: 2. Whatare some of the things about Mrs. Barrows that irritate Mr. Martin? How does Martin express this irritation? 3. Thurber is satirizing an aspect of modern life. What aspect is it? Which character or characters seem to embody it the most, and why? 45 The success of the story's conclusion resides in its irony. How does Thurber effec- oo oan this irony? 20 Toole 00-t ser Eudora Welty A WORN PATH tiake-aocl i ‘Tt was December-~a bright frozen day in the early morning: Far out in the country __ there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming-along a path ‘through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson: She was very old and small and shé walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side inher _steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. ne carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping zen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air, seemed meditative like the chirping of a solitary lite bird. he wore’a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long bleached Sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she tep she might have fallen over her shoe-laces, which’ dragged from her unlaced e looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skiri had a pattern ‘of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little treé’stood in lle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath; and the two'ktiobs of illuminated by a yellow buming under the dark, Under the red rag her on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with amodor like Einar fin ag 018d there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said,*Out of my isybeetles, jack rabbits, coons, and wild animals} .. Keep out ftom -bob-whites; . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path: Don't ome’running my direction, I-got a long way.” Under her small hes cane limber as @ buggy whip, would switch atthe brush sit pods were deep andl, Tic siumnédedhe pind needled deta there the wind rocked. The cones dropped as lightas feathers, is the mourning dove—it was not too late for‘hime!) 6 like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,” nt old people keep to use with themselves: “Som hillpleads should stay.” | 9) 9) 10ee 506 . Caste & Class After'she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come, “Up through pines,” she said at length. “Now down through oaks.”” Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a bush caught her dress. Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. “I in the thorny bush,” she said. “Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass—no sir. Old eyes thought you was a pretty little green bush. Finally, trembling all over, she stood free, and afier a moment dared to stoop for her cane. “Sun so high!” she cried, leaning back and looking, while the thick tears went over her eyes. “The time getting all gone here.” At the foot of this hill was a place where a/log was laid across the creek. “Now comes the trial,” said Phoenix Putting her right foot out, she mounted the log and shut her eyes. Lifting her skire, levelling her cane fiercely before her, like a festival figure in some parade, she began to march across; Then she opened her eyes and she was safe on the other side. “I wasn’t as old as I thought,” she said. But she sat down to rest. She spread her skirts on the bank around her and folded her hands over her knees. Up above her was a tree in a pearly:cloud of mistletoe. She did not dare to close her eyes, and when a little boy brought her alittle plate with a slice of marble-cake on it she spoke to him. “That would be acceptable,” she said. But whens she went to take it there was just her own hand in the air. So she left that tree, and had to go through a barbed-wire fence. There she had to creep and crawl, spreading her knees and stretching her fingers like a baby trying to climb the steps. But she talked loudly to herself: she could not let her dress be torn now; so late in the day, and she could not pay for having her arm or her leg sawed off if she got caught fast where she was. Atlast she was safe through the fence and risen up outin the dearing. Big dead trees, like black men with one arm, were standing in the purple stalks of the withered cotton field, There sat a buzzard. “Who you watching?” In the furrow she made her way along. “Glad this not the season for bulls,” she said, looking sideways, “and the good Lord made his snakes to curl up and sleep in the winter. A pleasure'l don’t see no two-headed snake coming around that tree, where it come once. It took a while to get by him, back inthe summer.” She passed through the old cotton and went into a field of dead corn. It whispered and shook and was taller than her head. “Through the maze now,” she said, for there was no path. ‘Then there was something tall, black, and skinny there, moving before her. “At first she took it for a man. It could have been a man dancing in the field. But she stood still and listened, and it did not make a sound, It was as silent as a ghost. Be ae en caer oe alae ag pi efsory deathBut there was no answer—only the ragged dancing in the wind. She shut her eyes, reached out her hand, and touched a sleeve. She found a coat and inside that an emptiness, cold as ice. “You scarecrow,” she said. Her face lighted. “I ought to be shut-up for good,” she ssaid with laughter. “My senses is gone, [too old. I the oldest people I ever know. Dance, ~ ld scarecrow,” she said, “while I dancing with you.” She Kicked her foot over the furrow, and with mouth drawn down; shook heed ‘once or twice in a little strutting way. Some husks blew down and whirled in streamers about her skirts. ‘Then she went on, parting her way from side to side with the cane, through the ‘whispering field. At last she came to the end, to a wagon track where the silver grass blew between the red ruts. The quail were walking around like pullets, seeming all dainty and unseen. “Walk pretty,” she said. “This the easy place. This the easy going,” She followed the track, swaying through the quiet bare fields, through the kttle strings _ of tree silver in their dead leaves, past cabins silver from weather, with the doors and “windows boarded shut, all like old women under a spell sitting there. “I walking in their ‘sleep,” she said, nodding her head vigorously. a ravine she went where a spring was silently flowing through a hollow log. Old ix bent and drank, “Sweet-gum makes the water sweet,” she said, and drank “Nobody know who made this well, for it was here when I:was born.” he track crossed a swampy part where the moss hung as white as lace from every ‘Sleep on, alligators, and blow your bubbles.” ‘Then the track went into the road. Deep, deep the road went dovn between the high green-colored banks: Overhead e live-oaks met, and it was as dark as a cave. lack dog with a lolling tongue came up out of the weeds by the ditch. She was and not ready, and when he came ater she only it him a ie with hr there, her senses drifted away. A dream visited hersand sbereadhdlhef Hand ae down and gave her a pull, So she lay there and presently went .” she said to herself, “that black dog come up out of the weeds fi Be ‘now there he sitting on his fine tail sling: at you? finally came along and found her—a hunter, a young man, with his pass! nny Phe laughed. “What are you doing there?” rack like a June-bug waiting to be tuned over, mister,” sh¢ said, (ala , eee her-a swing in the air, and set her down, “Anything broken, ee | dead weeds is springy enough,” said Phoenix, when she had got you for your trouble.” e, Granny?” he asked, while the two dogs were Boiling ateach er, a behind the ridge. You can’t even see it from here.” ome?”