The Killer's Tears (11 page)

Ricardo's children had gone. They had left when their father had started his tractor, and Paolo was now killing time by dragging his feet in the dust. Angel approached him very slowly. He wondered if Paolo was going to disappear too. Was he going to evaporate before Angel's eyes? Was he somehow going to be a victim of the mysterious powers of this place? At that instant, Angel fully appreciated the meaning of the word
bewitching
.

“My friends went home,” Paolo complained when he saw Angel. “It's unfair! Why didn't they stay with me? I was having a lot of fun.”

Angel crouched and sat the child on his knees. He could feel Paolo's skin, warm and damp with perspiration, and the roundness of his arms. The child was a tangible reality, and yes, Paolo seemed less skinny than before.

“Your friends will come back tomorrow morning,” he whispered.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure!”

Paolo smiled. “So does that mean that we're going to stay a little longer at Ricardo's?”

“A little. I believe he needs us today.”

“In the forest?”

“Yes. We should help him cut his last tree and bring it here. Don't you agree?”

Cheered up, Paolo jumped from Angel's knees. He ran into the house and came back with a large slice of bread and jam.

“I have to build up strength to cut wood,” he said very seriously.

Together they set out into the forest, the child skipping joyously in front, the man walking behind, prey to an inner anguish that was extracting secret tears from him.

ANGEL GAVE ALL his strength, all his energy, all his fervor to Ricardo's last order. He spent the whole day running along the felled tree, cutting the biggest limbs with the chain saw, and chopping the smaller ones with the ax. He bounced around, pulling, tearing, knocking; he was perspiring and exhausting himself; he was smiling.

Ricardo came and sat down on the stump next to Paolo.

“What debt do you think your father wants to repay?” the old lumberjack asked, amused.

Paolo, who was watching Angel strive so hard, and who
was waiting for someone to give him permission to bundle the twigs, answered what was evident to him.

“He would like to undo the harm he has done.”

“I don't think Angel could have done any harm,” Ricardo answered.

“Oh, he has,” Paolo said.

He turned toward the lumberjack and smiled. He was delighted that he could surprise a man as old and as well-read as this one.

“Angel has killed people,” he said. “But don't tell him that you know. He would be angry with me.”

Confused, Ricardo gave his promise, not entirely sure of what he had just heard. Was the child joking? Was he crazy? Or, if what he said was true, could the ax and the chain saw become dangerous tools?

No, really, Ricardo could not believe that Angel was a murderer. Since the death of his family, he thought he had developed an extra sense that enabled him to detect the presence of evil. He thought he could guess the bad intentions of any passerby at first sight. This was how he had chased away a few peddlers from the limits of his property, and some merchants with treacherous eyes, just because of the way they walked or rode their horses. So if he had given shelter to a murderer, he would know it!

Nevertheless, he got up and went back prudently toward the tree. Angel, astride the trunk, was beginning to cut it up. Sheaves of sawdust rose around him like frightened bee
swarms. Sensing Ricardo's presence, he stopped working and cut the motor of the chain saw.

“You must be worn out,” Ricardo said. “Come and drink some water and have a bite to eat.”

Angel shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said, taking off the goggles that Ricardo had lent him.

“It's going to be a long day.”

“Workdays go faster than one thinks,” Angel declared.

“You're clever,” Ricardo went on. “You must have done this kind of work before. Am I wrong?”

“I've done a little bit of everything.”

“And the child? He follows you like that, from place to place?”

“Yes. He has nobody else.”

As a rule, Ricardo never asked personal questions, and one of his principles was to respect the privacy of others. But this time, he felt a tremendous desire to know everything about this man and child. Questions were crowding his lips, burning his tongue. But Angel put his goggles back on and started the chain saw. That cut the conversation short.

The day went on like this, in the changing shade of the undergrowth and over the clamor of the chain saw. Paolo trotted around the large broken trunk, collecting twigs, carrying full loads of them near the stump, and then sorted them according to size before bundling them up.

“You'll have a good supply for your fireplace,” he said to Ricardo, proudly showing the bundles.

