the lantern. She hung it up again and once more the square was bright and the shadows retreated to the jungle.
10
Garcia fiddled. He was not troubled by what was happening around him. A hundred times before, the kid had failed to come for his supper. And a hundred times he had had to search for him in the most unthinkable places where little boys may hide themselves. A dozen times if not more the boy had taken a burro and ridden away just for the fun of it. And he had done so knowing perfectly well that on returning he would be greeted with a good spanking.
Those womenfolk, hell, they always have their buttocks full of fear for no reason as soon as they haven't got their brats hanging at their skirts! Damn it! Although nobody tried any more to dance to his fiddling, he did not feel offended. Not at all. If someone thinks he can play any better why doesn't he show up? That's just it. There is nobody here who can play better. He would willingly and with pleasure lend him his fiddle, Garcia would. But there is no one. He alone can play. He knows all the foxtrots, all the one-steps, all the danzones, all the bostons and blues. They are, sorry to say, all mixed up a bit, one with another. You have to listen carefully for a while before you can make out what he is playing or what he means to play. If after hearing a dozen notes you are convinced he is playing a waltz, you realize that in fact he is playing a two-step. Never mind that, it is music all the same.
Now and then somebody played a mouth-organ again. You couldn't see the player. But you didn't have to see who it was that was performing in the darkness to know that the mouth-organ was going from one mouth to another, because between tunes you could hear the voices of the players. Often one heard what they were saying: 'Caray, you burro, let me have it, you know nothing of music, a dumb ox plays better than you, you don't even know how to hold it the right way.'
The boys on the bridge were singing no longer. From where I was standing I couldn't see whether they were still sitting on the bridge. Perhaps they were telling stories to one another. It might be that they had been attracted by the mouth-organ players and that they had joined them to try their skill as musicians.
Since we — Sleigh, the pump-master, another man, and myself — were standing between the bridge and the pump-master's, it was only natural that anybody coming from the bridge should pass us on the way to the hut. When the Garcia returned from her search and walked up to talk to the pumpmaster woman, she saw us and stopped.
Her face had taken on the shimmer of fear. It was no longer mere anxiety, as it had been ten minutes before. Her wide-open eyes were fixed upon us questioningly. There was a tiny last flicker of hope still somewhere in the corners of her staring eyes. She did not want to ask the question lest that last shred of hope flutter away. She expected to hear from us that while she had been back at her hut we had learned something new about the whereabouts of the kid. None of us could resist her questioning gaze any longer. It almost pierced my very soul.
I avoided her eyes and looked up at her head. Her beautiful hair, combed and neatly done up when I had seen her first, was now deranged. She had climbed the roof and she had obviously crawled through shrubs near the hut.
'He isn't on the roof either, senores.' We felt relieved of her eyes and we now breathed again as she spoke: 'The neighbours also have searched for him in their homes. They haven't found him.' This she said with the peeping voice of a little girl about to weep. 'No, he isn't over there on the other bank.' These last words were spoken as if each were weighted down by a heavy load.
For a few seconds she seemed not to know whether to expect an answer from us or not. She took a deep breath and walked over to her husband. Her steps had become less youthful.
While he fiddled unceasingly she talked to him with excited
10
Garcia fiddled. He was not troubled by what was happening around him. A hundred times before, the kid had failed to come for his supper. And a hundred times he had had to search for him in the most unthinkable places where little boys may hide themselves. A dozen times if not more the boy had taken a burro and ridden away just for the fun of it. And he had done so knowing perfectly well that on returning he would be greeted with a good spanking.
Those womenfolk, hell, they always have their buttocks full of fear for no reason as soon as they haven't got their brats hanging at their skirts! Damn it! Although nobody tried any more to dance to his fiddling, he did not feel offended. Not at all. If someone thinks he can play any better why doesn't he show up? That's just it. There is nobody here who can play better. He would willingly and with pleasure lend him his fiddle, Garcia would. But there is no one. He alone can play. He knows all the foxtrots, all the one-steps, all the danzones, all the bostons and blues. They are, sorry to say, all mixed up a bit, one with another. You have to listen carefully for a while before you can make out what he is playing or what he means to play. If after hearing a dozen notes you are convinced he is playing a waltz, you realize that in fact he is playing a two-step. Never mind that, it is music all the same.
Now and then somebody played a mouth-organ again. You couldn't see the player. But you didn't have to see who it was that was performing in the darkness to know that the mouth-organ was going from one mouth to another, because between tunes you could hear the voices of the players. Often one heard what they were saying: 'Caray, you burro, let me have it, you know nothing of music, a dumb ox plays better than you, you don't even know how to hold it the right way.'
The boys on the bridge were singing no longer. From where I was standing I couldn't see whether they were still sitting on the bridge. Perhaps they were telling stories to one another. It might be that they had been attracted by the mouth-organ players and that they had joined them to try their skill as musicians.
Since we — Sleigh, the pump-master, another man, and myself — were standing between the bridge and the pump-master's, it was only natural that anybody coming from the bridge should pass us on the way to the hut. When the Garcia returned from her search and walked up to talk to the pumpmaster woman, she saw us and stopped.
Her face had taken on the shimmer of fear. It was no longer mere anxiety, as it had been ten minutes before. Her wide-open eyes were fixed upon us questioningly. There was a tiny last flicker of hope still somewhere in the corners of her staring eyes. She did not want to ask the question lest that last shred of hope flutter away. She expected to hear from us that while she had been back at her hut we had learned something new about the whereabouts of the kid. None of us could resist her questioning gaze any longer. It almost pierced my very soul.
I avoided her eyes and looked up at her head. Her beautiful hair, combed and neatly done up when I had seen her first, was now deranged. She had climbed the roof and she had obviously crawled through shrubs near the hut.
'He isn't on the roof either, senores.' We felt relieved of her eyes and we now breathed again as she spoke: 'The neighbours also have searched for him in their homes. They haven't found him.' This she said with the peeping voice of a little girl about to weep. 'No, he isn't over there on the other bank.' These last words were spoken as if each were weighted down by a heavy load.
For a few seconds she seemed not to know whether to expect an answer from us or not. She took a deep breath and walked over to her husband. Her steps had become less youthful.
While he fiddled unceasingly she talked to him with excited
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