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Before the monumental pandemonium of progress, anyone who had any savings buried them. That was the only way people knew to safeguard their money; it was only later they learned to have confidence in banks. Once the highway came through and it became easier to reach the town by bus, people exchanged their gold and silver coins for colored pieces of paper they kept in strongboxes, as if they were treasure. Tomás Vargas ridiculed these innocents because he never trusted the bank system. Time proved him right, and after the government of El Benefactor fell—it lasted some thirty years, they say—the bills had no value and many people ended up pasting them on the wall for decoration as an unpleasant reminder of their naïveté. While everyone else was writing letters to the new President and the newspapers were complaining of the general unworthiness of the new money, Tomás Vargas’s gold nuggets were buried in a safe hiding place, although his good fortune did nothing to mitigate his miserliness or his scrounging. The man had no decency; he borrowed money with no intention of paying it back, and his children went hungry and his wife wore rags while he wore Panama hats and smoked expensive cigars. He even refused to pay the fees for his children’s schooling; his six legitimate children were educated free, because the schoolteacher Inés was determined that as long as she had her wits about her and strength enough to work no child in her town would go without learning to read. Age did nothing to quell Vargas’s bent for quarreling, carousing, and womanizing. He took great pride in being the most macho macho in the region, as he bellowed in the plaza every time he went off his head with drink and broadcast at the top of his lungs the names of all the girls he had seduced and all the bastards who carried his blood. If he were to be believed, he had sired at least three hundred, for with every fit he spouted different names. The police carried him off more than once, and the Lieutenant himself had given him a few well-placed kicks in the behind, hoping that would improve his character, but the Lieutenant’s ministrations had no more effect than the priest’s admonitions. In fact, the only person Vargas respected was Riad Halabí, the storekeeper. That is why the neighbors came to him when they suspected that Vargas was drunk and out of control, and was beating his wife or his children. When that happened, the Turk left his counter so fast he forgot to close the shop but raced, choked with righteous wrath, to set things right in the Vargas household. He never needed to say much; the minute Vargas saw him, he calmed down. Riad Halabí was the only person capable of shaming the brute.

Antonia Sierra, Vargas’s wife, was twenty-six years younger than he. But she was an old woman by the time she was forty: she had hardly a tooth left in her head, and her once-audacious body had been ruined by work, births, and miscarriages; even so, she still displayed a trace of her past arrogance, a way of walking with her head held high and her body arched—an aftertaste of her old mulatto beauty—and a ferocious pride that arrested any overture of pity. For Antonia, there were not enough hours in the day, because besides caring for her children and looking after the garden and the hens, she earned a few pesos by cooking lunch for the police, taking in washing, and cleaning the school. There were times that her body was covered with black-and-blue marks; no one had to ask, all Agua Santa knew about the abuse she took from her husband. Only Riad Halabí and the schoolteacher Inés dared to give her something now and then, thinking up excuses to keep from offending her—a few clothes, a little food, notebooks and vitamins for the children.

Antonia had to put up with a lot from her husband, including his bringing his concubine into her house.

*  *  *  *  *

Concha Díaz arrived in Agua Santa on one of the National Petroleum trucks, as sad and mournful as a ghost. The driver had taken pity on her when he saw her walking barefoot down the road with one bundle over her shoulder and another in her belly. All the trucks stopped when they drove through town, so Riad Halabí was the first to hear the story. He saw the girl appear in his doorway, and by the way she plopped down her bundle before the counter, he immediately realized that she was not passing through; this girl had come to stay. She was very young, dark-skinned, and short, with a thick mop of sun-streaked curly hair that seemed not to have seen a comb for some time. As he always did with visitors, Riad Halabí offered Concha a chair and a cool pineapple drink, and prepared to listen to the account of her adventures or misfortunes. This girl, however, said very little; she just blew her nose with her fingers and kept her eyes on the floor, mumbling a string of laments as tears slowly trickled down her cheeks. Finally the Turk made out that she wanted to see Tomás Vargas, and he sent someone to fetch him from the tavern. He waited in the doorway, and as soon as he saw Vargas, he grabbed the old man by the arm and led him before the girl, not giving him time to recover from his fright.

“The girl says this is your baby,” said Riad Halabí, in the mild tones he used when he was angry.

“No one can prove it, Turk. You always know who the mother is, but you can’t be sure about the father,” said Vargas, discomfited, but with still enough gall to try a raffish wink, which no one appreciated.

With that, the girl raised the pitch of her weeping, gulping out that she would never have come all this way if she hadn’t known who the father was. Riad Halabí told Vargas that he should be ashamed, that he was old enough to be the girl’s grandfather, and if he thought that people were going to forgive him his sins this time, he was mistaken, what could he have been thinking, but when the girl wailed even louder, he said what everyone knew he would say.

