De cómo San Francisco gave la situación a turn and imposed a gentle castigo a Pilón, Pablo y Jesús María.
The afternoon came down so gently as pasa el tiempo para a happy man. La luz took on a golden tone. El agua de la bahía seemed bluer and rippled por la brisa. Los solitarios fishermen who think los peces bite better at high tide abandonaron las rocas, giving space to those who were convencidos de que the fish bite better at low tide.
A las tres, la brisa cambió de dirección and began to blow softly from the bay, bringing all manner of fine aromas. Those who were remendaban nets in the vacant lots of Monterrey put down their spindles and rolled cigarillos. En las calles de la ciudad, fat damas in whose eyes lay the weariness and the wisdom one sees so often in the eyes of pigs, were being driven in dizzying automóviles en dirreción al mar and gin fizzes at the Hotel Del Monte. En la calle Alvarado, Hugo Machado, the tailor, put that sign en la puerta de su local: “Back en cinco minutos”, and went home for the day. Los pinos waved slowly y voluptuosamente. Las gallinas protestaban con plácidas voces about their maldito destino.
Pilón y Pablo sat down under a Castillian Rose en el jardín de Torrelli, drinking vino en silencio and allowing the afternoon to pass as slowly as hair grows.
- It is just as well we didn’t take dos garrafas de vino a Danny – dijo Pilón -. Es un hombre that knows little restraint in drinking.
- Danny parece healthy – dijo -, but he’s one of those types that you keep hearing every day that one of them died. Mira Rudolfo Kelling. Mira Angelina Vásquez.