“Why, that’s too far! That’s as far as I walk when I come out myself, and I ger something for my trouble.” He patted the stuffed bag he carried, and there hung down, a little closed claw. It was one of the bob-whites, with its beak hooked bitterly to show: it was dead. “Now you go on home, Granny!” “T bound to go to town, mister,” said Phoenix. “The time come around.” He gave another laugh, filling the whole landscape. “I know you ld colored. ot Wouldn't miss going to town to see Santa Claus!” But something held Old Phoenix very still. The deep lines in her face went into a fierce and different radiation. Without warning, she had seen with her own’ eyes a flashing nickel fall out of the man’s pocket onto the ground. “How old are you, Granny?” he was saying. “There is no telling, mister,” she said, “no telling.” Then she gave a little cry and clapped her hands and said, “Git on away’ from here, dog! Look! Look at that dog!” She laughed as ifin admiration. “He ain't scared of nobody. He-a big black dog.” She whispered, “Sic him!” “Watch me get rid of that cur,” said the man. “Sic him, Pete! Sic him!” Phoenix heard the dogs fighting, and heard the man running and throwing sticks. She even heard a gunshot. But she was slowly bending forward by that time; further and farther forward, the lids stretched down over her eyes, as if she were doing this in her sleep. Her chin was lowered almost to her knees. The yellow palm of her hand came out from the fold of her apron, Her fingers slid down and along the ground under the piece of money with the grace and care they would have in lifing an egg from under sitting hen, The she slowly straightened up, she stood erect, and the nickel was in her apron pocket. A bird flew by: Her lips moved. “God oe me the whole time. I come to stealing.” ‘Thirmaniéame bc; and hf bv dog pantel abot teal WEIN chee dna that time,” he sad, and then he laughed and lifted his gun and pointed it at Phoenix. She stood straight and faced him. 0% > “Doesn't the gun scare you?” he said, still pointing it, “No, sir, I seen plenty go off closer by; in my day, and for Jess than what T done,” she said, holding utterly still, bio" eridhan He smiled; and shouldered the gun, “Well, Granny,” he said, “you must:be a hundred years old, and scared of nothing. I'd give you'a dime if had any money a ‘me. But you take my advice and stay home, and nothing will happen'to you.”” “I bound to go on my way, mister,” said Phoenix. She inclined her head in inbred rag. Then they went in different directions, but she could hear the gun shooting again and again over the hill. biad tot!opy penned She walked on. The shadows hung from the oak trees to the road like curtains, Then she smelled wood-smoke, and smelled the river, and she saw a steeple and the cabins on their steep steps. Dozens of litle black children aga ela oe : Natchez. shining. Bells were ringing. She walked on, 4) In the paved plies Ghee aac atc ig srg anise orga sn a a n ae aiaFiction She paused quietly on the sidewalk where people were passing by. A lady came along the crowd, carrying an armful of red-, green-, and silver-wrapped presents; she gave F perfume like the red roses in hot summer, and Phoenix stopped her. “Please; missy, will you lace up my shoe?” She held up her foot. “What do you want, Grandma?” “See my shoe,” said Phoenix, “Do all right for out in the country, but wouldn’t look ht to go in a big building.” “Stand still then, Grandma,” said the lady. She put her packages down on the sidewalk beside her and laced and tied both shoes tightly. Vt lace “em with a cane,” said Phoenix. “Thank you, missy. I doesn’t mind nice lady to tie up my shoe, when I gets out on the street.” ‘Moving slowly and from side to side, she went into the big building and into a tower of'steps, where she walked up and around and around until her feet knew to stop. She entered a door, and there she saw nailed up on the wall the document that had een stamped with the gold seal and framed in the gold frame, which matched the eam that was hung up in her head. I be,” she said. There was a fixed and ceremonial stiffness over her body. ‘A charity case, I suppose,” said an attendant who sat at the desk before her. jut Phoenix only looked above her head. There was sweat on her face; the wrinkles her skin shone like a bright net. Speak up, Grandma,” the woman said. “What's your name? We must have your you know. Have you been here before? What seems to be the trouble with you?” hoenix only gave a twitch to her face as if a fly were bothering her. - you deaf?” cried the attendant. that’s just old Aunt Phoenix,” she said, “She doesn’t come for herself—she has n. She makes these trips just as regular as clockwork. She lives away back d Natchez Trace.” She bent down, “Well, Aunt Phoenix, why don't you just t? We won't keep you standing after your long trip.” She pointed. | woman sat dow, bolt upright in the chair. only airs and stared straight ahead, her face very solemn and rigidity. better?” ici the nurse. “Aunt Phoenix, don’t you hear me? Is any better since the last time you came for the medicine?” Abend wom waited, silent, erect and motionless, just pig's Bree mysiAurt Phoenix,” the nurse mid. Tel us and get it over with. He isn’t dead, is he?” ker and then a flame of comprehension across her face, and ‘had left me. There I sat and forgot why I made ‘ detonCaste & Class “Forgot?” The nurse frowned. “After you came so far?” watt, NB ‘Then Phoenix was like an old woman begging a dignified forgiveness for waking up frightened in the night, “I never did go to school, I was too old at the Surrender,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m an old woman without an education. It was my memory fail me. My little grandson, he is just the same, and I forgot it in the coming.” “Throat never heals, does i?” said the nurse, speaking in a loud, sure voice to Old Phoenix. By now she had a card with something written on it, a little list. “Yes, Swallowed lye. When was it—Jantiary—two-three years ago—” Bie Phoenix spoke unasked now. “No, missy, he not dead, he just the same. Every little while his throat begin to close up again, and he not able to swallow. He not get his breath, He not able to help himself, So the time come around, and I go on another trip for the soothingmedicine.” “Allright. The doctor sid as long as you came to get it, you could have it,” said the nurse, “But it's an obstinate case.” “My litte grandson, he sit up there in the house all wrapped up, waiting by’ himsels* Phoenix went on. “We is the only two left in the world. He suffer and it don’t seem to put him back at all. He gota sweet look, He going to last. He wear a little patch quilt and peep out holding his mouth open like a litle bird. I remembers so plain now. I not going to forget him again, no, the whole enduring time. I could tell him from all the others in creation.” ™ “Allright.” The murse-was trying to hush her now. She brought her a bottle of medicine, “Charity,” she said, making a check mark in a book. “ Old Phoenix held the bottle close to her eyes and then careilly put it imo her pocket. “T thank you,” she said. isis “Jr's Christmas time, Grandma,” said the attendant. “Could I give pis a few pe cout of my purse?” nis “Five pennies is a nickel,” said Phoenix stiffly. “Here's a nickel,” said the attendant. toe OW Ste92 8 ee Phoenix rose carefully and held out her hand, She received the nickel and th the other nickel out of her pocket and laid it beside the new one, She stared at a closely, with her head on one side. : ‘Then she gave a tap with her cane on the floor. ; ‘This is what come to me to do,” she said. “I going o the store and buy my a little windmill they sells, made out of paper. He going fnd chard i sucha thing in the world. I'll march myself back where | up in this hand.” og Son 8) lh 9 She lifted her free hand, ohana i 0 doctor's office, Then her slow step ioe Piso uleFiction 2. What type of character does Phoenix Jackson have? How did you reach your ~ opinion? Why does she steal the hunter's nickel and get the other at the clinic? ‘3. What is the mood of the story? What is Phoenix Jackson’s mood as she journeys to the clinic? What significance is there in her fantasy life and her forgetfulness? What -do they demonstrate about her resolve? 