“There, there, child. It’s all right. You can stay here in my house for a while, at least until the baby’s born.”

Concha Díaz began to sob even more wildly, and declared that she would not live anywhere except with Tomás Vargas; that was why she had come. The air congealed in the store; there was a long silence punctuated only by the sound of the ceiling fans and the woman’s snuffling. No one had the nerve to tell the girl that the old man was married and had six children. Finally, Vargas picked up the girl’s bundle and pulled her to her feet.

“All right, Conchita, if that’s what you want, that’s what it’ll be. We’ll go to my house right this minute.”

That was how it happened that when Antonia Sierra got home from work she found another woman resting in her hammock, and for the first time in her life, her pride was not strong enough to conceal her feelings. Her insults could be heard all down the main street; they echoed in the plaza and penetrated every house; she screamed that Concha Díaz was a filthy sewer rat, and that Antonia Sierra would make her life so miserable that she would creep back to the gutter she never should have crawled out of, and that if she thought her children were going to live beneath the same roof with a bitch like her, she had another think coming, because Antonia Sierra was no dumb yokel, and her husband had better watch his step, too, because she had swallowed all his deviltry and cheating for the sake of her children, poor innocents they were, but this was the last straw, they’d see who Antonia Sierra was. Her tantrum lasted a week, at the end of which her cries faded to an incessant muttering. She lost the last vestiges of her beauty, she even lost her way of walking, and dragged around like a whipped dog. Her neighbors tried to tell her that it was Vargas’s fault, not Concha’s, but she was in no mood to listen to advice to be kind or fair.

Life in that house had never been pleasant, but with the arrival of the concubine it became unrelenting hell. Antonia spent the nights huddled in her children’s bed, spitting curses, while next to her snored her husband, cuddling the girl. With the first light of dawn Antonia had to get up, boil the coffee, stir up the cornmeal cakes, get the children off to school, tend the garden, cook for the police, and wash and iron. She performed all these chores like an automaton, while bitterness overflowed her heart. Since she refused to feed her husband, Concha took charge of that task after Antonia left, not wanting to meet her face to face over the cookstove. Antonia Sierra’s hatred was so savage that there were those in the town who feared she would end up murdering her rival, and they went to Riad Halabí and the schoolteacher Inés to ask them to intervene before it was too late.

But that was not how things worked out. In two months, Concha’s belly was the size of a watermelon, her legs were so swollen her veins seemed about to burst, and because she was lonely and afraid she never stopped crying. Tomás Vargas grew tired of all the tears and came home only to sleep. That meant the women no longer had to take turns cooking. Concha lost the last incentive to get up and get dressed, and lay in the hammock staring at the ceiling, without the energy even to boil a cup of coffee. Antonia ignored her all the first day, but by night had one of the children take her a bowl of soup and a glass of warm milk, so no one could say that she had let anyone die of hunger beneath her roof. The routine was repeated, and after a few days Concha got up to eat with the rest of them. Antonia pretended not to see her, but at least she stopped cursing every time the girl walked near her. Little by little, pity got the best of her. When she saw the girl growing thinner every day, a poor scarecrow with an enormous belly and deep circles under her eyes, she began to kill her hens one by one to make broth, and when all the chickens were gone, she did what she had never done before, she went to Riad Halabí for help.

“I’ve had six children, and some dead before they were born, but I’ve never seen anyone so sick from a pregnancy,” she explained, blushing. “She’s wasted down to her bones, Turk, the minute she swallows a bite of food she vomits it back up. It’s not that I care, none of this is any of my affair, but what will I tell her mother if she dies on me? I don’t want anyone coming round later asking for an accounting.”

Riad Halabí put the sick girl in his truck and drove her to the hospital, and Antonia went with them. They returned with a variety of colored pills and a new dress for Concha, since she could not pull the one she was wearing down past her waist. The other woman’s misery forced Antonia Sierra to relive portions of her youth, her first pregnancy, and similar outrages she had lived through. In spite of herself, she wanted Concha Díaz’s future to be less dismal than her own. She felt no anger toward her now, but a secret compassion, and she began to treat her like a daughter who had gone wrong, with a brusque authority that barely veiled her tenderness. The girl was terrified to see the pernicious transformations in her body: the ungovernable swelling, the shame of the constant need to urinate, the waddling like a goose, the uncontrollable nausea, the wishing she could die. Some days she woke up so sick she could not get out of her hammock; then Antonia left the children to take turns looking after her while she rushed through her work to get home early and care for Concha. Other days Concha woke with more spirit, and when Antonia returned home, exhausted, she found dinner waiting and the house cleaned. The girl would serve her a cup of coffee and stand by her side waiting for her to drink it, watching Antonia with the moist eyes of a grateful animal.

