowboys used to hunt the Indians with dogs, and when they killed one, they’d light a fire and pretend to roast and eat him so that the other Indians, who’d be watching from not too far away, would see and get scared.”

“Mama, you know that the savages killed his family, and since there ain’t no government out here, he had to take matters into his own hands. You saw what happened over at Hatico, where they killed all the Christians and the ruins is still smoking.” To me he added: “We better make plans to go kill us some savages.”

“No!” I said. “You can’t hunt them like animals. That’s inhumane.”

“Well, they wouldn’t mind doing the same to you!”

“Don’t contradict the white boy, mulato! He knows a whole lot more than you do. Instead, offer him a chew of tobacco, why don’t you?”

“No thanks. I don’t chew.”

“There’s your shirt, all mended,” the old woman said to her son, throwing it to him. “Now don’t rip it up in the brush when you go for the venga venga. Did you bring it already? No? Well, go! How long ago did they ask you for it?”

“Give me some coffee, and then I’ll go.”

“What’s venga venga?”

“Something that Missy Griselda wants. It’s the bark of a tree for a love potion.”

My moodiness has subjected me to various nervous crises, in which logic and my brain sue for divorce. In spite of my physical exuberance, my overactive imagination constantly saps my strength, a chronic problem, because the visions are unremitting, even during sleep. A vision achieves maximum clarity and potency, and then, within minutes, it degenerates into its opposite. Listening to music, my spirit soars to heights of unbridled enthusiasm only to plunge, next, into the depths of a most refined melancholy. Rage slips easily into listlessness; prudence slides irremediably into reflexive impulsiveness. My psychic depths behave like the waters of a bay; high and low tides succeed one another with inexorable intermittence.

My body reacts poorly to the stimulations offered by alcohol. Drink dulls the pain, but the few times that I ever got really drunk, it was from idleness or curiosity, to kill my boredom or to experience the overpowering sensations that turn drinkers into beasts.

The day when don Rafo said good-bye to us, I felt a vague foreboding, as if I knew it was forever. I shared the enthusiasm of the venture that he was about to undertake in the name of us all, the beginnings of our future prosperity. And yet, just as mists climb the sides of lofty peaks, vapors of sadness softly enwreathed my heavy heart, moistened my eyes, and impelled me to drink deeply of our farewell libations.

Thus, I recovered my manic animation only to confront the depressing echoes of Alicia’s sobbing voice, as she took leave of don Rafael with a final, desperate embrace:

“Now I’ll really be lost in the desert!”

I understood that “the desert” had something to do with me.

As I remember, Franco and Correa were to accompany don Rafo on the first leg of the journey to protect him from Barrera’s potential reprisal. Then they were to recruit cowboys and acquire remounts to help us round up the bulls, returning to La Maporita after no more than a week.

“I leave my house in your hands,” Franco said to me.

I nodded reluctantly and with secret resentment. Why did they never take me along when there was work to be done? Did they suppose themselves to be more manly than I? They might be more practiced than I, and perhaps therefore more skillful, but they were not more fiery nor more audacious!

As I watched them ride away, I felt a sudden hardness toward them all, and, drunk out of my mind, I almost shouted that he who cares for two women sleeps with both!

I went into Alicia’s room to console her. She lay facedown on her cot, hiccupping and tearful. I leaned down to caress her, and she responded merely by reaching down to extend her dress over her bare calves. Then she brusquely rejected me:

“Get out of here. The last thing I need is to see you drunk.”

So I turned and, in the presence of Alicia, put my arm around Griselda.

“You still like me, though, don’t you? Isn’t it true that I’ve only had two drinks?”

“And if you’d had them with quinine, you wouldn’t be feverish.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”

Undoubtedly, when Griselda then went to the kitchen with the bottle, she put some venga venga in it. But I fell asleep at Alicia’s feet.

And I didn’t drink any more that day.

I awoke with frayed nerves and a heavy heart, ill-disposed toward the world and everyone in it. Miguel had appeared among the outbuildings of La Maporita with a spirited colt that champed impatiently at the bit. He was talking with Sebastiana.

“I’ve come to get my fighting cock, and to see if Antonio will lend me his guitar.

“The white man is in charge here now. Get his permission to take the rooster. Antonio isn’t here, so I can’t lend his guitar.”

Miguel dismounted and approached me timidly:

“The rooster is mine. The big cockfights are coming up, and I want to start getting him ready. If it’s all right, I’ll wait for dusk and just take him off the roost.”

It all seemed suspicious to me.

“Barrera didn’t send any message?”

“Not for you.”

“For whom, then?”

“Not for anybody.”

“Who sold you that saddle?” I asked him, recognizing on Miguel’s horse the one stolen from me in Villavicencio.

“Barrera bought it from someone who showed up a couple of weeks ago. Said he was selling it because a snake killed his horse.”

“And what’s his name?”

“I didn’t see him. I just heard about it.”

“And you normally ride on Barrera’s saddle, do you?” I roared, grabbing hold of the scoundrel. “If you don’t tell me where he is, where he’s hiding right now, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life! But if you tell the truth, I’ll give you the rooster, the guitar, and two pounds sterling.”

“Let go of me, so they won’t know I confessed.”

I took him inside the corral, where we couldn’t be seen, and he said:

“Barrera’s hiding in the thicket on the other side of the water because he didn’t see a red poncho hung over the front gate. So he sent me ahead, to see who’s here. If the coast is clear, I’m supposed to unsaddle and wait for dark, then play the guitar. That’s the signal for him to come. But I haven’t been able to talk to the woman.”

“Don’t tell her anything.”

I had him unsaddle the horse.

Night was already falling. Only the bloody stain of vanishing twilight lingered along the horizon. Old Sebastiana emerged from the kitchen carrying a kerosene lamp. The other women could be heard saying a rosary together, a lugubrious mumble. I left Miguel waiting while I stepped into Antonio’s little room to get the guitar. In the darkness, I lifted his instrument off its hook on the wall and also grabbed his double-barreled shotgun.

When the rosary was finished, now empty-handed, I went to Griselda: “There’s a man outside who wants to talk to you.”

“Is it Miguel, coming for the guitar?”

“Yes. Why don’t you take it to him? It’s over there, in that corner.”

When “Missy Griselda” went out, I searched Alicia’s eyes for any sign of complicity, but in vain. She felt tired and wanted to go to bed early.

“Don’t you want to watch the moon come up?” proposed Sebastiana.

“No,” I replied. “I’ll call you when it’s time.”

I concealed the bottle of liquor under my poncho, and when Griselda reentered the house, I disguised my tragic purpose with the most serene expression:

“Sebastiana can sleep in here tonight, because I’m going to sling my hammock outside. I could use some fresh air.”

“Now that’s a good idea,” said the older woman. “Hard to sleep when it’s as hot as tonight is, ain’t it?”

“Leave the door open when you go out,” said her employer.

Her words gave me a malignant satisfaction. I bid the women good night, saying, with emphasis:

“Miguel said he would sing me a song or two. Then I’m going straight to sleep.”

They soon extinguished the kerosene lamp.

Once outside, I looked first for the dogs. Calling them in a low voice, I checked all around with great care. Nothing. Fortunately, they seemed to have left with our travelers. The glow of Miguel’s cigar eventually led me back to the outbuildings.

“Want a drink, Miguelito?”

“That rum is bitter,” he replied, and spat on the ground as he returned the bottle after taking a swallow.

“Tell me, who was Barrera coming here to meet?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Both women?”

“Could be.”

My heart began to pound in my chest like the clapper of a bell. My voice sounded strangled and raspy in my throat.

“Is Barrera a generous gentleman?”

“Generous? He’s stingy as can be! He says he’ll advance whatever merchandise you want, on credit, and he makes you sign his account book. Then gives you practically nothing and says you’ll get the rest later, in Vichada. I don’t trust him.”

“Did he give you money to come here?

“Five pesos, and he made me sign a receipt for ten. He promised me some new clothes, and I haven’t seen them. Same thing with everybody. A bunch has gone off to San Pedro de Arimena to get some boats together. There’s practically nobody at Hato Grande now. Even Jesus is gone. Old man Zubieta sent him to Orocue with a message for the authorities.

“All right. Take the guitar and sing.”

“It’s still early.”

We waited for almost another hour, as the idea of Alicia’s unfaithfulness sent waves of anger through me. I bit my hands to keep from bursting into sobs.

“You planning to kill Barrera?”

“Oh no, I just want to know what he came for.”

“What if it was to see your girlfriend?”

“Not even then.”

“But that would be pretty bad for you.”

“Do you think I should kill him?”

“That’s your business. Just don’t kill me by mistake. And hide over there, because I’m going to sing now.”

I did as he said, and after a moment he added, before starting to play:

“Don’t drink any more, and aim carefully, please.”

Time passed, and tentative silver reflections flickered on leaves in the banana grove, gradually spreading and intensifying, to bathe the immensity of the llano in moonlight. The melancholy notes of the guitar rose up, followed by the singer’s voice:

The hawk has taken the poor dove, And left a trail of drops of blood.

Every iota of my attention went to my eyes as I leveled the shotgun and gazed along its barrel toward the river, then toward the corral, then in every other direction. Atop one of the outbuildings, a turkey wounded the night with its raucous cries. Out on the plains somewhere, the dogs howled.

The hawk has taken the poor dove, And left a trail of drops of blood.

Light appeared in the house, as the women relit the kerosene lamp. Se-bastiana emerged from the doorway like a wandering spirit:

“Hush, Miguel! Missy Griselda says to let a body sleep!”

The singer fell silent and found me in the darkness.

“I forgot to tell you. I’m supposed to take the canoe to the other side and pick him up, so I’m going. Remember, when we come back, aim at the one in front, okay? If you get him, I’ll throw him to the alligators, and that will be that.”

I watched him paddle in the moonlight, to the other bank, shrouded in moon shadows from the overhanging trees, until I could perceive only an occasional movement of his paddle, glinting like a scimitar. Then it, too, was gone.

I waited almost until dawn, and no one returned.

God knows what happened to him.

At the break of day, I saddled Miguel’s horse and put his shotgun back on the rafters. Griselda moved around with a bucket, watering flowers and watching me uneasily.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting for Barrera. He’s on the other side of the river.”

“That’s foolishness!”

“We’ll see. How much do I owe you for our stay, Missy Griselda?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just what you’re hearing. Your house is not a place for decent people. Best you spend more time in your own house and less parading around out there in the high grass.

“Watch your lip, man. You’re drunk.”

“Not from the liquor Barrera brought you.”

“As if he’d brought it to me!”

“Are you saying it was for Alicia?”

