Chapter I

The Conch
Original
Literary translation
§ 1.1
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There are things that are truly difficult to understand—I quite realize that. Especially when one is not disposed to understand them.
§ 1.2
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Then, even if they are laid before one in full light, it is impossible to make out even their outline, much less their little hidden spirit.
§ 1.3
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That is what happened to my listeners in the convent kitchen at Pueblo Viejo, when I told them the story of Samuel Morales's vague love affair with that charming young woman from Guayaquil who was called, if I remember correctly, Perpetua, or something of the sort.
§ 1.4
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The hour, however, was favorable for storytelling. We had just eaten and were still gathered around the great table, presided over by the village priest, slowly savoring our fragrant coffee.
§ 1.5
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A moment earlier, the parish priest had been telling the 'exemplum' of a deaf-mute Montuvio devoted to the Virgin.
§ 1.6
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He had been saved because, in his innocent irreverence, every time he passed the church he would hurl a stone at the icon, no doubt as a testimony to his belief; through the holes his stones made in the Mother's mantle, his ignorant soul—yet steeped in the sternest religious faith—entered Paradise.
§ 1.7
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Being a well-read man, I immediately remembered the legend of that serving brother who had once been a minstrel and who, to win the Virgin's favor, performed his juggling tricks before the altar.
§ 1.8
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I remembered quite precisely that Anatole France had written this legend many years ago in modern language, drawing it from old feudal texts.
§ 1.9
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But, so as not to contradict the parish priest, I said nothing.
§ 1.10
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He thought that the 'exemplum' of the deaf-mute Montuvio was of indisputable originality—that is, of indisputable authenticity.
§ 1.11
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He cited names, places, and dates, and even details as precise as the fact that on the day the devotee died and his immortal soul flew to heaven, it was raining.
§ 1.12
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Nevertheless, the love story that the recollection brought back to me and that I then told in the convent kitchen at Pueblo Viejo was not understood by my listeners, who, no doubt, did not want to understand it...
§ 1.13
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A misunderstood narrator, I write it down for the great reader.
§ 1.14
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It is a gentle revenge which, unfortunately, will never be heard of in the remote village of the Montuvio countryside where I failed.
§ 1.15
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Since good technique calls for beginning by introducing the characters, first of all I shall describe the girl whose name was Perpetua, or something of the sort.
§ 1.16
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For my countrymen, simply saying that she was from Guayaquil means I have already described her brilliantly; but since I want to believe that even foreigners will read me, I must add that she was also dark.
§ 1.17
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With that, I really think the description is sufficient.
§ 1.18
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General José de San Martín thought the same as I did, and expressed it that way to his Guayaquil lover, the 'Protectora'.
§ 1.19
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Samuel Morales owned a provision boat, in which he traveled the rivers of the Montuvio country trading goods.
§ 1.20
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His approach could be recognized from far off by the long call of his conch shell, which sounded like a hunting horn.
§ 1.21
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The wealthy mistresses bustled about their kitchens: “We need to replenish the supplies.” “Uh-huh.” “Flour. Above all, flour. And provisions from the highlands. Call him.” “What for? He'll come alongside soon enough. He always does.”
§ 1.22
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Indeed, Samuel Morales never failed to approach a house, however humble it might be.
§ 1.23
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Here he would say: “Don't you need anything?” “Nothing at all.”
§ 1.24
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The traveling seller would rattle off the whole list of his goods. “Nothing, Don Morales; we don't want anything.”
§ 1.25
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Samuel Morales would think for a moment. Then he would say to the hesitant customer: “If you need something, just take whatever it is, ma'am. It doesn't matter if you don't have the money. You can pay me another time, whenever you're able...” And they would buy from him.
§ 1.26
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He knew his impoverished people, his people who 'didn't have any money.'
§ 1.27
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Of course he collected payment later, almost always.
§ 1.28
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He could not read. He could barely count. But he had a marvelous memory: “Do you remember, Doña Angelita? The day of the big downpour last month, I left you...” And there followed a list of small items, with prices in cents and half-cents.
§ 1.29
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But he did not press for payment. When he saw that it was necessary, he extended still more credit: “Go ahead and take it. Pay me when you sell the rice. Don't worry.”
§ 1.30
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It was said that, on occasion, he even helped his customers with small loans and in every way he could.
§ 1.31
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Once, the widow Moreno, who owed him ten sucres, called to him: “Could you leave me four little candles, Don Samuel?”
§ 1.32
—¿ ? ¿ ? —; . —¿ , ? ¿ ?
“And food? Don't you want any food?” “No, just the candles.” “And what for, huh? What for?”
§ 1.33
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The widow burst into tears. Morales went up to the house. In the middle of the room, on the plank floor, lay the body of a child.