The baby was born in the hospital in the city, because he did not want to come into the world and they had to open up Concha Díaz to get him out. Antonia stayed with her a week, while the schoolteacher Inés looked after her own children. The two women returned in Halabí’s supply truck, and all Agua Santa came out to welcome them back. The mother smiled while Antonia exhibited the baby with a grandmother’s ebullience, proclaiming that he would be christened Riad Vargas Díaz in just tribute to the Turk, because without his help the mother would never have reached motherhood and, besides, the Turk had paid all the expenses when the father turned a deaf ear and pretended he was drunker than usual, to keep from digging up his gold.

Before two weeks had gone by, Tomás Vargas tried to coax Concha Díaz back to his hammock, despite the fact the woman had an unhealed scar and battlefield dressing across her belly. Antonia stepped up to him with her hands on her hips, determined for the first time in her life to keep the old vulture from getting his way. Her husband made a move to whip off his belt to give her the usual thrashing, but before he could complete the gesture, she started toward him with such ferocity that he stepped back in surprise. With that hesitation, he was lost, because she knew then who was the stronger. Meanwhile, Concha Díaz had set her baby in a corner and picked up a heavy clay pot, with the clear intention of breaking it across his skull. Vargas realized he was at a disadvantage, and left the house swearing and cursing. All Agua Santa learned what had happened, because he himself told the girls in the whorehouse, then they told everyone that Vargas couldn’t cut the mustard anymore and that his bragging about being such a stud was pure swagger with nothing to back it up.

Things changed after that. Concha Díaz recovered rapidly, and while Antonia was out working she tended the children and the garden and the house. Tomás Vargas swallowed his pride and humbly returned to his hammock—without a companion. He made up for this affront by mistreating the children and telling in the tavern that, like mules, all women really understand is the stick, but at home he never tried to punish them again. When he was drunk he shouted the joys of bigamy to the four winds, and for several Sundays the priest would have to rebut that sacrilege from the pulpit, before the idea caught on and many years of preaching the Christian virtue of monogamy went down the drain.

*  *  *  *  *

In Agua Santa they could tolerate a man who mistreated his family, a man who was lazy and a troublemaker, who never paid back money he borrowed, but gambling debts were sacred. In the cockfights bills were folded and displayed between the fingers where everyone could see them, and in dominoes, darts, or cards, they were placed on the table to the player’s left. Sometimes the National Petroleum truckdrivers stopped by for a few hands of poker, and although they never showed their money, they paid the last cent before they left. Saturdays the guards from Santa María Prison came to town to visit the whorehouse and gamble away their week’s pay in the tavern. Not even they—twice as crooked as the prisoners they guarded—dared play if they couldn’t pay. No one violated that rule.

Tomás Vargas never bet, but he liked to watch the players; he could spend hours observing a game of dominoes; he was the first to pick a spot at the cockfights; and he listened to the announcement of the lottery winners over the radio, even though he never bought a ticket. The magnitude of his greed had protected him from temptation. Nevertheless, when the steely complicity of Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz nipped his manly impulses in the bud, he turned toward gambling. At first he made miserable little bets, and only the most down-and-out drunks would sit at the table with him, but he had more luck with cards than with his women, and before long he was bitten by the bug for easy money and began to change down to the marrow of his miserly bones. With the hope of getting rich at one lucky stroke and, in the process—using the illusory projection of that triumph—of mending his damaged reputation as a rake, he began to take bigger risks. Soon the boldest players were taking their measure against him, while the rest formed a circle around them to follow the turns of each encounter. Tomás Vargas did not spread his money on the table, as was the tradition, but he paid up when he lost. At home, things went from bad to worse, and Concha also had to go out and work. The children stayed home by themselves, and the schoolteacher Inés fed them to keep them from going into town to beg.

Tomás Vargas’s real troubles began the day he accepted a challenge from the Lieutenant and after six hours of playing won two hundred pesos. The officer confiscated his subordinates’ salaries to pay his debt. He was a stocky, dark-skinned man with a walrus mustache, who always left his jacket unbuttoned so the girls could appreciate his hairy chest and collection of gold chains. No one in Agua Santa liked him, because he was a man of unpredictable character and he granted himself authority to invent laws according to his whim and convenience. Before his arrival, the jail had been a couple of rooms where you spent the night after a brawl—there were never any serious crimes in Agua Santa and the only wrongdoers were prisoners being transported to Santa María Prison—but the Lieutenant made sure that no one left his jail without a sound beating first. Thanks to him, people learned to fear the law. He was furious about losing the two hundred pesos, but he handed over the money without a word, even with a certain elegant detachment, because not even he, with all the weight of his power, would have left the table without paying.

