Certain that I had overslept again, I dressed quickly and headed down the dark corridor. Mindful of the creaking hinges, I carefully opened the door to Mercedes Peralta's room and tiptoed toward the hammock.
"Are you awake?" I whispered, pushing aside the gauzy material of the mosquito netting. "Do you still want to go for a walk?"
Her eyes opened instantly, but she was not really awake yet. She continued to stare quietly ahead.
"I do," she finally said hoarsely, brushing the netting aside completely. She cleared her throat, spat in the bucket on the floor, and then moved over a little to make room for me in the hammock.
"I'm glad you remembered our walk," she mumbled as she crossed herself.
Closing her eyes, she folded her hands and prayed to the Virgin and to a number of saints in heaven. She thanked them individually for their guidance in helping her with the people she treated and then asked for their forgiveness.
"Why their forgiveness?" I inquired as soon as she finished her long prayer.
"Look at the lines on my palms," she said, placing her upturned hands in my lap.
With my index finger I traced the clearly delineated V and M lines that seemed to have been branded; the V on her left palm, and the M on her right.
"V stands for vida, life. M stands for muerte, death," she explained, enunciating the words with deliberate precision. "I was born with the power to heal and harm."
She lifted her hands from my lap, and brushed the air as though she intended to erase the words she had spoken.
She stared around the room, then deliberately maneuvered her thin, fleshless legs out of the hammock and slipped into a pair of cutout shoes through which her toes protruded.
Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she straightened the black blouse and skirt, which she had slept in.
Holding on to my arm, she led me outside. "Let me show you something before we go for our walk," she said, heading toward the working room.
She turned directly to the massive altar, which was made entirely out of melted wax. It had been started with a single candle, she said, by her great-great-grandmother, who had also been a healer.
Lovingly, she ran her hand over the glossy, almost transparent surface.
"Search for the black wax amid the multi-colored streaks," she urged me. "That's the evidence that witches light a black candle when they use their power to harm."
Countless strands of black wax ran into the colored bands.
"The ones closer to the top are mine," she said. Her eyes shone with an odd fierceness as she added, "A true healer is also a witch."
A glimmer of a smile lingered on her lips for a moment; then she went on to say that not only was she well known throughout the area, but that people came for her treatments from as far as Caracas, Maracaibo, Merida, and Cumana.
People knew about her abroad as well: Trinidad, Cuba, Colombia, Brazil, and Haiti. There were pictures somewhere in the house attesting that among those persons had been ministers of state, ambassadors, and even a bishop.
She regarded me enigmatically, then shrugged her shoulders.
"My luck and my strength were peerless at one time," she said. "I ran out of both, and now I can only heal."
Her grin widened, and her eyes took on a teasing gleam. "And how is your work progressing?" she asked with the innocent curiosity of a child.
Before I had a chance to take in the sudden change of topic, she added, "Regardless of how many healers and patients you interview, you will never learn that way. A real healer must be first a medium and a spiritualist, and then a witch."
A dazzling smile lit up her face. "Don't be too upset when one of these days I burn your writing pads," she said casually. "You're wasting your time with all that nonsense."
I became utterly alarmed. I did not take kindly to the prospect of seeing my work go up in flames.
"Do you know what's of real interest?" she asked, and then answered her own question. "The issues that go beyond the superficial aspects of healing.
"Things that can't be explained, but may be experienced.
"There have been plenty of people who have studied healers. They believe that by watching and asking questions they may understand what mediums, witches, and healers do.
"Since there is no point in arguing with them, it's a lot easier to leave them alone to do whatever they want.
"It cannot be the same in your case," she went on. "I cannot let you go to waste.
"So, instead of acting like you are studying healers, you're going to practice calling the spirit of my ancestor every night in the patio of this house.
"You can't take notes on that because the spirits count time in a different way.
"You'll see. To deal with the spirits is like entering inside the earth."
The memory of the woman I had seen in that patio perturbed me terribly. I wanted to abandon right then all my quest and forget Florinda's plans and run away.
Suddenly dona Mercedes laughed, a clear burst that dispelled my fears.
"Musiua, you should see your face," she said. "You're about to faint. Among other things, you're a coward."
