|
|
|
|
|
|
Amazon.com, 
Amazon.co.uk, 
Amazon.de or 
Amazon.ca
|
 The Visitation  (25 ratings)by Fernando Sorrentino Page 1 of 2 In 1965, when I was twentythree, I was training as a teacher of
Spanish language and literature. Very early one morning at the beginning of
spring I was studying in my room in our fifthfloor flat in the only apartment
building on the block.
Feeling just a bit lazy, every now and again I let my eyes stray beyond the window. I could see the street and, on the opposite side, old don Cesáreo's wellkept garden. His house stood on the corner of a site that formed an Irregular pentagon. Next to don Cesáreo’s was a beautiful house belonging to the Bernasconis, a wonderful family who were always doing good and kindly things. They had three daughters, and I was in love with Adriana, the eldest. That was why from time to time I glanced at the opposite side of the street - more out of a sentimental habit than because I expected to see her at such an early hour. As usual, don Cesáreo was tending and watering his beloved garden, which was divided from the street by a low iron fence and three stone steps. The street was so deserted that my attention was forcibly drawn to a man who appeared on the next block, heading our way on the same side as the houses of don Cesáreo and the Bernasconis. How could I help but notice this man? He was a beggar or a tramp, a scarecrow draped in shreds and patches. Bearded and thin, he wore a battered yellowish straw hat, and, despite the heat was wrapped in a bedraggled greyish overcoat. He was carrying a huge, filthy bag, and I assumed it held the small coins and scraps of food he managed to beg. I couldn't take my eyes off him. The tramp stopped in front of don Cesáreo's house and asked him something over the fence. Don Cesáreo was a badtempered old codger. Without replying, he waved the beggar away. But the beggar, in a voice too low for me to hear, seemed insistent. Then I distinctly heard don Cesáreo shout out, "Clear off once and for all and stop bothering me." The tramp, however, kept on, and even went up the three steps and pushed open the iron gate a few inches. At this point, losing the last shred of his small supply of patience, don Cesáreo gave the man a shove. Slipping, the beggar grabbed at the fence but missed it and fell to the ground. In that instant, his legs flew up in the air, and I heard the sharp crack of his skull striking the wet step. Don Cesáreo, ran on to the pavement, leaned over the beggar, and felt his chest. Then, in a fright, he took the body by the feet and dragged it to the kerb. After that he went into his house and closed the door, convinced there had been no witnesses to his accidental crime. Only I had seen it. Soon a man came along and stopped by the dead beggar. Then more and more people gathered, and at last the police came. Putting the tramp in an ambulance, they took him away. That was it; the matter was never spoken of again. For my part, I took care not to say a word. Maybe I was wrong, but why should I tell on an old man who had never done me any harm, After all, he hadn't intended to kill the tramp, and it didn't seem right to me that a court case should embitter the last years of don Cesáreo's life. The best thing, I thought, was to leave him alone with his conscience. Little by little I began to forget the episode, but every time I saw don Cesáreo it felt strange to realize that he was unaware that I was the only person in the world who knew his terrible secret. From then on, for some reason I avoided him and never dared speak to him again. In 1969, when I was twentysix, I was working as a teacher of Spanish language and literature. Adriana Bernasconi had married not me but someone else who may not have loved and deserved her as much as 1. At the time, Adriana, who was pregnant, was very nearly due. She still lived in the same house, and every day she grew more beautiful. Very early one oppressive summer morning I found myself teaching a special class in grammar to some secondaryschool children who were preparing for their exams and, as usual, from time to time I cast a rather melancholy glance across the road. All at once my heart literally did a flipflop, and I thought I was seeing things. From exactly the same direction as four years before came the tramp don Cesáreo had killed - the same ragged clothes, the greyish overcoat, the battered straw hat, the filthy bag. Forgetting my pupils, I rushed to the window. The tramp had begun to slow his step, as if he had reached his destination. He's come back to life, I thought, and he's going to take revenge on don Cesáreo. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Fernando Sorrentino, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
Copyright © 1999 - 2004 sffworld.com