The Man Who Arrives

The man goes along the road, alone. The night stretches on in ashen shadows, barely discernible under the waning moon. Only the whisper of his cutarras1 and the breathing of an old smoker disturb the silence. In his hand, the match flares to light his pipe.

The warm aroma of tobacco calms him a little. The crickets sing in the nearby thickets. It is dark: his hand slides down to his belt and feels for the handle of his machete. He draws on the pipe again, savoring the smoke a moment in his mouth. He looks up at the sky.

“Chejito, goddamn it!”

The night swallows his footsteps, deepening the feeling of solitude. His wife had sent for him at the salt flats, where he was camped because it was the dry season2, when the salt men must guard their salt beds day and night, so the spring tide does not wash them away. “Your woman says you’re to come on back, your boy’s gone and stole himself a girl.” The mother had found out in the morning because the rumor was running through the village: “Chejito, Naya’s boy, stole Esperanza, Mecho’s daughter, out the window of the shack last night, on a horse Licho Huertas lent him.”

The man reaches a creek and takes off his sandals. With the cutarras in his hand, he crosses the cold torrent. The dust of the road wraps the dampness of his feet. Farther ahead he makes out the light of a kerosene lamp, escaping through the window of a mud-and-cane house, like an angel of fire fleeing an abyss.

“Oh, Chejito! What a dumbass you are!”

He draws on the pipe again, unhurried, inhaling deeply. The glow reddens his face. He lets out the smoke, and with it a rich saloma3, clear and strong; that soulful saloma that sets him apart among the salt workers. With the cry that echoes among the plum trees, the light of the kerosene lamp dims. The house is left dark and silent, waiting for the man who arrives.

“I’m gonna give him a whuppin’.”

He stops in front of the house, like a pillar of salt; something troubles his thoughts. He reflects a little: the memories of his youth cross his mind, like herons flying toward the mangroves. Years ago he and Naya, a fruit just ripened, were in love. They made plans and promises. He stole her away one night and took her on horseback to the river. Ever since, they have lived together, in that simple happiness which, by being constant, becomes almost imperceptible.

In his face, hard as leather, a smile can be sensed. His heart softens. His perspective changes. His soul rejoices at his son’s courage. He lets out another saloma.

The moon is falling asleep behind the hills.