Un día de inverno ó caer da tarde, dous amigos que eran amigos desde a escola, e que contaban de anos o maldito número de tres veces dez, camiñaban a bon paso un sobre unha mula branca, gorda e de redondas ancas, i outro encima dos seus pés, que non parecían asañarse das pasadas lixeiras que lles facía dar seu dono.
O da pe corría tanto como o de acabalo, que vendo o sudor que lle corría ó seu compañeiro pola frente i as puntas dos cabelos, díxolle:
-¿E ti, Lourenzo, por que non mercas un come-toxos que te leve e te traia por estes camiños de Dios? Que esto de andar leguas a pé por montes e areales é bo prós cás.
-¡Come-toxos! Anda, e que os monten aqueles pra quens se fixeron, que non é Lourenzo.Cabalo grande, ande ou non ande, e xa que grande non o podo ter, sin él me quedo e sírvome dos meus pés que nin beben, nin comen, nin lle fan menester arreos.
-Verdade é que o teu modo de camiñar é máis barato que ningún ¡negro de min!, que ora teño que pagar o portasgo sólo porque vou en besta, e non coma ti, nestes pés que Dios me dou. Pro... así coma así, gusto de andar as xornadas en pernas alleas pra que as de un non cansen, e xa o dixen: debías mercar un farroupeiro pra o teu descanso. Mais ti fas coma o outro: hoxe o gano, hoxe o como, que mañán Dios dirá. Nin tes arrello nin cousa que o valla; gústanche os birbirichos i as birbiricheiras, o viño do Ribeiro e as ostras do Carril. ¡Lourenzo!, debías casarte que ó fin o tempo vai andando, os anos corren, e un probe de un home faise vello e cróbese de pelos brancos antes de que poida ter manta na cama e aforrar pra unha ocasión; e esto, Lourenzo, non se fai sin muller que teña man da casa e garde o diñeiro que un gana.
-Boi solto, ben se lambe.
-¡O vento! Esas sonche faladurías. ¿Ó derradeiro, pra qué os homes naceron si non é pra axuntarse cas mulleres, fillo da túa nai? (Lourenzo tuse). Seica te costipache co resío da serán, malo de ti. (Lourenzo volve a tusir). Léveme Dios si non é certo, e tanto non tusiras si ora viñeras a carranchaperna enriba de un farroupeiro.
-¿Costipado eu? Non o estiven na miña vida e penso que ora tampouco. Pro... sempre que se me fala de casar dame unha tos que... ¡hem!... ¡hem!... seica esto non é boa siñal. ¿Non cho parece, Xan?
-O que me parés é que eres rabudo como as uvas do cacho, e eso venche xa de nacenza, que non polo ben que te estimo deixo de conocer que eres atravesado coma os cangrexos. Nin podo adiviñar por que falas mal das mulleres, que tan ben te queren e que te arrolan nas fiadas e nas festas coma a fillo de rei e sabendo que túa nai foi muller, e que, si túa nai non fora, ti non viñeras ó mundo coma cada un de tantos.
-Nin moito se perdera anque nunca acá chegara. Que mellor que sudando polos camiños pra ganar o pan de boca, e mellor que rechinar nas festas e non nas festas, con meniñas que caras se venden sin valer un chavo, engañando ós homes, estaría aló na mente de Dios.
-¡Diancre de home!, que mesmo ás veces penso se eres de aqueles que saúdan ó crego sólo por que non digan. E pois, ti es dono de decir canto queiras, pro eu tamén che digo que me fai falta un acheguiño, e que me vou casare antes da festa, así Dios me dé saúde.
-E premita el Señore que non sudes moito, Xan, anque ora é inverno, que entonces si que inda tusirás máis que eu cando de casar me falan. E adivírtoche que teñas tino de non matar carneiros na festa, que é mal encomenzo pra un casado, por aquelo dos cornos retortos que se guindan ó pé da porta, e xa se sabe que un mal tira por outro. ¡Diono libre!
-¿E ti qués saber que xa me van parecendo contos de vella eso que se fala de cornos e de maldade das mulleres? Pois cando nesta nosa terra se dá en decir que un can rabiou, sea certo ou non sea certo, corre a bóla e mátase o can. Mais eu por min che aseguro que no atopei nunca muller solteir que non se fixese mui rogada, nin casada que o seu home comigo falase; e paréseme que aínda non fago tan mal rapaz, anque o decilo sea fachenda.
-É que eso vai no axeitarse, e ti seica no acertache, Xan; que ó demais coma un home queira, non queda can tras palleiro. Eu cho digo, non hai neste mundo máis muller boa pra os homes que aquela que os pariu, i así, arrenega de elas coma do demo, Xan, que a muller demo é, según di non sei que santo moi sabido; i o demo hastra á cruz lle fai os cornos de lonxe.
-¡Volta cos cornos!
-É tan sabido que si tanto mal che fai anomealos, é porque xa che dan sombra dende o tellado da que a de ser túa muller.
-¡Seica me queres aqueloutrare! Pouco a pouco, Lourenzo, que nin debes falar así de quen non conoces, nin tódaslas mulleres han de ter o ollo alegre, que por moitas eu sei por quen se poidera poñer, non unha, senón cen vidas.