“You can’t force Alicia to love you, and you can’t force her to follow you, neither. A person don’t choose who they love. When the wind changes, you just got to let it blow.”

In reply, I took a long drink from the bottle and retrieved the shotgun. Griselda fled the room. I pushed the door open. Alicia, half dressed, was sitting on her cot.

“Good heavens, Arturo!”

“I’m going to kill Barrera right in front of you!”

“How could you do such a thing?”

“Don’t cry! Are you worried about the dead man already?”

“Good God. Help! What’s going on?”

“I’m going to kill him! Kill him dead! And then you’re next, and me, and everybody! I’m not crazy. And don’t say I’m drunk. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. It isn’t true. Here, feel how my head is burning. Where are you? Feel!”

Sebastiana and Griselda did their best to restrain me.

“Easy does it, man. It’s me,” said Griselda. “Don’t you recognize me?”

They tumbled me into a hammock and tried to tie it shut with me inside, but my kicking boots tore the hammock apart. I seized hold of Griselda’s hair and dragged her outside.

“Facilitator!”

I struck her in the face, hard enough to draw blood.

Then, in my raging delirium, I sat on the ground and started to laugh. I became amused at how the yard spun around me, buzzing loudly. The breeze cooled my boiling brain. “That’s it! Yes, keep spinning, because I’m crazy!” Convinced that I had become an eagle, I spread my arms and felt myself soaring in the wind, over plains and palms. I wanted to swoop down and lift Alicia in my talons, carrying her up to the clouds, away from Barrera and out of harm’s way. And I flew so high that my wings beat against the blue sky, and the sun ignited my hair. I inhaled the blazing splendor.

When my fever reached a crisis, I tried to walk, but I felt the earth slide under my feet in the opposite direction. Bracing myself on the wall, I entered the empty house. They had all run away! I felt thirsty, and I raised the bottle for another gulp. I picked up the shotgun and pressed its double barrels against my burning cheeks, to cool them. Devastated because Alicia had abandoned me, I started to cry. Then I made a loud speech:

“It doesn’t matter that you’ve left me! I’m a rich man, after all! I don’t want a thing to do with you—not with you, or with your kid, or anybody. You know, I hope the bastard’s born dead. He’s probably no son of mine, anyway. Bottom line, you can go off with anybody you want, bitch. That’s what you are!”

Then I fired off a few shots.

“Where’s Franco, that he doesn’t come to defend his woman? Here I am! Who wants a piece of me? Come on! First man that tries anything, I’ll kill him! Except Barrera. Barrera, no . . . so that Alicia can go away with him....

In fact, I’ll trade her to Barrera for another bottle of brandy. That’s what she’s worth, one bottle of booze!”

And, grabbing the bottle that I already had, I slung the shotgun across my back and mounted my steed, which leapt ahead at a gallop into the high brush as I shouted hoarsely, diabolically, at the top of my lungs:

“Barrera and rum!”

Half an hour later, I arrived at the Hato Grande ranch house. Its inhabitants saw me from across the river and guided me with shouts and hand signals to the shallow crossing. My horse splashed through the ford and into the gathering of people on the other side. They scattered, protesting loudly.

“All right, who’s in charge here? Where’s Barrera hiding? Tell him to come out!”

And, slinging my shotgun on the saddle, I dismounted unarmed. People didn’t know what to make of me, and they exchanged puzzled smiles.

“Hey there, friend, what do you want?”

The speaker, a peroxide blonde with badly applied makeup and a showy dress, put her hands on her hips, wagging her skinny arms.

“I want to gamble, that’s all. Play dice. This pocket is full of money.”

I threw a handful of silver coins in the air, and they thumped in the dust.

Then I heard the wheezy voice of old man Zubieta, saying, from the next room:

“Clarita, tell the gentleman to come in.”

The owner, dressed in his underwear, was sitting astride a low hammock. His hair was reddish, his face, freckled, his belly, protruding, but his eyes were tiger’s eyes. He extended a calloused, swollen hand, as a squeaky laugh filtered through his mustache.

“Forgive me, sir, if I don’t stand.”

“I’m Franco’s partner, and I’m ready to pay for our thousand bulls, in cash, right here, right now.”

“That’s it! That’s the way I like it! You have to catch them first, though, because the cowboys I’ve got left ain’t got no horses. They ain’t worth a damn, anyway.”

“I’ll get the men, and the horses. And I won’t let anyone lure them away to Vichada.”

“I like you, pilgrim. That’s well said.”

I went outside to unsaddle my horse, and there was Clarita, whispering with my enemy as she poured water over his hands from a gourd. When they saw me, the two moved out of sight.

“What thief picked up the money that I threw here?”

“I’ve got it. Come get it,” said a man, whom I immediately recognized as among those who, days before, had come with Winchesters to take don Rafael’s merchandise. “Here I am, coward. We can settle up for the other day.”

He walked toward me threateningly, with a glance, as if for instructions, toward the place where his boss was hidden. Before he had time to do anything more, I leveled him with a single punch.

At that point, Barrera emerged from his hiding place:

“Senor Cova, what’s going on? Come with me, please! A gentleman such as yourself ought to pay no attention to peons.”

The offended party was sitting on a rail some distance away, nursing a bloody nose, without taking his eyes off me for an instant.

Barrera upbraided him roughly:

“Insolent, ill-mannered brute! Our guest deserves respect!”

Barrera invited me to relax in the shade of the house’s wide, overhanging roof, promising that my money would be scrupulously returned. Meanwhile, his employee unsaddled my horse and put away my shotgun, which I then forgot about altogether. I could hear other employees gossiping excitedly in the detached kitchen.

When I entered the old man’s bedroom again, Clarita must have been telling him what had happened, because the two suddenly fell silent.

“Will you be spending the night with us?”

“No, sir, friend Zubieta, with your permission. I’m in the mood to drink and gamble, and maybe sing and dance, too!”

“You honor us!” affirmed Barrera, and he explained to the others: “This poet is one of Colombia’s national glories.”

“Glories?” inquired the old rancher. “What kind of glory? Can he ride and rope and castrate and brand?”

“Of course!” I shouted. “Anything you want!”

“That’s it! That’s the way I like it!”

He leaned out of the low-slung hammock toward the bottle that stood on the floor a little out of his reach.

“Clarita, sweet, hand us the brandy.”

Barrera, to avoid drinking, left the room momentarily, and he returned with a handful of silver.

“I believe these coins belong to you.”

“You’re mistaken,” I said. “From this moment on, they belong to Clarita!”

Clarita accepted them, beaming her gratitude and delivering the following compliment:

“How delightful! A real gentleman! Watch him and learn!”

Zubieta seemed pensive. Then he called for a table, and when we had downed another round of brandy, he pointed to a small pouch that hung from a bull’s horn protruding from the wall:

“Clarita, reach me Saint Polonia’s molars!”

Clarita put the dice on the table.

Without doubt, my new friend contributed to my success, that night, at a plebeian amusement previously unknown to me. I rolled the dice nervously, and sometimes they landed underneath the hammock. On those occasions, amid a fit of coughing laughter in a cloud of tobacco smoke, the old man inquired:

“Did he beat me? Did he beat me?”

And Clarita held the lamp down toward the floor and answered:

“He sure did. He’s one lucky fellow!”

Barrera pretended to believe whatever Clarita reported, and he confirmed her verdicts while plying everyone (but himself) with liquor. She, more than tipsy, carelessly squeezed my hand. The old man, in the same state, babbled obscene ditties. My rival, observing everyone else from above the trembling lamplight, smiled ironically. And I, only semiconscious, kept rolling the dice. A cluster of cowboys had gathered outside the door of the stuffy little room, watching the game.

When I had won almost the whole pile of beans that represented vast sums of money, Barrera proposed that he and I go head-to-head, wagering everything on a single roll of the dice. He emptied his vest of gold coins. Zubieta pounded the table with enthusiasm and joined the party: “Two throws, one hundred bulls each!” It was then I noticed Barrera’s shoe pressing on Clarita’s, under the table, and I had a presentiment of fraud.

I turned to Clarita with a felicitous phrase:

“Let’s play this one as partners, you and I.”

She covered my extensive pile of beans with her greedy hands. Her ruby ring glowed the color of blood.

Zubieta damned his luck when my roll beat his, yet again.

“Now it’s your turn,” I said to Barrera, shaking the dice in the cup, which he calmly took from my hand. As he shook the cup, switching the dice inside, he tried to distract us with a dirty story. But as soon as he rolled the dice across the table, I grabbed them, saying:

“Dog! These dice are loaded!”

At that instant, the lamp tipped over, extinguished, and a brawl began. Shouts, threats, swearing. Old Zubieta fell out of the hammock and cried for help. I flailed with my fists, in the dark, toward wherever I heard a man’s voice. Someone fired a gun, dogs barked, and door hinges squeaked as the erstwhile audience hastily exited. I slammed the door shut without knowing who was still inside.

From outside, Barrera’s voice exclaimed:

“That bandit came here to kill me and rob Senor Zubieta! He tried to ambush me last night! Fortunately, Miguel revealed his awful plan. Detain that murderer! Don’t let him get away!”

From inside, I shouted insults and imprecations, and Clarita tried to quiet me, pleading:

“Don’t go out! They’ll shoot you! Don’t go out!”

The old man groaned with fright:

“Turn on the light! I’m spitting blood!”

When they helped me bolt the door, I felt that one of my wrists was wet. I had a knife wound on my left arm.

Someone put a Winchester in my hands and told me in a whisper:

“Don’t hurt me. I’m one-eyed Mauco, a friend to everyone.”

Outside, they began pushing on the door, so I shot it full of holes, illuminating the dark with flashes of gunfire as I moved around the room. Finally, the aggression ceased. We plunged into the most frightful silence, which my ears examined minutely. My eagle eye peered through the bullet holes in the door. The yard lay deserted under the moonlight.

Yet occasionally I detected an indistinct sound of voices and laughter, coming from I’m not sure where. The pain from my wounded arm started to bother me. The alcohol made me dizzy, and I went down. There I bled until the bleeding stopped on its own, as my panicky companions sat in a corner, listening to my parched ravings and speculating that I was dying.

“Water, please! Water. I’m wounded! Please . . .”

At dawn, they opened the room and left me by myself. Through an achy haze, I awoke to the shouts of the landowner, berating the indolent peons who had failed to rescue him during the ruckus.

“Thanks to the city boy,” he repeated, “thanks to the city boy, I’m here to tell the tale! He was right, the dice were loaded, and Barrera meant to cheat me. I found one under the table. Take a look. It’s loaded with quicksilver.”

“We couldn’t get close because of the shooting.”

“Who wounded Cova, then?”

“No telling.”

