So Emiliano Fortunato was not altogether displeased when once again he heard the clopping of horse's hooves and looked up from his seat on the church steps to see Dr. Sevilla, astride his dusty gelding, come jouncing down the street. In fact the alacrity with which he hurried out to greet Sevilla convinced the old men that the doctor and the boy were friends of long standing.
After exchanging perfunctory greetings with Sevilla, Emiliano took the horse's reins and led the animal, with Sevilla still astride it and grinning like a little boy on a carnival ride, to Teresa Fortunato's house. There the doctor and the boy went into Emiliano's former bedroom for a brief examination, Sevilla explained to Teresa. After assuring himself and Emiliano that the wound was completely healed, Dr. Sevilla lowered the shades and then sat on the bed very close to the boy.
“So,” Sevilla said, unable to conceal his happiness, “by the way you greeted me I would guess that you're finally ready to leave this God-forsaken place and come home with me.”
Emiliano shook his head. “I'm a married man now,” he explained. “My wife is going to have a baby.”
Dr. Sevilla looked as though he had been kicked in the groin. His eyes brimmed with tears and he emitted a soft clicking noise from the back of his throat.
“My poor stupid boy,” he said when he recovered enough to speak. He laid his hand on Emiliano's thigh. “Don't say such a thing if it isn't true. If all you want is to drive me away again, please don't tell such an awful lie.”
“It's not a lie,” Emiliano said. “Though sometimes I wish it were. I married María Castaneda because such a thing is a man's responsibility. She's just beginning her fourth month.”
Sevilla slumped forward, his head falling into Emiliano's lap, and wept. “It's my fault,” the doctor moaned. “I shouldn't have stayed away so long. I thought it best to give you time to get thoroughly fed up with this place. But you're just a poor stupid boy and I gave you too much time, and now look what's become of you.”
Emiliano felt a curious twinge of sympathy for the doctor, and stroked Sevilla's hair.
————
“Before you go,” Emiliano said to Sevilla as they stood outside Teresa Fortunato's home, “would you mind taking a look at my wife? Just to make certain that the baby is healthy and that María is in no danger.”
They walked together, Emiliano leading the horse, to María's house. María was very happy to be examined by a bona fide doctor; she had been worried lately of Argentina Neruda's resentment of her, and to be tended by a midwife with such primitive beliefs and prejudices did not instill in María the soundest of confidences.
Dr. Sevilla, his superciliousness lost on María, laid his palm on her rounded belly, put his ear to her abdomen and listened for the fetal heartbeat, palpated her breasts, peered at the pupils of her eyes, inquired of her diet, and finally pronounced her as healthy as a cornfed sow.
Though she did not care for the analogy nor for what she mistook as Sevilla's cold professional manner, María was grateful for the diagnosis. She offered him coffee, and he, smiling snidely at Emiliano, accepted. While María was preparing the coffee Sevilla went outside and removed a package from his saddlebags.
Seated again beside Emiliano in the tiny living room, María still busy with her back to them in the kitchen, Dr. Sevilla handed the package to Emiliano and whispered, “After the way you've behaved, I don't know why I'm even bothering to give this to you. You should be ashamed of what you've done to me.”
But Emiliano felt no shame. Upon seeing the two silk shirts inside the package, one bright yellow and the other a deep lavender, he felt a familiar twinge of arousal as he ran his forefinger over a smooth collar, as he crushed a silky sleeve against his cheek and felt the cool, hard pearl buttons upon his skin.
Emiliano looked up to see María standing in front of him. She stared at him quizzically, holding Sevilla's cup of coffee in her right hand.
“Well, give him his drink,” Emiliano scolded her. “Or do you expect him to come and lap it up out of your hand?”
María handed Sevilla the cup. He accepted it, she thought, with an almost lordly air, as though to convey to her what a great favor he was doing by drinking her coffee.