-O dito, dito queda, que cando eu falo é con concencia; e repítoche que, sendo muller, non quedo por ningunha, anque sea condesa ou de sangre nobre, como solen decir, que unhas e outras foron feitas da mesma masa e coxean do mesmo pé. Dios che mas libre do meu lar, que ora no lar alleo aínda nas cuspo.
-¡Ah! ladrón da honra allea, léveche o deño si eu quixera que cuspiras na do meu, que o pensamento de que quizais terei que manter muller pra un rabudo coma ti faime pór os cabelos dreitos e o entendimento pensatible. Pro... falemos craros, Lourenzo, coma bos compañeiros que somos. Ti es máis listo que eu, ben o vexo, e por donde andes sábeste amañar que adimira, mentras que eu me quedo ó pé do lume vendo como o pote ferve e cantan os grilos. Se conto, o conto vai no amaño... pro esto de que as has de botar todas nunha manada, sin deixar unha pra min, vállanme tódolos santos que me fai suare. ¡Vaia!, dime que aínda viches mulleres boas, e que non todas lle saben poñer a un home honrado os cornos na testa.
-Todas, Xan, todas; e pra os Xans aínda máis; que mesmo parés que o nome as atenta.
-¡Condenicado de min, que seique é certo! Pro meu pai e miña nai casáronse e ieu me quero casare, que mesmo se me van os ollos cando vexo ó anoitecido un matrimonio que fala paseniño sentado á porta da eira, mentras corren os meniños á luz do luar por embaixo das figueiras.
-¡Ó aire, ó aire! ¡E déixate de faladurías! Paseniño que paseniño, tamén se dan beliscos e rabuñadas, e paseniño se fan as figas.
-En verdade, malo me vai parecendo o casoiro, pro moito me temo que a afición non me faga prevaricare. Mais sempre que me case, caisareime cunha do meu tempo, cheíña de carne, con xuício e facendosa, que poida que neso no haxa tanto mal... ¿Que me dis?
-Que es terco coma unha burra. Ti telo deño, Xan, i ora estache facendo as cóchegas co casoiro. Pro ten entendido que non hai volta sinón que Diolo mande, que tratándose de aquelo da franqueza das mulleres, todas deitan coma as cestas e cán coma si non tivesen pés.
Así falando Xan e Lourenzo, iban chegando a cerca de un lugar. E como xa de lonxe empezasen a sentir berros e choros, despois de un alto, por saber o que aló pasaba, viron que era un enterro, e a un rapaz que viña polo camino preguntáronlle polo morto, e respondeulles que era un home de unha muller que inda moza quedaba viuda e sin fillos que nunca tivera, e que o morto non era nativo de aquela aldea, pro que tiña noutra hardeiros.
Foise o rapaz, e Lourenzo, chegándose a Xan, díxolle entonces:
-¿E ti qués, Xan, que che faga ver o que son as mulleres, que ora a ocasión é boa?
-¿E pois como?
-Facendo que esa viuda, que non sei quen é, nin vin na miña vida, me dé nesta mesma noite palabra de casamento pra de aquí a un mes.
-¿E ti estás cordo, Lourenzo?
-Máis que ti, Xan; ¿qués ou non qués?
-E pois ben, tolo. Vamos a apostare, e si ganas perdo a miña mula branca que herdei do meu pai logo fará un ano, e que a estimo por esto e por ser boa como as niñas dos ollos. Curareime entonces do mal de casoiro; pro si ti perdes, tes que mercar un farroupeiro e non volver a falar mal das mulleres, miñas xoias, que aínda as quero máis que á miña muliña branca.
-Apostado. Báixate, pois, da mula, e fai desde agora todo o que che eu diga sin chistar, e hastra mañán pola fresca nin ti es Xan nin eu Lourenzo, sinón que ti es meu criado i eu son teu amo. Agora ven tras min tendo conta da mula, que eu irei diante, e di a todo amén.
Meu dito, meu feito.
Lourenzo tirou diante e Xan botou a pé, indo detrás ca mula polas bridas, que eran monas, así coma os demais arreos, e metían moita pantalla.
Ó mesmo tempo que eles iban chegando ó Campo Santo, iña chegando tamén o enterro, rompendo a marcha o estandarte negro e algo furado da parroquia, o crego i as mulleres que lle facían o pranto, turrando, turrando polos pelos como si fosen cousa allea, berrando hastra enroucare e agarrándose á tomba de tal maneira que non deixaban andar ós que a levaban.
-¡Ai, Antón! ¡Antón! -decía unha poñéndose como a Madalena cas mans cruzadas enriba da cabeza-. Antón, meu amigo, que sempre me decías: «¡Adiós, Mariquiña!» cando me topabas no camiño. ¡Adiós, Antón, que xa non te verei máis!
I outra, indo arrastro atrás da caixa e pegando en sí, desía tamén:
-¿En onde estás, Antón, que xa non me falas? Antón, malpocadiño, que che fixeron as miñas más uns calzós de lenzo crúo e non os puxeches, Antón; ¿quen ha de pór agora a túa chaqueta nova i os teus calzós, Antón?