“Go tell Barrera that I don’t want him here. That’s what he’s got his own tents for. Tell him to stay at his camp or take off. Say my boy’s here with his Winchester.”

Clarita and one-eyed Mauco came to my aid with a pan of hot water.

They cut my shirt sleeve so that it could be removed without hurting my stiff and swollen arm. Then, moistening the edges of the fabric that had become stuck to the wound, they uncovered the narrow but profound opening in the muscle near the shoulder. They sterilized the wound with raw rum, and before applying the dressing, the one-eye spoke in ritualistic tones:

“Now close your eyes and believe, because I’m going to pronounce the incantation.”

In amazement, I looked at the strange fellow with puffy, dirt-colored cheeks and purple lips as, with elaborate care, he put down his walking stick and doffed his greasy, ragged-brimmed hat, given shape (whatever shape it had) by a thick twine of crudely twisted fibers. I glimpsed his dropsical flesh through his rags, principally his distended belly, which extended over the tops of his feet when he squatted beside me on the ground. He turned his one blinking eye toward the doorway to scold the small audience that had gathered there.

“This isn’t a game. If you’re not going to believe, you had better go away, because you’ll spoil the spell.”

The shiftless audience became fervently rapt, as if in church, and oneeyed Mauco, after making a number of occult signs in the air, mumbled a singsong known to such practitioners as the “prayer of the righteous judge.” Then, satisfied that the mystery had been wrought, he gathered up his hat and his staff, rose, and inclined over the bull hide upon which I lay:

“Don’t worry about the pain. You’ll be cured in no time. One more session will do it.”

I looked skeptically at Clarita and found in her the most fanatical of believers. In order to banish my doubts, she explained that Mauco was a skilled veterinarian whose spells worked on both animals and people, routinely deworming livestock.

“And that’s not all,” added the strange figure. “I’ve got prayers for everything, like finding lost cattle or dead bodies, or making myself invisible. During the big war, whenever someone came after me, I turned myself into a palm tree. One time they caught me before I finished the spell, and they locked me in a room with two locks, but I turned into an ant and escaped under the door. If not for me, who knows what would have happened last night! If they came in, I was ready to turn into fog and blind them. When I saw you were wounded, I quick recited the ‘prayer of the healing healer,’ and the bleeding stopped.”

Slowly I fell into a trancelike state. A vague desire to sleep came over me. The voices receded from my ears, and my eyes filled with shadows. I had the impression of falling into a deep pit, down, down, and never reaching the bottom.

Resentment made Alicia’s memory hateful to me. This calamity was all her fault. If I had any responsibility, it was a sin of omission. I had not been stern enough with her. I had not imposed my authority and my affection at all cost, as I ought to have done. With such unreasonable reasoning, I poisoned my spirit and hardened my heart.

Had she truly been unfaithful? How had Barrera managed to seduce her? Had he seduced her? Or had Griselda’s revelation to me been mere trickery, her attempt to turn me against Alicia? In that case I had been unfairly harsh, but Alicia would have to forgive me, whether or not I asked her forgiveness, because I belonged to her, with all my virtues and defects. She had no right to pick and choose. The effects of the venga venga surely contributed to my exoneration, as well. I had been out of my head. When, except under the influence of inebriants, had I ever given her reason for complaint? Why, then, did she not come looking for me?

Now and then, I thought I saw her coming, under a big hat with languid plumes, sobbing and reaching out to me:

“What terrible man has injured you in a fight over me? Why are you lying on the floor? Why don’t they give you a bed?” And bathing my face in her tears, she sat beside my head and pillowed it on her tremulous thighs, combing my hair with her loving fingers.

Hallucinating in my obsession, it was upon Clarita that I leaned my head, then pulled away, realizing that it was she.

“Hey, rest your head, it’s all right. How’s your fever? Do you want more to drink? Should I change your bandage?”

At moments, I could hear the old landowner right outside the door, coughing impatiently:

“Woman, get out of there and let him rest. What is he, your husband?”

Clarita shrugged.

Why didn’t this woman abandon me? She was nothing but leftover trash from a brothel, scum from the social dregs, a starving, wandering she-wolf. Whence came the mysterious redemption, the nervous tenderness with which she ministered to my needs, just as any decent woman, including Alicia herself, would do? Just as all the women had done, who had ever loved me?

At one point she inquired how much money was in my pockets. It was a few pounds sterling, which she put between her breasts. And then, when no one else was around, she read from a bit of paper softly into my ear:

“Zubieta owes you for one hundred bulls. Barrera, a hundred pounds. And I’m keeping twenty-eight more for you.”

“Clarita, you’ve said that I won everything fair and square. It’s all for you, because you’ve been so good to me.”

“Hey, what are you saying? You think I want repayment? All I want is to get out of here and go back to Venezuela, in hopes that my parents will forgive me, in hopes that I can get old and die there. Barrera promised to pay my way, and since then, he uses me any way he wants, as much as he wants. Zubieta, on the other hand, says he’ll marry me and take me back to my parents. That’s why I’ve been drinking with the old man these last two months, because he always says, ‘Who’s he gonna get hitched with, if not the one he drinks with?’

“I’ve been stranded in these parts since Colonel Infante brought me. He won me at cards in Venezuela, during the war, and after they lost the war, he had to come to Colombia. He abandoned me here. Then, day before yesterday, when I saw you charging up the riverbank on horseback, with your hat bouncing on your neck, shotgun in hand, knocking the peons every which way—well, I thought that you looked like my man. And I liked you even better when I found out that you’re a poet.”

Mauco came to pray over my wound, and this time I had the good sense to pretend that I believed in his powers. He sat in the hammock to chew tobacco, which involved gnawing on a black, twisted ring with the appearance of beef jerky, and then flooding the floor with noisy expectorations of odiferous juices and saliva. Next, he gave me reports on Barrera:

“He says he’s got a fever and doesn’t show his nose outside his tent. All he does is ask when you are leaving. Looks like you done gave him malaria.”

“Why hasn’t Zubieta come here to spend time in his hammock?”

“He’s worried something else will happen. Now he sleeps out in the kitchen and bars the door at night.”

“Has Barrera been back to La Maporita?”

“His fever hasn’t let him so much as stand up!”

This information soothed my spirit because I felt protective of Alicia, and even of Griselda. What were they up to? What would they say about my conduct? When would they come for me?

The first day that I felt strong enough to move around, using a handkerchief I hoisted my arm into a makeshift sling and stepped out the door. Zubieta had hung his hammock there, under the covered walkway that gave access to each of the house’s rooms. He was napping, and Clarita sat beside him, absorbed in shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. The thatched roof and mud-daub walls of the house were in disrepair, and mine was the only room that appeared fit for human habitation. The kitchen defended its doorway with a muddy puddle incorporating the accumulated waste liquids discarded there, over time, by the greasy, sweating, ragged cooks. In the scruffy yard, several semiputrid raw hides were staked out amid buzzing horseflies to dry in the sun. A vulture busily pulled bloody strips from one of them. In the outbuildings, a number of cowhands kept watch over fighting cocks tied on their perches, while piglets rooted and dogs sniffed behind them in the dirt.

Unwatched, I went to the gate. In the corral, the restless cattle stood in the sun with no water. A couple of employees lay stretched out napping in the shade behind the house, where they had spread a piece of cloth over the litter. Farther away, on the bank of the river, I spotted my rival’s camp, and beyond it, where a line of palms dwindled on the horizon, lay La Maporita . . . where Alicia must be thinking about me!

Clarita, seeing that I had left my room, hurried to me with her white parasol:

“Hey, the sun’s going to aggravate your wound. Come to the shade and don’t act so foolish!”

And she smiled, revealing her gold teeth.

Because she had spoken loudly on purpose, the old man sat up in his hammock.

“That’s what I like! Young fellows shouldn’t stay in bed all day!”

I settled onto the heavy rail that surrounded the covered walkway at waist height and began the conversation that had been on my mind:

“So, how’s this going to work?”

“How’s what going to work?”

“The sale of the bulls?”

“What bulls?”

“You know. The deal with Franco . . .”

“We didn’t actually make a deal. What he offered as collateral isn’t worth much. But, as long as you’re going to pay up front, you can catch them, if you’ve got horses, and we’ll look at them and put a price on them.”

Clarita interrupted:

“When are you giving Cova the two hundred and fifty that he won from you?”

“What two hundred and fifty?”

Zubieta straightened up and started to argue:

“If you had lost at dice, how were you going to pay? Let me see the color of your money.”

“Hey, do you think you’re the only rich fellow in the world?” countered his consort. “The loser pays!”

The old man thrust his fingers through the hammock netting and squeezed it in frustration. Suddenly he proposed:

“Tomorrow is Sunday. Let me have a chance to win it back at the cockfights.”

“You’re on!”

My Admired SeNor cova:

What evil power does alcohol possess, capable of destroying all reason and lowering humanity to such criminal depths? How did it cause even me, a man of naturally inoffensive temperament, to lose my tongue in the heat of disputation and offend the dignity of so respectable a personage as yourself?

Could I publicly throw myself at your feet, imploring forgiveness, believe me that I would not hesitate. But as infirmity has prevented me from doing so, I cannot but lie here meditating on past trespasses that, fortunately, failed to tarnish your sterling reputation. Far from it. Alas, even my poor attempt to remedy matters must appear to you a vulgar bourgeois intrusion into the Empyrean realm of poetry.

Nonetheless—and pardon my boldness—I must tell you that our dear mutual friend, Senor Zubieta, owes me quite a considerable sum of money for loans and merchandise, which he has paid in the form of the bulls which currently occupy the corral. I accepted the bulls thinking that you might need them. Take a look at them, set whatever price you will, and please believe that my only desire is to serve you in whatever manner.

Best wishes from your most fervent admirer,

Barrera

This letter was delivered to me in front of Clarita. The small boy who delivered it watched me turn pale with rage, and he began cautiously inching backward in the absence of a response.

“Tell that shameless creature that, when I catch him alone one day, his adulation won’t save him!”

Clarita, in the meantime, was reading the message for herself.

“Hey, he doesn’t say what he owes you for, like the knife wound, and the gunshot, too. He’s the one who cut you, you know. That day when he saw you arrive, the first thing he did was load his gun and grease his stiletto. Also, keep your eye on the cowboy called Millan, you know, the guy who threatened you and you punched him in the nose. He’s got orders to hurt you, and he hates your guts. And Zubieta doesn’t owe Barrera for merchandise, like he says. Barrera gave the old man a hoard of gold coins, supposedly for safekeeping, so that I could steal them. But the old man went and buried them! Then Barrera started cheating the old man at dice. Every morning he asks me for the gold, saying that part of it will be for my trip home. ‘Plainly, you’ve lost your desire to revisit that wonderful country,’ he says. That man has sinister plans. Hey, if it weren’t for you—”

“Give me the letter to show to Zubieta.”