“Look at the gifts Dr. Sevilla brought,” Emiliano said, and held the shirts up by their collars. María grasped the tail of each shirt between a finger and thumb and silently admired their color and texture. Then it occurred to her that Emiliano already had one silk shirt, a pink one whose origins he had never explained.
Now Emiliano saw the way his wife glanced back and forth from himself to the doctor, and became suddenly aware of the implications of Sevilla's gift.
“One of them is for you,” Emiliano quickly explained. “They are Dr. Sevilla's wedding gift to us. Take your pick. One is for you and one is for me.”
“Both are the same size,” María said, thinking out loud. “Either one will be too large for me.”
“Wasn't it smart of Dr. Sevilla to bring one that will fit over your new belly?” Emiliano's hands had begun to perspire, and there was a band of beaded moisture forming on his upper lip.
María looked at the doctor. “How did you know I was pregnant?”
Sevilla smiled and took a sip of coffee.
He has a smile like an egg-stealing fox, María thought.
Emiliano laughed nervously. “What new wife isn't pregnant within a month or two? And after the child is born you can cut the shirt down to fit you more snugly, or just keep it until you become pregnant again. It's a beautiful gift, isn't it? How many women in Torrentino own a silk shirt? Take whichever one you want, María. Personally, I think you would look best in the purple one, don't you, Dr. Sevilla?”
The doctor merely smiled at María, his piercing hawk eyes unblinking. Taking the yellow shirt from her husband's hand, María threw it over her shoulder, said “Thank you very much for the lovely gift,” then turned and went into the bedroom.
“Why didn't you help me?” Emiliano whispered to the doctor.
Now Sevilla turned his smile on the boy. “Did you ask for my help in getting her pregnant? Did you accept my help when I offered you a home? You're just a poor stupid boy, Emiliano, and from now on when you get yourself in a tight spot, I'm just going to sit back and watch you squirm the way you've been making me squirm.”
Saying this, the doctor set down his cup and stood to leave. Emiliano walked him to the door. He was trying frantically to think of some way to detain the doctor, to get him to stay for a day or two without leading him to any unwanted conclusions. Having someone besides women and tired old men to talk with for a while had been a treat for Emiliano, and he knew that, given time, he and the doctor might discover many interests in common. The truth was that, in the midst of a crowd, Emiliano had begun to feel quite lonely. It was like having nothing to drink meal after meal except sweet wine. Eventually you would begin to thirst for a sip of water.
But before Emiliano could think of anything to deter the doctor, Sevilla pulled open the door to stride outside. Blocking his progress, however, were five young women.
“We heard there was a doctor here,” the first one said. Her name was Rosarita Calderón, a pretty, unmarried girl of sixteen with whom Emiliano had spent many pleasurable hours. Her bedroom was separated from her mother's (another room which Emiliano had occasionally visited) by only a thin wall of plasterboard, and when Emiliano was with Rosarita she would hold her pillow over her face so as not to awaken her mother with the uncontrollable squeals of ecstasy she made.
Also in the group were others whose bedroom windows Emiliano had squeezed through at one time or another. In fact, looking over the faces, he saw with horror that there was not one among them he had not known in an intimate manner.
“If it's not too much to ask,” Rosarita continued, “we would be extremely grateful if the doctor would consent to take a look at us. Each of us has been troubled lately with a minor ailment, and it would put our minds to rest if we could each receive a brief
examination.”
With a questioning arch of his eyebrows Sevilla turned to look at the boy. Emiliano had already begun to sweat profusely, and at the same time to shiver. He stumbled back into the house and, like a timid child, watched from around the doorjamb as Rosarita Calderón led the doctor away, the other women following quietly behind.
Throughout that day Emiliano observed from his doorway as Dr. Sevilla was led at intervals of a half hour or so from one house to the next. Darkness fell and Emiliano tended to the gelding tethered outside. María, as she prepared her husband's dinner, wore her new yellow silk shirt, the long tails flaring out over her skirt, the sleeves rolled up and pinned at the wrist.