I a viuda, i unhas sobriñas da viuda, todas cubertas de bágoas, vestidas de loito e os periquitos desfeitos de tanto turrar por eles, e os panos desatados, berrando ainda máis; sobre todo a viuda, que indo de cando en cando a meterse debaixo da mesma tomba, de donde a tiñan que arrancar por forza, decía:
-¡Ai, meu tío!1¡Ai, meu tío, bonito como unha prata e roxiño como un ouro, que cedo che vai comela terra as túas carniñas de manteiga! ¡E ti vaste, meu tío! ¿Ti vaste? ¿E quen sera agora o meu acheguiño, e quen me dirá como me decías ti, meu ben: «Come, Margaridiña, come pra engordare, que o teu é meu, Margaridiña, e si ti coxeas, tamén a min me perece que estou coxo»? ¡Adiós, meu tío, que xa nunca máis dormiremos xuntiños nun leito! ¡Quen me dera ir contigo na tomba, Antón, meu tío, que ó fin contigo, miña xoíña, entérrase meu corazón!
Así a viudiña se desdichaba seguindo ó morto, cando de repente, meténdose Lourenzo entre as mulleres, cubertos os ollos cun pano e saloucando como si lle saíse da ialma, escramou berrando, aínda máis que as do pranto:
-¡Ai, meu tío!, ¡ai, meu tío, que ora vexo ir mortiño nesa tomba! Nunca eu aquí viñera pra non te atopar vivo, e non é polo testamento que fixeches en favor meu deixándome por hardeiro, que sempre te quisen como a pai, e esto que me habías de chamar para despedirte de min e que te hei de ver xa morto, párteme as cordas do corazón. ¡Ai, meu tío! ¡ai, meu tío!, que mesmo me morro ca pena.
Cando esto oíron todas as do pranto, puxéronse arredor de Lourenzo, que mesmo se desfacía á uña de tanto dór como parecía ter.
-¿E logo ti como te chamas, meu fillo? -lle preguntaron moi compadecidas de el.
-Eu chámome Andruco, e son sobriño do meu tío, que me deixou por hardeiro e me mandou chamare por unha carta pra se despedir de min antes de morrer; pro, como tiven que andar moita terra, xa sólo o podo ver na tomba. ¡Ai, meu tío! ¡Ai, meu tío!
-¿E ti de onde es, mozo?
-Eu son da terra do meu tío -volveu a desir Lourenzo, saloucando hastra cortárselle a fala.
-¿E teu tío de dónde era?
-Meu tío era da miña terra.
E sin que o poideran quitar de esto, Lourenzo, proseguindo co pranto, foise achegando á viudiña, que, aínda por entre as bágoas que a curbían, poido atisvare aquel mozo garrido que tanto choraba polo seu tío. Despois que se viron xuntos, logo lle dixo Lourenzo que era hardeiro do difunto, i ela mirouno con moi bos ollos, e, acabado o enterro, díxolle que tiña que ir co ela á súa casa, que non era xusto parase noutra o sobriño do seu home, e que así chorarían xuntos a súa disgrasia.
-Disgrasia moita. ¡Ai, meu tío! -dixo Lourenzo-; pro consoládevos, que co que él me deixou conto facerlle decir moitas misas pola ialma, para que el descanse e poidamos ter nós maior consolo acá na terra, que ó fin, ña tía, Dios mándanos ter pacencia cos traballos, e... que queiras que non queiras, como dixo o ioutro, a terriña cai enriba dos corpos mortos e... ¿que hai que facer? Nós tamén temos que ir, que así é o mundo.
Así falando e chorando, tornaron camiño da casa da viuda, e Xan, que iba detrás ca mula e que nun principio non entendera nin chisca do que quería facer Lourenzo, comenzou a enxergare e pasoulle así, polas carnes unha especie de escallofrío, pensando en si iría a perder a súa mula branca. Anque, a ver o dor e as bágoas da viudiña, que non lle deixaban de correr a fío pola cara afrixida, volveu a ter confianza en Dios e nas mulleres, a quen tan ben quería.
-¿E vós, ña tía, terés un sitiño pra meter esta mula i o meu criado, que un e outro de tanto camiñare veñen cansados coma raposos?
-Todo terei pra vós, sobriño do meu tío, que mesmo con vervos pareceme que o estou vendo e sérveme de moito consolo.
-¡Dencho ca viudiña, os consolos que atopa! -marmurou Xan pra si metendo a mula no pesebre. Pro de esto a casarse -añadeu, contento de si mesmo-, aínda hai la mare.
E co esta espranza póxose a comer con moitas ganas un bo anaco de lacón que a viuda lle deu, mollándoo co unha cunca de viño do Ribeiro que ardía nun candil e que lle alegrou a pestana, mentras tía e sobriño estaban aló enriba no sobrado, falando da herencia e do morto cos que os acompañaban.
