Leaf Storm Read online

  III

  Behind the church, on the other side of the street, there was once a lot with no trees. That was toward the end of the last century, when we came to Macondo and they hadn’t started to build the church yet. It was a dry, bald plot of land where the children played after school. Later on, when construction on the church began, they set up four beams to one side of the lot and it could be seen that the encircled space was just right for building a hut. Which they did. Inside they kept the materials for the construction of the church.

  When the work on the church came to an end, someone finished putting adobe on the walls of the small hut and opened a door in the rear wall, which faced the small, bare, stony plot where there was not even a trace of an aloe bush. A year later the small hut was finished, big enough for two people. Inside there was a smell of quicklime. That was the only pleasant odor that had been smelled for a long time inside that enclosure and the only agreeable one that would be smelled ever after. When they had whitewashed the walls, the same hand that had completed the construction ran a bar across the inside door and put a padlock on the street door.

  The hut had no owner. No one worried about making his rights effective over either the lot or the construction materials. When the first parish priest arrived he put up with one of the well-to-do families in Macondo. Then he was transferred to a different parish. But during those days (and possibly before the first priest had left) a woman with a child at her breast had occupied the hut, and no one knew when she had come, nor from where, nor how she had managed to open the door. There was an earthen crock in a corner, black and green with moss, and a jar hanging from a nail. But there wasn’t any more whitewash left on the walls. In the yard a crust of earth hardened by the rain had formed over the stones. The woman built a network of branches to protect herself from the sun. And since she had no means to put a roof of palm leaves, tile, or zinc on it, she planted a grapevine beside the branches and hung a clump of sábila and a loaf of bread by the street door to protect herself against evil thoughts.

  When the coming of the new priest was announced in 1903, the woman was still living in the hut with her child. Half of the population went out to the highway to wait for the priest to arrive. The rural band was playing sentimental pieces until a boy came running, panting to the point of bursting, saying that the priest’s mule was at the last bend in the road. Then the musicians changed their position and began to play a march. The person assigned to give the welcoming speech climbed up on an improvised platform and waited for the priest to appear so that he could begin his greeting. But a moment later the martial tune was suspended, the orator got down off the table, and the astonished multitude watched a stranger pass by, riding a mule whose haunches carried the largest trunk ever seen in Macondo. The man went by on his way into town without looking at anyone. Even if the priest had been dressed in civilian clothes for the trip, it would never have occurred to anyone that the bronzed traveler in military leggings was a priest dressed in civilian clothes.

  And, in fact, he wasn’t, because at that very same moment, along the shortcut on the other side of town, people saw a strange priest coming along, fearfully thin, with a dry and stretched-out face, astride a mule, his cassock lifted up to his knees, and protected from the sun by a faded and run-down umbrella. In the neighborhood of the church the priest asked where the parish house was, and he must have asked someone who didn’t have the least idea of anything, because the answer he got was: ‘It’s the hut behind the church, father.’ The woman had gone out, but the child was playing inside behind the half-open door. The priest dismounted, rolled a swollen suitcase over to the hut. It was unlocked, just barely held together by a leather strap that was different from the hide of the suitcase itself, and after he examined the hut, he brought up the mule and tied it in the yard in the shade of the grape leaves. Then he opened up the suitcase, took out a hammock that must have been the same age and had seen the same use as the umbrella, hung it diagonally across the hut, from beam to beam, took off his boots, and tried to sleep, unconcerned about the child, who was looking at him with great frightened eyes.