Tomás Vargas spent two days bragging about his triumph, until the Lieutenant advised him he would be waiting for his revenge the following Saturday. This time the bet would be a thousand pesos, he announced in such a peremptory tone that Vargas was reminded of the officer’s boot in his rear and did not dare refuse. On Saturday afternoon the tavern was filled. It was so crowded and hot that no one could catch a breath, and they carried the table outside so that everyone could witness the game. Never had so much money been bet in Agua Santa, and Riad Halabí was appointed to ensure the fairness of the proceedings. He began by directing the public to stand two steps away, to prevent any cheating, and the Lieutenant and other policemen to leave their weapons at the jail.

“Before we begin, both players must place their money on the table,” the arbiter declared.

“My word is good, Turk,” replied the Lieutenant.

“In that case, my word’s enough, too,” added Tomás Vargas.

“How will you pay if you lose?” Riad Halabí wanted to know.

“I have a house in the capital; if I lose, Vargas will have the title tomorrow.”

“Good. And you?”

“I will pay with my buried gold.”

The game was the most exciting thing that had happened in the town in many years. Everyone in Agua Santa, from ancients to young children, gathered in the street to watch. Only Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz were absent. Neither the Lieutenant nor Tomás Vargas inspired any sympathy, so no one cared who won; the entertainment consisted of speculating on the agonies of the two players and of the people wagering on one or the other. Tomás Vargas had on his side his string of good luck with cards, but the Lieutenant had the advantage of a cool head and his reputation as a hard man.

The game ended at seven and, according to the agreed terms, Riad Halabí declared the Lieutenant the winner. In his triumph, the policeman maintained the same calm he had shown the preceding week in defeat—no mocking smile, no sarcastic word—he merely sat in his chair picking his teeth with his little fingernail.

“All right, Vargas; the time has come to dig up your treasure,” he said when the spectators’ excitement had died down.

Tomás Vargas’s skin was ashen, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and he gasped for air, which seemed to have stuck in his throat. Twice he tried to stand, but each time his knees buckled. Riad Halabí had to support him. Finally he gathered enough strength to start off in the direction of the highway, followed by the Lieutenant, the police, the Turk, the school-teacher Inés, and, behind them, the whole town in a boisterous procession. They had walked a couple of miles when Vargas veered to the right, diving into the riot of gluttonous vegetation that surrounded Agua Santa. There was no path, but with little hesitation he made his way among gigantic trees and huge ferns until he came to the edge of a ravine barely visible through the impenetrable screen of the jungle. The crowd stopped there, while Vargas and the Lieutenant scrambled down the bank. The heat was humid and oppressive, even though it was almost sunset. Tomás Vargas signaled them not to come any farther; he got down on all fours, and crawled beneath some philodendrons with great fleshy leaves. A long minute went by before they heard his howl. The Lieutenant plunged into the foliage, grabbed him by the ankles, and jerked him out.

“What’s the matter?”

“It isn’t there, it isn’t there!”

“What do you mean, ‘it isn’t there’?”

“I swear, Lieutenant, I don’t know anything about this; they stole it, they stole my treasure!” and he burst out crying like a widow woman, so overcome he was oblivious to the Lieutenant’s repeated kicks.

“Pig! I’ll get my money. On your mother’s grave, I’ll get my money!”

Riad Halabí hurled himself down the slope of the ravine and removed Vargas from the Lieutenant’s clutches before he kicked him to a pulp. He calmed the Lieutenant, arguing that blows would not resolve anything, and then helped the old man back up the ravine. Tomás Vargas was racked with fear; he was blubbering and staggering and swooning so that the Turk almost had to carry him to get him home. Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz were sitting in the doorway in rush chairs, drinking coffee and watching it grow dark. They showed no sign of dismay when they learned what had happened, but continued sipping their coffee, unmoved.

For more than a week Tomás Vargas had a high temperature, during which he raved about gold nuggets and marked cards, but he was robust by nature, and instead of dying of grief as everyone expected, he regained his health. When he could get out of his hammock, he did not venture out for several days, but finally his habit of dissipation was stronger than his prudence, so he took his Panama hat and, still shaky and frightened, went down to the tavern. He did not return that night, and two days later someone brought the news that his mutilated body had been found in the very ravine where he had hidden his treasure. He had been quartered with a machete like a steer, the end everyone had known would be his sooner or later.

Antonia Sierra and Concha Díaz buried him without grief and with no funeral procession except Riad Halabí and the schoolteacher Inés, who had come to accompany them, not to pay posthumous tribute to a man they had never respected in life. The two women lived on together, happy to help each other in bringing up their children and in the many vicissitudes of life. Not long after the burial they bought hens, rabbits, and pigs; they rode the bus to the city and returned with clothes for all the family. That year they repaired the house with new lumber, they added two rooms, they painted the house blue, they installed a gas stove, and then began a cookery business in their home. Every noon they went out with all the children to deliver meals to the jail, the school, and the post office; and if there was any extra, they left it on the store counter for Riad Halabí to offer to the truckdrivers. And so they made their way out of poverty and started off down the road to prosperity.