De esta maneira pasouse o día e chegou a noite, e quedaron solos na casa a viuda, Lourenzo e Xan, que desque viu cerrar as portas estuvo á axexa, co corazón posto na muliña branca, a ialma en Lourenzo e a espranza en Dios, que non era pra menos. E, non sin pena, veu coma a viudiña e Lourenzo foron ceando, antre as bágoas, uns bocados de porco e de vaca que puñan medo ós cristianos e uns xarros de viño que foran capaces de dar ánimos ó peito máis angustiado. Pro ó mesmo tempo nada se falaba do particulare, e Xan non podía adiviñare como se axeitaría Lourenzo, pra ganar a aposta, que vía por súa.
Ó fin trataron de se ir deitar, e a Xan puxéronselle os cabelos dreitos cando veu que en toda a casa non había máis que a cama do matrimonio, e que a viudiña tanto petelescou pra que Lourenzo se deitase nela que aquél tivo que obedecer, indo ela, envolta nun mantelo, a meterse detrás de un trabado que no sobrado había.
Xan, ca ialma nun fío, viu, desde o faiado, donde lle votaron unhas pallas, coma a viudiña matou o candil e todo quedou ás escuras.
-Seica quedarás comigo, miña muliña branca, i abofé que te vin perdida -escramou entonces-; ó fin as mulleres foron feitas de unha nosa costilla e algo han de ter de bo. Sálvame, viudiña, sálvame de este apreto, que inda serei capaz de me casar contigo.
Deste modo falaba Xan pra si, anque ó mesmo tempo non podía cerrar ollo, que a cada paso lle parecía que ruxían as pallas.
Así pasou unha hora longa, en que Xan, contento, xa iba a dormir, descoidado, cando de pronto oieu, primeiro un sospiro, e despois outro, cal si aqueles sospiros fosen de alma do outro mundo; estremeceuse Xan e ergueuse pra escoitar mellore.
-¡Ai!, ¡meu tío!, ¡meu tío! -dixo entonces a viudiña; ¡que fría estou neste taboado, pro máis frío estás, ti, meu tío, nesa terriña que te vai comere!
-¡Ai, meu tío!, ¡meu tío! -escramou Lourenzo da outra banda, como si falase consigo mesmo-; canto me acordo de ti, que estou no quente, e ti no Campo Santo, nun leito de terra donde xa non tes compañía.
-¡Ai! ¡Antonciño! -volveu a decir a viuda-, ¡que será de ti naquel burato, meu queridiño, cando eu que estou baixo cuberto...!, ¡bu, bu, bu!... ¡qué frío va!, ¡tembro como si tuvese a perlesía!, ¡bu, bu, bu!...
-¡Miña tía!
-¿E seica non dormes, meu sobriño?
-E seica vós tampouco, ña tía, que vos sento tembrare como unha vara verde.
-¿Como qués ti que durma, acordándome nesta noite de xiada do teu tío, que ora dorme no Campo Santo, frío como a neve, cando si el vivira dormiríamos ambos quentiños nese leito donde ti estás?
-¿E non podiades vós poñervos aquí nun ladiño, anque fora envolta no mantelo coma estades, e aínda máis habendo necesidá como agora, xa que non queres que eu vaia dormir ó chan, que mesmo pode darvos un frato co dór e co frío, i é pecado, ña tía, tentar contra a saúde?
-Deixa, meu fillo, deixa; que aunque penso que mal no houbera en que eu me deitase ó lado de un sobriño como ti, envolta no mantelo e por riba da roupa, estanto como estoxi tembrando, ¡bu, bu, bu!... quérome ir afacendo, que moitas de estas noites han de vir pra min no mundo, que si antes fora rica e casada agora son viuda e probe; e canto tiven meu agora teu é, que a min non me queda máis que o ceo i a terra.
-E... pois, miña tía... Aquí pra entre dous pecadores, e sin que naide nos oia máis que Dios, vouvos a decire que eu sei de un home rico e da sangre do voso difuntiño que, si vós quixérades, tomaríavos por muller.
-Cala, sobriño, e no me fales de outro home... que inda parés que o que tiven está vivo.
-Deixá, miña tía, que así non perderedes nin casa, nin leito, nin facenda, que é moito perder de unha vez, sin contar co meu tío; a quen lle hei de dicir moitas misas, como días ten o ano, pra que descanse e non vos veña a chamar nas noites de inverno. Así el estará aló ben, e vós aquí; e si el vivira, non outra cousa vos aconsellara, senón que tomárades outra ves home da súa sangre, a quen lle deixou o que él e vós coméchedes xuntos na súa vida.
-E seica tes razón, meu sobriño, pro... ¡si este era o teu pensamento, Antón, meu tío!, ¿por que non mo dixeche antes de morrer, que entonces eu o fixera anque fora contra voluntade, sólo por te servire?
-Pola miña conta, ña tía, que si meu tío nada vos dixo, foi porque se lle esquenceu co conto das agonías, e non vos estrañe, que a calquera lle pasara outro tanto.
-Tes razón, tes; a morte é moi negra e naquela hora todo se esquence. ¡Ai!, ¡meu tío!, ¡meu tío! ¿Que non fixera eu por che dar gusto?, bu, bu, bu!... ¡que frío vai!
-Vinde pra aquí, que, si non vos asañás, direivos que eu son o que vos quer por muller.
-¿Ti que me dis, home? Pro, à ver que o adiviñei logo; que sólo un sobriño do meu tío lle quixera cumprir así a voluntade...