  When the woman returned she must have felt disconcerted by the strange presence of the priest, whose face was so inexpressive that it was in no way different from the skull of a cow. The woman must have tiptoed across the room. She must have dragged her folding cot to the door, made a bundle of her clothes and the child’s rags, and left the hut without even bothering about the crock and the jar, because an hour later, when the delegation went back through town in the opposite direction preceded by the band, which was playing its martial air in the midst of a crowd of boys who had skipped school, they found the priest alone in the hut, stretched out in his hammock in a carefree way, his cassock unbuttoned and his shoes off. Someone must have brought the news to the main road, but it occurred to no one to ask what the priest was doing in that hut. They must have thought that he was related to the woman in some way, just as she must have abandoned the hut because she thought that the priest had orders to occupy it, or that it was church property, or simply out of fear that they would ask her why she had lived for more than two years in a hut that didn’t belong to her without paying any rent or without anyone’s permission. Nor did it occur to the delegation to ask for any explanation, neither then nor any time after, because the priest wouldn’t accept any speeches. He laid the presents on the floor and limited himself to greeting the men and women coldly and quickly, because according to what he said, he hadn’t shut his eyes all night.

  The delegation dissolved in the face of that cold reception by the strangest priest they’d ever seen. They noticed how his face looked like the skull of a cow, with closely cropped gray hair, and he didn’t have any lips, but a horizontal opening that seemed not to have been in the place of his mouth since birth but made later on by a quick and unique knife. But that very afternoon they realized that he looked like someone. And before dawn everyone knew who it was. They remembered having seen him with a sling and a stone, naked, but wearing shoes and a hat, during the time when Macondo was a humble refugee village. The veterans remembered his activities in the civil war of ’85. They remembered that he had been a colonel at the age of seventeen and that he was intrepid, hardheaded, and against the government. But nothing had been heard of him again in Macondo until that day when he returned home to take over the parish. Very few remembered his given name. On the other hand, most of the veterans remembered the one his mother had put on him (because he was willful and rebellious) and that it was the same one that his comrades in arms would call him by later on. They all called him the Pup. And that was what he was always called in Macondo until the hour of his death:

  ‘Pup, Puppy.’

  So it was that this man came to our house on the same day and almost at the same hour that the Pup reached Macondo. The former along the main road, unexpected and with no one having the slightest notion of his name or profession; the priest by the shortcut, while the whole town was waiting for him on the main road.

  I returned home after the reception. We had just sat down to the table – a little later than usual – when Meme came over to tell me: ‘Colonel, colonel, colonel, there’s a stranger to see you in your office.’ I said. ‘Tell him to come in.’ And Meme said: ‘He’s in the office and says that he has to see you at once.’ Adelaida stopped feeding soup to Isabel (she couldn’t have been more than five at the time) and went to take care of the newcomer. A moment later she came back, visibly worried:

  ‘He’s pacing back and forth in the office,’ she said.

  I saw her walk behind the candlesticks. Then she began to feed Isabel her soup again. ‘You should have had him come in,’ I said, still eating. And she said: ‘That’s what I was going to do. But he was pacing back and forth in the office when I got there and said good afternoon, but he didn’t answer me because he was looking at the leather dancing girl on the shelf. And when I was about to say good afternoon again, he wound up the dancing girl, put her on
the desk, and watched her dance. I don’t know whether it was the music that prevented him from hearing when I said good afternoon again, but I stood there opposite the desk, where he was leaning over watching the dancing girl, who was still wound up a little.’ Adelaida was feeding Isabel her soup. I said to her: ‘He must be very interested in the toy.’ And she, still feeding Isabel her soup: ‘He was pacing back and forth in the office, but then, when he saw the dancing girl, he took her down as if he knew beforehand what it was for, as if he knew how it worked. He was winding it up when I said good afternoon to him for the first time, before the music began to play. Then he put it on the desk and stood there watching it, but without smiling, as if he weren’t interested in the dance but in the mechanism.’