Despite her wry mocking tone, there was sympathy and affection in her smile. "I shouldn't push you. So I'm going to give you something you'll like- something that has more value than your study plans; A glimpse into the life of some personages of my choice.
"I will make them weave tales for you. Tales about fate. Tales about luck. Tales about love."
She brought her face close to mine and in a soft whisper added, "Tales about strength and tales about weakness. That will be my gift to you to keep you appeased."
She took my arm and led me outside. "Let's go for our walk."
Our steps rang lonely through the silent street bordered by high concrete sidewalks.
In a faint murmur, obviously wary of waking the people sleeping inside the houses we passed, Mercedes Peralta remarked that during her days as a young healer, her house- the biggest one on the street- had stood isolated at what was then considered the outskirts of town.
"But now," she said- the sweeping gesture of her arm encompassing everything around us- "it seems I live in the center of town."
We turned onto the main street, and walked all the way to the plaza where we rested on a bench facing the statue of Bolivar on a horse.
The town hall stood at one side of the plaza, the church with its bell tower at the other. Many of the original buildings had been pulled down and replaced by boxlike structures.
Yet, the old houses that still stood, with their wrought-iron grills, their red-tile roofs gray with age, and their wide eaves that permitted the rain water to splash clear of the brightly painted walls, gave the center of town its distinct colonial atmosphere.
"This town has not been the same since the day the clock in the tower of the city hall was fixed," she mused.
She explained that a long time ago, as if resenting the advent of progress, the clock had stopped at twelve o'clock.
The local pharmacist had seen to it that it was fixed, and immediately afterward, as though conjured up by an act of magic, lampposts were put on the streets, and sprinklers were installed in the plaza so that the grass would stay green all year-round. And before anyone knew what was happening, industrial centers mushroomed everywhere.
She paused for an instant to catch her breath, then pointed to the shack-covered hills surrounding the city. "And so did the squatters' shanty towns," she added.
She rose and we walked to the end of the main street to where the hills began.
Huts made of corrugated metal sheets, crates, and cardboard hung precariously on the steep slopes.
The owners of the shacks close to the city streets had boldly tapped electricity from the lampposts. The insulated wires were crudely camouflaged with colored ribbons.
We turned onto a side street, then into an alley, and finally we followed a narrow path winding up the only hill that had not yet been claimed by squatters.
The air, still damp from the night dew, smelled of wild rosemary. We climbed almost to the top of the hill, where a solitary saman tree grew. We sat down on the damp ground carpeted with tiny yellow daisies.
"Can you hear the sea?" Mercedes Peralta asked.
The faint breeze, rustling through the tree's intricately woven crown, scattered a shower of powdery golden blossoms. They alighted on her hair and shoulders like butterflies.
Her face was suffused with an immeasurable calm. Her mouth opened slightly, revealing her few teeth, yellow with tobacco and age.
"Can you hear the sea?" she repeated, turning her dreamy, slightly misted eyes toward me.
I told her that the sea was too far away beyond the mountains.
"I know that the sea is far away," she said softly. "But at this early hour, when the town still sleeps, I always hear the sound of the waves carried by the wind.
"Closing her eyes, she leaned against the tree trunk, as if to sleep.
The morning stillness was shattered by the sound of a truck winding its way through a narrow street below. I wondered whether it was the Portuguese baker delivering his freshly baked rolls, or the police picking up last night's drunks.
"See who it is," she urged me.
I walked a few steps down the path, and watched an old man get out from a green truck parked at the bottom of the hill. His coat hung loosely on his stooped shoulders, and a straw hat covered his head.
Aware of being watched, he looked up, and waved his walking stick by way of greeting.
I waved in return.
"It's the old man you treated last night," I told her.
"How fortunate!" she murmured. "Call him. Tell him to come up here. Tell him I want to see him. My gift to you begins now."
I walked down to where his truck was parked and asked the old man to walk back up the hill with me. He followed me without a word.
"No dogs today," he said to Mercedes Peralta by way of greeting, and sat beside her.
"Let me tell you a secret, Musiua," she said, beckoning me to sit across from her.
"I am a medium, a witch, and a healer. Of the three, I like the second because witches have a particular way of understanding the mysteries of fate.