“Don’t say anything to him. He’s a clever one. He knows how dangerous Barrera is. He gave Barrera that corral full of bulls just to humor him. Without horses, those bulls aren’t going nowhere, and Zubieta hid all the horses, but not before he sent riders out to say he had no livestock for sale this year. When Barrera asked what the old man was up to, he said ‘nothing,’ and then, just to put Barrera off the scent, Zubieta pretended to offer those bulls to Fidel Franco, but he didn’t mean it.”

“So you don’t think he’s going to sell us anything?”

“He sort of likes you, I’d say.”

“How can I make him like me better?”

“Simple. Let those bulls, that he supposedly gave to Barrera, out of the corral! All you have to do is give them a good scare, and they’ll bust right through the gate.”

“Will you help me do it tonight?”

“Whenever you want. Won’t take much more than the sight of this white dress to get them started. The important thing is to make sure nobody gets trampled in the stampede. Fortunately, most people here go to bed early.”

“You don’t think that we’ll be seen?”

“Not hardly. After dark, when Zubieta locks himself in the kitchen, the few that don’t have a partner for bed go down to the rubber trader’s tents to play cards. I’ll go, too, so that nobody gets the wrong idea. When you calculate that I’ll soon be back, wait for me outside your room with the jaguar skin. We’ll give it a shake in the corral and watch the fun! Once the fun starts, anybody who sees us will think the stampede woke us up, same as everybody else.”

I buried the vengeful ploy deep in my spirit, as one might conceal a scorpion in one’s shirt, for safekeeping. Every so often, I felt it stir and was reminded of its sting.

When afternoon reclined over the plains, the cowboys returned with the herd of bulls. The animals had spent the day grazing among thick grasses and the esteros that mirrored the sky, until the sky went purple and their lowered heads sometimes seemed to extinguish terrestrial stars. Then a boy led the herd back toward the corral, singing, in time with the trot of his mount, the childish song used to soothe the semiwild livestock of the llanos. The venerable bulls with enormous horns followed him solemnly in groups, threads of saliva dangling from their foamy lips, their eyes made sleepy by captivity, although still susceptible to sudden, unpredictable injections of fire. Behind and along the flanks of the formidable herd, other cowpunchers advanced amid a monotonous chorus of low whistles, at the lethargic pace set by their tired horses.

With patient skill, bred of long experience, they enclosed the bulls once more in the corral, always careful to avoid dispersal. The only sound was the boy’s melancholy singsong, a more effective guide than blowing a cattle horn in the corral as we do in the highlands. They closed the entrance to the corral with thick rails, strongly tied in place with leather. And once it was dark, they lit fires of dried cow dung around the corral so that the herd would press together and settle in place, absorbed in chewing its cud and watching the flames, as the constellations spread across the sky.

Meanwhile, I pondered our midnight plan, resisting the fear that chilled my temples and wrinkled my eyebrows. Yet, the certainty of vengeance, the opportunity to strike at my enemy, lent acuity to my senses, spirit to my tongue, and ardor to my resolution.

At about eight o’clock, one-eyed Mauco protested that the dung fires were keeping his fighting cocks awake. When nobody moved to put out the fires, Mauco took his cocks to my room.

“Let them sleep here, please. They’re good chickens, but they need their sleep the night before a fight.”

Later, all fell silent around the ranch house and its outbuildings. The only light was cast across the darkened fields by the lanterns at Barrera’s tents near the river.

Clarita, when she came from there, was almost inebriated.

“Hey, don’t worry, silly! Follow me.”

We went through the banana trees to approach the corral from behind. The herd seemed sound asleep, sunk in deep repose. On the other side of the corral, a cowboy or two stood watch. At that point, Clarita climbed on my knee and shook the gold-dappled skin over the fence.

Suddenly, there were loud sounds of clashing horns, the herd began to swirl, and the weight of it pressed against the massive fence of the corral like a surging tide. One bull broke its chest against the solid rail of the gate and fell, dying, to be trampled by the tumult. The watchmen mounted and began to sing, which had an immediate calming effect. But new ripples of disturbance coursed through the mass of animals, to set them bellowing, shoving, and goring each other. Again the gate creaked. And just as a landslide carries all before it, breaking away entire hillsides, flowing wherever it will, the furious herd burst through the timbers that had imprisoned it and flooded over the plain, through the terrified night, thundering like a tidal wave.

Men and women appeared with lanterns, calling for help. Without unbarring the door of the kitchen, Zubieta shouted questions about what was happening. Dogs followed the vanished herd, barking, hens clucked fearfully, and some of the vultures in the big ceiba tree hurled themselves clumsily into the blackness.

Ten of the bulls lay trampled to death in and around the corral, and four horses. Clarita came with these details, stressing the need for secrecy. When I put the jaguar skin back on the floor of my room, the sound of the stampeding herd still echoed in the distance.

The next morning I got up after the commentaries about last night’s episode and after Zubieta’s theatrical reaction to it: loud curses to disguise his inward delight.

“It’s not my fault, damn it all, that they stampeded! Tell Barrera to go catch them if he’s got the horses for it. But he’s got to pay me for the four that died last night, damn it all!”

“Senor Barrera says he’d like to come discuss the matter.”

“No, he can’t come around here, because my city boy’s armed and gunning for him! I don’t want no more trouble on my properties.”

“They say that the spirit of old Julian Hurtado appeared in the corral and caused the stampede,” said another voice. “One of the watchmen saw a white figure behind the fence, over on the side of the corral where they say Hurtado buried money.”

“That could be it!”

“Yes, because we saw his spirit just the other night! He was walking on the edge of the savanna with a lantern in his hand, and his feet didn’t touch the ground!”

“So why didn’t you ask the spirit what it wanted?”

“Because the light went out, and we was all sort of dazed.”

“You!” roared Zubieta’s voice. “Bandits! It was you who was digging around the roots of the algarrobo tree! If I catch you red-handed, I’m gonna put bullets through you!”

When I stepped outside, there were lots of people around, Barrera not among them. Simulating innocence, I went to the corral, where a couple of men were quartering the bulls that had gotten their entrails trampled out of them during the stampede.

“It was no use,” said one of them, “to get out in front singing to try and calm them down. I went a long way with them, and thanks to my trusty colt I stayed ahead of them and didn’t get killed!”

A few moments later, back at the house, there was Clarita selling rum to the crowd from a carved coconut shell. Among them were men I’d never seen, and underneath their ponchos many had brought feathered contestants for the day’s journey. Occasionally one of the birds crowed, an earsplitting sound in the covered area where the event was to take place. Meanwhile, their seated masters discreetly arranged future bets, or sharpened their champions’ fighting spurs, or spit rum under the birds’ wings to cool them off. Tied by their legs with sturdy cords, the rivals of showy plumage and puffy necks scratched the ground and glared at one another defiantly. Finally, with a half-burned stick, Zubieta drew an irregular circle on the ground. Then he settled into his chair and, leaning back against a column, took a long tug on his bottle of rum before announcing with a raucous laugh:

“Ten bulls says the red one wins the first fight, against that white one!” Clarita, standing behind him, moved her head, telling me not to bet. But, arrogantly, I stepped toward the old man and said:

“Let me pick the bird, and I’ll wager the two hundred and fifty bulls I won from you at dice.”

The old man backed down.

Then another man stepped up, with a raised fist, saying to Zubieta:

“Put up ten bulls against the money I’ve got in my hand, or against everything I’m carrying,” and he patted his money belt.

Zubieta didn’t accept that bet, either, but the man insisted, showing his handful of gold coins:

“Look, boss, them’s ‘eagles’ and ‘queens’ for the collection that you’ve got buried somewhere!”

“Lies! But if your gold is good, I’ll trade you paper money for it!”

“Not likely.”

“Well, let me take a look.”

The old man scrutinized the coin all over with hungry eyes, he ran his fingertips softly over heads and tails, listened to its ring, and raised it to his teeth for a final test. Satisfied, he shouted:

“You’re on! The red one against the white one!”

“But only on the condition that one-eyed Mauco can’t be here. He’ll put a hex on my chicken!”

“The hell I’ll put a hex!”

Still, they jostled Mauco, grumbling plaintively, away from ringside, and shut him in the kitchen.

A man lifted each rooster to prepare it for the fight, sucking on its spurs, in view of onlookers, to show they weren’t poisoned, and finally rubbing each spur with a cut lime to purify it, as the spectators watched with signs of approval. Then, at a signal, they put the two cocks face-to-face within the circle.

The referee leaned over them and recited a sort of doggerel to precipitate the encounter:

“At the eyes, before he flies; at the legs, your owner begs; at the wings, before he sings; at the neck, give a peck, give a peck!”

The rival birds riveted their eyes on one another, in utmost fury, scratching the dust, the feathers of their necks raised, bristling, fairly vibrating. Simultaneously they launched themselves at one another, their wings flapping, their spurs slashing through the air in blue arcs, as each bird dodged and lunged in a sort of aerial ballet. Implacably, ignoring the excited shouting of spectators who offered new bets or modifications of old ones, the rivals collided again and again, hacking each other to pieces, stopping suddenly in a panting clinch, holding one another with their beaks, and stabbing, stabbing with their spurs. And so the contest concluded, amid the sparkling of lustrous feathers sprinkled with hot blood, the clinking of coins changing hands among the bettors, and the general applause when the white cock rolled on the ground with its head split open, to lie jerking spasmodically under the claws of the victor, which climbed onto the body of his dying rival and trumpeted his victory, crowing loudly.

At that moment, I felt myself blanch at the sight of Franco entering the main gate with several other men on horseback.

Zubieta had a similar reaction at the sight of the newcomers. He went to meet them, limping slightly:

“Welcome friends! And where might you be headed?”

“Right here,” said Franco, dismounting.

And he embraced me effusively:

“How are things at home?” I asked. “What happened to your arm?”

“It’s nothing. You haven’t been at La Maporita already?”

“No, we came here directly from Tame. But I sent the mulato to swing by La Maporita to get you and the horses. Don Rafael sends an abrazo. He got off fine, thank God, and should be almost there by now. Where should we unsaddle?”

“Right here,” blathered Zubieta, and he shouted at the assembled cockfighters:

“Get this crap out of here, I need the space!”

The fighters collected their birds and, to the accompaniment of strings and maracas, exited in the direction of Barrera’s tents as the riders unsaddled.

“Is it true there was a stampede last night?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Since this morning we’ve been seeing cattle running around, and we said, it’s a stampede or else it’s the Indians! But when we got here—”

“That’s right! Barrera went and let all the bulls out! Don’t know what he’ll do about it, without horses . . .”