-Pro é ser, tiña que ser de aquí a un mes, que despois teño que ir a Cais en busca de outra herencia, e quixera que antes quedárades outra vez dona do que foi voso. O que ha de ser, sea logo, que ó fin meu tío haio de estar deseando desde a tomba.
-¡Ai!, ¡meu tío!, ¡meu tío!, que sobriño che dou Dios, que mesmo de oílo paréceme que te estou oíndo; pro... meu fillo... é aínda moi cedo, e anque ti máis eu nos volvéramos a casar ca intención de lle facer honra e recordar ó difunto, o mundo murmura... e...
-Deixávos do mundo, que casaremos en secreto e naide o saberá.
-E pois ben, meu sobriño, e sólo pro que es da sangre do meu tío, e xa que me dis que se ha de alegrar na tomba de vernos xuntos... co demáis... ¡ai!, Dios me valla... eu queríalle moito a meu tío! ¡Bu, bu, bu!... ¡como xía!
-Vinde pra onda min envolta no mantelo, que non é pecado xa que habés de ser miña muller.
-Pro... aínda non a son, meniño, e teño remorsos... ¡Bu, bu, bu!, que frato me dá pola cabeza e polo corazon.
-Ña tía, vinde e deixávos de atentar contra a saúde, que se al pecásedes, antes de casar témonos que confesare.
-Irei, logo... irei, que necesito un pouco de caloriño.
Entonces sintíronse pasadas, ruxiron as pallas, e a viuda escramou con moita dolore:
-¡Ai, miña Virxen do Carmen, que axiña te ofendo!
-¡Ai, miña muliña branca, que axiña te perdo! -marmurou entonces Xan, con sentimento e con coraxe. E chegándose enseguida á porta do sobrado, berrou con forza:
-¡Meu amo, a casa arde!
-Non arde, home, non, que é rescoldo.
-Pois rescoldo ou lúa, si agora non vindes voume ca mula.
E Lourenzo, saltando de un golpe ó chan, dixo:
-Agarda logo... Esperaime, ña tía, que logo volvo.
E hai cen anos que foi esto, e aínda hoxe espera a viuda polo sobriño do seu tío.
One winter day in late afternoon, two fellows who had been friends since they were in school and who were the unfortunate three times ten years old, were going along at a steady pace, one on a fat white mule with round haunches, and the other on his own feet which didn’t seem bothered by the fast clip their owner subjected them to.
The one traveling on foot went along as fast as the one who was riding. This fellow, seeing the sweat pouring off his companion’s forehead and dripping from his hair, said to him:
“So, Lourenzo, why don’t you buy a gorse-eating nag to take you and bring you back along these awful roads? Walking so far over hills and sandy trails is only for dogs.”
“A gorse-eater! Come on now, let the ones they were made for ride one of those. They're not for Lourenzo. I don't want any horse at all. A big horse is really just for show, and since I can’t have a big one, I’ll use my feet. They don’t drink or eat, and they don’t need a harness.”
“Well, it’s true your way of traveling is cheaper than any other - just my bad luck! - since now I have to pay a toll just because I’m riding this animal, not like you, not on these God-given feet. But even so, I like to spend the day riding on the legs of another, so my own don’t get tired, and I already told you: you should buy a blanket to use when you need to rest. But you just think like lots of other fellows do: here today gone tomorrow, and oh well God will decide. You don’t have a harness or anything near to it; you like cockles and the women who gather them, Ribeiro wine and oysters from Carril. Lourenzo! You ought to get married, because time is passing after all, the years fly by, and a poor man grows old, his hair goes white before he has a blanket on his bed and can save up for a rainy day. And that, Lourenzo my man, can’t be accomplished without a woman to run the house and take care of the money the man earns.”
“There's nothing better than freedom.”
“Stop it! Those are just old wives’ tales! After all, what are men born for if not to be with women, you son of a gun? (Lourenzo coughs.) Maybe you caught a cold because of the late afternoon dew, poor fellow. (Lourenzo coughs again.) It’s true, as God is my witness, and you wouldn’t be coughing so much if you could at least ride on an old blanket.
Me, a cold? I never had one in my life and I doubt I'll catch one now. But… whenever I hear somebody talk about getting married I start to cough… hem! … hem!… that doesn’t sound like it’s a good idea. Don’t you agree, Xan?”
“What I think is that you’re as cantankerous as a dog with fleas, and you were born like that, because even though I like you I still can’t forget you’re as sly as a fox in a henhouse. I can’t figure out why you don’t like women, who are really attracted to you and coddle you at the ladies’ spinning sessions and parties like you’re the king’s son and knowing your mother was a woman, because if she hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have come into the world like everybody else.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a loss if I hadn’t been born. Better than breaking my back all the time to earn my bread and better than carousing at parties or maybe not at parties, with girls who think they’re worth a lot when they’re not worth a penny, pulling the wool over men’s eyes, I’d be up there with God.”
“You devil! Sometimes I think you’re one of those men who say hello to the priest just so people won’t talk. But anyway, since you always say what you're thinking, I’m going to admit that I do like to cuddle and plan to marry before the next holiday, with God’s help.”