"Why is it that some people get rich, successful, and happy, while others find only hardship and pain?
"Whatever decides those things is not what you call fate: It's something more mysterious than that. And only witches know about it."
Her features strained for an instant with an expression I could not fathom as she turned to Octavio Cantu.
"Some people say that we're born with our fate. Others claim that we make our fate with our actions.
"Witches say that it's neither and that something else catches us like the dog catcher catches a dog. The secret is to be there if we want to be caught, or not to be there if we don't want to be caught."
Her glance strayed to the eastern sky, where the sun was rising over the distant mountains. After a few moments she faced the old man once more. Her eyes seemed to have absorbed the sun's radiance, for they shone as if smeared with fire.
"Octavio Cantu is coming to the house for his seasonal treatments," she said. "Perhaps little by little he'll weave a tale for you. A tale about how chance joins lives together and how that something that only witches know about fastens them into one bundle."
Octavio Cantu nodded his head in agreement. A tentative smile parted his lips. The scant beard on his chin was as white as the hair sticking out from under his straw hat.
Octavio Cantu came to dona Mercedes' house eight times. Apparently she had been treating him periodically since he was a young man.
Besides being old and run down, he was an alcoholic. Dona Mercedes emphasized, however, that all his maladies were of the spirit. He needed incantations, not medicines.
At first, he hardly talked to me, but then he began to open up, feeling more confident perhaps. We spent long hours talking about his life.
At the beginning of each of our sessions, he invariably seemed to succumb to despair, loneliness, suspicion. He demanded to know why I was interested in his life.
But he always checked himself and regained his aplomb, and for the rest of the session- whether an hour or an entire afternoon- he would talk about himself as if he were some other person.
Octavio pushed the flat piece of cardboard aside, and edged in through the small doorlike opening of the shack.
There was no light inside, and the pungent smoke of the dwindling fire in the stone hearth made his eyes tear. He shut them tight and groped his way in the darkness. He tripped over some tins and banged his shin on a wooden crate.
"Damn stinking place," he swore under his breath.
He sat for a moment on the packed dirt floor, and rubbed his leg.
In the farthest corner of the wretched shack, he saw the old man asleep on a discarded, worn-out backseat of a car. Slowly, avoiding the crates, ropes, rags, and boxes scattered on the ground, he walked bent over to where the old man was lying.
Octavio lit a match. In the dim light the sleeping man looked dead. The rising and falling of his chest was so slight he hardly seemed to breathe. High cheekbones protruded from his black, emaciated face. His torn, dirty khaki pants were rolled up his calves. His long-sleeved khaki shirt was buttoned tightly around his wrinkled neck.
"Victor Julio!" Octavio shouted, shaking him vigorously. "Wake up, old man!"
Victor Julio's trembling, wrinkled eyelids opened for a moment. Only the discolored white of his eyes showed before he shut them again.
"Wake up!" Octavio cried out with exasperation. He reached for the narrow-brimmed straw hat on the ground, and pushed it down hard on the old man's unkempt white hair.
"Who the hell are you?" Victor Julio grumbled. "What do you want?"
"I'm Octavio Cantu. I've been appointed by the mayor as your helper," he explained with an air of importance.
"Helper?" Unsteadily the old man sat up. "I need no helper." He slipped into his worn-out laceless shoes and staggered around the dark room until he found the gasoline lantern. He lit it. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and, blinking repeatedly, regarded the young man carefully.
Octavio Cantu was of medium height, with strong muscles, visible through his unbuttoned, faded blue jacket. His pants, which seemed too large for him, bagged over his new shiny boots. Victor Julio chuckled, wondering if Octavio Cantu had stolen them.
"So you're the new man," he said in a rasping voice, trying to determine the color of Octavio's eyes, shaded by a red baseball cap. They were shifty eyes, the color of moist earth.
Victor Julio decided there was something decidedly suspicious about the young man. "I've never seen you around here," he said. "Where do you come from?"
"Paraguana," Octavio answered curtly. "I've been here for a while. I've seen you several times at the plaza."
"Paraguana," the old man repeated dreamily. "I've seen the sand dunes of Paraguana."
