Senator Onesimo Sanchez had six months and eleven days to go before his death when he found the woman of his life. He met her in Rosal del Virrey, an illusory village which by night was the furtive wharf for smugglers’ ships, and on the other hand, in broad daylight looked like the most useless inlet on the desert, facing a sea that was arid and without direction and so far from everything no one would have suspected that someone capable of changing the destiny of anyone live there. Even its name was a kind of joke, because the only rose in that village was being worn by Senator Onesimo Sanchez himself on the same afternoon when he met Laura Farina. It was an unavoidable stop in the electoral campaign he made every four years. The carnival wagons had arrived in the morning. Then came the trucks with the rented Indians who were carried into the towns in order to enlarge the crowds at public ceremonies. A short time before eleven o’clock, along with the music and rockets and jeeps of the retinue, the ministerial automobile, the color of strawberry soda, arrived. Senator Onesimo Sanchez was placid and weatherless inside the air‐conditioned car, but as soon as he opened the door he was shaken by a gust of fire and his shirt of pure silk was soaked in a kind of light‐colored soup and he felt many years older and more alone than ever. In real life he had just turned forty‐two, had been graduated from Gootingen with honours as a metallurgical engineer, and was an avid reader, although without much reward, of badly translated Latin classics. He was married to a radiant German woman who had given him five children and they were all happy in their home, he the happiest of all until they told him, three months before, that he would be dead forever by next Christmas. While the preparations for the public rally were being completed, the senator managed to have an hour alone in the house they had set aside for him to rest in. Before he lay down he put in a glass of drinking water the rose he had kept alive all across the desert, lunched on the diet cereals that he took with him so as to avoid the repeated portions of fried goat that were waiting for him during the rest of the day, and he took several analgesic pills before the time prescribed so that he would have the remedy ahead of the pain. Then he put the electric fan close to the hammock and stretched out naked for fifteen minutes in the shadow of the rose, making a great effort at metal distraction so as not to think about death while he dozed. Except for the doctors, no one knew that he had been sentenced to a fixed term, for he had decided to endure his secret all alone, with no change in his life, not because of pride but out of shame. He felt in full control of his will when he appeared in public again at three in the afternoon, rested and clean, wearing a pair of coarse linen slacks and a floral shirt, and with his soul sustained by the anti‐pain pills. Nevertheless, the erosion of death was much more pernicious than he had supposed, for as he went up onto the platform he felt a strange disdain for those who were fighting for the good luck to shake his hand, and he didn’t feel sorry as he had at other times for the groups of barefoot Indians who could scarcely bear the hot saltpeter coals of the sterile little square. He silenced the applause with a wave of his hand, almost with rage, and he began to speak without gestures, his eyes fixed on the sea, which was sighing with heat. His measured, deep voice had the quality of calm water, but the speech that had been memorized and ground out so many times had not occurred to him in the nature of telling the truth, but, rather, as the opposite of a fatalistic pronouncement by Marcus Aurelius in the fourth book of his Meditations. “We are here for the purpose of defeating nature,” he began, against all his convictions. ”We will no longer be foundlings in our own country, orphans of God in a realm of thirst and bad climate, exiles in our own land. We will be different people, ladies and gentlemen, we will be great and happy people.” There was a pattern to his circus. As he spoke his aides threw clusters of paper birds into the air and the artificial creatures took on life, flew about the platform of planks, and went out to sea. At the same time, other men took some prop trees with felt leaves out of the wagons and planted them in the saltpeter soil behind the crowd.
They finished by setting up a cardboard facade with make‐believe houses of red brick that had glass windows, and with it they covered the miserable real‐life shacks. The senator prolonged his speech with two quotations in Latin in order to give the farce more time. He promised rainmaking machines, portable breeders for table animals, the oils of happiness which would make vegetables grow in the salt peter and clumps of pansies in the window boxes. When he saw that his fictional world was all set up, he pointed to it. ”That’s the way it will be for us, ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted. ”Look! That’s the way it will be for us.” The audience turned around. An ocean line made of painted paper was passing behind the houses and it was taller than the tallest houses in the artificial city. Only the senator himself noticed that since it had been set up and taken down and carried from one place to another the superimposed cardboard town had been eaten away by the terrible climate and that it was almost as poor and dusty as Rosal del Virrey. For the first time in twelve years, Nelson Farina didn’t go to greet the senator. He listened to the speech from his hammock amidst the remains of his siesta, under the cool bower of a house of unplaned boards which he had built with the same pharmacist’s hands with which he had drawn and quartered his first wife. He had escaped from Devil’s Island and appeared in Rosal del Virrey on a ship loaded with innocent macaws, with beautiful and blasphemous black woman he had found in Paramaribo and by whom he had a daughter. The woman died of natural causes a short while later and she didn’t suffer the fate of the other, whose pieces had fertilized his own cauliflower patch, but was buried whole and with her Dutch name in the local cemetery. The daughter had inherited her colour and her figure along with her father’s yellow and astonished eyes, and he had good reason to imagine that he was rearing the most beautiful woman in the world.