“Well, hopefully the Lord won’t make you work up too much of a sweat over it, Xan, even though it happens to be winter, because then you’d be hemming and hawing more than I do when they mention marriage to me. But be careful not to slaughter any calves at the celebration, because that’d be a bad start to married life, because of the crooked horns they used hang up beside the door to show a woman has cheated on her husband, and you know how one misstep leads to another. Watch out!”
“You want to know what I think about those old wives’ tales, the one about cheating and how women can’t be trusted? Well, when around here they talk about how a dog might be rabid, whether it’s true or not, the story spreads and they kill the dog. But I can assure you I never met a single woman who didn’t give in, nor a married woman whose husband would talk to me; and I think I’m still not so bad-looking, even if that sounds like bragging.”
“It’s a question of how you go about it, and maybe you haven’t done that, Xan. Because a man needs what a man needs, but tread lightly. I’m telling you in this world the only good woman for a man is the one that bore him, so keep your distance from them, Xan, because woman is the devil, like some wise saint whose name I’ve forgotten says, and the devil even cheats on the cross when he’s far enough away.”
“There we go again with the cheating!”
“Everybody knows that if it bothers you so much to talk about cheating it’s because those crooked horns are casting their shadow on you from the roof of the house where your future wife lives.”
“You’re trying to drive me crazy! Little by little, Lourenzo, you are, and you shouldn’t be talking about somebody you don’t know. Not all women have a roving eye, because I know of a lot of them that a fellow could lay down not one, but a hundred lives, for them.”
“Well, say what you want, but I know what I’m saying and I’m telling you that as far as women go, I wouldn’t want any of them, even if it were a blue-blooded countess, as they like to say, because they all come from the same mould and act the same way. God save me from having one in my home, because I can’t even stand them in somebody else’s.”
“Oh, you’d steal from others, and there’d be hell to pay if you stole from me, because just the thought of me having to support a woman for a fellow the likes of you makes my hair stand on end and I can’t handle that. But… let’s be clear about it, Lourenzo, since we’re such good friends. You’re smarter than I am, it’s obvious, and it’s incredible how you manage wherever you go, while I’m stuck by the fire watching the pot boil and listening to the crickets chirp. What I mean is, it's all in how you play the game… but this thing about lumping all the women together, without leaving one for me, heaven knows it makes me really nervous. Come on! Tell me you’ve run into good women and not all of them go around cheating on an honest man.”
“They all do, Xan, all of them. And on all the men named Xan. It’s like they’re drawn to men with that name.”
“Just my luck! Maybe it’s true! But my father and mother were married and I want to get married and I do like the image of a married couple in the evening, sitting by the door to the threshing area talking softly, while their children play in the moonlight beneath the fig trees.”
“Oh get out, would you! Stop talking like that, will you? Little by little they also start pinching and scratching each other, and gradually they start insulting each other..”
“The truth be told, marriage is starting to look like a bad venture to me, but I’m afraid I can’t lie. Still, if I do get married, it’ll be with somebody my age, with a sturdy body, sensible and good-looking, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing… What do you say to that?”
“I say you’re as stubborn as a mule. You’re a devilish fellow, Xan, and now you’re itching to get married. But remember what happens is God’s will, and as far as women’s honesty is concerned, they can all be bedded and fall as if they had round heels.”
And so Xan and Lourenzo went along, talking, and drew near a hamlet. Since they’d begun to hear shouts and crying from a ways away, after stopping for a moment
to figure out what was happening, they saw it was a burial, and they asked a boy walking by about who had died, and he told them it was the husband of a young woman who was widowed and had no children, had never had any, and that the dead man wasn’t from that village, but had heirs in another.
The lad went on his way, and then Lourenzo, went over to Xan, saying:
“So Xan, do you want me to show you what women are like, since this a good opportunity?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can get that widow, and I don’t know who she is, never saw her in my life, to agree to marry me tonight, in a month’s time.”
“Are you in your right mind, Lourenzo?”
“More so than you are, Xan. Do you want me to or not?”
“All right, you crazy fellow. Let’s bet, and if you win I lose this white mule I inherited from my father a year ago, and whom I value for that reason and is the apple of my eye. That way I’ll be cured of my illness, the wish to get married. But if you lose, you have to buy me a blanket and can never talk again about how bad women are, such lovely beings, because I still think more highly of them than my little white mule.”
“You’re on. Get off your mule, now, and from here on do everything I say without complaining, and starting tomorrow early you aren’t Xan and I’m not Lourenzo; instead, you’re my servant and I’m your master. Now follow me leading the mule, because I’m walking in front, and you’ll do exactly as I say.”
And so they did.
Lourenzo continued on and Xan walked, following the mule with the lovely bridle and other trappings, and they looked quite smart.
At the same time as they were coming to the cemetery, the funeral procession was arriving as well. The rather tattered black banner of the parish stopped, with the priest and the ones who served as mourners pulling and pulling on their hair like madwomen, crying themselves hoarse and grabbing the casket so hard the pallbearers couldn’t walk.
“Oh, Antón, Antón!,” said one of them, striking a pose like Mary Magdalen with her hands clutching her head. “Antón, my friend, who always greeted me - hello, Mariquiña! - when we met on the path. Farewell, Antón, we shan’t meet again!”
