Free The Good Conscience by Carlos Fuentes Page A

come back!”
    Ezequiel rubbed the boy’s head.
    â€œWhat a baby you are. If you really want to help me, don’t come. I will leave when it gets dark.”
    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.
    â€œShake hands, Jaime, and thanks for understanding and helping me.”
    They clasped hands.
    â€œEzequiel, when will I see you again?”
    â€œAll of a sudden some day you don’t expect to.”
    â€œAre you going to win?”
    â€œSure as the sun rises.”
    â€œWill you let me help you again then … I mean, when you’ve won and I’ve grown up?”
    Zuno smiled and slapped the boy’s shoulder.
    â€œSure. But you’re already almost grown. You’ve proved it. Now slip out, we don’t want them suspecting anything.”
    Jaime reached the door and turned.
    â€œI’m your friend, Ezequiel. Don’t forget me.”
    Ezequiel answered with a finger to his lips:
    â€œShhhhh!”
    Uncle Balcárcel hid in the patio and watched the boy come out of the stable. He cracked his knuckles.
    *   *   *
    â€œLook, boys!”
    â€œA prisoner!”
    â€œWith soldiers guarding him!”
    â€œHe must be a bandit!”
    They crowded across the school yard. The bell ending recreation period rang and the prefects began to shout:
    â€œLine up! Line up!”
    Four soldiers were leading a man whose wrists were bound.
    â€œLook what a face he has!”
    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.
    â€œEzequiel!”
    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 miner’s shoes clattered. The bayonets of the four soldiers flashed light across his face.
    â€œEzequiel! It wasn’t me! I swear, it wasn’t me!”
    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.
    â€œIt wasn’t me! I’m your friend!”
    The boots marched on. A few curious passersby stared down at the boy lying on the stones.
    â€œIt wasn’t me…”

Chapter 5
    E ACH YEAR OF LIFE , like a night’s 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 Asunción’s confessor, who barks his Sunday sermons and every Friday hungrily presents his greyhound profile at dinner. Señor Eusebio Martínez, leader of the Party of the Mexican Revolution, who wishes Licenciado Balcárcel to become patron of a Youth Front for the