§ 1.34
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The widow explained absurdly: “He died on me, you know. He was my son, and he died on me! And I need four little candles. I'll pay you as soon as possible!”
§ 1.35
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Samuel Morales went down to his canoe. He returned with a bundle of candles and several lengths of white cloth.
§ 1.36
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“Here are the candles, ma’am. They won’t cost you a thing. And this cloth... For the little coffin, you know?”
§ 1.37
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That was Samuel Morales, a Montuvio merchant.
§ 1.38
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Only in novels does love begin at a fixed and definite point.
§ 1.39
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In real life, it happens differently. Love gradually comes into being without anyone knowing how.
§ 1.40
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It gradually takes shape—that’s it—like dense clouds in a clear sky; at first it is scarcely a murky blot against the blue, until it swells with blackness and menace.
§ 1.41
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No one could say—and least of all they themselves, since they never knew exactly whether they loved each other; no one could say, not even the fierce gossips along the riverbank, how the romance between Samuel Morales and the young woman from Guayaquil began.
§ 1.42
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She was spending her vacation at the estate of some relatives—«El Tesoro»—on the banks of the Vinces River.
§ 1.43
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He regularly traveled through those parts in his provisions canoe, announcing his itinerant trade with the call of the conch.
§ 1.44
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From Vuelta Perdida—a useless bend in the river—Samuel Morales would blow his conch.
§ 1.45
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He would stop at the hacienda's dock and trade with the people of «El Tesoro».
§ 1.46
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Then he would row slowly away.
§ 1.47
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At Vuelta de los Tamarindos, to the north, before he disappeared behind the stately trees, the conch would sound again.
§ 1.48
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She, looking out from the house's broad veranda, watched him.
§ 1.49
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Later, at night, he would return south to travel the same route again in the morning.
§ 1.50
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And this happened every day.
§ 1.51
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Strictly speaking, this story of their vague, half-formed romance could end here, since nothing extraordinary happened.
§ 1.52
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But since good technique also calls for weaving incidents into the narrative before reaching the ending, I shall try to remember one and tell it.
§ 1.53
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On one occasion, she must have felt a little like a child.
§ 1.54
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After all, she was still a girl, with her madcap seventeen years, her organdy dresses, and her tousled hair.
§ 1.55
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She wanted some brightly colored candies, and went down to the riverbank to buy them from the provisions canoe.
§ 1.56
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Samuel Morales felt something very strange in his body and in his spirit when he saw her so close to him.
§ 1.57
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He would have liked not to accept the little coin she held out to him, but he did not think it prudent to do so.
§ 1.58
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He made up for it by giving her more candy than she had paid for—twice, even three times the value of her purchase.
§ 1.59
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Then, suddenly, he asked her: “Miss, do you know how to swim?”
§ 1.60
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She answered yes, that she did know how to swim, and added: “Why do you ask me that?”
§ 1.61
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He barely managed to answer: “No reason, you see; no reason.” “Ah...”
§ 1.62
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But Samuel Morales was lying. The truth was that he now felt his heroic heart throbbing with an irresistible impulse to great deeds.
§ 1.63
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He would have liked, for instance, for her not to know how to swim and to slip into the river... He would have saved her in his brawny arms, pressing her against his broad rower's chest.
§ 1.64
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“You return at night, sir, to come back again in the morning, don't you?” “That's right.” “Then why doesn't the conch sound?”
§ 1.65
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Nothing kept him from saying then: “I'll blow it... softly... just so you can hear me.”
§ 1.66
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She smiled faintly. At that moment it seemed to Samuel Morales that his canoe was rocking not on the dirty waves of the Vinces, but on greenish Kananga water, his favorite scent.
§ 1.67
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From that night on, he sounded his conch every evening at Vuelta de los Tamarindos and Vuelta Perdida as he retraced his route.
§ 1.68
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From her bed, beneath the canopy that protected her from mosquitoes and slippery cousins, she listened to him and, half asleep, smiled.
§ 1.69
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And so the months passed until the girl from the port, who was called Perpetua or something like that, left the hacienda to return to her school in Guayaquil.
§ 1.70
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Of course, Samuel Morales's conch has continued to sound on the Vinces River.
§ 1.71
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But now its song is sad, like that of the valdivias, which foretell death beneath the fearful night.
§ 1.72
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The girl never returned to «El Tesoro».
§ 1.73
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She has probably married by now and has a whole brood of little children.
§ 1.74
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But for a long time after her stay at the hacienda—as much as five years afterward, to be precise—whenever melancholy came over her, she would imitate, in her sweet maidenly voice, the song of the sailing conch.
§ 1.75
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It was curious to observe that imitating the sound brought her a gentle sense of comfort.
§ 1.76
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This was the love story that my countrymen of Pueblo Viejo—a tiny village lost in the Montuvio countryside—refused to understand when I told it.