4. Phoenix Jackson must overcome many obstacles on her journey. Do these obstacles have anything in common? Is there anything similar in the way Phoenix Jackson overcomes these obstacles? John A. Williams = SON IN THE AFTERNOON einls Tt was hot. I tend to be a bitch when it’s hot. I goosed the little Ford over Sepulveda Boulevard toward Santa Monica until I got stuck in the traffic that pours from L.A. into the surrounding towns. I'd had a very lousy day at the studio, - T-was—still am—a writer and this studio had hired me to check scripts and films with Negroes in them to make sure the Negro moviegoer wouldn’t be offended. ‘The signs were already clear that one day the whole of American industry would be racing pell-mell to geta Negro, showcase a spade. I was kind of a pioneer. I'm a Negro writer, you see: The day had been tough because of a couple of verbs—slink and walk. One ‘of those Hollywood hippies had done a script calling for a Negro waiter to slink away from the table where a dinner party was glaring at him. I said the waiter should walk, not slink, because later on he becomes a hero. The Hollywood hippie, who understood it all because he had some colored friends, said that it was essential to the plot that the ‘waiter slink. I said you don’t slink one minute and become a hero the next; there has to be some consistency. The Negro actor I was standing up for said nothing either way. ‘He had played) Uncle Tom roles so long that he had become Uncle Tom. But the - director agreed with me. “Anyway «., hear me out now. I was on my way to Santa Monica to pick up my Nora, It was a long haul for such a hot day. I had planned a quiet evening: a 5 fresh clothes, and then I would have dinner at the Watkins and talk with ‘the musicians on the scene for a quick taste before they cut to their gigs. After, jing to the Pigalle down on Figueroa and catch Earl Grant at the organ, and ,if nothing exciting happened, I'd pick up Scottie and make it to the Lighthouse ‘orto the Strollers and listen to some of the white boys play. I liked the while listening to Sleepy Stein's show on the radio. Later, much be home, back to Watts. picking up Nora was a little inconvenient, My mother was a maid Gouchman was an architect, a good one I understood from. Caste & Class Nora who has a fine sense for this sort of thing; you don’t work in some hundred-odd houses during your life without getting some idea of the way a house should be laid out, Couchman’s wife, Kay, was a playgirl who drove a white Jaguar from one party to another. My mother didn’t like her too much; she didn’t seem to care much for her son, Ronald, junior. There’s something wrong with a parent who can’t really love her own child, Nora thought. The Couchmans lived in a real fine residential section, of course, ‘A number of actors lived nearby, character actors, not really big stars. Somehow it is very funny. I mean that the maids and butlers knew everything about these people, and these people knew nothing at all about the help. Through Nora and her friends I knew who was laying whose wife; who had money and who really had money; I knew about the wild parties hours before the police, and who. smoked marijuana, when, and where they got it. To get to Couchman’s driveway I had to go three blocks up one side of a palm~ planted center strip and back down the other. The driveway bent gently, then swept back out of sight of the main road. The house, sheltered by slim palms, looked like a transplanted New England Colonial. I parked and walked to the kitchen door, skirting the growling Great Dane who was tied to a tree. That was the route to the kitchen door. I don’t like kitchen doors. Entering people’s houses by them, I mean. I'd done this thing most of my life when I called at places where Nora worked to pick up the patched or worn sheets or the half-eaten roasts; the battered, tarnished silver—the fringe benefits of a housemaid. As a teen-ager I'd told Nora I was through with that crap; I ‘was not going through anyone’s kitchen door. She only laughed and said P'd learn. One day soon afier, I called for her and without knocking walked right’through the front door of this house and right on through the living room: I' was almost out of the room when I saw feet behind the couch. I leaned over and there was Mr. Jorgensen and his wife making out like crazy. I guess they thought Nofa had gone and it must have hit them sort of suddenly and they went atit like the hellsbomb was due to drop aby minute: Tve been that way too, mostly in the spring. Ofcourse, when Mr. Jorgensen looked over his shoulder and saw -me, you know what happened. I-was thrown out and Nora right behind me. It was the middle of winter, the old man was sick and the coal bill three months overdue. Nora was tight about those kitchen doors: I leamed. My mother saw me before I could ring the bell. She opened the door. “Hello,” she said. She was breathing hard, like she’d been running or something. “Come in and sit down. I don’t know where that Kay is, Little Ronald is sick and she’s probably out gettin’? drunk again.” She left me then and trotted back through the house; guess to be with Ronnie. I hated the combination of her white nylon uniform, her dark brown face and the wide streaks of gray in her hair. Nora had married this guy from Texas a few years afier the old man had died, He was all right. He made out okay. Nora didn’t have to work, but she just couldn't be still; she always had to be doing something. I'suggested she quit work, but I had as much luck as'her husband. I used to tease her about liking to be around those white folks. It would. have been good for her to take an extended trip around the country visiting my brothers and sisters. Once she got to Philadelphia, she could go right out to the cemetery and sit awhile with the old man. tek I walked through the Couchman home, I liked the:library. I thought if I knew Couchman I'd like him. The room made me feel like that. I left iv and went into the , ae a aires(hn. a: Fiction {| S A Saal 7 ‘Toom. You could tell that Couchman had let his wife do that. “soiptcoientl with no sense of ease. But on the walls were several ern of buildings and homes. I guess he was a disciple of Wright. My mother walked rapidly through the room without looking at me and said, “Just be patient, ~ Wendell. She shouldbe here real soon.” .” T said, “with a snootful.” | had turned back to the drawings when Ronnie ~ scampered into the room, his face twisted with rage. + “Noral” he tried to roar, perhaps the way he'd seen the parents of some of his friends _Foar atitheir maids. Lm quite sure Kay didn’t shout at Nora, and I don't