The Delicate Prey Read Free

politely, without conviction. And he added, with more assurance, “I am Roberto Paz, at your orders.”
    The sun shone down upon them from above and was reflected by the mica in the stones at their feet. Chalía undid another button of her shirt.
    â€œIt’s hot. Will they came back soon?”
    â€œNo, señorita. They return by the road. Shall we go?” He turned his horse toward the island ahead.
    â€œI don’t want to be where the cows are,” said Chalía with petulance. “They have garrapatas. The garrapatas get under your skin.”
    Roberto laughed indulgently. “The garrapatas will not molest you if you stay on your horse, señorita.”
    â€œBut I want to get down and rest. I’m so tired!” The discomfort of the heat became pure fatigue as she said the words; this made it possible for the annoyance she felt with him to transform itself into a general state of self-pity and depression that came upon her like a sudden pain. Hanging her head she sobbed: “Ay, madre mía! My poor mamá!” She stayed that way a moment, and her horse began to walk slowly toward the trees at the side of the river bed.
    Roberto glanced perplexedly in the direction the others had taken. They had all passed out of sight beyond the head of the island; the cows were lying down again. “The señorita should not cry.”
    She did not reply. Since the reins continued slack, her horse proceeded at a faster pace toward the forest. When it had reached the shade at the edge of the stream, the boy rode quickly to her side. “Señorita!” he cried.
    She sighed and looked up at him, her hat still in her hand. “I’m very tired,” she repeated. “I want to get down and rest.”
    There was a path leading into the forest. Roberto went ahead to lead the way, hacking at stray vines and bushes with his machete. Chalía followed, sitting listlessly in the saddle, calmed by the sudden entrance into the green world of silence and comparative coolness.
    They rode slowly upward through the forest for a quarter of an hour or so without saying anything to each other. When they came to a gate Roberto opened it without dismounting and waited for Chalía to pass through. As she went by him she smiled and said: “How nice it is here.”
    He replied, rather curtly, she thought: “Yes, Señorita.”
    Ahead, the vegetation thinned, and beyond lay a vast, open, slightly undulating expanse of land, decorated here and there, as if by intent, with giant white-trunked ceiba trees. The hot wind blew across this upland terrain, and the cry of cicadas was in the air. Chalía halted her horse and jumped down. The tiny thistlelike plants that covered the ground crackled under her boots. She seated herself carefully in the shade at the very edge of the open land.
    Roberto tied the two horses to a tree and stood looking at her with the alert, hostile eyes of the Indian who faces what he does not understand.
    â€œSit down. Here,” she said.
    Stonily he obeyed, sitting with his legs straight on the earth in front of him, his back very erect. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Quécolor,” she murmured.
    She did not expect him to answer, but he did, and his voice sounded remote. “It is not my fault, señorita.”
    She slipped her arm around his neck and felt the muscles grow tense. She rubbed her face over his chest; he did not move or say anything. Wit h her eyes shut and her head pressing hard against him, she felt as if she were hanging to consciousness only by the ceaseless shrill scream of the cicadas. She remained thus, leaning over more heavily upon him as he braced himself with his hands against the earth behind him. His face had become an impenetrable mask; he seemed not to be thinking of anything, not even to be present.
    Breathing heavily, she raised her head to look at him, but found she did not have the courage to reach his