Ever
since
he
had
met
Senator
Onesimo
Sanchez
during
his
first
electoral
campaign,
Nelson
Farina
had
begged
for
his
help
in
getting
a
false
identity
card
which
would
place
him
beyond
the
reach
of
the
law.
The
senator,
in
a
friendly
but
firm
way,
had
refused.
Nelson
Farina
never
gave
up,
and
for
several
years,
every
time
he
found
the
chance
he
would
repeat
his
request
with
a
different
recourse.
But
this
time
he
stayed
in
his
hammock,
condemned
to
rot
alive
in
that
burning
den
of
buccaneers.
When
he
heard
the
final
applause,
he
lifted
his
head,
and
looking
over
the
boards
of
the
fence,
he
saw
the
back
side
of
the
farce:
the
props
for
the
buildings,
the
framework
of
the
trees,
the
hidden
illusionists
who
were
pushing
the
ocean
liner
along.
He
spat
without
rancor.
“Merde,”
he
said.
”C’est
le
Blacamen
de
la
politique.”
After
the
speech,
as
was
customary,
the
senator
took
a
walk
through
the
streets
of
the
town
in
the
midst
of
the
music
and
the
rockets
and
was
besieged
by
the
townspeople,
who
told
him
their
troubles.
The
senator
listened
to
them
good‐naturedly
and
he
always
found
some
way
to
console
everybody
without
having
to
do
them
any
difficult
favors.
A
woman
up
on
the
roof
of
a
house
with
her
six
youngest
children
managed
to
make
herself
heard
over
the
uproar
and
the
fireworks.
“I’m
not
asking
for
much,
Senator,”
she
said.
”Just
a
donkey
to
haul
water
from
Hanged
Man’s
Well.”
The
senator
noticed
the
six
thin
children.
”What
became
of
your
husband?”
he
asked.
“He
went
to
find
his
fortune
on
the
island
of
Aruba,”
the
woman
answered
good‐humoredly,
”and
what
he
found
was
a
foreign
woman,
the
kind
that
put
diamonds
on
their
teeth.”
The
answer
brought
a
roar
of
laughter.
“All
right,”
the
senator
decided,
”you’ll
get
your
donkey.”
A
short
while
later
an
aide
of
his
brought
a
good
pack
donkey
to
the
woman’s
house
and
on
the
rump
it
had
a
campaign
slogan
written
in
indelible
paint
so
that
no
one
would
ever
forget
that
it
was
a
gift
from
the
senator.
Along
the
short
stretch
of
street
he
made
other,
smaller
gestures,
and
he
even
gave
a
spoonful
of
medicine
to
a
sick
man
who
had
his
bed
brought
to
the
door
of
his
house
so
he
could
see
him
pass.
At
the
last
corner,
through
the
boards
of
the
fence,
he
saw
Nelson
Farina
in
his
hammock,
looking
ashen
and
gloomy,
but
nonetheless
the
senator
greeted
him,
with
no
show
of
affection.
“Hello,
how
are
you?”
Nelson
Farina
turned
in
his
hammock
and
soaked
him
in
the
sad
amber
of
his
look.
“Moi
vous
savez,”
he
said.
His
daughter
came
out
into
the
yard
when
she
heard
the
greeting.
She
was
wearing
a
cheap,
faded
Guajiro
Indian
robe,
her
head
was
decorated
with
colored
bows,
and
her
face
was
painted
as
protection
against
the
sun,
but
even
in
that
state
of
disrepair
it
was
possible
to
imagine
that
there
had
never
been
another
so
beautiful
in
the
whole
world.
The
senator
was
left
breathless.
”I’ll
be
damned!”
he
breathed
in
surprise.
”The
Lord
does
the
craziest
things!”
That
night
Nelson
Farina
dressed
his
daughter
up
in
her
best
clothes
and
sent
her
to
the
senator.
