Strange Pilgrims (Vintage International) by Gabriel GarcÍA MÁRquez

Author:Gabriel GarcÍA MÁRquez [MÁRquez, Gabriel GarcÍA]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781101911136
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2014-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

OCTOBER 1980

Maria dos Prazeres

THE MAN FROM the undertaking establishment was so punctual that Maria dos Prazeres was still in her bathrobe, with her hair in curlers, and she just had time to put a red rose behind her ear to keep from looking as unattractive as she felt. She regretted her appearance even more when she opened the door and saw that he was not a mournful notary, as she supposed all death’s merchants must be, but a timid young man wearing a checked jacket and a tie with birds in different colors. He had no overcoat, despite the unpredictable Barcelona spring and its oblique, wind-driven rain, which almost always made it less tolerable than the winter. Maria dos Prazeres, who had received so many men regardless of the hour, felt a rare embarrassment. She had just turned seventy-six and was convinced she would die before Christmas, but even so she was about to close the door and ask the funeral salesman to wait a moment while she dressed to receive him in the manner he deserved. Then it occurred to her that he would freeze on the dark landing, and she asked him in.

“Please excuse my awful appearance,” she said, “but I’ve lived in Catalonia for over fifty years, and this is the first time anyone has ever come to an appointment on time.”

She spoke perfect Catalan, with a somewhat archaic purity, although one could hear the music of her forgotten Portuguese. Despite her age and the metal curlers, she was still a slender, spirited mulatta, with wiry hair and pitiless yellow eyes, who had lost her compassion for men a long time ago. The salesman, half blinded by the light in the street, made no comment but wiped the soles of his shoes on the jute mat and kissed her hand with a bow.

“You’re like the men in my day,” said Maria dos Prazeres with a laugh sharp as hail. “Sit down.”

Although he was new at the job, he knew enough about it not to expect this kind of festive welcome at eight o’clock in the morning, least of all from a merciless old lady who at first glance seemed a madwoman escaped from the Americas. And so he remained only a step away from the door, not knowing what to say, while Maria dos Prazeres pushed back the heavy plush drapes at the windows. The thin April light just reached the corners of the meticulous room, which looked more like an antique dealer’s show window than a parlor. The objects in it were meant for daily use—there were not too many or too few—and each one seemed placed in its natural space with such sureness of taste that it would have been difficult to find a better-served house even in a city as old and secret as Barcelona.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’ve come to the wrong door.”

“I wish that were true,” she said, “but death makes no mistakes.”

On the dining room table the salesman spread open a

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