The Good Conscience by Carlos Fuentes Read Free Book Online Page B

and uncle wore—he observed his father flush when Balcárcel intoned his customary words about the family and good breeding. Jaime did not listen to the conversation. He thought only of Christ; he raised his eyes to the lamp and imagined that he saw the bleeding Body there, the crown of thorns. That night he dreamed of death, for the first time with terror. With the bed-covers pulled up to his ears, he dreamed about his dead ancestors: Higinio Ceballos with open mouth and hands crossed upon his still chest; Margarita Machado with a lace coif; Pepe Ceballos like a wax doll, and Grandmother Guillermina with a handkerchief tied around her jaw. His dead ancestors smiled at him; they were like him or they were part of him, they were friendly and comforting. Then, unexpectedly, from the vague background, appeared a strange figure who shattered all tranquility, the corpse who had died in pain and blood, a horrible corpse who between his nail-pierced hands bore a mysterious offering that in the dream could neither be seen nor understood. The figure grew larger and larger with a bellowing sound and crushed Jaime’s ancestors; their bodies fell broken and grotesquely smiling at his feet; a storm of lights whirled and everything dissolved, and Jaime woke screaming. He raised his hands to his mouth. His aunt ran in, barefoot and wrapped in a shawl, to calm him and make the sign of the cross over him.
    Then it was morning: Holy Saturday. He woke with the memory of his dream, to the bang of exploding rockets. He knew what the day would be like. The whole family would attend religious ceremonies. The purple garments would fall from the images. The Virgin would smile again, the saints blaze in cloth-of-gold. Incense would fill the naves. When he got up and went into the bathroom for his bath, he thought happily about the promised spectacle. He passed the washcloth over his shoulders and felt them stronger and broader than they had been even yesterday. The tub was brim-full of rust-colored hot water. He stirred his legs and stretched his feet until he touched the gold taps; not long ago, he had not been able to do that. Water splashed his armpits with a good feeling. He soaped himself and went on thinking about this day of celebration. Already rockets were soaring and boys were running carrying papier-maché bullsheads. Already glory was clanging from all the bell-towers in the city. Judas dolls with red noses and black mustaches would explode. They would all walk to church: his father, his aunt, himself—not Uncle Balcárcel, who would be absent from Guanajuato today. They would join the crowd to celebrate the Resurrection; they would kneel in front of the confessionals, they would open their lips to receive the Host, while the chorus raised the Easter halleluja. Then again outside the church, walking slowly, surrounded by noise and happiness. The soap slipped away and Jaime, looking for it, ran his hands down his legs, which had begun to be hairy. When he got out of the tub, he stood before the mirror for a long time, wrapped in a towel, studying his face.
    There was faith in the city of noble stone that Saturday. Peasants came down from the barren hills. Shepherds walked in from San Miguel with jingling bells on their ankles and wrists. Old folks crowded balconies. Children ran through the mass of rebozos and straw hats. On every corner in Guanajuato there was a water-vendor’s stand or a fruit-stand or a flower-stand. From the rococco distance of the Valenciana the smell of exploding firecrackers came. The city smelled of gunpowder, but also of manure, of damp paving stones, of trees. Many odors rose from the earth, others from vendors, others from sideboards and cupboards behind whose white doors were fresh cheeses, rice with milk, sticky candies, bunches of cherries, eggnog, fruit wine, guava and marchpane. All these scents were in the air that Holy Saturday, for this was a provincial city of pastries and cordials