black poplar. And my interior voice insisted stubbornly:
‘I have loved you so, Eleonora! Oh, if you only knew how much I have loved you!’
When Enrique came back, he had some volumes under his arm.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s Malte-Brun’s Geography. I’m keeping it for me.’
‘Did you shut the door properly?’
‘As well as I could.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘No one knows about any of it.’
‘
Che
, what about the pisshead? Do you think he’s locked the street door?’
Enrique’s question was sensible. The main door was half open and we left through it.
A torrent of water, sputtering, ran between the two pavements , and with its fury contained, the rain fell fine, compact, obstinate.
In spite of all we were carrying, prudence and fear increased the rhythm of our feet.
‘Nice job.’
‘Yeah, good one.’
‘What do you think Lucio, should we leave this in your house?’
‘Don’t be silly, we’ll shift it all tomorrow.’
‘How many bulbs have we got?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Nice job,’ Lucio repeated. ‘What about books?’
‘I reckon more or less seventy pesos,’ Enrique said.
‘What’s the time, Lucio?’
‘It’s got to be at least three.’
No, it wasn’t late, but the tiredness and worry and clouds and silence, the trees dropping water onto our frozen backs, all of these had combined to make the night seem eternal, and Enrique said sadly:
‘Yes, it’s too late.’
We were shivering from the cold and from tiredness when we got to Lucio’s house.
‘Slow,
che
, don’t wake the olds.’
‘And where should we keep this?’
‘Wait.’
Slowly the door swivelled on its hinges. Lucio went into the room and turned the switch on the interruptor.
‘Come in,
che
, this is my pad.’ 13
The wardrobe in one corner, a little white wooden table, and a bed. A Black Christ stretched his pious twisted arms out over the bedstead, and in a frame, in an extremely tragic attitude, a picture of Lyda Borelli 14 looked up to the sky.
Exhausted we let ourselves fall onto the bed.
In our sleep-struck faces, tiredness accentuated the dark shadows under our eyes. Our motionless pupils stayed fixed on the white walls which were now close, now far away, like in the fantastic hallucinations of a fever.
Lucio hid the packages in the wardrobe and then sat pensively on the edge of the table, grasping a knee in both hands.
‘What about the Geography? Where is it?’
The silence weighed down on our sodden spirits, on our livid faces, on our half-open bruised hands.
I got up solemnly, without taking my eyes off the white wall.
‘Give me the revolver, I’ll go.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Irzubeta said as he sat up in the bed, and in the darkness we headed out into the streets without saying a word, with hard faces and slumped shoulders.
I had finished undressing when three frantic blows sounded out on the street door, three urgent blows that made my hair stand on end.
I thought in a panic:
‘The police have followed me… the police… the police…’ My soul panted.
The howling blows were repeated another three times, more anxiously, more furiously, more urgently.
I took the revolver and ran naked to the door.
I had scarcely opened the door when Enrique exploded through it into my arms. Some books fell onto the pavement.
‘Shut the door, shut the door, they’re following me; shut the door, Silvio,’ Irzubeta said in a hoarse voice.
I pulled him in under the balcony that ran round the patio.
‘What is it, Silvio, what’s happening?’ My mother shouted fearfully from her room.
‘Nothing, calm down… a policeman running after Enrique for a fight.’
In the silence of the night, the silence that fear turned into an accomplice of the forces of law and order, a cop’s whistle ran out, and a horse ran at a gallop past the top of the road. And again this terrible sound, multiplied, was repeated at various points in the neighbourhood.
Like streamers, the shrill calls
‘I have loved you so, Eleonora! Oh, if you only knew how much I have loved you!’
When Enrique came back, he had some volumes under his arm.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s Malte-Brun’s Geography. I’m keeping it for me.’
‘Did you shut the door properly?’
‘As well as I could.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘No one knows about any of it.’
‘
Che
, what about the pisshead? Do you think he’s locked the street door?’
Enrique’s question was sensible. The main door was half open and we left through it.
A torrent of water, sputtering, ran between the two pavements , and with its fury contained, the rain fell fine, compact, obstinate.
In spite of all we were carrying, prudence and fear increased the rhythm of our feet.
‘Nice job.’
‘Yeah, good one.’
‘What do you think Lucio, should we leave this in your house?’
‘Don’t be silly, we’ll shift it all tomorrow.’
‘How many bulbs have we got?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Nice job,’ Lucio repeated. ‘What about books?’
‘I reckon more or less seventy pesos,’ Enrique said.
‘What’s the time, Lucio?’
‘It’s got to be at least three.’
No, it wasn’t late, but the tiredness and worry and clouds and silence, the trees dropping water onto our frozen backs, all of these had combined to make the night seem eternal, and Enrique said sadly:
‘Yes, it’s too late.’
We were shivering from the cold and from tiredness when we got to Lucio’s house.
‘Slow,
che
, don’t wake the olds.’
‘And where should we keep this?’
‘Wait.’
Slowly the door swivelled on its hinges. Lucio went into the room and turned the switch on the interruptor.
‘Come in,
che
, this is my pad.’ 13
The wardrobe in one corner, a little white wooden table, and a bed. A Black Christ stretched his pious twisted arms out over the bedstead, and in a frame, in an extremely tragic attitude, a picture of Lyda Borelli 14 looked up to the sky.
Exhausted we let ourselves fall onto the bed.
In our sleep-struck faces, tiredness accentuated the dark shadows under our eyes. Our motionless pupils stayed fixed on the white walls which were now close, now far away, like in the fantastic hallucinations of a fever.
Lucio hid the packages in the wardrobe and then sat pensively on the edge of the table, grasping a knee in both hands.
‘What about the Geography? Where is it?’
The silence weighed down on our sodden spirits, on our livid faces, on our half-open bruised hands.
I got up solemnly, without taking my eyes off the white wall.
‘Give me the revolver, I’ll go.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Irzubeta said as he sat up in the bed, and in the darkness we headed out into the streets without saying a word, with hard faces and slumped shoulders.
I had finished undressing when three frantic blows sounded out on the street door, three urgent blows that made my hair stand on end.
I thought in a panic:
‘The police have followed me… the police… the police…’ My soul panted.
The howling blows were repeated another three times, more anxiously, more furiously, more urgently.
I took the revolver and ran naked to the door.
I had scarcely opened the door when Enrique exploded through it into my arms. Some books fell onto the pavement.
‘Shut the door, shut the door, they’re following me; shut the door, Silvio,’ Irzubeta said in a hoarse voice.
I pulled him in under the balcony that ran round the patio.
‘What is it, Silvio, what’s happening?’ My mother shouted fearfully from her room.
‘Nothing, calm down… a policeman running after Enrique for a fight.’
In the silence of the night, the silence that fear turned into an accomplice of the forces of law and order, a cop’s whistle ran out, and a horse ran at a gallop past the top of the road. And again this terrible sound, multiplied, was repeated at various points in the neighbourhood.
Like streamers, the shrill calls
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