“We could round up as many as he wants, if the price is right,” replied Franco.

“I won’t allow no more chasing around after stray livestock in my pastures, because it’s going to spook the rest.”

“I meant that, when we start rounding up bulls for ourselves tomorrow, according to our agreement.”

“I haven’t signed any papers, and I don’t remember any agreement.”

The old man pounded his leg for emphasis before sinking into his hammock.

The owner of the defeated white rooster appeared, hat in hand:

“Please forgive the interruption.”

“There you are! Where’s the gold that I won?”

“That’s what I want to discuss. My rooster was sabotaged, fed quinine pills yesterday by one-eyed Mauco, who bought them yesterday from Barrera, and you yourself mixed them into my animal’s feed corn. I knew all about it, but Senor Barrera wanted me to bet against you anyway to prove your dishonesty, so you’ll stop trying to defame him in the eyes of Senor Cova.”

“You can settle that later,” interrupted Franco, giving Zubieta a shake. “It’s more important for us to settle our business deal, because if you think you can jerk me around, you’re wrong!”

“Franquito, old buddy, do you want to kill me?”

“I want to get the bulls that we agreed on. That’s what I brought cowboys to do, and I’m gonna do it, come what may. And if not, there’ll be the devil to pay!”

The cowboys, eager for another show, had formed a circle around Zubieta’s hammock. He looked up at them:

“Gentlemen, you are my witnesses, you heard how he was joking around.”

As white as a cadaver, because Franco had his pistol out, the old man swiveled his humid eyelids toward me:

“For the love of God, boy, I’ll pay you for those two hundred and fifty bulls. Franquito! Please don’t talk that way because you’re scaring me!”

Barrera’s man, who apparently believed himself a kind of lawyer, made a pronouncement.

“Justice is for everyone. Pay Senor Barrera, too, and it’ll all be settled. He needs to leave for the Vichada rubber fields, and he holds you responsible for the cost of further delay.”

At that, the old man went more or less berserk, jumping to his feet between Franco and me:

“Bullshit! Total bullshit! Do you have any idea who is standing right here? Want to get pounded to a pulp? These are my dear friends and business partners. Tell Barrera to leave me alone because, if he doesn’t, these two men will make him show some respect!”

And, putting an arm around both my shoulders and Franco’s, he launched a kick in the man’s direction.

When Franco saw my wound and I told him what had happened, he grabbed his Winchester and ran out of the room, looking for Barrera. Clarita stopped him in the yard.

“What are you going to do? We already got back at him.” And she told him about the stampede.

When I saw how my loyal friend had reacted instantaneously in my defense, disposed to risk his life on my behalf, I experienced overpowering remorse. I wanted to confess how I had abandoned the home that he had left under my protection, expecting he would shoot me then and there.

“Franco,” I said to him, “I am not worthy of your friendship. I struck her, I struck Griselda.”

Utterly disconcerted, he asked, in a strangled voice:

“What? Did she wrong you somehow? Or your wife?”

“No, no! I got drunk and offended both women for no good reason. I left them alone seven days ago, to come here. Now shoot me, please!”

Instead, he dropped the gun and embraced me.

“You must have had a reason, whatever you say. I am certain of it!”

And he went away without another word.

Clarita came and squeezed my hand.

“Why didn’t you say that you have a wife?”

“Because that’s not for us to speak of.”

She lowered her eyes pensively, her fingers knotting and unknotting a cord from which dangled a key. Then she held it out to me.

“So, here’s your money!”

“I gave it to you, remember? And if you won’t accept a gift, then take it in payment for nursing my wound.”

“Payment? I wish you had died!”

And she walked away toward the kitchen, where the musicians were playing and drinking. I heard her tell them loudly, for my benefit:

“Tell Barrera that I’m going with him after all.”

With a melancholy smile, she raised her skirt above her knees and began to dance to their rustic music, as the men whistled and clapped in time.

A weight had lifted from my heart, which now beat more lightly than in many days. Now my only grief was at having offended Alicia, and how sweet was the thought of reconciliation, like the aroma of a freshly plowed field, like a distant intimation of dawn! All that would remain, eventually, of our difficult past, would be the mark of healing. The human soul is like a tree trunk. The bark retains no memory of seasonal flowering, but signs of occasional trauma never completely disappear. No matter, however. Whether troubled or joyful, she and I must live each emotion to the fullest, so that later on, if destiny divides our paths through this world, memory will bring our spirits together whenever one of us separately encounters similar troubles or joys. For love truly is eternal, while it lasts.

I even felt the desire to stay forever on the enchanting llanos. Alicia and I would live in a charming little house, raised by my own hand on the bank of a dark, slow-moving river, or anywhere palm trees nod above pools of transparent green. There, cattle and horses would congregate in the late afternoon, and I, smoking my pipe in the doorway, like a patriarch of old, lulled by the poignant melancholy of the landscape, would watch the sun set on the remote horizon where the night is born. Freed of vanities and the quest for ephemeral triumphs, I would limit my ambitions to the stewardship of my own pastures and livestock, consonant with, and fully self-realized in, my solitude.

Who needs cities? Perhaps my true poetic inspiration lay in the caress of gentle breezes, in the natural mysteries and unknown languages of the plains and of the pristine forests lying beyond. Perhaps my true song was the song of the wave crashing on the rocks, the song of the evening sky above the marsh that reflects its colors, the song of the stars amid the immensity of space and the silence of God. I dreamt of living with Alicia on the llanos, growing old there together with her surrounded by the compensating youth of our children and grandchildren, feeling no sorrow at our natural decline, under the daily rising suns, feeling no regrets as our hearts grew tired even amid the eternal vigor of spritely young animals and green, growing things, until on some distant morning I would finally weep over her lifeless body, or she over mine.

Franco gave instructions that I not participate in the next day’s roundup because, were my wound not allowed to heal, I might get gangrene. There was a shortage of horses anyway, and it would be better to reserve them for experienced cowboys. His second reason filled me with bitterness.

Fifteen horsemen rode out, in the wee hours of the morning, after rising for the usual sip of black coffee. Each had a coiled lariat of braided leather behind his saddle on the right-hand side, and the end of the lariat was anchored securely to his horse’s tail. Each had his poncho spread across his thighs to defend them against the horns of bulls. Each had a serrated “dehorning” knife on his belt. Franco left me his pistol but hung his Winchester on the pommel of his saddle before mounting.

Then I fell back asleep. If only I had heard what must have happened then in the kitchen! But, no, I didn’t awake until shortly after sunrise, when Sebastiana’s boy Antonio Correa arrived, bringing a string of remounts from La Maporita for the roundup.

I went to meet him and saw Barrera shaving by his tent, with Clarita sitting on a trunk and holding the mirror for him with both hands. They waved at me. Refusing to wave back, I walked beside young Correa’s stirrup into the corral.

“Have you seen Alicia? What message do you have for me?”

“I didn’t see her because she was always in her room crying. Missy Griselda sends you and Franco these clean clothes, for their arrival, I guess. Missy’s on the lookout for you all the time. She’s packing, too, and says they’re coming here today.”

That news put a smile on my face. Alicia was finally coming to look for me!

“Are they coming in the canoe?”

“Missy had me leave three horses.”

“Did they ask you about me?”

“My mama said you’re gonna fill Fidel Franco’s head with stories.”

“Had they heard about my arm?”

“What happened to it? You’re working the roundup?”

“Nothing. A little scratch. It’s fine.”

“So where’s my baby?”

“Your shotgun? It must still be on my saddle, which is down there in Barrera’s tents. Go down there and get it.”

No sooner had he left than a stabbing doubt made me shudder anew. Had Barrera possibly gone back to La Maporita at some point, without my finding out? I’d had Mauco watching him day and night, but did the one-eye tell me the truth? Barrera is shaving, I thought. He already knows, somehow, that Alicia is coming. Maybe yes, maybe no.

But Alicia would know how to act, and Barrera was obviously frightened of me. Why not forget about him and concentrate on the happiness of the upcoming visit? If Alicia—half needy, half imperious—was coming to look for me, it could only be for love: to win my heart, to make me hers forever. How she would scold me! Solemnly, enumerating my weaknesses one by one. And then, to make them worse, she would conclude with that bewitching little smile that brought out the dimples in her cheeks. And, already pardoning me, she would explain that pardon was out of the question, given the severity of my trespasses, no matter how completely I might reform myself.

For my part, I would play it slow, not make it too easy for her, delaying the sublime moment, the moaning kiss of reconciliation. Meeting her canoe at the water’s edge, I would extend my hand to help her alight, ensuring she saw my injured arm in its sling, shrugging off her urgent question: “Are you hurt, are you hurt?” And I’d reply, “Nothing serious, ma’am. You’ve grown so pale!” If they came on horseback, I’d help her dismount, and she would see my arm then.

Either way, I would present a different appearance, unshaven and somewhat disheveled, carrying myself like a no-nonsense, working man. Mauco had been shaving me regularly with the same straight razor he used to slice leather, but I decided to accept no shave that day to distinguish myself from my smooth and unctuous rival.

Next I decided to clear out altogether, before the women arrived. They’d have to wait for me impatiently, until I’d finally show up some afternoon, mingled with the other cowpunchers except that, by the lariat tied to my horse’s tail, I’d come along dragging a furious bull. And with a snort, that bull would suddenly charge me, knocking my horse to the ground, and me with it, and Alicia, in a panic, would almost faint, before seeing me blind the bull with my poncho and tumble it to earth with a single powerful twist of its tail! Then I’d swiftly tie its feet together, as the other cowboys gawked in astonishment and envy.

Antonio returned from Barrera’s tents with my saddle and his shotgun.

“Senor Barrera’s real sorry. Says he didn’t know that stuff was there. Says he’s going to send people to round up the bulls that stampeded.”

“I forbid you to have anything to do with those people. If you want company, I’ll go with you.”

“Where did they say they’d spend the night?”

“In Matanegra,” I specified confidently.

“Hmm. Don Fidel told me the mouth of the Pauto River. Okay, got to go. I’ll have a harder time with these horses after dark.”

“Go put the clothes you brought in that room, and bring the Winchester. Let’s go. I’m going with you.”

I went to the kitchen to say good-bye to old man Zubieta. I called his name several times, but nobody answered or opened the door.

When we were so far from the ranch house that only the plumed crests of its palm grove remained visible on the horizon, Antonio dismounted to load his shotgun.

“Better safe than sorry. ‘A little bit of powder, and a big handful of buckshot,’ I always say.”

“What are you worried about?”

“That Barrera’s men might come after us. That’s why I talked about the mouth of the Pauto River, so them that was fixing the gate of the corral would overhear and tell Barrera. Now we’ll go where you said.”