He shook his head and in a harsh voice demanded, "What are you doing in this godforsaken place? Don't you know that there is no future in this town? Haven't you noticed that the young people have migrated to the cities?"
"It's all going to change," Octavio declared, eager to steer the conversation away from himself.
"This town is going to grow. Foreigners are buying up the cacao groves and the sugarcane fields. They are going to build factories. People are going to flock to this town. People are going to get rich."
Victor Julio doubled up with mocking laughter. "Factories aren't for those like us. If you stick around long enough, you'll end up like me."
He put his hand on Octavio's arm. "I know why you're so far away from Paraguana. You're running away from something, aren't you?" he asked, staring hard into the young man's restless eyes.
"What if I am?" Octavio shifted uncomfortably.
Octavio realized that he didn't have to tell him anything. No one knew about him in this town.
Yet, something in the old man's eyes unnerved him. "I had some trouble back home," he muttered evasively.
Victor Julio shuffled over toward the opening of the shack, reached for his burlap sack hanging on a rusty nail, and took out a bottle of cheap rum. His hands, crisscrossed by protruding veins, shook uncontrollably as he unscrewed the lid of the bottle. He gulped repeatedly, heedless of the amber liquid trailing down his scraggly beard.
"There is a lot of work to be done," Octavio said. "We better get going."
"I was young like you when I was appointed by another mayor as a helper to an old man," Victor Julio reminisced.
"I too was strong and eager to work. And look at me now. The rum doesn't even burn my throat any longer."
Squatting on the ground, Victor Julio searched for his walking stick. "This cane belonged to the old man. He gave it to me before he died."
He held up the dark, highly polished stick to Octavio. "It's made of hardwood from the Amazon jungle. It will never break."
Octavio glanced briefly at the cane, and then asked impatiently, "Is the stuff we need here? Or do we still have to get it?"
The old man grinned. "The meat has been soaking since yesterday. It should be ready by now. It's outside behind the shack in a steel drum."
"Are you going to show me how to fix the meat?" Octavio asked.
Victor Julio laughed. All his front teeth were missing. The remaining yellow molars looked like two pillars in his cavernous mouth.
"There is really nothing to show," he said in between giggles.
"I just go to the pharmacist every time I want to prepare the meat. He's the one who mixes the beef tenderizer.
"Actually," he explained, "it's more like a marinade." His mouth spread into a wide grin.
"I always get the meat from the slaughterhouse, compliments of the mayor."
He took another gulp from the bottle. "Rum helps me to prepare myself." He rubbed his chin dry.
"The dogs are going to catch up with me one of these days," he mumbled under his breath and handed the half-empty bottle to Octavio. "You better have some too."
"No thanks," Octavio refused politely. "I can't drink on an empty stomach."
Victor Julio opened his mouth ready to say something. Instead, he picked up his walking stick and his burlap sack, and motioned Octavio to follow him outside.
Absorbed, Victor Julio stood for a moment and watched the sky. It was neither dark nor light but that strange oppressive gray that comes before dawn. In the distance he heard the barking of a dog.
"There's the meat," he said, pointing with his chin to the steel drum standing on a tree stump.
He handed Octavio a bundle of ropes. "It'll be easier to carry the drum if you tie it on your back."
Expertly, Octavio looped the ropes around the steel drum, lifted it on his back, then crossed the ropes over his chest, and tied them securely below his navel. "Is this all we need?" he asked, avoiding the old man's gaze.
"I've some extra rope and a can of kerosene in my sack," Victor Julio explained and took another gulp of rum. Absentmindedly, he stuffed the bottle in his pocket.
In single file they followed the dry gully that cut across the cane break.
All was silent except for the fading buzz of the crickets and the gentle breeze rustling through the bladelike leaves of the cane.
Victor Julio had trouble breathing. His chest hurt. He felt so tired he wanted to lie down on the hard ground.
He turned often to gaze at his shack in the distance. A foreboding feeling crossed his mind. The end was near.
He had known for a long time that he was too old and feeble to do all the work he was supposed to do. It would be only a matter of time before they got a new man.
"Victor Julio, come on," Octavio called impatiently. "It's getting late."
The town was still asleep.
Only a few old women on their way to church were about. With their heads covered by dark veils, they hurried past the two men without returning their greetings.