think hman would. But then no one shouts at Nora. “Nora, you come right back here this minute!” the little bastard shouted and stamped and pointed to a spot on the floor where Nora was supposed to come to roost. I have a-nasty temper. Sometimes it lies rmant for ages and at other times, like when the weather is hot and nothing seems going right, is bubbling and ready to explode, “Don’t talk to my mother like that, Tittle!” I said sharply, breaking off just before I cursed. I wanted him to be large gh for me to strike. “How'd you like for me to talk to your mother like that?” nine-year-old looked up at me in surprise and confusion, He hadn't expected y anything. I was just another piece of furniture. Tears rose in his eyes and 1 out onto his pale cheeks. He put his hands behind him, twisted them. He moved away from me: He looked at my mother with a “Nora, come help me” look. there was Nora, speeding back across the room, gathering the kid in his robe together. I'was too angry to feel hatred for myself. the Gouchman’s only kid. Nora loved him. I suppose that was the ‘was gone ten, twelve hours a day. Kay didn’t stay around the house ‘than she had to. So Ronnie had only my mother. I think kids should have 0 lo and Nora ‘wasn’t a bad sort. But somehow when the six of us, her own, g up we never had her. She was gone, out scuffling to get those nto our mouths and shoes for our feet and praying for something to the space in between would be taken care of. Nora’ affection for us ‘out into the momning’s five o’clock blackness to wake some silly coffee; took form in her trudging five miles home every night instead ‘to save money to buy tablets for us, to use atyschool, we said. But vat all of us liked to draw and we went through a writing tabletin a couple day. Can you imagine? There’s not a goddamn artist among us. We ‘affection, the pat on the head, the quick, smiling: a the ne. All of this Ronnie was getting Mésdinle blond head in Nora's breast and sobbed "There there Don't you cry, Ronnie, Ol’ Wendell is just jealous, and he hasn't - didn't mean nuthin’. ora had hit it of course, hit it and passed on. I looked back. It ous, the white and black together, 1 mean. Ronnie was still bbed gently on Nora’s shoulder. The only time I ever got that en she trapped me with a bearhug so she could whale the day- I put a snowball through Mrs. Grant’s window. I walked outside Ronnie was in the hospital the month before, Nora got me buCaste & Class to run her way over to Hollywood every night to see him. I didn’t like that worth a damn. All right, I'll admit it: it did upset me. All that affection I didn’t get nor my brothers and sisters going to that little white boy who, without'a doubt, when away from her called her the names he'd learned from adults. Can you imagine a nine- year-old kid calling Nora a “girl,” “our gitl?” I spat at the Great Dane. He snarled and then I bounced a rock off his fanny. “Lay down, you bastard,” I muttered. Tt was a good thing he was tied up. Theard the low cough of the Jaguar slapping against the road. The car was throttled down, and with a muted roar it swung into the driveway. The woman aimed it for me. Twas evil enough not to move. I was tired of playing with these people. At'the last moment, grinning, she swung the wheel over and braked. She bounded out of the car like a tennis player vaulting over a net. “Hi,” she said, tugging at her shorts. “Hello.” “You're Nora's boy?” “Tm Nora’s son.” Hell, I was as old as she was; besides, I can’t stand “boy.”” “Nora tells us you're working in Hollywood. Like i” “Tes all right.” “You must be pretty talented.” ‘We stood looking at each other while the dog whined for her attention. Kay had a nice body and it was well tanned. She was high, boy, was'she high. Looking at her, T could feel myself going into my sexy’bastard routine; sometimes I can swing it great. Maybe it all had to do with the business inside, Kay took off her sunglasses and took a good look at me. “Do you have a cigarette?” I gave her one and lit it. “Nice tan,” I said. Most white people I know think it’s a great big deal if'a Negro compliments them on their tans, It's large laugh. You have all this volleyball about color and come summer you can’t hold the white folks back from the beaches, anyplace where they can get some sun, And of course the blacker they get, the more pleased they are. Crazy. If there is ever a Negro revolt, it will come during the summer and Negroes will descend upon the beaches around the nation and paralyze the country. You can't conceal cattle prods and bombs and pistols and police dogs when you're showing your birthday suit to the sun; “You like it?” she asked. She was pleased. She placed her arm next to mine. “Almost the same color,” she said. “Ronnie isn't feeling well,” I said. “Oh, the poor kid. I'm so glad we have Nora. She’s such a charm, Tl run right in and look at him. Do have a drink in the bar. Fix me one too, will you?” Kay skipped inside and I went to the bar and poured out two strong drinks. Imade hers stronger than mine, She was back soon. “Nora was trying to put him to sleep and she’made me stay out.” She giggled. She quickly tossed off her drink. “Another, please?” While I was fixing her drink she was saying how amazing it was for Nora to have such a talented son. What she was really saying was that it was amazing for a servant to have a son who was not also a servant. “Anything can happen in a democracy,” I said. “Servants? sons drink with madames and so on.” ul “Oh, Nora isn’t a servant,” Kay said. “She’s part of the family, Yeah, I thought. Where and how many times had I heard that before? aad:a In the ensuing silence, she started to admire her tan again. “You think it’s pretty good, do you? You don’t know how hard I worked to get it.” I moved close to her and eld her arm. I placed my other arm around her. She pretended not to see or feel it, ‘Dut she wasn’t trying to get away either, In fact she was pressing closer and the register my brain that tells me at the precise moment when I'm in, went off. Kay was very ‘high. I put both arms around her and she put both hers around me. When I kissed her, she responded completely. sa Mom!” _ “Ronnie, come back to bed,” I heard Nora shout from the other room. We could hear Ronnie running over the rug in the outer room. Kay tried to get away from me, “push me to one side, because we could tell that Ronnie knew where to look for his Mom: ‘he was running right for the bar, where we were. “Oh, please,” she said, “don’t let him ‘see us,” I wouldn't let her push me away. “Stop!” she hissed. “He'll see us!” We stopped struggling just for an instant, and we listened to the echoes of the word see. She gritted her teeth and renewed her efforts to get away. Me? I had the scene laid right out. The kid breaks into the room, see, and sees his ‘mother in this real wrigely clinch with this colored guy who's just shouted at him, see, and no matter how his mother explains it away, the kid has the image-the colored guy _ and his mother—for the rest of his life, see? ‘That's the way it happened. The kid’s mother hissed under her breath, “You've crazy!” nd she looked at me as though she were seeing me or something about me for the very first time. I'd released her as soon as Ronnie, romping into the bar, saw us and came oa full, open-mouthed halt. Kay went to him. He looked first at me, then at his mother! Kay turned to me, but she couldn’t speak. in theliving room my mother called, “Wendell, where are you? We can There you little bastard, there. ‘mother thrust her