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He
hated
Popé
more
and
more
.
A
man
can
smile
and
smile
and
be
a
villain
.
Remorseless
,
treacherous
,
lecherous
,
kindless
villain
.
What
did
the
words
exactly
mean
?
He
only
half
knew
.
But
their
magic
was
strong
and
went
on
rumbling
in
his
head
,
and
somehow
it
was
as
though
he
had
never
really
hated
Popé
before
;
never
really
hated
him
because
he
had
never
been
able
to
say
how
much
he
hated
him
.
But
now
he
had
these
words
,
these
words
like
drums
and
singing
and
magic
.
These
words
and
the
strange
,
strange
story
out
of
which
they
were
taken
(
he
couldn
’
t
make
head
or
tail
of
it
,
but
it
was
wonderful
,
wonderful
all
the
same
)
–
they
gave
him
a
reason
for
hating
Popé
;
and
they
made
his
hatred
more
real
;
they
even
made
Popé
himself
more
real
.
One
day
,
when
he
came
in
from
playing
,
the
door
of
the
inner
room
was
open
,
and
he
saw
them
lying
together
on
the
bed
,
asleep
–
white
Linda
and
Popé
almost
black
beside
her
,
with
one
arm
under
her
shoulders
and
the
other
dark
hand
on
her
breast
,
and
one
of
the
plaits
of
his
long
hair
lying
across
her
throat
,
like
a
black
snake
trying
to
strangle
her
.
Popé
’
s
gourd
and
a
cup
were
standing
on
the
floor
near
the
bed
.
Linda
was
snoring
.
His
heart
seemed
to
have
disappeared
and
left
a
hole
.
He
was
empty
.
Empty
,
and
cold
,
and
rather
sick
,
and
giddy
.
He
leaned
against
the
wall
to
steady
himself
.
Remorseless
,
treacherous
,
lecherous
.
.
.
Like
drums
,
like
the
men
singing
for
the
corn
,
like
magic
,
the
words
repeated
and
repeated
themselves
in
his
head
.
From
being
cold
he
was
suddenly
hot
.
His
cheeks
burnt
with
the
rush
of
blood
,
the
room
swam
and
darkened
before
his
eyes
.
He
ground
his
teeth
.
"
I
’
ll
kill
him
,
I
’
ll
kill
him
,
I
’
ll
kill
him
,
"
he
kept
saying
.
And
suddenly
there
were
more
words
.
When
he
is
drunk
asleep
,
or
in
his
rage
Or
in
the
incestuous
pleasure
of
his
bed
.
.
.
The
magic
was
on
his
side
,
the
magic
explained
and
gave
orders
.
He
stepped
back
in
the
outer
room
.
"
When
he
is
drunk
asleep
.
.
.
"
The
knife
for
the
meat
was
lying
on
the
floor
near
the
fireplace
.
He
picked
it
up
and
tiptoed
to
the
door
again
.
"
When
he
is
drunk
asleep
,
drunk
asleep
.
.
.
"
He
ran
across
the
room
and
stabbed
–
oh
,
the
blood
!
–
stabbed
again
,
as
Popé
heaved
out
of
his
sleep
,
lifted
his
hand
to
stab
once
more
,
but
found
his
wrist
caught
,
held
and
–
oh
,
oh
!
–
twisted
.
He
couldn
’
t
move
,
he
was
trapped
,
and
there
were
Popé
’
s
small
black
eyes
,
very
close
,
staring
into
his
own
.
He
looked
away
.
There
were
two
cuts
on
Popé
’
s
left
shoulder
.
"
Oh
,
look
at
the
blood
!
"
Linda
was
crying
.
"
Look
at
the
blood
!
"
She
had
never
been
able
to
bear
the
sight
of
blood
.
Popé
lifted
his
other
hand
–
to
strike
him
,
he
thought
.
He
stiffened
to
receive
the
blow
.
But
the
hand
only
took
him
under
the
chin
and
turned
his
face
,
so
that
he
had
to
look
again
into
Popé
’
s
eyes
.
For
a
long
time
,
for
hours
and
hours
.
And
suddenly
–
he
couldn
’
t
help
it
–
he
began
to
cry
.
Popé
burst
out
laughing
.
"
Go
,
"
he
said
,
in
the
other
Indian
words
.
"
Go
,
my
brave
Ahaiyuta
.
"
He
ran
out
into
the
other
room
to
hide
his
tears
.
"
You
are
fifteen
,
"
said
old
Mitsima
,
in
the
Indian
words
.
"
Now
I
may
teach
you
to
work
the
clay
.
"
Squatting
by
the
river
,
they
worked
together
.