Emiliano was too nervous to eat. He only picked at his food. “Aren't you feeling well?” María asked. He stared blankly as though he failed to recognize her. María cleared away the dishes and hummed to herself, making Emiliano wonder what it was that made her so cheerful.
Eventually Emiliano's nervousness got the better of him. He went outside and ran down the street to his mother's house. “I just want to be alone for a while,” he told Teresa, and headed for the sanctuary of his former bedroom. “Please don't disturb me or allow any other woman to disturb me tonight.”
Lying on his bed Emiliano anxiously massaged the stump of his amputated arm. What did all those women want with Dr. Sevilla? He knew by the way his amputated arm throbbed that he was somehow involved. Maybe he even knew what “minor ailment” troubled the women, but he would not allow the thought to take concrete form in his mind.
It was nearly midnight when Dr. Sevilla finally stumbled in and fell on the bed beside Emiliano. Emiliano, wide awake, lay as still as a corpse.
Finally Sevilla heaved a heavy sigh and sat up. “You've been a busy little rooster, haven't you?” he asked.
Emiliano groaned.
“What a horrible day this has been,” Sevilla said. “Nearly every woman in town has tried to seduce me.” He patted Emiliano affectionately on the rump. “But don't worry, not one of them succeeded. My virtue remains intact.”
Emiliano felt a glimmer of hope. “That's all they wanted of you?” he asked, rolling over to face the doctor. “To get you into bed?”
“Not quite,” Sevilla answered. “It seems that seven women in this village, not counting your wife, of course, will within five to eight months have little Emilianos clinging to their bosoms.”
Emiliano felt a surge of nausea overtake him. He jumped up, ran to the window and pushed it open, hoping to steady himself with deep drafts of fresh air. But when he leaned out over the windowsill he saw a young girl, her slender body barely showing the first buds of womanhood, standing not far away, staring moon-eyed at his window while she hugged herself suggestively and rocked on her heels. He ducked inside again, pulled shut the window and yanked down the shade. Fearing that he might soon pass out from dizziness, he flung himself face down on his bed.
Dr. Sevilla regarded him with a mixture of amusement and disdain. “How could you have been so stupid?” he asked. “Didn't it ever occur to you where all of your whorish rutting might lead? Didn't you ever once stop to think that if it could happen to María it could happen to the other women as well?”
Emiliano was seized by a fit of shivering, and began to sob.
“There, there,” Sevilla said, and stroked Emiliano's back. “The damage is done, you might as well face up to it. But you needn't worry, I'm not going to abandon you now. I've decided to be godfather to your children. I'll make certain they all come into this godforsaken world red-faced and healthy.”
Emiliano could not bring himself to roll over or even to mumble his thanks to the doctor. Sevilla seemed almost to revel in this latest misfortune. Emiliano lay with one eye pressed to the pillow, the other eye staring dully at the dusty spider web in the corner in which the dried and empty shell of a fly was irrevocably trapped.
“Imagine,” Dr. Sevilla said, softly chuckling as he ran his hand up and down the back of Emiliano's leg, “a poor, stupid one-armed boy such as yourself, valiantly assuming the task of repopulating a devastated village. It's too bad you don't have a newspaper in this town, Emiliano. What a wonderful story this would make.”
————
In the morning Emiliano viewed Torrentino through new eyes. He had returned to his own home the previous night to a fitful, agitated sleep, leaving Sevilla snoring comfortably in Teresa Fortunato's house. Shortly after sunup Sevilla came by for his horse and found Emiliano standing a few feet back in his open doorway, peering out with the temerity of a man afraid of the sun.
Sevilla laughed. “How do you like your little garden of Eden this morning?” he asked.
“Shhhh!” Emiliano said. María was still asleep and Emiliano dreaded facing her, dreaded her reaction when the awful news of his profligacy became known. “I thought you promised to stick by me now,” he said.
Sevilla looked happier than Emiliano had seen him in a long time. “You really need me now, don't you?” Sevilla said. He tightened up the cinches on his saddle, put his foot in the stirrup and climbed atop the gelding. “I didn't make arrangements for a prolonged visit,” he explained, “so first I have to return home for a while. But don't worry, little papa. I'll be back soon to see how your family is coming along.”