Then another, dragging herself behind the box and beating her breast, also cried:
“Where are you Antón? Why don’t you answer me? Antón, you unfortunate soul, I made you your first pants made of fine linen and you never wore them, Antón. Who’s going to wear your new jacket and trousers now, Antón?”
Then the widow, and two of the widow’s nieces, their faces bathed in tears, dressed in black and their plaited locks all mussed from pulling on them so much, their scarves loosened, crying even more. Especially the widow, who from time to time even went to crouch beneath the coffin, where they had to pull her out, was crying:
“Oh, my uncle! My uncle, as bright as silver and shiny as gold, the earth has come too soon to devour your soft flesh! But you’re leaving me, my uncle! You’re leaving? And who will comfort me now, who will say to me the way you did, dear: ‘Eat, Margaridiña, put some meat on your bones, what’s yours is mine, Margaridiña, and if you’re lacking for something, I’ll be lacking too’. Farewell, my uncle, we’ll never sleep together in the same bed now! Oh how I wish I could go with you to your grave, Antón, my uncle, my beloved, my heart will be buried with you!”
Thus the poor widow was moaning about her misfortune as she followed the deceased, when suddenly Lourenzo joined the group of women, his eyes covered with a cloth and sobbing his heart out, wailed at the top of his lungs, louder than the mourners:
“Oh, my uncle, my uncle, now you’re lying in your grave. I never expected to come here and not find you alive, and it’s not because of the will you drew up in my favor, leaving me as your heir, because I always loved you like a father, and you called me to say good-bye and now I find you’re dead, it just breaks my heart. Oh, my uncle, oh my uncle! This is going to be the death of me."
When the the group of keening women heard this they gathered around Lourenzo, who quite outdid himself with the show of all the pain he seemed to feel.
"And what is your name, dear boy?" They asked, taking pity on him.
"My name is Andruco, Andy, and I'm the nephew of my uncle who made me his heir and sent for me to give me a letter before he died. But because I had so far to travel, now I can only see him in his grave. Oh, my poor uncle! Oh, my dear uncle!"
"And where are you from, lad?"
"I'm from the land of my uncle," said Lourenzo again, sobbing until his voice caught.
"And where was your uncle from?"
"My uncle was from where I'm from."
They couldn't get him to say anything more and Lourenzo, who continued to wail, drew close to the little widow who, despite the tears covering her face, was able to see that good-looking youth who was weeping so hard for his uncle. When they were standing next to one another Lourenzo told her he was the heir to the deceased man and she looked at him very kindly. Then when the burial ceremony was over, she told him he had to go with her to her house because it wasn't right for her husband's nephew to stay in anybody else's, and they'd be able to cry over their misfortune together.
"Such a great misfortune. Oh, Uncle!" said Lourenzo. "But console yourself, because with what he left me I plan to have many masses said for his soul, so he can rest that we bear our burdens and... like it or not, like they say, the earth covers the bodies of the dead and what can we do? We too are destined to disappear, because that's how the world is."
And so, talking and crying, they headed toward the window's house and Xan, who followed behind with the mule and at first didn't understand a thing about what Lourenzo had up his sleeve, began to suspect the truth and then a sort of chill went through him, because he was wondering if he was going to lose the white mule he loved so much. Although, on seeing the tears and suffering of the little widow, the tears streaming down the poor woman’s face, once more he began to trust God and women, whom he dearly loved.
"Dear Aunt, might you have a place of shelter for this mule and my servant, since after traveling so far they are both as tired as foxes."
"I have all you need, nephew of my uncle, and just looking at you it seems as if I
were looking at him, which is great consolation."
"Well I'll be! The little widow knows how to console herself!" murmured Xan under his breath as he led the mule into the stall. "But from that to marrying her," he added, pleased with himself, "there's a long row to hoe."
So with this hope he started to devour a big hunk of smoked ham, the widow had given him, washing it down with a cup of the Ribeiro wine that was heating over a small lantern and that brightened his mood, while aunt and nephew were up in the attic, talking about the inheritance and the dead man with the people who accompanied them.
In this manner the day passed and night came and the widow, Lourenzo and Xan were left alone in the house, with Xan keeping an eye open once he saw the doors shut. His heart was beating for the white mule, his soul was focused on Lourenzo, and he had placed his face in God, as he should. And, not without sadness, he watched how the little widow and Lourenzo made a supper of pieces of pork and beef that would impress a Christian, along with cups of wine that would cheer the heaviest heart. But at the same time there was no discussion of the matter at hand and Xan couldn't figure out how Lourenzo was going to manage to win the bet, which he felt he'd won.
Finally they began to get ready for bed and Xan's hair stood on end when he saw that the only bed in the house was the double bed. The little widow insisted so much that Lourenzo should sleep in it that he had to obey and, wrapped in a short cape, she went behind a walled-off part in the attic.
Xan, his heart in his throat, could see from the attic where they'd laid down some straw for him, how the little widow put out the candle and everything was dark.