We had ridden about three leagues across the llano, when his voice again distracted me from thoughts of Alicia.

“I need your advice, if you’ll excuse me. It’s that . . . Clarita’s got her eye on me. I think she likes me.”

“Hmm . . . do you like her?”

“That’s why I want advice. A few days ago, she said, ‘Look at those strong black arms, and all the rest of you, just my style,’ and she licked her lips.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I got embarrassed.”

“And then what happened?”

“That’s what I need advice about, too. She said we should kill old man Zubieta and go far away, her and me.”

“What? Why? What for?”

“So I’d tell her where the old man’s got his gold buried.”

“What? That can’t be! That must be Barrera’s idea.”

“Totally, because Barrera told me, too. He said, ‘If you had the right clothes, mulato, why, you’d have your pick of the ladies!’ And he said he knew one that liked me already.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I said: ‘Yes sir, and she sleeps in your bed!’ Just like that, but he didn’t even blink, the devil. He started talking about Zubieta, about his not paying his hired hands, and how, if he ever does pay their wages, next thing he does is pull out his dice and leave them naked as the day they was born. And that’s true.”

By this time, the heat was beginning to get to me, so I ordered Correa to locate a water hole where I could cool my brow and quench my thirst.

“Around here? No water around here. We’ll have to go that way.”

He led me across vast stretches of bare, sunbaked ground so dry and flinty hard as to file the rough edges off our horses’ hooves. Crossing these minideserts was preferable, however, to negotiating the snake-infested ditches all around them.

The water hole, when it finally appeared, was a small, opaque puddle with contents the consistency of cough syrup. The hoofprints of large quadrupeds marked the surrounding mud and presaged flavors of salt and ammonia. I was overcome by repugnance at the sight, but Correa’s example inspired me to drink. Without dismounting, he leaned over and scooped a drinking horn full of liquid from between the churning feet of our horses.

“Then you take your handkerchief, like this . . .”

Putting his handkerchief over the mouth of the drinking horn, he strained its liquid contents into his mouth. Then he shook the strained-out insects off the wet handkerchief, scooped up more liquid, and repeated the process several times.

“Someone’s been here not long ago,” he said. “Someone not from the llanos. That’s the print of a horseshoe, or a shod mule, to judge by the size, and llaneros don’t shoe horses. Ain’t no rocks here.”

He was right. Not far beyond the water hole we came in sight of two dark specks moving on the horizon.

“There they are. Looks like they’re lost.”

“Looks like they’re cattle, if you ask me.”

“Nope. People. Wait and see.”

The people, for such they in fact proved to be, seemed to see us. They came in our direction. Soon we made out the red parasol carried by the lead rider, who was further protected from the sun by an enormous bedsheet and who spurred his poor mule frantically. Curiously, suspiciously, we waited in the minimal shade of a palm for the riders to approach.

As Correa busied himself adjusting our saddlebags, the two men arrived within shouting distance:

“Assistance, good sirs, for the cause of justice, which has wandered off course!”

“Ain’t the first time,” replied the mulato.

“Kindly direct us to the Hato Grande ranch. The good doctor of laws, here, is the judge of Orocue, and I am the interim secretary of the court, and also, now, guide, though less successfully.”

I asked whether the judge were Jose Isabel Rincon Hernandez, whose reputation preceded him. The circuit judge of Casanare was known for having risen from obscure origins to become a musician in the municipal brass band before occupying a judicial bench made infamous by a thousand abuses.

“Yes,” responded the man wrapped in a sheet. “I am the judge, and this fellow who addressed you is a simple scribe.”

The judge’s consumptive countenance was as bilious in color as his celluloid glasses frames, and not too different in tint from his tartar-encrusted teeth. He rested the parasol on his shoulder to mop his brow with a towel, cursing the official duties that obliged him to sacrifice himself in this manner—ill-mounted in savage lands, dealing inevitably with ignorant, lowly people, risking attack by wild beasts and Indians.

“Take us this very moment,” he commanded, wheeling the mule back in the direction he had come, “to Hato Grande ranch, where a fiend known as Cova has run amok; where my friend, the rubber baron Barrera, risks life and limb, not to mention property; where the notorious Franco, a wanted criminal, abuses my tolerance, when all I ask of him is good behavior. Put yourselves at the service of the law, gentlemen. Turn over your horses immediately.”

“You are disoriented, sir, about the location of Hato Grande ranch, about the character of those whom you so carelessly impugn, and about the availability of my horses.”

“Impudent young fellow! I know enough. I’ve received personal messages, first from Zubieta about Barrera, and then from Barrera about Cova. And you may be certain that my labors to extend the benefits of justice will benefit even the likes you, whoever you are, because the law, like the firmament above, covers all of us. And if the coverage of the sky is not foolproof, it is still true, that the welfare of society requires unanimous support. The power to tax belongs to the government, and it shall not be abridged. If you do not wish to serve as guides, kindly pay me the cost of hiring that service professionally.”

“You’re asking us to pay a fine?”

“Absolutely. No appeals,” confirmed the secretary. “Keep in mind, they don’t pay our salaries anymore.”

“Look,” I said, pointing, “Hato Grande is not far away, and we’re headed to Corozal. Go back over there, down to that tree line, then along it, cross the watercourse, keeping on going, and you’ll see the ranch house in another half hour or so.”

“See?” demanded the judge of his cowering scribe. “I was right, back there. Now, because of your ignorance, I’ll be lucky if I don’t get sunstroke. That’s disrespect if I’ve ever seen it, and disrespect of the constituted authorities will cost you a five-peso fine.”

And after reducing my fine to a box of matches and a few cigarettes’ worth of tobacco, the two of them entered the horizon, going in the opposite direction from the way they had come.

Talking with Correa cleared up a few details for me concerning Franco’s brush with the law in Arauca. Correa got the story from an eyewitness, a young man by the name of He^ Mesa, who later visited La Maporita. Franco, it seems, had been a lieutenant in the army, stationed in Arauca. He did not live in the barracks but, rather, with Griselda, in a little house on the riverbank some distance away. Franco’s superior, the local commander, set his sights on Griselda, and to get her alone, he put Franco in charge of the barracks while he visited the little house on the riverbank. Franco somehow got wind of his superior’s trick. Abandoning his assignment that night, he went straight home. Exactly what happened there isn’t quite clear, but the commander returned with a couple of knife wounds in the chest, and, weakened by loss of blood and fevers, he died within the week after making a public statement favorable to the accused.

Neither Franco nor Griselda was pursued for the crime, despite the fact that they fled Arauca that very night. Only the judge at Orocue took an interest, issuing periodic summonses with Franco’s name on them. These summonses amounted to demands for bribery, and so brazen were the demands that, after several of them had been paid, the monthly notification read simply: “Payment due.”

As we rode across the llano, a playful, suddenly rising wind began to ruffle our horses’ manes and tug at our hats. A moment later, berserk clouds clambered toward the sun, devouring the light, and a subterranean rumble shook the ground. A storm was upon us, said Correa, and we flattened into a gallop, letting our string of remounts run free, so better to fend for themselves in the tempest. We raced for the shelter of a distant line of trees, across a stretch where the merciless wind tossed the moaning palms back and forth and sometimes made them vanish altogether, knocking them over to scornfully sweep the pulsing grass with their mangled fronds. Cattle clustered, with instinctive discipline and speed, on ground that sloped away from the wind, the many timorous cows pushed into a compact mass by a few bulls, their tails fluttering to one side as they bellowed loudly and patrolled the defensive perimeter of the herd. Waters ran upstream, and flocks of ducks tumbled across the sky like windblown leaves. Then the awesome clouds closed the space between heaven and earth, dropping their heavy curtain of rain, ripped by lightning, thickened by thunder, convulsed by ricocheting gusts of darkness.

So furious was the gale that it practically tore us from our saddles. Our horses stopped and turned to stand with their rumps into the wind. Correa and I spread our ponchos on the grass and lay facedown on them. The wind had grown so thick and dark that we could see only one nearby palm rising and falling, until it burst into flames when hit by a bolt of lightning on the upswing. The bright crackling of the palm’s disintegrating tissues could be heard even above the general howl as it shook its fiery headdress apart, a living torch, depriving the wind of surface area to push against, dying erect and resolute, as if in a sublime gesture of defiance, never more to sweep the ground.

When the squall had passed, we saw that our string of remounts had dispersed, and we trotted around to find them. Wet to the bone, buffeted by the still gusting wind, we rode for leagues without spotting the rest of our horses. Following the receding wall of dark clouds, we found ourselves on a high bank over the great, overflowing Meta River. From that vantage, we watched the dance of its boiling waves, into which the lightning dove in incessant, implacable zigzags while, along the shore, massive portions of the high banks, each with a green crest of forest, collapsed into the river, undercut by the surging current, splashing gargantuan columns of water high into the air. After the deafening thump of the splash came the staccato snapping of trunks, limbs, and vines, as the whirling vortices churned trees and earth into rafts of muddy leaves and splinters.

We turned and traversed soggy prairies where the palms were cautiously lifting their fearful heads, still in search of our lost string of remounts, and we were still at it when night fell. Out of sorts, I trotted resolutely behind Correa among the final flashes of distant lightning, through flooded bottomlands where our horses moved up to their bellies in water. Finally, upon attaining a bit of higher ground, we glimpsed distant firelight that lent a cheery glow to the woods before us. There is the camp of our friends, I assumed. There they are! In great excitement, I prepared to shout, to Correa’s horror:

“Don’t shout, for God’s sake! Those are Indians!”

And we turned away into the darkened llano, where the panthers were starting their eerie nighttime chirps and whistles, and we rode without rest or shelter or direction until dawn finally opened its golden fortress.

At daylight, we saw several cowboys approaching with a “godmother,” as llaneros call a group of well-trained oxen used to lead a herd of cattle. A so-called godmother is essential to any roundup because it helps reassure and guide animals newly added to the herd. The sun was up, and the cattle walked toward us along the sunbeams that stretched horizontally over the llano, occasionally cropping high tufts of grass without breaking stride.

Fidel Franco was not among the cowboys, but Correa greeted each by name, breathlessly telling one named Eugenio about the storm, the Indians, and the loss of the string of remounts:

“Let me tell you, Eugenio. I’ve never been so lost as I was last night. And nobody to help except for this city boy with a gimpy arm!”

“Hey, anybody can get turned around, man, what with all that rain and thunder and lightning and all. Don’t worry about it.”

“How’s the roundup going?”

