Hot Night in the City

his proud mother, who nevertheless saved newspapers with pictures of him and words of praise. She saved the whole page, lest she cut out the wrong part because, like her neighbor, she was not exposed to the threats to simple faith that an ability to read entails. While touring South America the son was offered vast fortunes to play in some Argentina or other. Twice he sent photographs of himself in action, and once he sent a magnificent cushion of multicolored silk with a beautiful (if rather immodest) woman painted on it and the words 'Greetings from Buenos Aires'. On the back, in a rainbow of embroidery, was the word 'Madre', which the priest said referred either to Madame Utuburu or to the Virgin Mary, in either case a good thought. After this gesture of prodigal generosity, the son was heard of no more.

In the normal course of things, the two widows would have lived out their years lavishing on their gardens the care and affection their husbands no longer needed and their children no longer wanted, going frequently to early morning mass in their black shawls, certain that their piety would not go unrewarded, and little by little slipping from the notice of the village, as old women should. But such was not the destiny of Widow Etcheverrigaray and Madame Utuburu, for the ever-increasing rivalry between them kept them much in the eye and on the tongues of the women of our village. At first this rivalry was manifested in looking over the stone wall at the other woman's garden and murmuring little words of condolence and of encouragement for next year. Over the years, these drops of sweetened acid matured into fragments of praise or sympathy that each woman would express in the course of her morning marketing rounds. Madame Utuburu constantly lauded her neighbor as a saint for having put up with that slovenly drunk of a husband. But of course, if the old sot hadn't been drunk when first they met he would never have— Ah, but why bring that up now, after all these years?

And Widow Etcheverrigaray often let escape heartfelt sighs over her neighbor's misfortune in having a husband cursed with bad luck. The poor man had been unlucky in everything, most of all in having to live with a woman who... but enough! He was dead now, and suffering yet greater punishment!... if that is possible.

If there was anything that made Madame Utuburu's mouth pucker with contempt, it was the way some people brought a stupid old book along with them to the lavoir every Tuesday, and looked at it and fondled it and sighed over it until others were forced to ask about it out of politeness, only to be drowned in a flood of nonsense about the brains and brilliance of some four-eyed weakling who couldn't catch a pelote in a chistera to save his life, and who never even had the decency to send his poor mother a little something for New Year's! She who had stayed awake nights trying to save the scrawny runt's life when he was sick... which was pretty often!

And if there was one thing in this world that made Widow Etcheverrigaray's eyes roll with exasperation, it was the way some people forever lugged about a dusty old cushion, shoving it under your nose until you were forced to ask what on earth it was. Then they would dump a cartload of drivel on you about the strength and speed of some ignorant brute of a wood-for-brains who lacked even the common politeness to send his mother a little gift on her saint's day. She who had carried the oversized beast under her heart for nine months!.... Well, seven.

Seasons flowed into years. A paved road penetrated our valley, and soon the wireless was inflicting Paris voices on our ears, and planting Paris values and desires in the hearts of our young people. There is a sage old Basque saying that goes: As youth fades away, one grows older. And thus it was with the two women. Stealthily at first, then with a frightening rush, what had seemed to be an inexhaustible pile of tomorrows became a vague little tangle of yesterdays. But still they toiled in their gardens to produce the finest, or second-finest, vegetables in our village, and still they honed and refined their rivalry, urged on in no small part by their neighbors, who were amused by the endless sniping until our peace was shattered by the Battle of the Apple Tree. The tree in question was very old and gnarled, but it never failed to produce an abundant crop of that crisp, succulent fruit with specks of red in the meat that used to be called Blood-of-Christ apples. One never sees a Blood-of-Christ apple anymore, but they are still remembered with pleasure by old men who never tire of telling the young that everything modern is inferior to how things were back in their day: the village fetes, the weather, the behavior of children.... Even the apples, for the love of God!

