My plump and laughing comadre soon came out of the kitchen, glowing with the heat of the fire, and grasping a wooden ladle. After a thousand complaints at my not having come before, she said, “Salome and I were looking for you to come to dinner.”
“How was that?”
“Juan Ángel came here for a few reales’ worth of eggs, and the Señora sent word that you were coming today. I had Salome called from the river, where she was washing. Ask her what I said to her, to make sure I am not lying to you: ‘If my friend does not come to dinner here today, I will tell him what I think of him.’ ”
“That must mean you have a feast ready for me.”
“Haven’t I seen you eat one of my stews with a relish? The only trouble is it isn’t done yet.”
“All the better; I shall have time to go and take a bath. Now, Salome,” I said, stopping at the kitchen door, while the others went into the sitting-room, “what have you got for me?”
“Jelly, and what I am making here,” she replied, without stopping her grinding. “If you knew how I have been waiting for you as for the consecrated bread …”
“That must be because … … there must be many fine things.”
“Only a bit. Wait for me just no time at all till I wash myself, so as to shake hands with you. I know it will be useless, for, as you are not my friend any more …”
She said this without looking at me directly, half ashamed and half pleased, but showing me her smiling mouth with its teeth of incomparable whiteness. As her soft, bare arms came and went over the stone upon which she was leaning her waist, her flexible figure showed to the best advantage, her loosened hair fell over her shoulders, and the folds of her white embroidered chemise rose and fell. Throwing back her head to shake her shoulders free of hair, she went to wash her hands, and after drying them on her skirt, said to me: “It seems you like to see grinding. If you knew,” she went on, “the trouble I have. Didn’t I tell you that I have been waiting for you to come?”
Standing so that she could not be seen from the outside, she gave me her hand, and continued: “If you had not stayed away a whole month, you could have helped me. Look and see if my papa is out there.”
“No one is there. And can’t I give you the same help now?”
“I’m afraid not now.”
“But tell me, and I’ll see. Don’t you know that I would help you with all my heart.”
“If I should say no, I should not tell the truth; for I have long known that you liked me.”
“I am delighted that you know that.”
“But what I have to tell you is such a very long story that I can’t do it right away; and it is a miracle that mamma is not here already. Listen, there she comes!”
“There will be another chance.”
“Oh, I hope so. I can’t bear to have you go away without my telling you.”
“So you are going to take a bath?” said Candelaria, as she came in. “Then I am going to send you a sheet, beautifully perfumed, and you can go right away with Salome and your godson.”
On hearing this suggestion of the good woman, I concluded that she had fully entered into her husband’s plan. Salome made me an expressive little grimace, as much as to say, “Now’s our chance.”
I left the kitchen, and walked up and down in the sitting-room while they were getting the things ready for my bath. I thought, meanwhile, that Custodio had reason enough to be jealous of his daughter, since one less suspicious than he might have seen that there was danger in Salome’s face, rounded figure, and graceful walk.
My reflections were interrupted by Salome herself, who stopped at the door with a little straw hat half put on, and said, “Shall we go?”
She added, holding out the sheet she carried over her shoulder, “What perfume is that?”
“The one you use.”
“It’s mallows, Señor.”
“Oh, mallows, is it?”
“I always have them in my box. Walk on, and don’t think it is far. We’ve only to go down through the cacao-plantation, and once on the other side, there’s but a bit to go and we’re there.”
Fermín, loaded down with gourds, walked in front of us. He was my godson. I was thirteen and he two when I served as godfather at his confirmation. I did it in recognition of the regard which his parents had always shown me.
XLIII
We were going out of the courtyard behind the kitchen when Candelaria called after us, “You must not be long, for the dinner will be ready in a minute.”
Salome was going to shut the little cross-barred gate behind us, as we entered the cacao-enclosure; but I hastened to do it, while she was saying: “What shall we do with Fermín? He is such a little gossip.”
“You attend to that.”
“Oh, I know. Wait till we get a little farther on, and I’ll get rid of him.”
The thick shade of the cacao-trees covered us. The plantation appeared to be limitless. Salome’s feet, which her blue chintz skirt left visible to the ankles, showed prettily against the black path and the dry leaves. My godson walked behind us, throwing corncobs and aguacate stones at the cucaracheros and at the turtledoves which were cooing under the leaves. As we reached the foot of a cachimbo, Salome paused, and said to her brother: “Suppose the cows should go and dirty the water. I’m sure they will, because they are always at this time in their drinking-place up the stream. There’s nothing for it but your running and driving them
