A Tale of the Dispossessed

FIFTEEN

The tallow-processing plant no longer exists. We breathe freely again, and, piquant and green, all the vapors from the rain and the jungle are coming back to us.

Mother Françoise, who is crafty and diligent, found out that the owner, an older man living on the premises, was abandoned by his young wife, a full-bodied mulatto who had kindled the lust of all the male population. Mother cunningly convinced him that the foul smell was to blame for her desertion.

“Don Marco Aurelio,” she told him, “how could your loved one not leave you, when you made her live in the midst of this stench? Do you believe that a real beauty, a queen like her, is going to accept having her hair and her clothes reeking with grease?”

The old man, mired in grief, saw a ray of hope in this advice. He kissed Mother’s hands as a sign of gratefulness, moved his pestilent industry to a parcel that he owns in another area, and ordered the planting of geraniums, and African and Madonna lilies, in the lot across from us. His splendid mulatto has not returned yet, and wagging tongues say that she won’t because she’s gotten entangled in a love affair with a prosperous mafioso who has gold chains around his neck and a Mercedes-Benz in his garage. And that he sprinkles her body with champagne and brings her Chinese porcelain and French perfumes. Fortunately, the old man has not learned about that yet, and every morning he weeds his blooming garden under the illusion that it could bring her back.

Although everybody else seems to disagree with me, I am confident as to how this story will turn out: in order not to suffer that infernal smell, Mother Françoise is quite capable, if need be, of going after the mulatto woman to convince her that it is better to have an old and poor husband than a handsome one, full of gold.

The hell with Three Sevens, I decided that early morning in which my nostrils, in excellent humor, woke me up with the news that there were no longer traces of the stench. The hell with Three Sevens, I repeated after taking a freezing cold shower; now wide awake and without any palliatives, I stamped my seal on the decision. What I want is a man the way he should be: kind like a dog and always there like a mountain.

The hell with Three Sevens; I hereby disengage from that individual; I won’t honor him by dedicating one more thought to him; I repeat this over and over again to myself while I call a press conference, send fax messages, go down to the plaza to buy bags of grain and legumes, organize new reading courses for adults because those we have are not enough, and take care of the water leaks that have closed one of the collective dormitories. I’ve already forgotten Three Sevens, I keep saying to myself in the meantime. The only problem is that so much repetition has the opposite effect.