Chapter 15 ending

Lying on the crib, Rekabaron half-closed his eyes and saw the sloping reed ceiling.From another room came the strumming of a guitar, like a botched maze of endlessly intertwined and unraveled notes... Bit by bit, he recalled reality, recalling what could never be changed. everyday things.He looked without regret at his large, useless body and the rough woolen cloak wrapped around his legs.Beyond the window rails stretched the afternoon plain; he had slept, but the sky was still bright.He groped with his left arm and found the bronze bell at the foot of the crib.He shook it once or twice; the flat guitar sound was still coming from beyond the door.It was played by a black man who appeared as a singer one night and competed with another out-of-towner.After his defeat, he still came to the grocery store often, as if he was waiting for someone.He kills the time by strumming his guitar, but he doesn't sing any more; perhaps his failure to answer the song has discouraged him.The neighborhood has become accustomed to the person who doesn't cause trouble.Reca Barron is a grocery store owner, and he can't forget the antiphonal event; because the next day when he was moving several large bundles of yerba mate, the right side of his body suddenly couldn't move, and he couldn't speak.We often shed tears of sympathy for the misfortunes of fictional characters, and we suffer more for our own misfortunes; but the unfortunate Recaballon did not feel sorry for himself, and he endured the fact of being paralyzed as he once endured the austerity and loneliness of America.He was present, like an animal, and now he looked at the sky and thought that the blush of the moon was a sign of rain.

A child with Indian features (perhaps of his species) half-opened the door.Reka Barron's eyes asked if he had any customers.The kid understood, and gestured to tell him no: the black man didn't count.The man lying on the bed was alone; he was stroking the bell with his left hand, as if casting some spell. The plain under the setting sun is a bit illusory, as if seen in a dream.On the horizon there was a black spot that was heaving and growing, and it was a rider, heading, or seemed to be running, toward the grocery store.Rekabaron saw hats, long dark cloaks, and white-and-white horses, but could not make out the faces of the riders.Finally he slowed down and let the horse approach at a trot.Turned a corner at a distance of 1670 meters.Rekabaron, out of sight of him and hearing only his voice, dismounted, tied the horse to a post, and walked steadily into the grocery store.

The black man seemed to be looking for something on the guitar, without raising his eyes, he said calmly: "Sir, I knew you would come if you could count on it." The other party replied in a rough voice: "I know you can be depended upon, nigger. I kept you waiting for days, but here I am." There was a moment of silence.At last the Negro said: "I'm used to waiting. I waited seven years." The other party explained calmly: "I haven't seen my children in over seven years. The day I found them, I didn't want to look like someone who played with knives all day."

"I can understand," said the Negro. "They were all well when you left them." The outsider sat at the counter and smiled happily.He asked for a glass of white wine, took a sip, but didn't finish it. "I gave them some good advice," he said. "Admonishment is never superfluous and costs nothing. Among other things, I say to them that men should not kill each other." The Negro plucked his guitar and replied: "You're right. They won't be following our example." "At least I won't follow my example," the outsider replied.Then he added, as if talking to himself: "My fate has called me to kill, and now the knife is once again in my hands."

The black didn't seem to hear, and said to himself: "When autumn comes, the days get shorter and shorter." "The rest of the light is enough for me," said the other, standing up. He stops before the Negro, as if weary: "Keep the guitar quiet for a while, what is waiting for you today is another antiphonal song." The two walked towards the door.The Negro murmured as he went out: "This time my duet may be as bad as last time." The other party replied seriously: "You weren't bad last time. The problem is that you were eager for the second antiphonal."

They walked side by side, some distance away from the house.Everywhere on the plain is the same, the moon is shining brightly.They stopped suddenly, looked at each other, and the outsider took off his spurs.Both rolled their cloaks around their forearms, and the Negro said: "Before we fight, I have one request. I hope you will show all the courage and cunning in this fight, just as you did when you killed my brother seven years ago." In their conversation, Martin Fierro heard, perhaps for the first time, a tone of hate.He felt it in his blood as if he had been whipped.The two began to fight fiercely, and the sharp blade slashed away like lightning, making a gash in the black man's face.

There comes a moment in the evening when the plain seems to have something to say; it never said it, maybe it's been telling it for eternity and we don't understand it, maybe we understand it, but it's as inexplicable as music...Rekaballen lying on the cot Saw the ending.After an impact, the black man took a few steps back, didn't stand still, and pretended to chop at the opponent's face, but turned his wrist and stabbed straight into the opponent's stomach.Then again, the grocer didn't see clearly, and Fierro didn't get up.The Negro remained motionless, as if guarding his painful death throes.He wiped the bloody sharp knife off the grass, and walked slowly towards the house without looking back.He's done his mission of revenge, and now he's nobody.To be more precise, he became another man: he killed a man, and there was no place for him in the world.