The Horseman's Song by Ben Pastor

Author:Ben Pastor [Pastor, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912242122
Publisher: Bitter Lemon Press
Published: 2018-04-15T04:00:00+00:00

RISCAL AMARGO

In the evening, Serrano listened indifferently to Bora’s report on Mas del Aire. “It’s of no use to us,” he commented. “But sometimes intelligence is good by default.”

Bora had been worried he’d have to supply details; now that he’d been asked for none, his only concern was that Serrano might notice his lips were raw. Would the colonel think the wind had caused it? Climbing might account for the reopening of the cuts on his limbs. “The plane,” he said to keep the other’s scrutiny away from his scruffy appearance, “is definitely surveying the inner sierra.”

Serrano said nothing about Bora’s lips or the plane or anything else. He looked beyond the lieutenant in an unfocused way. “It is fair for you to know that this afternoon my nephews and I rode to the place where you buried Lorca. Naturally I explained nothing to them whatsoever; young men are seldom worthy of confidence.”

Did he suspect I might have moved the body since our first visit together? After leaving Remedios’ house, Bora had euphorically wandered the deserted streets of Castellar, and anyone could have shot him dead ten times over. He sensed mistrust in Serrano’s words, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn about his opinion of young men in general, or of him as a representative of that group.

Sunday 18 July. 23.00, written by candlelight at the post.

I met Remedios today.

Since my visit, I need to reconsider, reorder, throw away or put so many of my previous assumptions aside somewhere I won’t be able to find them in the near future. Everything is upside down, and intellectual patterns – even Kant’s reason, especially Kant’s reason – serve me nothing. To hell with universals, first principles and all that: the term “relative” meant nothing to me until now. Everything has become small, and small is immense.

How have I spent weeks in this place without knowing the bruja? When I die I’ll think of her, I am sure. How many men have the privilege of knowing what their final thought will be? I may not be deserving of it, but the privilege is mine.

There’s purity about her: her colour, her grace, the way she speaks. I thought about it, and that’s the word: purity. I asked her, “Are you a gypsy?” And she said no. She asked me nothing. She didn’t ask my name, even. I asked her, “Are you married?” And she said no. But she didn’t ask if I was. As if I could envision being married to anyone after what happened today, after realizing how it can be. From now on, everything will have to compare to that.

As for me, my naivety was appalling. Not that I thought of myself as experienced, but still! Is it because I grew up Catholic, or half-English, or my stepfather’s son? All the while I marvelled at how wise she is, how unlike anything, anybody else. Neither coarse nor jaded, wiser than her years (how old is she? Twenty-six at most, but you could believe her ten years younger, except for her wisdom).

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