On the narrow concrete sidewalks, seeking the protection of the silent houses, scrawny, sickly looking dogs lay curled up in front of closed doors.
At Victor Julio's command, Octavio lowered the steel drum on the ground, and opened the tight lid.
Using the long wooden pliers he had retrieved from his burlap sack, the old man picked chunks of meat from the drum.
And as he and Octavio slowly made their way through town, he fed every stray dog they came across. Hungrily, wagging their tails, the animals devoured the fatal meal.
"The dogs will feed on you in hell," a fat woman shouted before disappearing through the large wooden door of the old colonial church at the other side of the plaza.
"No rabies this year," Victor Julio shouted back, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. "I think we got them all well fed for the hereafter."
"I counted seventeen," Octavio complained, stretching his sore back. "That's a lot of dead dogs to pull."
"The biggest one we won't have to carry," Victor Julio said, a sinister smile twisting his face. "There is one dog that won't die in the street."
"What do you mean?" Octavio asked, turning his red baseball cap around on his head, a puzzled look on his face.
Victor Julio's eyes narrowed, his pupils sparkled with an evil glint. His thin old body shivered with anticipation.
"I'm all keyed up. Now, I'm going to kill the Lebanese storekeeper's black German shepherd."
"You can't do that," Octavio protested. "It's not a stray dog. It's not sick. It's well fed. The mayor said only stray sickly dogs."
Victor Julio swore loudly, then looked at his helper with a wicked expression.
He was certain that this was the last time he would have access to the poison. If not Octavio, then someone else would be in charge of disposing of the dogs at the end of the next dry season.
He could understand why the young man didn't want to cause any trouble in town, but that was not any of his concern. He had wanted to kill the Lebanese's dog ever since it had bitten him. This was his last chance.
"That dog is trained to attack," Victor Julio said. "Every time it gets loose it bites someone. It bit me some months ago."
He pulled up his pant leg. "Look at the scar!" he muttered angrily, rubbing the purple, knotty spot on his calf. "The Lebanese didn't even bother to take me to a doctor. For all I knew that dog could have had rabies."
"But it didn't and you can't kill it," Octavio insisted. "The dog isn't in the street. It's got an owner." He looked imploringly at the old man. "You're only asking for trouble."
"Who cares," Victor Julio snapped belligerently. "I hate that animal and I won't have another chance to kill it."
Victor Julio flung his burlap sack over his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."
Unwillingly, Octavio followed the old man through a narrow side street toward the outskirts of town. They stopped in front of a large, green stucco house.
"The dog must be in the back," Victor Julio said. "Let's have a look." They walked along the brick wall encircling the backyard. There was no sign of the dog.
"We better leave," Octavio whispered. "I'm sure the dog sleeps inside the house."
"It'll come out," Victor Julio said, trailing his walking stick along the wall.
Loud barking splintered the morning stillness. Excitedly, the old man jumped up and down on his frail legs, brandishing his walking stick in the air above his head. "Give me the rest of the meat!" he demanded.
Octavio unfastened the ropes from his chest, and reluctantly lowered the steel drum to the ground. The old man picked out the last pieces of meat with the wooden pliers, and flung them over the wall.
"Just listen to that beast gulping down that poisoned meat," Victor Julio said gleefully. "That vicious brute is as hungry as the rest of them."
"Let's get out of here fast," Octavio hissed, lifting the steel drum on his back.
"There's no hurry." Victor Julio laughed. A sensation of elation invaded his body as he looked for something on which to stand.
"Let's go," Octavio insisted. "We're going to get caught."
"We won't," Victor Julio assured him calmly, climbing on the shaky wooden crate he had propped against the wall.
He stood on his toes and looked at the raging dog. Barking furiously, the animal spat foam and blood in an effort to wrench loose whatever had stuck in its throat.
Its legs grew rigid. It toppled over. Powerful spasms wheeled its body around.
Victor Julio shivered. "It's even hard to die," he murmured, stepping down from the crate. He didn't feel any satisfaction in having killed the Lebanese's German shepherd.
In all the years of poisoning dogs, he had always avoided seeing them die. He had never enjoyed killing the town's stray mongrels, but it was the only job that had been available to him.
