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Xavier the Leper
by Alberto Rangel
translated by Ben Norwood
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Just
after two years of marriage to Marcollina, the
most beautiful, free-spirited, and cheerful
daughter of the late Jose Ricardo, the erythematous
phase of that most atrocious disease appeared
on Xavier's skin. The scales and blotches signaled
the undeniable march of the disease that would
putrefy and consume him in his lifetime. Even
before the scales and blotches appeared, the
unmistakable nodules were showing. Bumps protruded
from the ear lobes, the nasal walls, the chin,
the lips, and the eyebrows. His yellow, brittle
fingernails had already begun to cleave. All
these very visible signs justified the repulsion
of those who had suspected the nature of evil
and covertly warned the entire neighborhood.
In the beginning, Xavier, quite naturally, could
not understand the reason for his isolation.
He ascribed it to various vague and unconnected
causes: an argument or a grudge, gossip or intrigue
among acquaintances. He never attributed his
isolation to an exceptionally adopted prophylaxis,
to justified alarm. The painful explanation
finally came to him by association of knuckles,
swollen and wrought with wine-colored spots,
and a lack of buyers for his game, fish, and
gathered fruit. Another continual warning sign
was the turning of backs as he approached. No
one chatted with him on the square during summer
evenings after mosquito season. There were no
more shucking bees or turtle grillings for him.
A steely, moral cordon was forming and closing
around Xavier and his wife, a cordon that would
act as a barrier against the scattered funeral
pyre of one of them. He was further afflicted
by the sad looks that covered Marcollina's usually
open and jovial face. The girl's young and joyful
spirit had come to an end behind her new physiognomy.
What smiles she offered her husband were offered
as consolations. Xavier often surprised her
in her tears, tears that sprang irresistibly
from lusterless eyes. Her respite from weeping
was withdrawal where her gait and gestures were
those of a sleepwalker.
So that he would not be obliged to sit at home
and observe the pain that he could neither prevent
nor divert, he went to the island where vast
fields of crops flourished. He clearly did not
go there with thoughts of tending the soil.
Little or nothing mattered to him then, certainly
not weeding or the fate of crops. He went there
to be alone and give himself over to the desperate
growth of his own pain.
The ears of corn that season were as lavishly
bedecked as dolls and the countless bean pods
were bright yellow. The melons, cantaloupes,
and gourds made the beach appear to be buoyed
up by great, rounded breasts. Ripened rice gilded
a vast esplanade where two scarecrows wearing
caps and brandishing poles looked like disjointed
duelers. Rooting animals overturned here and
there the thriving furrows but the richness
of the soil compensated for the damage of gluttonous
and destructive beasts. On the isle Xavier plunged
along the sprouting plants to separate curtains
of extravagant growth. Harrowing soliloquies
were heard there by the rice field scarecrows
and the plants voracious for the water, sun,
and humus with which Nature was unstinting.
He recalled the first signs of the disease that
had attacked him: the little afternoon fevers,
the unflagging sleepiness, the vomiting, headaches,
chills, and the utter weakness and weariness.
He attributed these to stomach ailments or malaria.
"It can't be," he told himself. "It can't be,"
he repeated a hundred times as he scratched
the deteriorating skin and steadfastly contemplated
the unfeeling spots on his face in a fragment
of mirror. He tried everything that was suggested:
bloodletting, purgatives, sweats. He even subjected
himself to the tricks of a highly-recommended
witch doctor. They were all the same, costly
and ineffective. Where did he get this evil?
In Labrea, on Virgilio's plantation, in the
waterways of Cauána, in a ditch at Coatá? Probably
in Javary. The tiniest details from this troubled
phase of his life distressed him. On the frontier
he had lent a hand in a Peruvian's business
where he was eventually employed. His job was
to disguise Brazilian rubber in the reeds and
floating vegetation so that it might evade the
weights and measures of the customs man. They
denationalized the rubber by secretly changing
its shore of origin. Sometimes this shadowy
and ill-paid labor did not go well for them.
This is an excerpt.
To read the rest, please continue your travels
in the Republic by purchasing
No. 13, Summer 2004.
Alberto
Rangel's bio is forthcoming.
Ben Norwood's bio is
forthcoming.
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