“Not going, I’d say. We left the ranch in the evening, searched all night, and didn’t find hardly nothing. The cattle got spooked by the storm, I reckon, and holed up in the trees and wouldn’t come out. The onliest ones we laid eyes on, ’bout three hours ago, wouldn’t come near us, even though the godmother called for nearly a quarter hour. So we finally went at them with lassos, but there wasn’t no keepers. Bunch of old cows is all. And to make matters worse, see that good-for-nothing sambo, Batista, back there, carrying his saddle and dragging his ass in the dirt? Broke his damned horse’s neck galloping in the dark! Where’s he from, anyway? He ain’t no llanero.”

“Hey, Batista,” shouted Correa, “come ride my horse a little while! I want to stretch my legs.”

To show that I had plenty of spirit left in me, I imagined that Alicia could hear me and addressed the cowboy called Isidoro:

“Hey ’Sidoro, how many did you lasso yesterday?”

“Maybe fifty. But, hey, yesterday, you should have seen! Millan and Fidel almost got into it.”

“No kidding! What happened?”

“So, Millan shows up with his people, worst-mounted cowboys I ever saw, saying he needed the Matanegra corral because they had to catch Barrera’s stampeded bulls from the other night. Franco didn’t even answer— until he saw that Millan had dogs with him. Then he made some observations about Millan’s mother. Millan said that the bulls attracted by our godmother belonged to Barrera, too, and he went after them. That’s when Fidel leveled his Winchester at Millan.

“Where are Barrera’s people working?”

“Some went back to Hato Grande,” said Millan. “And some are over there. They’re carrying machetes. It’s getting ugly. And now you’ve let the remounts get away!”

“That’s not the worst of it,” exclaimed another cowboy. “The worst is that the judge of Orocue is here. Millan found him wandering around and assigned a cowboy to escort him to the ranch house. We don’t want no problems with the law. Better to clear out of here right now!”

“Friends,” I announced with confidence. “I’ll make sure that nothing happens to you.”

“Yeah? And who will make sure nothing happens to you? Because you’re the one he’s looking for!”

Fidel wasn’t discouraged by the setbacks. He didn’t scold Correa for losing the remounts, and he even expressed satisfaction that my arm had healed well enough to handle the reins. The lost horses had probably returned to their home pastures, and we’d find them later at La Maporita.

I did notice that he wasn’t eager to talk about the altercation with Millan. “It was a discussion of no importance,” he said. “Anyway, there’s room for a lot of graves on the llanos. Let’s just make sure they aren’t ours.” Despite that jocular reply, he reacted more strongly when he heard of the cowboys’ talk of clearing out. “They definitely will leave, too, damn it. They all have accounts with the law, see, because they’re all part-time cattle thieves.”

Then I inquired distractedly, much of my attention going to cutting a piece of roasted meat from a spit leaning over the fire:

“When will the roundup resume?”

“The godmother is all that we were waiting for. It was a mistake to start at Guanapalo. The Indians hunt cattle near there, so the cattle have learned to hide. Ah, but here! Talk about bulls! There must be a couple thousand of those big boys on this side of the river! And each of our horses is still fresh enough to run down two bulls. So that’s two times fifteen, equals thirty longhorns! Every throw of the lasso has got to bring down a bull. I swear that I’ll dock the pay of the cowboy who throws his lasso and misses.”

“And where are Barrera’s people?”

“Down in those trees. They aren’t real cowboys, anyway, except for Millan. And I told them personally that if those dogs stir up my livestock tonight, they’d better hope the devil’s expecting them, because we’ll be sending them to hell for breakfast, with best regards.”

While we ate, the cowboys with the godmother had taken it to good pasture and left it in the care of a few boys. Beyond them was a glassy estero and a grove of moriche palms that grow in standing water, and beyond the moriches one could see many bulls grazing tranquilly in the company of their harems. Those bulls would be our first prizes of the day.

We rode toward them in an enveloping arc, ready to converge in a flash at the shouted command. Unfortunately, the animals got wind of us and raced toward the moriches to escape. One or two of the fiercest machos stood their ground, facing us resolutely and waving their long, curved, sharply pointed horns to frighten our horses.

Our well-practiced horses avoided them and leapt in pursuit of the fugitives, plunging through undergrowth and over enormous termite mounds at breakneck speed. The air hummed with lariats of heavy, braided leather, twirled buzzing overhead, and then thrown over the horns of a fleeing bull. Having lassoed his target, each cowboy turned sharply left so that the full length of the lariat could fly from its coil behind the saddle on the right side, without entangling either rider or mount.

Feeling itself lassoed, the indomitable beast thrashed in the undergrowth and turned to level its deadly horns at its tormentors. Frequently, it gored the horse, and the horse, crazed with pain and fear, reared up, threatening to throw its rider onto the bull’s lethal half-moon. Here is where the cowboy’s poncho could save his life by distracting the raging bull. It could be thrown on the bull’s head or simply on the ground, where he would waste time goring it while the cowboy regained control of his mount. Dismounted, the cowboy could wave his poncho in the manner of a bullfighter’s cape, without audience or applause. Hopefully he would survive repeated charges until a colleague could arrive to twist the bull’s tail with enough force to topple it. Once toppled, the animal had its legs tied together and a hole cut between its nostrils. Then a rope was threaded through the bull’s nose so that it could be led to the godmother by the cowboy, who tied the free ends of the bloody cord to his horse’s tail. After delivering his prize to the godmother, the cowboy loosened one end of the rope and tugged it out through the bull’s nose without dismounting.

I was enjoying this spectacle from the vantage of an agile, energetic, coralcolored stallion that immediately joined in pursuit of the fleeing bulls and closed the distance with marvelous celerity. Habituated by frequent repetition and without guidance from me, my little steed ran close behind, and then almost beside, a particular red bull, so that I could lasso it. I threw the lasso inexpertly several times, without success. Then suddenly the bull turned and plunged its horns into my horse’s flank. Stumbling, the horse bucked furiously, threw me off his back, and wobbled away, becoming entangled in the entrails that slid from its opened belly and eventually collapsing on the grass, where the bull finished it off by goring it furiously over and over.

Realizing my predicament, the other cowboys raced in my direction, and the murderous bull retreated through the underbrush, with Franco and Millan in hot pursuit, competing to see which of the two would be able to catch it by the tail. Correa gave me his horse, and as I anxiously joined the chase, I saw Millan lean over to seize the bull’s tail—when it suddenly turned again, this time hooking a horn into the man’s ear. Passing through Millan’s head, the horn poked out of his other ear.

Pulling Millan’s body off his horse and brandishing it like a rag doll, the bull charged ahead. The dead man’s dragging legs opened a deep furrow in the high grass. Deaf to our clamor, the bull slowed to a trot, stopped, and, stepping on one of the corpse’s legs, with a twist of its muscled neck, as thick as a tree trunk, wrenched off the corpse’s head, which sailed away through the air. Then the homicidal bull stood over the mutilated torso and faced us triumphantly, prepared to defend its prize, until Franco’s Winchester put a pair of bullets between its bulging eyes.

We called for help, but there was none within earshot. I galloped around the area and still found none. Finally, I encountered a couple of cowboys, each of whom had lassoed a bull and still had it tied by the nose to his horse’s tail. Upon hearing my cries, each immediately drew his knife and cut loose his prize to respond with all possible speed.

And we galloped back, looking paler than the bloodless corpse.

Back at the scene of the disaster, four cowboys were carrying the tongue, viscera, and other choice portions of the murderous bull toward the shade of some low trees. Franco, his shirt covered with blood, was venting his agitation at a knot of taciturn hired hands, and the corpse had been laid out on the trunk of a fallen palm tree, covered by his poncho, until rigor mortis set in. We went to look for the lost head among the trampled weeds but couldn’t find it. Meanwhile, the dogs gathered around the dead bull, licking its horns.

The sun had climbed high in the sky when we got back. Correa stood by the corpse waving a branch to keep the flies away. Franco had gone to a nearby estero to wash the blood out of his shirt, and Millan’s colleagues were making plans to dance at his wake, llanero-style.

“It would have been fine with me,” grumbled one, “if he and Correa had brained each other yesterday in our presence. But saying that a bull killed him, well, that doesn’t quite work when we clearly heard the shots, you know. And there certainly weren’t no call to drag him around and lose his head, and all. I mean, that’s a real sin, if you ask me.”

“You haven’t heard how it happened, man?”

“Oh yeah, I heard. The victim, Millan. The murderer, a bull. The accomplices, us. And the innocent ones, you. Ha! Yeah, I heard just fine. That’s why I’m leaving right now, to carry the news, so they can dig the grave and arrange for the music and booze.”

And with that, he left rapidly, muttering threats.

I did not want to look at the corpse. I felt only revulsion at the thought of the livid, broken, incomplete body that had housed an enemy spirit, one that I’d had to discipline with my own hand. I recalled those nasty little bloodshot eyes that had hounded my every move, waiting to catch me without a revolver in my belt. Where were those beady eyes now? Dangling from some bush, sightless, repulsive, and dripping? What had become of that entire obtuse head, bursting with malice, hatred, and evil? I’d heard a crunch as the curved horn slipped in one ear, seen the tip poke out of the other, watched his hat pop off comically. Then I’d seen the bull project the head into the air like a grizzly volleyball. But what happened to it next? Where did it bleed out? Might the bull have buried it with its hooves when it churned the mud around the dead man before being shot?

Slowly, the funeral procession passed before me. A man on foot led the horse that served as the hearse, followed by a string of silent riders. With disgust, I viewed the mortal remains. Athwart the saddle, with its belly to the sky, the decapitated body began its final journey with its rigid fingers brushing through the long grass of the llano, as if to touch it one last time. Jingling on his naked heels were the wicked spurs that nobody had thought to remove, and at the other end of the body, between the hanging arms, was the stump of the severed neck, with its yellowish, rootlike nerves still oozing. Only the lower jaw had escaped detachment to accompany the departing cranium. The teeth jiggled with the horse’s steps, as if laughing. That macabrely uproarious laugh, that smile without lips, without a face, without a soul, without eyes to humanize it, seemed to be making fun of me, threatening me—promising revenge. Even now, I occasionally remember that hellish laugh, and shudder.

Later on, when we’d started to smoke and chat noisily, Franco said:

“Looks like we’re going to have to suspend the roundup until things get back to normal. Let’s swing by La Maporita to get those horses. The men best mounted should come with me, and the others should continue to Hato Grande with the deceased and the godmother. Tell them to expect us there around sundown.”

I asked one of the cowboys to ride ahead to Hato Grande to spare Alicia a fright. I expected that, scanning the horizon for my arrival, she might spy the funeral procession from afar. She would fear that I was the splayed corpse, of course, and the shock might be too much for her fragile nerves.

