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Updated: May 12, 2025
I did not know. And then my house was on fire. No, it was not my boy that went away; it was that cachorra all the time. You darned fools! Did you think I was waiting for my own boy?" "Now I show you all," he said at the end. "And now I can get hanged." No one ever touched Boaz Negro for that murder. For murder it was in the eye and letter of the Law.
That cachorra, one day he shall come back again, in the dark night, to have a look. I shall go to show you all. That cachorra!" "That cachorra!" As if he had forfeited the relationship not only of the family, but of the very genus, the very race! He pronounced this resolution without passion.
That cachorra put his clothes on my boy, and he set my house on fire. I knew that all the time. Because when I heard those feet come out of my house and go away, I knew they were the feet of that cachorra from the bank. I did not know where he was going to. Something said to me you better ask him where he is going to. But then I said, you are foolish. He had the money from the bank.
Behind everything, of course, stood that bitterness against the world the blind world blinder than he would ever be. And against "that cachorra." But this was no longer a thought; it was the man. Just as all muscular aspiration flowed into his arms, so all the energies of his senses turned to his ears. The man had become, you might say, two arms and two ears.
His razor was arrested. Lifting his face, he encircled the watchers with a gaze at once of imploration and of command. As if he could see them. As if he could read his answer in the expressions of their faces. "Tell me one thing now. Is it that cachorra?" For the first time those men in the room made sounds. They shuffled their feet.
Supposing they were capable of being tricked, without his being able to know it. Supposing that that cachorra should come and go, and he, Boaz, living in some vast delusion, some unrealized distortion of memory, should let him pass unknown. Supposing precisely this thing had already happened! Or the other way around. What if he should hear the footfalls coming, even into the very shop itself?
Were those the feet, there, emerging faintly from the distance? Yes, there was something about them. Yes! Memory was in travail. Yes, yes, yes! No! How could he be sure? Ice ran down into his empty eyes. The footfalls were already passing. They were gone, swallowed up already by time and space. Had that been that cachorra?
The bank fellow that was burned remember? Himself." "That cachorra was not burned. Not that Wood. You darned fool!" Boaz spoke from his chair. They hardly knew his voice, emerging from its long silence; it was so didactic and arid. "That cachorra was not burned. It was my boy that was burned. It was that cachorra called my boy upstairs. That cachorra killed my boy.
One could imagine the whole aspiration of that mute and motionless man pouring itself out into those pallid arms, and the arms taking it up with a kind of blind greed. Storing it up. Against a day! "That cachorra! One day " What were the thoughts of the man? What moved within that motionless cranium covered with long hair? Who can say?
If it were not for that beard, it would have been that cachorra. On this basis he began to reason with a crazy directness. And to act. He went and pried open the door into the entry. From a shelf he took down his razor. A big, heavy-heeled strop. His hands began to hurry. And the mug, half full of soap. And water. It would have to be cold water. Outside, they were at the shop again.
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