Because the tree stood exactly on the boundary between their gardens (indeed, the wall separating them touched the tree on both sides and was buckled by its growth), they had always shared the apples, each picking only from branches that overhung her property. To avoid appearing so petty as pointedly to ignore the presence of the other, they picked on different days, although it could be a tooth-grinding nuisance to have planned for weeks to harvest on a certain morning, only to look out one's window and see that hog of a neighbor picking on that very day! Not to mention the fact that young Zabala would surely have asked one to marry him if someone else had not always been throwing herself at him in the most scandalous way!

The fate of the apples on the disputable branches running along the boundary wall was a source of tension each year. Neither woman would run the risk of picking apples that did not indisputably overhang her own property lest she give the other a chance to brand her a thief at the lavoir so they were obliged to wait until God, disguised as the Force of Gravity, settled the matter at the end of the season, causing the apples to drop on one side or the other of the dividing wall. There were years when the Devil, disguised as a Strong Wind, stirred up strife by causing most of the debatable apples to fall into one garden. And every year a heart-rending number of apples fell onto the wall itself, only to rot away slowly on that rocky no-man's-land under the mournful gaze of the women, both of whom muttered bitterly over the shameful waste caused by that back-biting, gossiping old— May God forgive her.

Even if mankind cannot.

Now, the baker from Licq who drove his van from village to village, sounding his horn to bring out the customers, had a sharp eye for profit, like all those coin-biting Licquois. He knew that everyone liked the rare Blood-of-Christ apples and would be willing to buy some... at a just price, of course. Aware of the competition between the two widows, the baker was careful to offer each of them a chance to make a little extra money. After much hard and narrow negotiating, he arranged to buy five baskets of apples from each.

Early the next morning, Widow Etcheverrigaray went out to her tree carrying five baskets that she intended to fill before—what's this?! Madame Utuburu was on the other side of the stone wall, filling her baskets with the fine, plump fruit. Under normal circumstances, the widow would never pick at the same time as her greedy neighbor, but as the baker was coming that afternoon to collect his apples, without a word she set grimly to her task. It was not long before she realized that she was unlikely to fill all five baskets, for this year the apples, while especially large and beautiful, were less abundant than usual (thus does God, in His eternal justice, give with one hand while taking with the other). Indeed, when she had picked all the apples from the branches indisputably overhanging her garden, Widow Etcheverrigaray found that she had filled only four baskets. And even this had required a most liberal definition of the term 'full' as applied to baskets of apples. A covert glance over the wall revealed that Madame Utuburu was in precisely the same state: her branches stripped and still an empty basket left. And her idea of a 'full' basket was obviously one that was not totally empty! At this moment, Widow Etcheverrigaray was shocked to see her neighbor lean over the wall and squint down it, estimating whether some of the branches along the no-man's-land between them might, upon reconsideration, be judged to be on her side of the wall. The widow's eyes grew round with indignant disbelief! This covetous old greedy-gut of an Utuburu was actually contemplating breaking the unspoken truce that had permitted them to share the apple tree! She stepped forward to forestall her neighbor's iniquity by picking the apples that might just as well be judged to be on her side of the disputable branch. 'So!' hissed Madame Utuburu to herself. 'This grasping hussy of an Etcheverrigaray wants to play that way, does she? We'll see about that!' And she vigorously set herself to harvesting the apples that were erstwhile dubious but had now become clearly her own by right of self-defense—to say nothing of revenge.

They were furiously picking on opposite sides of the same branch, when Madame Utuburu happened to tug it towards her just as her rival was reaching for an apple! 'What?' muttered Widow Etcheverrigaray between her teeth. 'Well, two can play at that game! And one even better than the other!' And she boldly grasped the branch and steadied it while she picked frantically with her free hand. 'God-be-my-witness!' snarled Madame Utuburu. 'Is this shameless strumpet prepared to rip the branches off the tree to satisfy her greed?' And she jerked the branch back to her side, dragging the unprepared widow halfway over the stone wall. 'Ai-i-i!' screamed the widow. 'So the brazen harlot wants to play rough, does she?' And she was reaching out to wrench the branch back to her side when Madame Utuburu, having picked the last apple, released it, and it sprang back, striking the ample bosom of the astonished widow, who staggered and ended up sitting with a squish in the middle of her prized leeks. There was no time to allow her fury to seethe