come back!â
Ezequiel rubbed the boyâs head.
âWhat a baby you are. If you really want to help me, donât come. I will leave when it gets dark.â
The strength of a real man, Jaime thought. There was nothing about him that was like Uncle Balcárcel. He stared at Ezequiel wordlessly. He wanted to remember him, never forget him.
âShake hands, Jaime, and thanks for understanding and helping me.â
They clasped hands.
âEzequiel, when will I see you again?â
âAll of a sudden some day you donât expect to.â
âAre you going to win?â
âSure as the sun rises.â
âWill you let me help you again then ⦠I mean, when youâve won and Iâve grown up?â
Zuno smiled and slapped the boyâs shoulder.
âSure. But youâre already almost grown. Youâve proved it. Now slip out, we donât want them suspecting anything.â
Jaime reached the door and turned.
âIâm your friend, Ezequiel. Donât forget me.â
Ezequiel answered with a finger to his lips:
âShhhhh!â
Uncle Balcárcel hid in the patio and watched the boy come out of the stable. He cracked his knuckles.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âLook, boys!â
âA prisoner!â
âWith soldiers guarding him!â
âHe must be a bandit!â
They crowded across the school yard. The bell ending recreation period rang and the prefects began to shout:
âLine up! Line up!â
Four soldiers were leading a man whose wrists were bound.
âLook what a face he has!â
On tiptoes, Jaime watched them pass. With a drowned gasp and his legs and arms pounding he ran out the gate and down the narrow street of sunlight and shadow until he reached the five silent marching men.
âEzequiel!â
His cry was not of anguish. It was of guilt, self-accusation. Zuno walked with his eyes fixed on the paving stones. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and across his back. His heavy minerâs shoes clattered. The bayonets of the four soldiers flashed light across his face.
âEzequiel! It wasnât me! I swear, it wasnât me!â
Jaime ran in front of them, running backward, facing them. The street dipped abruptly, and he lost his footing. They passed beside and above him.
âIt wasnât me! Iâm your friend!â
The boots marched on. A few curious passersby stared down at the boy lying on the stones.
âIt wasnât meâ¦â
Chapter 5
E ACH YEAR OF LIFE , like a nightâs repose, has depths of profound dream and summits of wakefulness. Life in a provincial capital, once experienced, tends to drain off into shadows. In memory whole hours and days are lost. Only isolated scenes remain, persisting because they have burrowed deep and put out roots. Fourteen years: the Bible for his birthday. Fifteen years: the voices of those who have an opinion about him, who make remarks about him, who feel themselves responsible for his future, who point the road he should take. Priests who sip chocolate with Doña Asunción. Stiff ladies who come calling. Mild-eyed señoritas who already are Daughters of Mary. Politicians and businessmen who breakfast with Uncle Balcárcel. He had wanted people, he had sought a voice in a wooden statue varnished with blood, and he had believed that the only human voice was that of the miner, Ezequiel Zuno. Now the tongues of a hundred gratuitous preceptors may be heard, all friends in the immediate world of his aunt and uncle, and the boy must perforce listen. Don Tereso Chávez, director of his school, who has faith in Jaime and also halitosis. Father Lanzagorta, Doña Asunciónâs confessor, who barks his Sunday sermons and every Friday hungrily presents his greyhound profile at dinner. Señor Eusebio MartÃnez, leader of the Party of the Mexican Revolution, who wishes Licenciado Balcárcel to become patron of a Youth Front for the