What did he come here for?
He was a miner from the mountains. A barretero. He became sick and so he came here. But it was too late. No one could do anything for him.
Hove many other people live here?
No one. Only me.
Then you was the only one that tried?
Tried what?
To do anything for him.
Yes. The boy looked up at the man. He ate. What day is it? he said. It is Sunday. I meant what day of the month. I dont know. Do you know what month it is? No. How do you know it’s Sunday. Because it comes every seven days. The boy ate. I am a Mormon. Or I was. I was a Mormon born. He wasnt sure what a Mormon was. He looked at the room. He looked at the cats. They came here many years ago. Eighteen and ninety‑six. From Utah. They came because of the statehood. In Utah. I was a Mormon. Then I converted to the church. Then I became I dont know what. Then I became me. What do you do here? I am the custodian. The caretaker. What do you take care of? The church. It’s done fell down. Yes. Of course. It fell down in the terremoto. Were you here then? I was not born. When was it? In eighteen eighty‑seven. The boy finished the eggs and put the fork on the plate. He looked at the man. How long have you been here? Since six years now. It was like this when you got here. Yes. He raised and drained his cup and set it back in the saucer. I thank you for the breakfast, he said.
You are welcome.
He looked like he might be getting ready to rise and leave. The man reached into his shirtpocket and took out tobacco and a small cloth folder in which were papers cut from cornhusks. One of the cats on the bunk had risen and stretched, hindleg and fore, and it leapt silently to the table and walked to the boy’s plate and sniffed at it and squatted on bowed elbows and began delicately to pick bits of egg from the tines of the fork. The man had pinched tobacco into a paper and sat rolling it back and forth. He pushed the makings across the table toward the boy.
Thanks, the boy said. I aint never took it up.
The man nodded and twisted the cigarette he’d made into the corner of his mouth and rose and went to the stove. He took a long splinter of wood from a can of them in the floor and opened the stove door and leaned and lit the splinter and with it lit the cigarette. Then he blew out the splinter and put it back in the can and shut the stove door and returned to the table with the pot and refilled the boy’s cup. His own cup stood black and cold untouched. He set the pot back on the stove and walked around the table and sat as before. The cat rose and looked at itself in the white porcelain of the plate and stepped away and sat and yawned and set about cleaning itself.
What did you come here for? the boy said.
What did you?
Sir?
What did you come here for?
I didnt come here. I’m just passin through.
The man drew on the cigarette. Myself also, he said. I am the same.
You been passin through for six years?
The man gestured with a small toss of one hand. I came here as a heretic fleeing a prior life. I was running away.
You come here to hide out?
I came because of the devastation.
Sir?
The devastation. From the terremoto.
Yessir.
I was seeking evidence for the hand of God in the world. I had come to believe that hand a wrathful one and I thought that men had not inquired sufficiently into miracles of destruction. Into disasters of a certain magnitude. I thought there might be evidence that had been overlooked. I thought He would not trouble himself to wipe away every handprint. My desire to know was very strong. I thought it might even amuse Him to leave some clue.
What sort of clue
I dont know. Something. Something unforeseen. Something out of place. Something untrue or out of round. A track in the dirt. A fallen bauble. Not some cause. I can tell you that. Not some cause. Causes only multiply themselves. They lead to chaos. What I wanted was to know his mind. I could not believe He would destroy his own church without reason.
You think maybe the people that lived here had done somethin bad?
The man smoked thoughtfully. I thought it possible, yes. Possible. As in the cities of the plain. I thought there might be evidence of something suitably unspeakable such that He might be goaded into raising his hand against it. Something in the rubble. In the dirt. Under the vigas. Something dark. Who could say?
What did you find?
Nothing. A doll. A dish. A bone.
He leaned and stubbed out the cigarette in a clay bowl on the table.
I am here because of a certain man. I came to retrace his steps. Perhaps to see if there were not some alternate course. What was here to be found was not a thing. Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name. The story on the other hand can never be lost from its place in the world for it is that place. And that is what was to be found here. The corrido. The tale. And like all corridos it ultimately told one story only, for there is only one to tell.