face inside the door and said, “Good-bye, Mrs. Couchman. ~ Bye, Ronnie.” Kay said, sort of stunned. “Tomorrow.” She was reaching for Ronnie’s hand f, but the kid was slapping her hand away. I hurried quickly after Nora, hating ive back to Watts. ff man is the narrator? What different emotions does he display during do his race and race relations affect his point of view? ‘narrator feel about Ronnie? What injustice exists in the way the ‘treats her own son in comparison to the way she treats Ronnie? t of telling the story in the first person? How would it have been en told in the third person or from the viewpoint of one of the other the narrator says “I felt many things.” What might some ofwe War & Peace > Zi" Jorge Luis Borges THE SOUTH ‘The man who landed in Buenos Aires in 1871 bore the name of Johannes Dahlmann and he was a minister in the Evangelical Church. In 1939, one of his grandchildren, Juan Dahlmann, was secretary of a municipal library on Calle Cérdoba, and’ he considered himself profoundly Argentinian. His maternal grandfather had been that Francisco Flores, of the Second Line-Infantry Division, who had died on the frontier of Buenos Aires, run through with a lance by Indians from Cattiel; in the discord inherent between his two lines of descent, Juan Dahlmann (perhaps driven to it by his Germanic blood) chose the line represented by his tomantic ancestor, his ancestor of the romantic death, An old sword, a leather frame containing the daguerreotype of a blank-faced man. with a beard, the dash and grace of certain music, the familiar strophes of Martin Fierro, the passing years, boredom and solitude, all went to foster this voluntary, but never ostentatious nationalism. At the cost of numerous small privations, Dahlmann had managed to save the empty shell ofa ranch in the South which had belonged to the Flores family: he continually recalled the image of the balsamic eucalyptus trees and the great rose-colored house which had once been crimson. His duties, perhaps even indolence, kepthim in the city. Summer after summer he contented himself with the abstractidea of possession and with the certitude that his ranch was waiting for him on a precise site in the middle of the plain. Late in February, 1939, something happened to him Blind to all fault, destiny can be ruthless at one’s slightest distraction, Dahlmann had succeeded in acquiring, on that very afternoon, an imperfect copy of Weil’s edition of The Thousand and One Nights. Avid to examine this find, he did not wait for the elevator but hurried up the stairs. In the obscurity, something brushed by his forehead: a bat, a bird? On the face of the woman who opened the door to him he saw horror engraved, and the hand he wiped across his face came away red with blood. The edge of'a recently painted door which someone had forgotten to close had caused this wound. Dahlmann. was able to fall asleep, but from the moment he awoke’ at dawn the savor of all things was atrociously poignant, Fever wasted him and the pictures in The Thousand and’ One Nights served to illusttate nightmares. Friends and relatives paid him visits and, with exaggerated smiles, assured him that they thought he looked fine. DahImann listened to them with a kind of feeble stupor and he marveled at their not knowing that he was) in hell. A week, eight days passed, and they were like eight centuries. One afternoon, the usual doctor appeared, accompanied by a new doctor, and they carried him off to a sanitarium on the Galle Ecuador, for it was necessary to X-ray him. Dahlmann, in the hackney coach which bore them away, thought that he would, at last, be able to sleep in a room different from his own, He felt happy and communicative. When he_ arrived at his destination, they undressed him, shaved his head, bound him with met fastenings to a stretcher; they shone bright lights on him until he was blind and diz: auscultated him, and a masked man stuck a needle into his arm. He awoke with a feeli of nausea, covered with a bandage, in a cell with something of a well about it; in the | nights which followed the operation he came to realize that he had merely.Fiction y x y A a7 een, upsuntil then, in a suburb of hell. Ice in his mouth did not leave the least trace freshness. During these days Dahlmann hated himself in minute detail; he hated his entity, his bodily necessities, his humiliation, the beard which bristled upon his face, stoically endured the curative measures, which were painful, but when the surgeon d him he had been on the point of death from septicemia, Dahlmann dissolved in rs of self-pity for his fate. Physical wretchedness and the incessant anticipation of ble nights had not allowed him time to think of anything so abstract as death. On mnother day, the surgeon told him he was healing and that, very soon, he would be able ) go to his ranch for convalescence, Incredibly enough, the promised day arrived. Reality favors symmetries and slight anachronisms: Dahlmann had arrived at the ina hackney coach and now a hackney coach was to take him to the cién station. The firs fresh tang of autumn, after the summer's oppressiveness, d like a symbol in nature of his rescue and release from fever and death. The city, in the morning, had not lost that air of an old house lent it by the night; the seemed like long vestibules, the plazas were like patios. Dahlmann recognized the joy on the edge of vertigo: a second before his eyes registered the phenomena elves, he recalled the comers, the billboards, the modest variety of Buenos Aires, yellow light of the new day, all things returned to him. e tine knows that the South begins at the other side of Rivadavia. Dahl- ‘in the habit of saying that this was no mere convention, that whoever crosses eet enters a more ancient and sterner world. From inside the carriage he sought g the mew buildings, the iron grille window, the brass knocker, the arched e entranceway, the intimate patio. railroad station he noted that he still had thirty minutes. He quickly recalled safé on the Calle Brazil (a few dozen feet from Yrigoyen’s house) there was an ‘cat which allowed itself to be caressed as if it were a disdainful divinity, He he café, There was the cat, asleep. He ordered a cup of coffee, slowly stitred ped it (this pleasure had been denied him in the clinic), and thought, as ed the cat's black coat, that this contact was an illusion and that the two ‘and cat, were as good as separated by a glass, for man lives in time, in n, while the magical animal lives in the present, in the eternity of the instant, e next to the last platform the train lay waiting. Dahlmann walked through he found one almost empty. He arranged his baggage in the network train started off, he took down his valise and extracted, after some volume of The Thousand and One Nights, To travel with this book, ch a part of the history of his ill-fortune, was a kind of affirmation that ‘been annulled; it was a joyous and secret defiance of the frustrated es {the train the city dissipated into suburbs; this sight, and then a and villas, delayed the beginning of his reading, The truth was that ‘little, The magnetized mountain and the genie who swore to kill “who would deny it?