Two
guards
armed
with
rifles
who
were
nodding
from
the
heat
in
the
borrowed
house
ordered
her
to
wait
on
the
only
chair
in
the
vestibule.
The
senator
was
in
the
next
room
meeting
with
the
important
people
of
Rosal
del
Virrey,
whom
he
had
gathered
together
in
order
to
sing
for
them
the
truths
he
had
left
out
of
his
speeches.
They
looked
so
much
like
all
the
ones
he
always
met
in
all
the
towns
in
the
desert
that
even
the
senator
himself
was
sick
and
tired
of
that
perpetual
nightly
session.
His
shirt
was
soaked
with
sweat
and
he
was
trying
to
dry
it
on
his
body
with
the
hot
breeze
from
an
electric
fan
that
was
buzzing
like
a
horse
fly
in
the
heavy
heat
of
the
room.
“We,
of
course,
can’t
eat
paper
birds,”
he
said.
”You
and
I
know
that
the
day
there
are
trees
and
flowers
in
this
heap
of
goat
dung,
the
day
there
are
shad
instead
of
worms
in
the
water
holes,
that
day
neither
you
nor
I
will
have
anything
to
do
here,
do
I
make
myself
clear?”
No
one
answered.
While
he
was
speaking,
the
senator
had
torn
a
sheet
off
the
calendar
and
fashioned
a
paper
butterfly
out
of
it
with
his
hands.
He
tossed
it
with
no
particular
aim
into
the
air
current
coming
from
the
fan
and
the
butterfly
flew
about
the
room
and
then
went
out
through
the
half‐open
door.
The
senator
went
on
speaking
with
a
control
aided
by
the
complicity
of
death.
“Therefore,”
he
said,
”I
don’t
have
to
repeat
to
you
what
you
already
know
too
well:
that
my
reelection
is
a
better
piece
of
business
for
you
than
it
is
for
me,
because
I’m
fed
up
with
stagnant
water
and
Indian
sweat,
while
you
people,
on
the
other
hand,
make
your
living
from
it.”
Laura
Farina
saw
the
paper
butterfly
come
out.
Only
she
saw
it
because
the
guards
in
the
vestibule
had
fallen
asleep
on
the
steps,
hugging
their
rifles.
After
a
few
turns,
the
large
lithographed
butterfly
unfolded
completely,
flattened
against
the
wall,
and
remained
stuck
there.
Laura
Farina
tried
to
pull
it
off
with
her
nails.
One
of
the
guards,
who
woke
up
with
the
applause
from
the
next
room,
noticed
her
vain
attempt.
“It
won’t
come
off,”
he
said
sleepily.
”It’s
painted
on
the
wall.”
Laura
Farina
sat
down
again
when
the
men
began
to
come
out
of
the
meeting.
The
senator
stood
in
the
doorway
of
the
room
with
his
hand
on
the
latch,
and
he
only
noticed
Laura
Farina
when
the
vestibule
was
empty.
“What
are
you
doing
here?”
“C’est
de
la
part
de
mon
pere,”
she
said.
The
senator
understood.
He
scrutinized
the
sleeping
guards,
then
he
scrutinized
Laura
Farina,
whose
unusual
beauty
was
even
more
demanding
than
his
pain,
and
he
resolved
then
that
death
had
made
his
decision
for
him.
“Come
in,”
he
told
her.
Laura
Farina
was
struck
dumb
standing
in
the
doorway
to
the
room:
thousands
of
bank
notes
were
floating
in
the
air,
flapping
like
the
butterfly.
But
the
senator
turned
off
the
fan
and
the
bills
were
left
without
air
and
alighted
on
the
objects
in
the
room.
“You
see,”
he
said,
smiling,
”even
shit
can
fly.”
Laura
Farina
sat
down
on
the
schoolboy’s
stool.
Her
skin
was
smooth
and
firm,
with
the
same
color
and
the
same
solar
density
as
crude
oil,
her
hair
was
the
mane
of
a
young
mare,
and
her
huge
eyes
were
brighter
than
the
light.
The
senator
followed
the
thread
of
her
look
and
finally
found
the
rose,
which
had
been
tarnished
by
the
saltpeter.
“It’s
a
rose,”
he
said.
“Yes,”
she
said
with
a
trace
of
perplexity.
”I
learned
what
they
were
in
Riohacha.”
The
senator
sat
down
on
an
army
cot,
talking
about
roses
as
he
unbuttoned
his
shirt.
On
the
side
where
he
imagined
his
heart
to
be
inside
his
chest
he
had
a
corsair’s
tattoo
of
a
heart
pierced
by
an
arrow.