The old woodcutter smiled. “If I survive the winter!”

“Are you that old?”

“I don't have many more books to read,” he answered.

With wonder, the child imagined Ricardo's books as a supply of oxygen. If a life span was so tightly linked to the number of books one possessed, then this helped to explain the sudden death of his parents. In their home, there had not been one single book! Paolo promised himself to buy a lot of them with his money.

“Where do you buy books?” he asked.

“In town. In bookstores. Sometimes the peddlers have one or two, but they are not very good.”

“I would like to go to a bookstore. Do you think there's one in Puerto Natales?”

“Are you going that way?”

“No, but I could buy a horse to go there. I have a lot of money now that Luis gave me half of his inheritance.”

“Luis?”

“He's a friend. Well, he was. He's gone to travel around the world because he's in love.”

Ricardo nodded. “That's right, love can take you far away!”

He thought about his wife. He had met her in Holland, when he was a student there. At the time he dreamed of living like a European, far from the wilds of Chile, in towns with paved roads, in tall, clean houses, like those he had seen in Vermeer's paintings. But after a while, he had grown homesick and his wife had followed him here because she loved him.

“Do you think there's a bookstore in Puerto Natales?” Paolo asked again.

“Probably.”

Paolo was piling up his bundles joyously. The future seemed radiant: He and Angel were going to spend a few more nights at Ricardo's, and he would be able to play again with the children in the wet grass. Then he and Angel would go north. They would go back home, to the lonely house, and once well rested, they would go up to Puerto Natales. After all, not having a lamb was not so terrible. Instead, Paolo would have the books. And, if Paolo asked him, Angel would build bookshelves that they could prop up with stones against the crooked wall of the house. How pleasant it would be! He forgot all about the problems at Punta Arenas: Delia's deceitful hugs, Luis's betrayal, the red ship, Angel's knife—even his desire to die at the edge of the cliff. From now on, he was going to live a different life, a beautiful and comfortable life.

At twilight, Angel and Ricardo loaded the lumber onto the trailer behind the tractor. Only a few heaps of sawdust, a clean stump, and some wood chips, where the tree had broken some branches of neighboring pines when falling, were left on the ground. Paolo sighed with pleasure and looked up at the pinkish sky between the mountaintops. He felt tired, as well as grateful toward the two men. Thanks to them, he would never again be afraid to enter a forest. He was glad to have conquered his fear. One small victory after another, wasn't that the way to grow up?

“What will happen to your tree?” he asked Ricardo.

“Someone will pick it up tonight. Someone from the sawmill.”

“And then?”

“Then it will be cut up. It will provide dozens of nice planks for carpentry or cabinetmaking.”

Paolo smiled. “It'll be metamorphosed!” he concluded cheerfully.

He contemplated the large, freshly cut round logs. Drops of resin were forming at their ends, little ocher or brown stalactites that looked like tears. Ricardo started the tractor. It was the last time he would be bringing a load home. He wished he could bestow a solemn touch on this final trip by driving slowly enough to enjoy every spot of soil, each centimeter of the road, but he feared that it would awaken his melancholy. So, instead, he recited the verses of a poem.

Paolo was seated on the hood at the front of the tractor. With each jolt along the path, he laughed. Behind him, Angel and Ricardo were silent, like all men who are exhausted and satisfied with their work. The fatigue had pushed the questions back. Ricardo no longer felt their fire on his tongue. Whoever this man next to him was, and
whatever he had done in his life, he had proved his honesty and his courage here, on the trunk of the tree. That was enough, and Ricardo felt at peace.

When they were close enough to see the house, they saw a truck parked in the yard. A large blond man in blue overalls got out.

“Hello!” he shouted.

Ricardo waved to him, while Angel lowered his head to hide his face.

When they reached the man, Ricardo stopped the tractor.

“The sawmill sent me,” the man explained.

“Couldn't Alfredo come himself?” Ricardo asked.

“This timber has to be taken to Puerto Natales without delay,” the man answered. “It's not going to be treated at the usual sawmill. Do you want to see the order slip?”

