“Do as you like,” responded the one addressed, in a hoarse, resounding voice; “it’s another sort of dance that’s going to begin in the dark. Hadn’t you seen it?”
“By the same sign, Seño’.”
Laurean sampled the brandy like an expert, muttering, “No discount on that!”
“What is that about the dance in the dark?” I asked him.
For reply, he took his place and struck up the first of the following couplets, Cortico replying with the second, and so on to the end of the wild and emotional song:
“Now the moon from us is sinking—
Row on, row on.
Of what’s my lonely negress thinking?
Weep on, weep on.
Thy sable night now covers me,
Saint John, Saint John;
Thy night is no more black than she,
No more, no more.
I see the distant lightnings shine
On sea, on shore;
No brighter than those eyes of mine—
Take oar, take oar.”
That chant harmonized dolorously with the nature about us; its deep and plaintive tones were repeated by the slow echoes of those immense forests.
“No more of the dance,” I said to the negroes, taking advantage of the last pause.
“Does your honor think it was badly sung?” asked Gregorio, who was the more talkative one.
“No, my friend; but it’s very sad.”
“That jig?”
“Whatever it is.”
“Praised be God! I tell you that when they sing me a fine jig, and I dance it with that dear little Mariugenia—believe what I say, your honor—the very angels in heaven beat time with their feet and want to dance it, too.”
“Shut your beak and open your eye, compa’e,” said Laurean. “Don’t you hear it?”
“Do you think I am deaf?”
“Very well, then.”
“We’ll see it, Seño’.”
The current of the river began to struggle with our boat. The creaking of the oars in the rowlocks could now be heard. Several times Gregorio gave a stroke with his oar on the side of the canoe, to indicate that we must change shores and cross the stream. Little by little the darkness became deeper. From the direction of the sea the roll of distant thunder reached us. The boatmen were silent. A sound like the echoing flight of a hurricane through the forests could be beard. Great drops of rain began to fall.
I lay down on the bed which Lorenzo had spread out for me. He was going to have a light, but Gregorio, seeing him strike a match, said, “Don’t light the candle, boss, for it will dazzle me, and make snakes come aboard.”
The rain beat fiercely on the roof of the cabin. All that darkness and quiet was pleasant to me, after the forced intercourse and pretended friendships with all sorts of people during my journey. The sweetest memories, and the gloomiest forebodings, strove for the possession of my heart to encourage or sadden it. Five days more would be enough to bring me where I could hold her in my arms again, to give back to her that life of which my absence had robbed her. My voice, my caresses, my eyes, which had been able to move her so powerfully, would they not be able to win her back from grief and death? My memory ran over what she said in her last letter: “The news of your return has been enough to give me new strength. … I cannot die and leave you alone forever.”
Before my imagination rose my father’s house in the midst of its green hills, shaded by the aged willows, garlanded with roses, lighted up by the splendor of the rising sun. María’s garments rustled near me. It was the breeze of the Zabaletas that stirred my hair. I was breathing the perfumes of María’s flowers. The wilderness, with its odors and its whispers, was an accomplice in the delicious illusion.
The canoe came to a stop on a beach of the left bank.
“What is it?” I asked Lorenzo.
“We are at Arenal.”
“Holloa! A guard! Smugglers are passing!” shouted Cortico.
“Halt!” answered a man, who must have been in ambush, as his voice came from very near the bank.
Both the boatmen burst into an uproarious laugh, and Gregorio said, before he was fairly through it: “Blessed Saint Paul! This Christian was going to bite me. Chief Anselmo, you’ll be killed by rheumatism, putting yourself in a swamp like that. Who told you that I was going up, Seño’?”
“Rogue,” replied the guard, “the witches. Let’s see what you are carrying.”
“It’s a passenger boat.”
Lorenzo had lighted the candle, and the chief entered the cabin, giving, as he passed, a resounding clap upon the negro smuggler’s back, in token of affection. After giving me a frank but respectful salute, he set about examining our safe-conduct, while Laurean and Gregorio, in their breech-clouts, stood, smiling, at the entrance to the cabin.
The first shout of Gregorio had aroused the whole post. Two more guards, with sleepy faces, and armed with carbines, as was also the one who had watched, hidden under the bushes, arrived in time for a farewell drink. Lorenzo’s great horn held enough for all.
The rain had ceased, and the dawn was coming on. Amid goodbyes and cutting jokes, exchanged between my boatmen and the guards, and set off with something more than horselaughs, we continued our journey.
Our progress became increasingly difficult. It was almost ten when we reached Calle-larga. There was a hut on the left bank, built, as are all along the river, on thick piles of lignum vitae—a wood, as is well known, that hardens under the action of water. In this way the occupants are free from floods, and on less familiar terms with vipers, whose number and variety are the terror and affliction of travelers.
Lorenzo went with the boatmen to prepare our breakfast in the tiny house. Meanwhile, I