He
threw
the
soaked
shirt
to
the
floor
and
asked
Laura
Farina
to
help
him
off
with
his
boots.
She
knelt
down
facing
the
cot.
The
senator
continued
to
scrutinize
her,
thoughtfully,
and
while
she
was
untying
the
laces
he
wondered
which
one
of
them
would
end
up
with
the
bad
luck
of
that
encounter.
“You’re
just
a
child,”
he
said.
“Don’t
you
believe
it,”
she
said.
”I’ll
be
nineteen
in
April.”
The
senator
became
interested.
“What
day?”
“The
eleventh,”
she
said.
The
senator
felt
better.
”We’re
both
Aries,”
he
said.
And
smiling,
he
added:
”It’s
the
sign
of
solitude.”
Laura
Farina
wasn’t
paying
attention
because
she
didn’t
know
what
to
do
with
the
boots.
The
senator,
for
his
part,
didn’t
know
what
to
do
with
Laura
Farina,
because
he
wasn’t
used
to
sudden
love
affairs
and,
besides,
he
knew
that
the
one
at
hand
had
its
origins
in
indignity.
Just
to
have
some
time
to
think,
he
held
Laura
Farina
tightly
between
his
knees,
embraced
her
about
the
waist,
and
lay
down
on
his
back
on
the
cot.
Then
he
realized
that
she
was
naked
under
her
dress,
for
her
body
gave
off
the
dark
fragrance
of
an
animal
of
the
woods,
but
her
heart
was
frightened
and
her
skin
disturbed
by
a
glacial
sweat.
“No
one
loves
us,”
he
sighed.
Laura
Farina
tried
to
say
something,
but
there
was
only
enough
air
for
her
to
breathe.
He
laid
her
down
beside
him
to
help
her,
he
put
out
the
light
and
the
room
was
in
the
shadow
of
the
rose.
She
abandoned
herself
to
mercies
of
her
fate.
The
senator
caressed
her
slowly,
seeking
her
with
his
hand,
barely
touching
her,
but
where
he
expected
to
find
her,
he
came
across
something
iron
that
was
in
the
way.
“What
have
you
got
there?”
“A
padlock,”
she
said.
“What
in
the
hell!”
the
senator
said
furiously
and
asked
what
he
knew
only
too
well.
”Where’s
the
key?”
Laura
Farina
gave
a
breath
of
relief.
“My
papa
has
it,”
she
answered.
”He
told
me
to
tell
you
to
send
one
of
your
people
to
get
it
and
to
send
along
with
him
a
written
promise
that
you’ll
straighten
out
his
situation.”
The
senator
grew
tense.
”Frog
bastard,”
he
murmured
indignantly.
Then
he
closed
his
eyes
in
order
to
relax
and
he
met
himself
in
the
darkness.
Remember,
he
remembered,
that
whether
it’s
you
or
someone
else,
it
won’t
be
long
before
you’ll
be
dead
and
it
won’t
be
long
before
your
name
won’t
even
be
left.
He
waited
for
the
shudder
to
pass.
“Tell
me
one
thing,”
he
asked
then.
”What
have
you
heard
about
me?”
“Do
you
want
the
honest‐to‐God
truth?”
“The
honest‐to‐God
truth.”
“Well,”
Laura
Farina
ventured,
”they
say
you’re
worse
than
the
rest
because
you
are
different.”
The
senator
didn’t
get
upset.
He
remained
silent
for
a
long
time
with
his
eyes
closed,
and
when
he
opened
them
again
he
seemed
to
have
returned
from
his
most
hidden
instincts.
“Oh,
what
the
hell,”
he
decided.
”Tell
your
son
of
a
bitch
of
a
father
that
I’ll
straighten
out
his
situation.”
“If
you
want,
I
can
get
the
key
myself,”
Laura
Farina
said.
The
senator
held
her
back.
“Forget
about
the
key,”
he
said,
”and
sleep
awhile
with
me.
It’s
good
to
be
with
someone
when
you
are
so
alone.”
The
she
laid
his
head
on
her
shoulder
with
her
eyes
fixed
on
the
rose.
The
senator
held
her
about
the
waist,
sank
his
face
into
woods‐animal
armpit,
and
gave
in
to
terror.
Six
months
and
eleven
days
later
he
would
die
in
that
same
position,
debased
and
repudiated
because
of
the
public
scandal
with
Laura
Farina
and
weeping
with
rage
at
dying
without
her.