A vague fear filled Victor Julio's heart. He looked down the empty road.
He curled his left thumb backward and placed the walking stick between it and his wrist. Holding his arm outstretched, he started to move the stick back and forth so rapidly the cane seemed to be suspended in midair.
"What kind of trick is that?" Octavio asked, watching him enthralled.
"It's no trick. It's an art. This is what I do best," Victor Julio explained sadly.
"In the mornings and afternoons I entertain the small children in the plaza with my dancing stick. Some of the children are friendly to me."
He handed the cane to Octavio. "Try it. See if you can do it."
Victor Julio laughed at Octavio's clumsy attempt to hold the stick properly.
"It takes years of practice," the old man said. "You've got to develop your thumb in order to stretch it backward until it touches the wrist. And you have got to move your arm much faster so the stick won't have time to fall on the ground."
Octavio handed him back the cane. "We better get those dogs!" he exclaimed, surprised by the suddenness of the morning glow and the flame-colored blotches appearing on the eastern sky.
"Victor Julio, wait for me," a child called after them.
Barefoot, her black tangled hair tied on top of her head, a six-year-old girl caught up with the two men.
"Look what my aunt brought me to play with," she said, holding up a German shepherd puppy for the old man to see. "I named her Butterfly. She looks like one, doesn't she?"
Victor Julio sat on the curb. The little girl sat next to him and placed the cute, chubby puppy on his lap. Distractedly, he ran his fingers along the black and pale yellow fur.
"Show Butterfly how you make your walking stick dance," the child pleaded.
Victor Julio put the dog on the ground, and retrieved the bottle of rum from his pocket. Without drawing a breath, he emptied its contents, then dropped the bottle into his burlap sack.
There was a desolate expression in his eyes as he gazed into the child's smiling face. Soon she would grow up, he thought. She would no longer sit with him under the trees in the plaza and help him fill the trash cans with leaves, and believe they would turn to gold during the night.
He wondered if she, too, would shout at him, taunt him, like most of the older children did. He closed his eyes tightly.
"Let's see if the stick feels like dancing," he mumbled. Rubbing his creaking knees, he got up.
Mesmerized, both Octavio and the child watched the stick. It seemed to be dancing by itself, animated not only by the swift graceful movement of Victor Julio's arms but also by the rhythmic tapping of his foot and his hoarse, yet melodious, voice, as he sang a nursery rhyme.
Octavio put the drum down, and sat on it to admire the old man's skill.
Victor Julio stopped his song in mid-sentence. His stick fell on the ground. With a look of surprise and horror, he saw the puppy lapping up the juice of the poisoned meat, trickling from the drum.
The girl picked up the cane, caressed the finely carved head, and handed it to Victor Julio. "I've never seen you drop it," she remarked concerned. "Did the stick get tired?"
Victor Julio placed his trembling hand on her head, pulling her ponytail gently. "I'm going to take Butterfly for a walk," he said. "Go back to bed before your mother finds you out here. I'll see you later at the plaza. We'll pick leaves together."
He lifted the chubby puppy in his arms, and motioned Octavio to follow him up the street.
The stray dogs were no longer curled up in front of closed doors, but lay rigid with their legs extended, scattered around the dusty streets, their glassy eyes staring blankly into space.
One by one, Octavio tied them with the ropes Victor Julio had brought in his burlap sack.
Butterfly, her whole body shaking convulsively, sent a stream of blood down the old man's pants. He shook his head with despair. "What am I going to tell the kid?" he mumbled, fastening the poisoned puppy with the others.
They made two trips, and dragged the dead dogs to the outskirts of town, past the Lebanese's house, past the empty fields, down into a dried-up ravine.
Victor Julio covered them with a layer of dry branches, then doused the heap with the can of kerosene he had brought with him and set them afire. The dogs burned slowly, filling the air with the smell of scorched flesh and fur.
Panting, their throats raw with smoke and dust, the two men climbed out of the ravine. They didn't walk far before they collapsed under the shade of a blooming red acacia tree.
Victor Julio stretched out on the hard ground still cool from the night. His hands trembled as he held the walking stick securely over his stomach. He closed his eyes, and tried to still his breathing, hoping it would dispel the pain constricting his chest. He wished he could sleep, lose himself in dreams.