—marvelous, but not so much more than the mere fact of being. The joy of life distracted him from paying and her superfluous miracles. Dahlmann closed his book and.S Ware Peace Lunch—the bouillon ‘served in shining metal bowls,'as in the remote’ childhood—was one more peaceful and rewarding delight: Tomorrow I'll wake up at the ranch, he thought, and it was as if he was two men ata‘t the man who traveled through the autumn day and ‘across the geography fatherland, the other one, locked up in a sanitarium and subject to methodical serv He saw unplastered brick houses, long and angled, timelessly:watching the trains he saw horsemen along the dirt roads; he saw gullies and lagoons and ranches; h great luminous clouds that resembled marble; and all these:'things were casual, like dreams of the plain. He also thought he recognized trees and crop fi he would not have been able to name them, for his actual knowledge of the count was quite inferior to his nostalgic and'literary knowledge.» ci tr From time to time he slept, and his dreams were animated by the impetu train, The intolerable white sun of high noon had already become the yellow sur precedes nightfall, and it would not be long before it would turn red. The was not the same as the one which had quit the station sidit ; the plain and the hours had transfigured it. Outside, the mov shadow of the railroad car stretched toward the horizon. ‘The elemental earth perturbed either by settlements or other signs of humanity. The country was at the same time intimate and, in some measure, secret. ‘The limitless country contained only a solitary bull. ‘Phe solitude was perfect, perhaps hostile, and it have occurred to Dahlmann that he was traveling into the past and not merely He was distracted from these considerations by the railroad inspector'who, on’ his ticket, advised him that the train would not let him off at the regular statio tion which Dahlmann did not attempt tovunderstand, and which he hardly hea the mechanism of events did not concern him.) " The train laboriously ground tova halt, practically inthe middle of the p station lay on the other side of'the tracks; ivwas ot much more than a siding There was nol means of conveyance to be seen, but the station chief sup traveler might secure a Vehicle from a general store and inn to be found twelve blocks away. ast yin Dahlmann accepted the walk asa small ith ‘The sun had from view, but a final splendor exalted the vivid and silenvplain, before t its color. Less to avoid fatigue than to draw out his enjoyment of these si walked slowly, breathing’ in the odor of clover with sumptuous joy. The general store at one time had been painted a déep seat tempered this violent color for its own good. Something in its p h a steel engraving, perhaps one from an old edition of Paul et Virginie. 4 were hitched up to the’ paling: Once inside, Dahlmann thought shopkeeper. Then he realized that he had been deceived tee one of the male nurses in’ the sanitarium. When the s request, he said he would have'the shay made up. 1 aibdtdertonkl that day and to kill time, Dahlmann decided to’éat at the general stor Some country louts, to whom Dahlmann did not at fist pay any’at eating and drinking at one of the tables. On the floor, and hanging on tsquatted an.old man, immobile as an object. His years had reduced and polished him as water does a stone or the generations of men do a sentence, He was dark, dried up, diminutive, and seemed outside time, situated in eternity. Dahlmann noted with satis- faction the kerchief, the thick poncho, the long chirpé, and the colt boots, and told himself, as he recalled futile discussions with people from the Northern counties or from the province of Entre Rios, that gauchos like this no longer existed outside the South. Dahimann sat down next to the window. The darkness began overcoming the plain, but the odor and sound of the earth penetrated the iron bars of the window. The shop ‘owner brought him sardines, followed by some roast meat. Dahlmann washed the meal down with several glasses of red wine, Idling, he relished the tart savor of the wine, and let his gaze, now grown somewhat drowsy, wander over the shop. A kerosene lamp hung from a beam, There were three customers at the other table: two of them appeared to be farm workers; the third man, whose features hinted at Chinese blood, was drinking with his hat on. Of a sudden, Dahlmann felt something brush lightly against his face. Next to the heavy glass of turbid wine, upon one of the stripes in the tablecloth, lay a spit ball of breadcrumb. That was all: but someone had thrown it there. ~The men at the other table seemed totally cut off from him, Perplexed, Dahlmann decided that nothing had happened, and he opened the volume of The Thousand and One Nights, by way of suppressing realty. Aer a few moments another little ball landed on his table, and now the feones laughed outright. Dahlmann said to himself that he was ‘not frightened, but he reasoned that it would be a major blunder if he, a convalescent, were to allow himself to be dragged by strangers into some chaotic quarrel. He deter- mined to leave, and had already gotten to his feet when the owner’ came up/and exhorted him in an alarmed voice: *Seior Dahlmann; don't pay any attention to those lads; they're half high.” ~ Dahimann was not surprised to learn that the other man, now, knew his name. But +he felt that these conciliatory words served only to aggravate the situation. Previously to this moment, the peones’ provocation was directed against an unknown face, against ‘no one in particular, almost against no one at all. Now it was an attack against him, "against his name, and his neighbors knew it. Dahlmann pushed the owner aside, confronted the peones, and demanded to know what they wanted of him, _ The tough with the Chinese look staggered heavily to his feet. Almost in Juan mann’s face he shouted insults, as if he had been a long way off. His game was to > his drunkenness, and this extravagance constituted a ferocious mockery. ‘and obscenities, he threw a long knife into the air, followed it with his juggled it, and challenged Dahlmann to a knife fight. The owner ous voice, pointing out that Dahlmann was unarmed. At this point, occurred. oom, the old ecstatic gaucho—in whom Dahlmann saw a the South (his South)—threw him a naked dagger, which yas as ifthe South had resolved that Dahlmann should accept the to pick up the dagger, and felt two things. The first, that this him to fight. The second, that the weapon, in his torpid ‘but would merely serve to justify his murder, He had once all men, but his idea of fencing and knife-play did not go©: War & Peace S70" further than the notion that all strokes should be directed upward, with the cutting edge held inward. They would not have allowed such things to happen to me in the sanitarium, he thought. “Let’s get on our way,” said the other man. They went out and if Dahlmann was without hope, he was also without fear. As he crossed the threshold, he felt that to die in a knife fight, under the open sky, and going forward to the attack, would have been a liberation, a joy, and a festive occasion, on the first night in the sanitarium, when they stuck him with the needle. He felt that ifhe had been able to choose, then, or to dream his death, this would have been the pele he would have chosen or dreamt. Firmly clutching his knife; which he perhaps would not know how to wield, Dahl mann went out into the'plain. QUESTIONS 1. Atthe beginning of the story which one of his grandfathers does Johannes Dabichng appear to be emulating? Explain. 2. At what point in the story does the routine of Dahlmann’s life change? When ab events begin to seem unreal? 3. In what ways does his reading of The Thousand and One Niglts coincide with Dahl mann’s experience? 