Correa indicated places where he and I had been the night before, but I recognized nothing, so similar did it all seem. I noticed a few signs of the storm in tousled branches, tall grasses leaning at drunken angles, the occasional devastated palm. Meanwhile, I could not free myself of visions of Millan’s grisly smile, and I felt an anxiety that I had never before experienced. I wanted to flee those brutal plains of suffocating heat where death rides behind the saddle of every cowboy. The nightmarish atmosphere of the place was undermining my well-being. I needed to get back to civilization, to a quiet life of comfort and meditation.

Feeling out of sorts, I had lagged behind the rest of the party when the dogs started barking. Soon the sniffing, howling pack had surrounded a pond on the banks of which stood a curtain of high reeds. My companions spurred in that direction, firing their guns, and I could tell that a group of Indians had been surprised at the pond, and they were attempting to escape by crawling away as fast as possible through the long grass on all fours. Only the rippling tips of the grass gave them away. Without uttering a sound, their women allowed themselves to be torn apart by the dogs and slaughtered by my companions, who also shot down any brave who tried to resist them with his bow. Within seconds, however, the Indians came at us from all sides, trying to cut the hamstrings of our horses and kill us with their clubs. Decimated by our gunfire, they gave up after a charge or two and raced away, to be pursued on horseback until they reached denser undergrowth.

“Come, Charlemagne! Come Dollar!”

I found myself calling the dogs off one poor wretch who kept doubling back to escape them. Despite everything, he refused to drop his string of fish until my horse was almost on top of him. I pulled the reins so as not to trample him and was astonished to see him turn and, seeing my face, open his arms.

“My dear Intendant! It’s me, Pipa! Have pity on me, for God’s sake!”

Without waiting for an answer, he sprang up behind my saddle to escape the dogs, embracing me with great effusion.

“I’m sorry, so sorry about taking your horse! I can explain.”

To save me from the ravages of this ersatz Indian, Correa came to my assistance, knocking Pipa to the ground with the butt of his gun. But it took longer for the poor wretch to fall than to climb back up, chattering nonstop:

“We’re friends, see? I am his wife’s personal attendant.”

“Why look! It’s that thieving, cattle-rustling good-for-nothing that we’ve been after for years and years. The one who set fire to El Hatico!”

“No, please! You’re making a big mistake. I’m the wrong man! I was a prisoner of the Indians, who made me be with them naked until the intendant here, who knows me very well, rescued me. I’ll be going back to work for his wife now.”

Pipa wept with humiliation to think of the horrible calumny. Cattle rustling, indeed! And simulating shame at his nudity, but really to avoid the teeth of the leaping, snapping dogs, he pulled his body against my back and lifted his legs atop mine. Feeling charitable, I allowed him to stay there as we proceeded on our way, while the other cowboys protested and promised to castrate him for his crimes at the first opportunity.

As soon as he got his confidence back, the captive launched into a mendacious speech, interrupted only to ask that the cowboys should ride on ahead, please: “It’s not for my sake,” he explained to me. “It’s for yours. One of their guns might go off accidentally when our backs are turned.”

And then, with the dulcet tone of blandishments to a lover’s ear, he continued:

“So, how could it be possible that you, the future intendant of Villavicencio, were going to arrive there without a public reception? The worry kept me awake that night. So, after you and your lady went to sleep, I took your horse to carry the news of your impending arrival . . . with every intention of returning immediately, which is why I didn’t take the trouble to saddle my own mare, you see. But then when I heard that you were in trouble for bringing the lady from Bogota, I studied the matter. With you in jail, who would save me from my godfather? And the authorities were definitely going to confiscate your possessions, so to help you and me, why, I saw I should ride over to Casanare until my godfather forgot about me, and come back to return your horse after things got sorted out! So here I am. But when I got around here, the employees of this fellow Barrera accused me of rustling cattle and tried to haul me over to El Hatico, and I escaped, but they robbed me of everything, including my hat! Without a horse, I fell prey to the Gua-hibos. But where are my manners! How is your wife?”

In any other situation, I’d have enjoyed the inventiveness of his self-exculpatory little story. But with darkness falling, I could think only of catching up with the funeral cortege in order to protect Alicia from a dangerous fright.

In the dimness of dusk, we met two horsemen whose faces I couldn’t make out. Franco recognized them, however.

“Where are the men with the corpse?”

“They tossed it in a ditch because it started to stink too much. They left.

They don’t want to work for you no more.”

“We quit, too,” added the others.

“Fine. I’ve got no stomach for a bunch of lazy good-for-nothings. Anybody that wants his wages can come get them at the ranch house.”

“We prefer our freedom,” they replied all together. “Which way did the others go?”

“Toward the Guachiria.”

“Good-bye, then!”

And they galloped into the night.

The remaining four of us pushed on toward the ranch house, where we barely perceived the blurry, distant, winking light of fire. I forced Pipa to get off my horse, under protest. Trailing slightly behind, his whitish shape pursued us like a ghost in the night.

I trembled with anxiety as we approached the corral of Hato Grande. A large fire illuminated the yard of the house, and we could see that all the normal gathering places were empty. I glanced in the direction of Barrera’s tents and saw that they were gone. I spurred for the gate, but my horse, dazzled by the blaze, refused to enter. Mauco and a few women came to meet me:

“For God’s sake, get out of here! They’ll get you for sure!”

“What’s happened here? Where is Alicia? Where is Alicia?”

“Old man Zubieta is asleep in his grave, and we’re sitting up with the fire!” “What’s happened here! Spit it out!”

“Your plans didn’t work out so well!”

The threat of violence finally got it out of them: there had been a crime. When Zubieta failed to get up yesterday morning, they’d finally taken the kitchen door off its hinges and gone in to find the old man hanging from the hammock rope. His wrists were bound together, and his pudgy body swayed gently back and forth as he wiggled, still alive at that point, but not for long. He had been unable to utter a sound because they had put several loops of twine around the base of his tongue. Barrera refused to take a look at him, but by the time the judge arrived, the bastard was ready with the most lurid accusations against Franco and me. He gave sworn testimony that we had threatened the kindly old man for three days, trying to find out where he’d buried treasure. Failing that, on the night of the crime, we had climbed into the kitchen through the roof and tied up Zubieta, then divided into three groups to excavate simultaneously in the floor of his bedroom, the banana grove, and the corral. The judge collected affidavits from each of Barrera’s witnesses and left, escorted by a party of Barrera’s men, that very afternoon.

The deceased was buried in one of the three excavations, under the big mango shade tree, possibly near his ultimately never-uncovered jars of gold coins, without the requisite prayers or the customary amenities: the new footwear, the handkerchief tied around his face to keep his jaw shut, or the nine nights of dancing. And to make matters worse, they’d had a hard time keeping the pigs from rooting in the old man’s grave after they’d dug it up once already and eaten his arm, grunting horrifically.

I felt so dizzy, hearing their story, I’d not even noticed that one of the old women telling it was Sebastiana. Recognizing her at last, I reiterated my shrill inquiry:

“Where is Alicia? Where is my Alicia?”

“They’re gone. They went and left us!”

“Alicia? What are you saying about Alicia?”

“Griselda took her.”

Resting my elbows on the gate of the corral, I wept. It was an easy sort of weeping, without sobs or convulsions. It was as if the fount of disaster, flooding my eyes, had relieved my heart in such an unknown way that, for a moment, I was insensible to all else. I turned my afflicted countenance to each of my friends, unashamed of my tears, and observed them looking back at me, as if in a dream. Everyone came to console me, even Pipa, who had found some of my old clothes to cover his nakedness. The women started roasting meat for dinner, and Franco insisted that I ought to go lie down. But when he said that Alicia and Griselda were just a couple of sluts that we would soon replace with better ones, I felt a volcano erupt in my chest, and leaping on my pony, I madly charged away, to ride the sluts down and kill them. In my vertigo, I saw Barrera, headless like Millan, tied by his heels to the tail of my pony, gradually coming apart as I dragged him along, until his atomized body vanished altogether in the dust of the llano.

So blinded was I by fury and jealousy that only after a couple of hours did I realize that I was actually galloping behind Franco. Within minutes we arrived at La Maporita and found it deserted. Alicia was really gone, probably lying in Barrera’s hammock, riddled with concupiscence, at that very moment.

My desperate howls echoed in the immense, glittering firmament, as Fidel Franco struck a match and commenced setting fire to his own house.

The tiny, lifted tongue of flame made the edge of the thatched roof vibrate, and suddenly the narrow flickering opened into a crackling opalescent wave that illuminated the entire surroundings of the house. In the blink of an eye, the leaves of the banana grove dissolved in fire; whirling incendiary fragments flew to the thatched kitchen and other outbuildings. Like the maparane viper that bites its own tail, the tall flames twisted back on themselves, sullying the stars with their smoke, and, aided by the fiendish wind, began to lob balls of flame far out onto the grassland.

Our horses retreated in panic toward the russet-hued waters of the riverbank, and from there I watched the fiery collapse of the house where I’d cherished my fond dreams of domestic bliss. Within the still-standing walls of what had been Alicia’s bedroom, the flames rocked back and forth like a cradle.

Mesmerized, I watched the creeping fleece of golden devastation with no notion of the danger. Franco turned away, cursing his life. I proclaimed that we should both hurl ourselves into the conflagration. Alarmed by my insanity, he reminded me of our duty to pursue the harlots and avenge the

incredible offense that they had done us. And, galloping, galloping among brilliant, enormous summits of light, we eventually observed that the house at Hato Grande was burning also, its howling inhabitants having retreated to the nearby woods.

Fields were ablaze now on both sides of the river. The flames snaked up the hanging vines and leapt to the crowns of the moriche palms, which promptly exploded in pyrotechnic fury. Tiny fuming rockets arched in all directions, confusing the orderly march of flames avid to extend themselves all across the plains and raise their crimson pendants into the clouds, leaving a trail of scorched earth. Behind each devouring phalanx of flame and accompanying mane of smoke, isolated fires continued to burn on the charred bodies of animals, and along the curving horizon the headless trunks of palms guttered like enormous, untrimmed candles.

The crackle of disintegrating underbrush, the eerie sound of desperate wildlife, the pounding hooves of panicked cattle, the acrid odor of singed flesh—all fueled my growing exaltation. I was elated to see such ruin in the wake of my disappointed dreams, elated to feel myself carried toward the distant jungle by a phosphorescent ocean that would separate me definitively from the life I’d always known. I felt fierce satisfaction at the thought that all indication of our hoofprints would be obliterated by a trackless layer of ash.

What remained now of all my efforts, my idealism, my ambitions? What had my perseverance availed me against the fickleness of fortune? God and love had both abandoned me.

Surrounded by flames on all sides, I uttered a satanic laugh.