"You might just be staying with me, my little white mule, but I sure did think I'd lost you." Then he exclaimed: "Anyway, women were made from our rib and they must have something good about them. Save me, little widow, save me from this predicament, and I'd even be willing to marry you."
Xan went on talking to himself like this, unable to sleep, thinking at every moment that somebody was making the straw rustle.
So more than an hour went by, after which a contented Xan was about to go to sleep, when suddenly he heard first one sigh and then another, like sighs coming from a soul in the netherworld. He shuddered and got up to listen better.
"Oh, my uncle, my uncle!" the little widow said then, "how cold I am in this corner of the attic, but you're colder still, my uncle, beneath that earth that's going to consume you!"
"Oh, uncle, my uncle!" exclaimed Lourenzo from the other side, as if he were talking to himself. "Oh how I remember you while I'm here in a warm place and you're in the cemetery in a metal bed all by yourself."
"Oh, Antonciño!" the widow repeated, "what is happening to you in that hole, my dear one, while I'm here with a roof over my head...? Oh, oh, oh... it's so cold here! I'm trembling as if I had pleurisy! Oh, oh, oh!..."
"My dear Aunt!"
"But aren't you asleep, nephew of mine?"
"It looks like you aren't either, dear Aunt, because I can tell you’re shaking like a leaf."
"How do you expect me to sleep, thinking about your uncle who's sleeping now in the cemetery on this icy cold night? If he were alive, we'd both be sleeping in this warm bed where you are, wouldn't he?"
"So couldn't you be here beside me, maybe wrapped in your shawl like you are? That’s even better, because you don't want me to sleep on the floor, since you could have a heart attack from the pain and cold, dear Aunt, and isn't it a sin to do unhealthy things?"
"Stop, my son, stop. Even though I don't think there'd be any harm done if I laid down next to a nephew like you, wrapped in a shawl and on top of the bedclothes because I'm shivering so much... oh, oh, oh... I want to start getting used to it because there'll be many nights like this for me in the future, because if once I was rich and married now I'm a widow and poor. And now everything I had is yours, all I've got left is the air above and the ground below."
"Um,,, well, dear Aunt... Here between us two sinners and with no other witness but God himself, I can tell you that I know of a rich man related to your deceased husband who would marry you, if you wish."
"Be quiet, nephew, and don't talk to me about another man... because it still feels like the one I had is alive."
"Stop, dear aunt, since you still haven't lost the house nor the bed nor the property, which is a lot to lose all at once, not counting my uncle, for whom I'm going say many masses, as many as there are days in the year, so he will be at rest and not come calling on us on winter nights. He'll be fine there, as you will be here. But if he were alive, he would advise you to do differently, tell you to be with another man from your family, to whom he left what he and you shared during his lifetime.
"Well, maybe you're right, nephew, but... was this what you thought, Antón, m uncle? Why didn't you tell me before you died, because then I'd do it even against my wishes, just to serve you?"
"As far as I can see, dear aunt, if my uncle didn't say anything to you it was because he didn't know how long he'd spend dying. Don't think it's odd, because that could happen to anybody."
"You're right, you're right. Death is so dark and at that moment all is forgotten. Oh, my uncle! my uncle! I'd do anything to make you happy! Oh, oh, oh...! It's so cold!"
"Come here, and if you won't get upset, I can tell you that I'm the one who wants you to be his wife."
"What are you saying, my good fellow? But I 've figured it out pretty quickly. Only one of my uncle's nephews would want to carry out his wishes..."
"But for that to happen, it has to be a month from now, because I have to go to Cais to retrieve another inheritance and I'd like you to be the owner again of what you once had. This ceremony ought to be carried out soon, because my uncle must be hoping for it to happen from his grave."
"Oh, uncle, uncle! What a nephew God gave you, and when I hear him talk it's like I'm hearing you. But... my boy... it's still so early and even though you and I were to marry and honor the memory of my deceased husband, people will talk... and... "
"Forget about people. We'll get married secretly and nobody will know."
"Well, all right, nephew of mine, and only because you're a blood relative of my uncle, and since you say he'll be happy in his grave at seeing us together... as far as the rest... ay! God forgive me... I loved my uncle so much! Oh, oh, oh... It's freezing!"
"Come over here next to me wrapped in the shawl and it's not a sin because you're going to be my wife."
"But... I'm not your wife yet, boy, and I feel guilty... Oh, oh, oh! I feel such a commotion in my head and my heart."
"Auntie, come here and stop endangering your health, because if you were to sin, we would have to confess before getting married."
"All right, then, I'll do it... because I need to warm up a bit."
Then there was the sound of steps, the straw rustled, and the widow cried out with great pain:
"Oh, Our Lady of Mount Carmel, how quickly I've offended you!"
"Oh, my little white mule, how soon I've lost you!" murmured Xan then, feeling both sad and angry. Then going quickly to the door of the attic, he yelled very loudly:
"Master! The house is on fire!"
"It's not on fire, man, it's just some embers."
"Well, whether it’s embers or the moon, if you don't come now I'm leaving with the mule."
So Lourenzo, leaping out of bed suddenly, said:
"Wait a moment... Wait for me, Auntie, I'll be right back."
This all happened a hundred years ago, and the widow's still waiting for her uncle's nephew to return.