4. Who does the “old ecstatic gaucho” who throws Dahlmann a knife resemble? What inspires Dahlmann to take up the challenge made by the drunken tough? How does this challenge transform Dahlmann’s perception of himself? How can Dahlmann’s evolution be considered a metaphor for a larger transformation? What is the nature of this other transformation? Jol plas 5. The structure of Borges’s stories often resembles the genres of fantasy, science fi tion, and mystery. Which if any of these forms of writing appear to have influenced — this story? ‘a7 War & Peace \ 696 i S77" Luigi Pirandello WAR The passengers who had left Rome by the night express had had to stop inti day the small station of Fabriano in-order to ‘continue their journey by the small gig fashioned “local” joining the main line with Sulmona. Atdawn, ina stuffy and smoky second-class carriage in which five people had area spent the night, a bulky woman in deep mourning, was hoisted in—almost like , shapeless bundle, Behind her—puffing-and moaning, followed her husband—a ti, man, thin and weakly, his face death-whit, his eyés small and bright and looking shy and uneasy: Having at last taken a seat he politely thanked the passengers who had helped his wife and who had made room for her; then he turned round to the woman trying to pul down the collar of her coat and politely inquired: “Are you all right, dear?” The wife, instead of answering, pulled up her collar again to her eyes, $0 as to hide her face. “Nasty world,” muttered the husband with a sad smile. ‘And he felt it his duty to explain to his traveling companions that the poor woman was to be pitied for the war was taking away from her her only son, a boy of twenty to whom both had devoted their entire life, even breaking up their home at Sulmona to follow him to Rome where he had to go as a student, then; allowing him to volunteer for war with an assurance, however, that at least for six months lie would not be sent to the front and now, all of a sudden; receiving’a wire saying'that he was-due to leave in three days’ time and asking them to go and see him off, ‘The woman under the big coat was twisting and wriggling, at times growling like a wild animal, feeling certain that all those explanations would not have aroused even a shadow of sympathy from those people who—most likely—were in the same plight as herself, One of them, who had been listening with particular attention; said: “You should thank God that your son is only leaving now for the front. Mine has been sent there the first day of the war, He has already come back twice wounded and. been sent back again to the front.” “What about me? I have two sons and three nephews at the front,” said another nger. “Maybe, but in our case it is our only son,” ventured the husband. “Whaat difference can it make? You may spoil your only son with excessive attentions, but you cannot love him more than you would all your other children if you had any. Paternal love is not like bread that can be broken into pieces and split amongst children in equal shares, A father gives all his love to each one of his children wit discrimination, whether it be one or ten, and if I am suffering now for my two sons] am not suffering half for each of them but double... .” “True... true. . .” sighed the embarrassed husband, “but suppose (of coursetheo. W Fiction] Ce) all hope it will never be your case) a father has two sons at the front and he loses one of them, there is still one left to console him , .. while...” “Yes,” answered the other, getting cross, “a son left to console him but also a son left for whom he must survive, while in the case of the father of an only son if the son dices the father can die too and put an end to his distress. Which of the two positions ___ is the worse? Don’t you see how my case would be worse than yours?” “Nonsense,” interrupted another traveler, a fat, red-faced man with bloodshot eyes | of the palest gray. | __-He was panting, From his bulging eyes seemed to spurt inner violence of an uncon- | trolled vitality which his weakened body could hardly contain. “Nonsense,” he repeated, trying to cover his mouth with his hand so as to hide the two missing front teeth. “Nonsense, Do we give life to our children for our own benefit?” ‘The other travelers stared at him in distress. The one who had had his son at the front since the first day of the war sighed: “You are right. Our children do not belong tous, they belong to the Country. ...” “Bosh,” retorted the fat traveler. “Do we think of the Country when we give life to our children? Our sons are born because... well, because they must be born and when they come to life they take our own life with them. This is the truth, We belong to them. but they never belong to us. And when they reach twenty they are exactly what we were at their age. We too had a father and mother, but there were so many other things as, well . .. girls, cigarettes, illusions, new ties .. . and the Country, of course, whose call ‘we would have answered—when we were twenty—even if father and mother had said no. Now, at our age, the love of our Country is still great, of course, but stronger than itis the love for our children. Is there any one of us here who wouldn’t gladly take his son's place at the front if he could?” There was a silence all round, everybody nodding as to approve. “Why then,” continued the fat man, ‘shouldn’t we consider the feelings of our children when they are twenty? Isn't it natural that at their age they should consider the love for their Country (I am speaking of decent boys, of course) even greater than the love for us? Isn’t it natural that it should be so, as after all they must look upon us as upon old boys who cannot move any more and must stay at home? If Country exists, ‘if Country is a natural necessity like bread, of which each of us must eat in order not _to die of hunger, somebody must go to defend it. And our sons go, when they are twenty, cand they don’t want tears, because if they die, they died inflamed and happy ([ am. _ speaking, of course, of decent boys). Now, if one dies young and happy, without having the ugly sides oflife, the boredom ofit, the pettiness, the bitterness of disillusion . .. what “More can we ask for him? Everyone should stop crying: everyone should laugh, as I do _- ++ ovat least thank God—as I do—because my son, before dying, sent me a message i + was dying satisfied at having ended his life in the best way he could have ‘is why, as you see, I do not even wear mourning. . . .” is light fawn coat as to show it; his livid lip over his missing teeth was ‘were watery and motionless and soon after he ended with a shrill well have been a sob. lite so. .” agreed the others.wy) War & Peace oy 7 ‘The woman who, bundled in a corner under her coat, had been sitting and listening had—for the last three months—tried to'find in the words of her husband and her friends something to console her in her deep sorrow, something that might show her how a mother should resign herself to send her son not even to death but to a probable danger of life. Yet not a word had she found amongst the many which had been said . and her grief had been greater in seeing that nobody~~as she thought—could share her feelings. But now the words of the traveler amazed and almost stunned her. She suddenly. realized that it wasn’t the others who were wrong and could not understand her but herself who could not rise up to the same height of those fathers and mothers willing to resign themselves, without crying, not only to the departure of their sons but even to their'death: She lifted her head, she bent over