  They never announced anyone to me. Visitors came almost every day: travelers we knew, who left their animals in the stable and came in with complete confidence, with the familiarity of one who always expects to find an empty place at our table. I told Adelaida: ‘He must have a message or something.’ And she said: ‘In any case, he’s acting very strangely. He’s watching the dancing girl until it runs down and in the meantime I’m standing across the desk without knowing what to say to him, because I knew that he wouldn’t answer me as long as the music was playing. Then, when the dancing girl gave the little leap she always gives when she runs down, he was still standing there looking at her with curiosity, leaning over the desk but not sitting down. Then he looked at me and I realized that he knew I was in the office but that he hadn’t worried about me because he wanted to know how long the dancing girl would keep on dancing. I didn’t say good afternoon to him again, but I smiled when he looked at me because I saw that he had huge eyes, with yellow pupils, and they look at a person’s whole body all at the same time. When I smiled at him he remained serious, but he nodded his head very formally and said: “The colonel. It’s the colonel I have to see.” He has a deep voice, as if he could speak with his mouth closed. As if he were a ventriloquist.’

  She was feeding Isabel her soup, and she said: ‘At first he was pacing back and forth in the office.’ Then I understood that the stranger had made an uncommon impression on her and that she had a special interest in my taking care of him. Nevertheless, I kept on eating lunch while she fed Isabel her soup and spoke. She said: ‘Then, when he said he wanted to see the colonel, what I told him was “Please come into the dining room,” and he straightened up where he was, with the dancing girl in his hand. Then he raised his head and became as rigid and firm as a soldier, I think, because he’s wearing high boots and a suit of ordinary cloth, with the shirt buttoned up to his neck. I didn’t know what to say when he didn’t answer anything and was quiet, with the toy in his hand, as if he were waiting for me to leave the office in order to wind it up again. That was when he suddenly reminded me of someone, when I realized that he was a military man.’

  And I told her: ‘So you think it’s something serious.’ I looked at her over the candlesticks. She wasn’t looking at me. She was feeding Isabel her soup. She said:

  ‘When I got there he was pacing back and forth in the office and so I couldn’t see his face. But then when he stood in the back he had his head held so high and his eyes were so fixed that I think he’s a military man, and I said to him: “You want to see the colonel in private, is that it?” And he nodded. Then I came to tell you that he looks like someone, or rather, that he’s the same person that he looks like, although I can’t explain how he got here.’

  I kept on eating, but I was looking at her over the candlesticks. She stopped feeding Isabel her soup. She said:

  ‘I’m sure it’s not a message. I’m sure it’s not that he looks like someone but that he’s the same person he looks like. I’m sure, rather, that he’s a military man. He’s got a black pointed mustache and a face like copper. He’s wearing high boots and I’m sure that it’s not that he looks like someone but that he’s the same person he looks like.’

  She was speaking in a level tone, monotonous and persistent. It was hot and maybe for that reason I began to feel irritated. I said to her: ‘So, who does he look like?’ And she said: ‘When he was pacing back and forth in the office I couldn’t see his face, but later on.’ And I, irritated with the monotony and persistence of her words: ‘All right, all right, I’ll go to see him when I finish my lunch.’ And she, feeding Isabel her soup again: ‘At first I couldn’t see his face because he was pacing back and forth in the office. But then when I said to him: “Please come in,” he stood there silent beside the wall with the dancing girl in his hand. That was when I remembered who he looks like and I came to tell you. He has huge, indiscreet eyes, and when I turned to leave I felt that he was looking right at my legs.’

  She suddenly fell silent. In the dining room the metallic tinkle of the spoon kept vibrating. I finished my lunch and folded the napkin under my plate.

  At that moment from the office I heard the festive music of the wind-up toy.

  IV

  In the kitchen of the house there’s an old carved wooden chair without crosspieces and my grandfather puts his shoes to dry next to the stove on its broken seat.

  Tobías, Abraham, Gilberto, and I left school at this time yesterday and we went to the plantations with a sling, a big hat to hold the birds, and a new knife. On the way I was remembering the useless chair placed in the kitchen corner, which at one time was used for visitors and which now is used by the dead man who sits down every night with his hat on to look at the ashes in the cold stove.