Ricardo went with the man to the truck; Angel took advantage of this to jump out of the tractor. He grabbed Paolo in his arms.

“Come, let them take care of business.”

He took the child to the shelter of the house. Obviously, Ricardo had been expecting someone else; Angel was suspicious; surprises were seldom good news for murderers. He stood near the window, behind the half-drawn curtains, to observe the blond giant. He saw Ricardo look at the papers, sign at the bottom of a sheet, then help the man remove the straps holding the timber to the trailer.

Paolo asked whether he could go out to watch the
action, but Angel stopped him with a commanding look. The child noticed Angel's hands touching his chest nervously, moving like insects around a bright light. He knew what it meant.

Paolo shrugged and went to curl up on the soft couch. After a while, the truck left; he could hear it going down the path, carrying the last tree, along with Angel's suspicions.

Ricardo looked worried when he came back to the house. He was holding the order slip in his hand. But when he saw the child nestled on the couch, and Angel standing near the window, he smiled and left the piece of paper on the corner of a table. He realized how fast he had become attached to his guests. Especially to Paolo.

“Thank you,” he said, “for helping me with my work. Tonight we will drink to bygone days and to my retirement.”

He noticed that Angel was looking at the slip of paper.

“Don't worry,” Ricardo added, “everything is in order. I'm just getting old and things are changing. The sawmill of my friend Alfredo subcontracts part of its orders. You see, I'm glad I'm retiring. Before, Alfredo would come himself and we would have a drink and talk for a while before settling our business. But this man did not inspire me, so I did not invite him in.”

“You did the right thing,” Angel said.

“Did he take your tree to Puerto Natales?” Paolo asked.

“Well, yes. I'm told it's a special order for a town institution. But I couldn't care less about it now.” Ricardo
removed his hat and his leather jacket, then turned to Angel. “You can stay as long as you want. You're not disturbing me.”

“Tomorrow, we shall go home,” Angel answered.

“What is calling you to your house? Are there animals to tend to?”

“No,” said Paolo. “Our goats are dead. They were old. My fox too is dead. And my par—”

“We have things to do,” Angel interrupted. “That's all.”

Paolo was sad. He wanted to stay longer in this house on the outskirts of the forest, and he noticed that Ricardo looked sorry as well. But Paolo did not want to upset Angel by asking the reasons for his decision.

Silently they dined on a piece of deer that Ricardo had kept for a special occasion. In the trembling light of the candles, their eyes seemed animated by a strange and autonomous life, as if the agitation of their souls were reflected in their pupils.

“It's a very special day,” Ricardo said. He put his fork down. “If you leave tomorrow, I would like …”

He got up, his face as pink as a summer dawn. He motioned to Paolo and Angel to wait for him, then disappeared into a nearby room.

“When we're gone, he'll be all alone,” Paolo whispered. “Do you think he's going to die?”

Angel wiped his mouth with the corner of his cotton napkin. Death, he knew death so well. But he knew only its
violence, its way of cutting short the lives of people still very young, due to illness or the blade of his knife. He had never seen anyone die peacefully, slowly, as if going to sleep.

“We can come back one day,” he said to Paolo. “Ricardo will be waiting for us.”

A moment later, the old lumberjack walked in, carrying a large box in his arms. Without a word, he put it down on one of the side tables and opened it. Paolo wondered what new treasure he was going to discover. Once the cover had been lifted, he could see a strange apparatus.

“I hope it still works,” Ricardo muttered. “It belonged to my wife, and I have not used it in years.”

He removed a large, black, shiny disk from its jacket and laid it flat on the machine. Then he cranked a handle on the side of the box.

Angel's eyes shrank. He stared intensely at Paolo. And when Ricardo moved the arm of the old phonograph, he held his breath. He guessed that Paolo had never heard music, not even the sound of a flute made from a reed, or even that of a rattle. The child only knew the violent howling of the wind pushing at the sides of the house down on the desolate heath.

The record gave out some crackling and static sounds. Ricardo stood up, a finger on his lips, his eyes half closed.