Leaning over the saddlehorn then, clasping the gelding's sleek neck, Sevilla whispered, “I'm only coming back as a favor to you, Emiliano. When this is all over with I expect the same consideration from you.”
Emiliano nodded dully. Standing in the shadow of his doorway he watched Sevilla ride away.
When María awoke she put on her new silk shirt and came padding out to the kitchen in her bare feet. There she found her husband slumped forward with his head on the table. She gathered a few sticks of wood from the kindling box and built a small fire in the stove. After setting on the morning coffee she turned to Emiliano and said, “You were late coming home last night.”
He lifted his head, lifting it slowly, as though it were either extremely fragile or extremely heavy. “I was with Dr. Sevilla,” he explained.
María nodded. “Just so you weren't somewhere you shouldn't have been.” There was a strange quality to her voice, a teasing lightness that puzzled Emiliano. “It isn't Friday night yet, you know.”
“There will be no more Friday nights,” Emiliano said.
“What are you talking about?” She scooped flour from an earthen crock into a deep bowl and added a half-ladle of water from a covered bucket beside the stove. Working the dough with her strong fingers she shaped it into a ball, pulled off a chunk, and flattened it expertly between her palms. She tossed the tortilla into a skillet in which there was hot lard. The smell of the tortilla frying made Emiliano nauseous.
“I said,” María repeated, “what are you talking about? What do you mean there will be no more Fridays?”
“Never mind,” Emiliano said. He stood up and went out the door.
Almost reflexively Emiliano headed for his mother's house. But three-quarters of the way there he realized that even that sanctuary would be closed to him now. How could he face such a loving and trusting woman, only to tell her that she would soon be grandmother not only to María's child but to seven squealing bastards as well?
Hurrying past his mother's house Emiliano wished that Sevilla had not ridden off so early. Now that Emiliano had his senses about him, he might be inclined to join the doctor, if only to escape for the time being the unpleasantness about to befall him. Within a matter of hours the entire town would know of his sexual extravagance. For the sake of his own skin, he thought it best that he get away somewhere for a while.
Standing at the end of the unpaved street, at that point where the narrow street tapered off to little more than a rutted goat path, with the village of Torrentino behind him and nothing but the side of the mountain ahead, Emiliano came to a halt. Where could he run? Where would he be safe for a few hours from the wrath of his wife, his mother's humiliation, the villagers' sco
rn? Dear God, Emiliano prayed, if you truly saved me from the battle, if you see me standing down here now as confused as a dog that's been kicked in the head by its master, please forgive the lies I have told and the wasteful life I have been living. I will right all of these wrongs, dear God, if you will forgive me and save me one last time and show me some small sign that all of this senselessness is your divine will.
On Emiliano's right the door of the Mother of the Holy Infant church swung open. Father Vallarte shuffled out of the door and, looking even too feeble to push the straw broom he clung to, began to sweep the dust from the steps. Soon the other old men of the village would be gathering there to watch the day pass. Emiliano turned, raced across the street and bounded up the steps.
“Father,” Emiliano said, “I need urgently to talk with you. It is very important. A matter of life and death.”
Father Vallarte looked first at Emiliano, then at the straw broom in his own gnarled hands. For fifty years now he had been sweeping the steps of the Mother of the Holy Infant church at precisely this hour each morning. After sweeping the steps he would go inside and run a dampened cloth over the pews and the altar table. If he finished these chores in time he would then return outside to sit with the other old men for an hour or so. Then he would prepare for himself a light lunch, and then lie down for his siesta. After the siesta came a brief period of unscheduled time during which he read his Bible or played a few hands of solitaire.
But these young Indians, he thought, have no respect for the value of a daily schedule. Upset one aspect and you upset the entire schedule. He suggested that Emiliano return in the evening, and then resumed his sweeping of the steps.
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