  Tobías and Gilberto were walking toward the end of the dark nave. Since it had rained during the morning, their shoes slipped on the muddy grass. One of them was whistling, and his hard, firm whistle echoed in the vegetable cavern the way it does when someone starts to sing inside a barrel. Abraham was bringing up the rear with me. He with his sling and the stone, ready to shoot. I with my open knife.

  Suddenly the sun broke the roof of tight, hard leaves and a body of light fell winging down onto the grass like a live bird. ‘Did you see it?’ Abraham asked. I looked ahead and saw Gilberto and Tobías at the end of the nave. ‘It’s not a bird,’ I said. ‘It’s the sun that’s just come out strong.’

  When they got to the bank they began to get undressed and gave strong kicks in that twilight water, which didn’t seem to wet their skin. ‘There hasn’t been a single bird all afternoon,’ Abraham said. ‘There aren’t any birds after it rains,’ I said. And I believed it myself then. Abraham began to laugh. His laugh is foolish and simple and it makes a sound like that of a thread of water from a spigot. He got undressed. ‘I’ll take the knife into the water and fill the hat with fish,’ he said.

  Abraham was naked in front of me with his hand open, waiting for the knife. I didn’t answer right away. I held the knife tight and I felt its clean and tempered steel in my hand. I’m not going to give him the knife, I thought. And I told him: ‘I’m not going to give you the knife. I only got it yesterday and I’m going to keep it all afternoon.’ Abraham kept his hand out. Then I told him:

  ‘Incomploruto.’

  Abraham understood me. He’s the only one who can understand my words. ‘All right,’ he said and walked toward the water through the hardened, sour air. He said: ‘Start getting undressed and we’ll wait for you on the rock.’ And he said it as he dove in and reappeared shining like an enormous silver-plated fish, as if the water had turned to liquid as it came in contact with him.

  I stayed on the bank, lying on the warm mud. When I opened the knife again I stopped looking at Abraham and lifted my eyes up straight toward the other side, up toward the trees, toward the furious dusk where the sky had the monstrous awfulness of a burning stable.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Abraham said from the other side. Tobías was whistling on the edge of the rock. Then I thought: I’m not going swimming today. Tomorrow.

  On the way back Abraham hid behind the hawthorns. I was going to follow him, but he told me: ‘Don’t come back here. I’m doing something.’ I stayed outside
, sitting on the dead leaves in the road, watching a single swallow that was tracing a curve in the sky. I said:

  ‘There’s only one swallow this afternoon.’

  Abraham didn’t answer right away. He was silent behind the hawthorns, as if he couldn’t hear me, as if he were reading. His silence was deep and concentrated, full of a hidden strength. After a long silence he sighed. Then he said:

  ‘Swallows.’

  I told him again: ‘There’s only one swallow this afternoon.’ Abraham was still behind the hawthorns but I couldn’t tell anything about him. He was silent and drawn in, but his silence wasn’t static. It was a desperate and impetuous immobility. After a moment he said:

  ‘Only one? Ah, yes. You’re right, you’re right.’

  I didn’t say anything then. Behind the hawthorns, he was the one who began to move. Sitting on the leaves, I could hear the sound of other dead leaves under his feet from where he was. Then he was silent again, as if he’d gone away. Then he breathed deeply and asked:

  ‘What did you say?’

  I told him again: ‘There’s only one swallow this afternoon.’ And while I was saying it I saw the curved wing tracing circles in the sky of incredible blue. ‘He’s flying high,’ I said.

  Abraham replied at once:

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. That must be why then.’

  He came out from behind the hawthorns, buttoning up his pants. He looked up toward where the swallow was still tracing circles, and, still not looking at me, he said:

  ‘What were you telling me a while back about the swallows?’

  That held us up. When we got back the lights in town were on. I ran into the house and on the veranda I came on the fat, blind women with the twins of Saint Jerome who every Tuesday have come to sing for my grandfather since before I was born, according to what my mother says.