reading about mundane maladies and natural disasters that much more exciting. One issue a week was the norm, but more normal was for it to fail to appear, though news of great consequence warranted a limited-edition gazette, printed and sold out in a trice: an infrequent occurrence, only in cases of extraordinary events—bad? good? thus it was with the bomb: that perverse achievement that culminated in an explosion and mushroom cloud: though … on the other end of the earth: over there in Japan, thousands dead … That horror, with a host of details, was mentioned one Thursday by the landlady to her fellow diners, who, wholly unconcerned, continued to scoop up her beans. Then came her final flourish:
“Any moment now another bomb will explode and the world will come to an end.”
Guffaws in response, not a single indication of alarm. The news, it seems, had been attended to as if a leaf had fallen from a tree. Full focus on the scrumptious. Beans for dinner … this the only dish, though plentiful, accompanied by plump rolls … It’s also worth mentioning, by the way, that beans made with lard are much tastier, as these were on this occasion.
“The bomb was dropped from an airplane.”
Silence or the continued shoveling of food. Words, which ones? Only hers … tossed into the air.
“What? Aren’t you worried?! The world is about to come to an end!”
Demetrio shook his head, just as smug as can be, made a move to stand up to assert his authority, and did so, but first he wiped his tangled lips and spoke.
“Look, señora, if the world is going to end, let it end already.”
“What?!”
“Yes, let it end; after all …”
The others chimed in: “Let it end, let it end.” Derision for the defeated one; though: how callous this mediocre—somewhat shameful?—merrymaking, enough to make Doña Rolanda feel crushed by the indiscretion (that almost infantile chorus of “Let it end!” continued), my, my! the lady felt intimidated but not before she’d done further damage by uttering one last sentence: It’s just that, can you imagine how many Japanese have died! In response: not a sigh, not even for the sake of politeness: nope! why second the motion? May she and her facts fade straightaway. Hence, already shrunken and small, she uttered one last word: “Hi-ro-shi-ma,” a vague subconscious input Demetrio unwittingly recorded, so effectively that when he was sitting on a bench in a rectangular room, that is, a waiting room, he muttered the word as if trying to spit it out. The small plane that would carry him to Nochistlán had limited capacity: eight passengers. The agronomist was quite familiar with this grasshopper-like flight. And all the while: “Hi-ro-shi-ma, Hi-ro-shi-ma.” And, by way of counterpoint, a view of the concrete: the awaiting plane. And then the imagined: the bomb: from what height was it dropped? His guts churned at the mere thought that he would board a plane that might be carrying—a bomb! Terrifying associations growing grimmer and grimmer … Moments later the announcement of the plane’s departure. There weren’t eight passengers, only five, and still his fears: that the contraption would fall or that the bomb would explode in midair. Nevertheless, the boarding and the takeoff and finally the airborne motion: thick clouds angrily shook the plane, enough to make one think the worst. Bah! We needn’t dwell on this because nothing terrible happened. Landing put an end to the paranoia after a miserable hour that, by the way, had the landlady not mentioned the bomb or the airplane and even less the thousands of dead Japanese—careful now!—would have been COMPLETELY NORMAL, for this was not the first time Demetrio had taken this flight.
Inevitable regression once his feet touched the ground. Memories of Mireya, a fleeting but always sensual silhouette: “For sure she’ll get it on with others and at some point while she’s doing it she’ll shout out my name.” Such miserable thoughts made the agronomist ill, but, what could he do to rid himself of something that had already become abhorrently persistent?: “She’ll miss me. My naked body will appear in her dreams.” And as he turned away from the Nochistlán airfield, he redoubled his efforts to stroll along the pavement with a graceful air, and we say “air” because the local breeze caressed him: swirled around him, perhaps, to purify the traveler’s incantation: “No-chis-tlán,” “Hir-ro-shi-ma,” “Mi-re-ya,” “Pa-rras,” verbal scraps, parsimonious swaying that finally touched down on an unreal, deep, shifting surface, whereby the agronomist would