"I've got to get going," Octavio said after a short while. "I've got some other jobs to do."
"Stay with me," the old man begged. "I have to tell the kid about her dog."
He sat up and gazed imploringly at Octavio. "You can help me. Children so soon become afraid of me. She's one of the few who is friendly."
The wretched emptiness in Victor Julio's voice frightened Octavio. He leaned against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to see the fear and the loss reflected in the old man's face.
"Come with me to the plaza. Let everyone know you're the new man," Victor Julio pleaded.
"I won't stay in this town," Octavio said gruffly. "I don't like this business of killing dogs."
"It's not a matter of liking or disliking it," Victor Julio remarked. "It's a matter of fate."
Victor Julio smiled wistfully and let his gaze wander in the town's direction. "Who knows, you might have to stay here forever," he mumbled, closing his eyes again.
The silence was broken by the sound of angry voices. Down the road came a group of boys led by the oldest son of the Lebanese. They stopped a few paces away from the two men.
"You killed my dog," the Lebanese boy hissed, then spat on the ground inches away from Victor Julio's feet.
Propping himself on his cane, the old man rose. "What makes you think it was me?" he asked, trying to gain time.
Victor Julio's hands shook uncontrollably as he searched for the bottle of rum in his sack. He stared at the empty bottle uncomprehendingly. He didn't remember having drunk the last drop.
"You killed the dog," the boys repeated in a chant. "You killed the dog." Cursing and jabbing him, they tried to grab his stick and his burlap sack.
Victor Julio backed away. Brandishing his cane, he swung it blindly at the jeering boys. "Leave me alone!" he screamed through trembling lips.
Momentarily startled by his rage, the boys stood still.
Suddenly, as if they had only just noticed that Victor Julio was not alone, they turned to Octavio.
"And who are you?" one of the boys yelled, looking from one man to the other, perhaps measuring the consequences of having to deal with both. "Are you with the old man? Are you his helper?"
Octavio didn't answer but swung the rope over his head, lashing it out in front of him like a whip.
Laughing and screaming, the boys dodged the well-aimed snaps. But when several of them were stung by the rope, not only on their calves and thighs but also on their shoulders and arms, they backed away.
They ran after Victor Julio, who, in the meantime, had fled toward the ravine, where the dogs were still burning.
Victor Julio turned his head. Terror dilated his pupils as he saw the boys approaching so close behind him.
They no longer seemed human: They reminded him of a pack of barking dogs. He tried to run faster, but the searing pain in his chest slowed him down.
The boys picked up pebbles and threw them at him, just teasing him. But when the Lebanese boy reached for a good-sized stone, the rest of the boys, eager to outdo each other, selected even larger rocks.
One of them hit Victor Julio on the head.
He staggered. His vision blurred. The ground under his feet gave way, and he tumbled down the precipice.
The wind carried the old man's cry out of the ravine.
Panting, their faces streaked with dust and sweat, the boys stood looking at each other. Then, as though someone had given a signal, they scurried in all directions.
Octavio ran down the steep slope, and knelt by Victor Julio's inert body. He shook him vigorously.
The old man opened his eyes. His breath came in spurts. His voice was only a faint muffled sound.
"I knew that the end was near, but I thought it was only the end of my job. It never occurred to me it was going to be this way."
His pupils flickered with an oddly bright gleam as he stared into his helper's eyes. Slowly, the light went out.
Octavio shook him frantically. "Jesus! He's dead!" he muttered, then made the sign of the cross.
He raised his sweaty face toward the sky. A pale moon was clearly visible despite the blinding brightness of the sun.
He wanted to pray but could not think of a single prayer. Only images came to his mind: a legion of dogs chasing the old man over the fields.
Octavio felt his hands grow cold and his body begin to tremble. He could run away again to another town, he thought. But then they might suspect him of having killed Victor Julio. He had better stay for a while, he decided, until things cleared up.
For a long time Octavio just kept staring at the dead man.
Then, on an impulse, he picked up Victor Julio's cane lying nearby. He caressed it and rubbed the finely carved head against his left cheek. He felt that it had always belonged to him. He wondered if he would ever be able to make the stick dance.