IX
Ho there, Remigia, lend me some eggs, will you? My chicken has been hatching since morning. There’s some gentlemen here, come to eat.”
Her neighbor’s eyes blinked as the bright sunlight poured into the shadowy hut, darker than usual, even, as dense clouds of smoke rose from the stove. After a few minutes, she began to make out the contour of the various objects inside, and recognized the wounded man’s stretcher, which lay in one corner, close to the ashy-gray galvanized iron roof.
She sat down beside Remigia Indian-fashion, and, glancing furtively toward where Demetrio rested, asked in a low voice:
“How’s the patient, better? That’s fine. Oh, how young he is! But he’s still pale, don’t you think? So the wound’s not closed up yet. Well, Remigia, don’t you think we’d better try and do something about it?”
Remigia, naked from the waist up, stretched her thin muscular arms over the corn grinder, pounding the corn with a stone bar she held in her hands.
“Oh, I don’t know; they might not like it,” she answered, breathing heavily as she continued her rude task. “They’ve got their own doctor, you know, so—”
“Hallo, there, Remigia,” another neighbor said as she came in, bowing her bony back to pass through the opening, “haven’t you any laurel leaves? We want to make a potion for Maria Antonia who’s not so well today, what with her bellyache.”
In reality, her errand was but a pretext for asking questions and passing the time of day in gossip, so she turned her eyes to the corner where the patient lay and, winking, sought information as to his health.
Remigia lowered her eyes to indicate that Demetrio was sleeping.
“Oh, I didn’t see you when I came in. And you’re here too, Panchita? Well, how are you?”
“Good morning to you, Fortunata. How are you?”
“All right. But Maria Antonia’s got the curse today and her belly’s aching something fierce.”
She sat Indian-fashion, with bent knees, huddling hip to hip against Panchita.
“I’ve got no laurel leaves, honey,” Remigia answered, pausing a moment in her work to push a mop of hair back from over her sweaty forehead. Then, plunging her two hands into a mass of corn, she removed a handful of it dripping with muddy yellowish water. “I’ve none at all; you’d better go to Dolores, she’s always got herbs, you know.”
“But Dolores went to Cofradia last night. I don’t know, but they say they came to fetch her to help Uncle Matias’ girl who’s big with child.”
“You don’t say, Panchita?”
The three old women came together forming an animated group, and speaking in low tones, began to gossip with great gusto.
“Certainly, I swear it, by God up there in heaven.”
“Well, well, I was the first one to say that Marcelina was big with child, wasn’t I? But of course no one would believe me.”
“Poor girl. It’s going to be terrible if the kid is her uncle’s, you know!”
“God forbid!”
“Of course it’s not her uncle: Nazario had nothing to do with it, I know. It was them damned soldiers, that’s who done it.”
“God, what a bloody mess! Another unhappy woman!”
The cackle of the old hens finally awakened Demetrio. They kept silent for a moment; then Panchita, taking out of the bosom of her blouse a young pigeon which opened its beak in suffocation, said:
“To tell you the truth, I brought this medicine for the gentleman here, but they say he’s got a doctor, so I suppose—”
“That makes no difference, Panchita, that’s no medicine anyhow, it’s simply something to rub on his body.”
“Forgive this poor gift from a poor woman, senor,” said the wrinkled old woman, drawing close to Demetrio, “but there’s nothing like it in the world for hemorrhages and suchlike.”
Demetrio nodded hasty approval. They had already placed a loaf of bread soaked in alcohol on his stomach; although when this was removed he began to be cooler, he felt that he was still feverish inside.
“Come on, Remigia, you do it, you certainly know how,” the women said.
Out of a reed sheath, Remigia pulled a long and curved knife which served to cut cactus fruit. She took the pigeon in one hand, turned it over, its breast upward, and with the skill of a surgeon, ripped it in two with a single thrust.
“In the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Remigia said, blessing the room and making the sign of the cross; next, with infinite dexterity, she placed the warm bleeding portions of the pigeon upon Demetrio’s abdomen.
“You’ll see: you’ll feel much better now.”
Obeying Remigia’s instructions, Demetrio lay motionless, crumpled up on one side.
Then Fortunata gave vent to her sorrows. She liked these gentlemen of the revolution, all right, that she did—for, three months ago, you know, the Government soldiers had run away with her only daughter. This had broken her heart, Yes, and driven her all but crazy.
As she began, Anastasio Montanez and Quail lay on the floor near the stretcher, their mouths gaping, all ears to the story. But Fortunata’s wealth of detail by the time she had told half of it bored Quail and he left the hut to scratch himself out in the sun. By the time Fortunata had at last concluded with a solemn “I pray God and the Blessed Virgin Mary that you are not sparing the life of a single one of those Federals from hell,” Demetrio, face to wall, felt greatly relieved by the stomach cure, and was busy thinking of the best route by which to proceed to Durango. Anastasio Montanez was snoring like a trombone.