These outbursts recurred hourly. It was some time before Esteban was able to realize that his brother’s mind was not then clear. After some moments of horror, in which his being a devout believer had its part, he would return to the room and go about his duties with bent head.
Towards dawn his brother became serener. (For what human ill does not dawn seem to be an alleviation?) It was in one of these intervals that Manuel said quite calmly:
“God’s son! I feel better, Esteban. Those cloths must be good after all. You’ll see, I’ll be up and around tomorrow. You haven’t slept for days. You’ll see I won’t cause you any more trouble, Esteban.”
“It’s no trouble, you fool.”
“You mustn’t take me seriously when I try and stop you putting on the old cloths, Esteban.” A long pause. At last Esteban brought out, barely audible:
“I think … don’t you think it would be fine if I sent for the Perichole? She could just come and see you for a few minutes, I mean …”
“Her? You still thinking about her? I wouldn’t have her here for anything. No.”
But Esteban was not content yet. He dragged up a few more phrases from the very centre of his being:
“Manuel, you still feel, don’t you, that I came between you and the Perichole, and you don’t remember that I told you it was all right with me? I swear to you I’d have been glad if you’d gone away with her, or anything.”
“What are you bringing that up for, Esteban? I tell you, in God’s own name, I never think of that. She’s nothing to me. When are you going to forget that, Esteban? I tell you I’m glad things are as they are. Look, I got to get angry when you keep going back to that.”
“Manuel, I wouldn’t speak of it again, only when you get angry at me about the cloths … you, you get angry at me about that, too. And you talk about it and you …”
“Look, I’m not responsible what I say. My old leg hurts then, see.”
“Then you don’t damn me to hell because … it looks like I came between you and the Perichole?”
“Damn you to … ? What makes you say that? You’re going crazy, Esteban; you’re imagining things. You haven’t had any sleep, Esteban. I’ve been a curse to you and you’re losing your health because of me. But you’ll see, I won’t trouble you much more. How could I damn you to hell, Esteban, when you’re all I’ve got? Understand, see, that when the cold cloths go on, I just lose myself, see. You know. Don’t think about it twice. It’s time to put them on now. I won’t say a word.”
“No, Manuel, I’ll skip this time. It won’t do you any harm. I’ll just skip this time.”
“I’ve got to get well, Esteban. I’ve got to get up soon, you know. Put them on. But one minute, give me the crucifix. I swear by the blood and body of Christ that if I say anything against Esteban I don’t mean it, and it’s just the foolish words when I’m dreaming because of the pain in my leg. God make me well again soon, amen. Put it back. There. Now I’m ready.”
“Look, Manuel, it won’t hurt if I skip just this once, see. It’ll be good for you, sure, to not get it all stirred up just this once.”
“No, I’ve got to get well. The doctor said it had to be done. I won’t say a word, Esteban.”
And it would begin all over again.
During the second night a prostitute in the next room started beating on the wall, outraged at such language. A priest in the room on the other side would come out into the hall and beat on the door. The whole floor would gather before the room in exasperation. The innkeeper came up the stairs, loudly promising his guests that the brothers would be dumped into the street the very next morning. Esteban, holding his candle, would go into the hall and permit them to rage at him for as long as they pleased; but after that he took to pressing his hand firmly over his brother’s mouth during the moments of greatest stress. This increased Manuel’s personal rage at him and he would babble all through the night.
On the third night, Esteban sent for the priest and amidst the enormous shadows Manuel received the sacrament, and died.
Thereafter Esteban refused to come near the building. He would start off upon long walks, but presently drifting back, would hang about, staring at passersby, within two streets of where his brother lay. The innkeeper failing to make any impression upon him, and remembering that the boys were brought up at the Convent of Santa María Rosa de las Rosas, sent for the Abbess. Simply and soundly she directed all that was to be done. At last she went down to the street corner and spoke to Esteban. He watched her approach him, a glance mixed of longing and distrust. But when she stood near him he turned sideways and looked away.
“I want you to help me. Won’t you come in and see your brother? Won’t you come in and help me?”
“No.”
“You won’t help me!” A long pause. Suddenly as she stood there full of her helplessness there flashed through her mind an incident of many years before: the twin brothers, about fifteen years old, were sitting at her knee and she was telling them the story of the crucifixion. Their large grave eyes were