from her comer trying to listen with great attention to the details which the fat man was giving to his companions about the way his son had. fallen a8 a hero, for his King and his Country, happy and without regrets. It seemed to her that she had stumbled into aworld she had never dreamt of, a world so far unknown to her and she was so pleased to hear everyone joining in congratulating that brave father who could so stoically speak of his child’s death. Then suddenly, just as if she had heard nothing of what had been said and almost as if waking up from a dream, she turned to'the old man, asking him: “Then . .. is your son really dead?” Everybody stared at her. The old man, too, turned to look at her, fixing his great, bulging, horribly watery light gray’eyes, deep in her face. For some little time he tried to answer, but words failed him. He looked and looked at her, almost as if only then—at that silly, incongruous question—he had suddenly realized atlast that his son was really dead . . . gone forever: ». forever: His face contracted, became horribly distorted, then he snatched in haste a handkerchief from his pocket and, to the amazement of everyone, broke into harrowing; heart-rending, uncontrollable sobs. Questions é " acl 1 What point didechigesatormnaka by having the traveling HEE argue over’ whose plight is the most tragic? 22 * SaaV sj. docdithe fatiternphaxizedhclteriaideCenrboys?svdieichennikesefesdn bem » to soldiering and duty? What emotion is hidden behind his reasoning? gu ond 3. Why does the fat man break down and ery at the end? ! on 4. Compare the view of patriotism voiced by the characters in this sory with that the 'lieutenant in “Patriotism.” te veawansive iasicdy [9$ 3 Hernando Téllez ~ JUST LATHER, THAT’S ALL aS recognized him I started to tremble. But he didn’t notice, Hoping my emotion, I continued sharpening the razor. | tested it on the meat of my en held it up to the light. At that moment he took off the bullet-studded n holster dangled from, He hung it up on a wall hook and placed his « ‘Then he tumed to me, loosening the knot of his tie, and said, “It’s ive meia shave.”’ He satin the chair, ‘soap. T cut offa few slices, dropped them into the cup, mixed in a bit € began to stir with the brush. Immediately the foam began to rise. the group should have this much beard, too.” I continued stirring allright, you know. We got the main ones, We brought back some dead, me others still alive. But pretty soon they'll all be dead.” lid you catch?” I asked. d to-go pretty deep into the woods to find them. But we'll get even ames out of this alive; not one.” ‘on the chair when he saw me with the lather-covered brush in my Sut the sheet on him. No doubt about it, I was upset. I took a sheet ed it around my customer's neck. He wouldn't stop talking. ‘was in sympathy with his party. ¢ leamed a lesson from what we did the other day,” he said. ecuring the knot at the base of his dark, sweaty neck. eh?” turning back for the brush. The man closed his eyes with. sat waiting forthe cool caress ofthe soap. [had never had him he ordered the whole town to file into the patio of the school hanging there, I came face to face with him for an instant, But es kept me from noticing the face of the man who had ¢ Lwas now about to take into my hands, It was not an unpleasant beard, which made him seem a bit older than he was, didn’t ‘name was Torres, Captain Torres. A man of imagination, € thought of hanging the naked rebels and then holding ts of their bodies? I began to apply the first layer of soap. “Without any effort I could go straight to sleep,” do this afternoon.” I stopped the lathering and asked with squad?” “'Something like that, but a litde slower.” +his beard, My hands started trembling again. The man ‘this was in my favor, But I would have preferred that® S War & Peace he hadn’t come. It was likely that many of our faction had seen him enter. And an enemy under one’s roof imposes certain conditions. I would be obliged to shave that beard like any other one, carefully, gently, like that of any customer, taking pains to see that no single pore emitted a drop of blood. Being careful to sce that the little tufts of hair did not lead the blade astray. Seeing that his skin ended up clean, soft, and healthy, so that passing the back of my hand over it I couldn't feel a hair. Yes, I was secretly a rebel, but I was also a conscientious barber, and proud of the preciseness of my profession. And this four-days’ growth of beard was a fitting challenge. T took the razor, opened up the two protective arms, exposed the blade and began the job, from one of the sideburns downward. The razor responded beautifully. His! beard was inflexible and hard, not too long, but thick. Bit by bit the skin/ emerged, ‘The razor rasped along, making its customary sound as flufls of lather mixed with bits of hair gathered along the blade. I paused’a’ moment to clean it) then took ‘up’ the strop again to sharpen the razor, because P’n’a'barber who does things properly. The! man, who had kept his eyes closed, opened them now,’ removed one of his hands from under the sheet, felt the spot’on:his face where the soap had been cleared off,’ and said, “Come to the school today at six’o’clock.”” “The same thing’as'the: other” day?” I asked horrified, “It could be better,” he replied. “What do you plan'to'do?” “I don’t know yet. But we'll amuse ourselves.” Once more he leaned back and ‘closed his eyes. I approached him with the razor poised. “Do you plan to’punish them all?” I ventured timidly. “All.” The soap was drying on his face, I had to hurry: In'the mirror I looked toward the street. It was the same as ever: the grocery’store with two or three customers in it. Then I glanced at the ‘clock: two-twenty in the afternoon. ‘The razor continued on its downward stroke. Now from the other sideburn'down. A thick, blue beard. He should have let it grow like some poets or priests do! It would! suit him well. A lot of people wouldn't recognize him. Much to'his benefit, I thought, as I attempted to cover the neck area sinoothly. There, for sure, the razor had to be! handled masterfully, since the hair, although softer, grew into little’ swirls. A urly beard. One of the tiny pores could be opened up and issue fortlvits pearl of blood. A good barber such as I prides himself on never allowing this to happen to a client, And this was a first-class client. How many of us had he ordered shot? How many of us had he: ordered mutilated? It was better not to think about it. Torres did not know that I was his enemy, He did not know it nor did the rest. It was a secret shared by” very few, precisely so that I could inform the revolutionaries| of what ‘Tortes ‘was! doing in the town and of what he was planning each time he undertook a’ rebel- hunting excursion. So it was going to be very difficult toexplai that T ze hinvright> in my hands and let him go peacefully—alive and shaved, 1 ‘The beard was'now almost completely gone, He seemed youriger, less Buide years than when he’ had arrived. I suppose’ this always happens with men who | barber shops: Under the stroke of my razor Torres was being rejuvenated—rej because I am a good barber, the best in the town, if I may say so. A little here, under his chin, on his Adam’s apple, on this big vein. How hot it is getting! must be sweating as much as I. But he is not afraid. He is a calm man, who is no thinking about what he is going to do with the prisoners this afternoon. On't és ‘this razor in my hands, stroking and re-stroking this skin, trying