Cemetery of Swallows by Mallock;, Steven Rendall Read Free Book Online Page B

the only reply. The air-conditioning had transformed the car into a refrigerator. Mallock realized that his feet and hands were freezing. He opened the window to let a little warm air in from outside.
    â€œWait a minute, please,” Cappuccino said. “I’ll adjust the air-conditioning.”
    Amédée reluctantly closed his window.
    Â 
    At high speed, they crossed Piedra Blanca and then Bonao. The ugliness of the houses contrasted with the beauty of the vegetation. Two building materials prevailed: corrugated metal and cement blocks. For the poorest people, simple wooden planks, poorly fitted, served as a wall. Steel reinforcing rods projected from the tops of the larger houses.
    â€œThey all look like they’re under construction,” Amédée remarked.
    â€œOnce the house is finished, you have to pay the government a tax on it. And then people are often waiting to have the money to build a second or third story. It’s easier to leave the reinforcing rods sticking up. Here, time doesn’t have the same value it has in Europe.”
    It was silent in the car again. Mallock, who didn’t want to doze off, struggled against invisible weights that were trying to close his eyelids. He thought he had succeeded, but he was wrong. When he woke up, he saw a broken sign indicating that they were entering La Vega, the regional capital.
    â€œHow much farther is it?”
    He’d almost asked, like an impatient child, “Are we there yet?” He’d caught himself just in time.
    â€œWe’ll be there in a little less than two hours, Superintendent.”
    Here people didn’t talk in terms of miles, but of time. It was another philosophy of life.
    â€œCould we get something to eat and drink?”
    â€œ
No problemo
. Everything has been arranged. In twenty minutes there is an excellent
comedor
. Otherwise, there’s a
parada
, not nearly as good but only three minutes away.”
    â€œThe
comedor
will be fine,” Amédée replied. He was starving, but never enough not to care about cuisine.
    His patience was rewarded: the grilled chicken with garlic sauce was delicious. The rice with red beans in a béchamel sauce was not. The local beer, Presidente, served ice-cold, proved to be a blessing.
    When they got back on the road, night had fallen, spreading its dark, flattering cloak over the world’s imperfections. With the help of the beers and the coolness, they were now driving more calmly, with all the windows open, a concession Jiménez made at Mallock’s and Ramón’s joint request.
    It was during the last part of the trip that they began to speak more freely. As they entered Moca, the regional capital of the Espaillat and the sacred historical site of the dictator’s assassination, Mallock, who had patiently bided his time, struck up the conversation again:
    â€œTobias Darbier was lucky he wasn’t here on that day,” he said.
    â€œ
Mucho, mucho, mucho
intelligence,” Jiménez mumbled into his mustache. “And he got . . . power,
puissance.
”
    Wasn’t there a touch of admiration in Cappuccino’s remark?
    â€œIt’s especially that he knew too well what was going to happen,” Ramón said, without wanting to say any more.
    Amédée decided to be blunt for once:
    â€œDid he have paid spies in the police here?”
    Silence.
    â€œThey can’t be called spies. In any case, you wouldn’t understand.”
    â€œI wouldn’t understand what? Corruption? Treachery? Torture?”
    The silence, this time, was shorter. Ramón broke it by turning toward Amédée.
    â€œYou’re way off base. If I add voodoo, curses, and zombies, are you prepared to . . . envisage such things? No. You French are pragmatic, more Cartesian than Descartes. You think all that is a bunch of superstitions fit for niggers, right?”
    Mallock hesitated. The door was open, but this was the