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Updated: June 11, 2025
"Once," continued Valls, "a Belgian couple came and established themselves on the island, bearing letters to me from a friend in Antwerp. I was attentive to them. I did all manner of favors for them. 'Be careful, I told them; 'remember that I am a Chueta, and the Chuetas are very bad people. The woman laughed. What barbarity! What out-of-date notions prevail here on the island!
On the Peninsula the daughters of Chuetas married men of distinction and men of great fortune, but on the island they scarcely ever found one who would accept their hand and their riches. "Bad people!" continued Valls sarcastically.
One sunny morning Febrer, leaning on Valls and Margalida, made his way with the step of a convalescent as far as the porch of the farmhouse. Seated in a great armchair he gazed fondly upon the tranquil landscape outspread before him. Upon the summit of the headland rose the Pirate's Tower. How much he had dreamed and suffered there!
In this fleeting consciousness, like a hasty vision of light from a breathing-hole in the darkness of a tunnel, he recognized near his bed the sorrowful faces of the family of Can Mallorquí. Again his eyes would encounter those of the doctor, and once he even thought he saw the gray whiskers and the oil-colored eyes of his friend, Pablo Valls. "Illusion!
He drew Valls' letter from his pocket again, taking pleasure in reading it over and over, as if each time he found fresh items of interest. While reading these paragraphs, which were already familiar, his mind was dwelling on the good news. His loyal friend Pablo! How timely was his advice!
The peaceful Majorcan who, on returning to his house, found this visiting card, must have felt his hair rise in terror. Another of his ancestors came into his mind, the one mentioned by the choleric Pablo Valls when he recalled the burning of the Chuetas and Father Garau's little book.
That is the formation of tissue, the new flesh which hurts as it grows." Jaime realized the truth of these words. In the region of his wounds he felt an itching, a tension which contracted his flesh. Valls read a supplication of curiosity in the eyes of his friend. "Do not talk! Do not tire yourself! How long have I been here? About two weeks.
It showed the same distinctive permanent colloid pattern as the sample he had ready for comparison; the colloid pattern given in infancy by injection to the man in front of him, to set him apart from all the myriad other Verkan Valls on every other probability-line of paratime. "Right, sir," the clerk nodded.
Valls commented ironically upon the social order, resembling the steps of a stairway, in which the different classes of the island had dwelt for centuries and where many steps still remained intact.
She feared that the sick man might remember what she had done in the most critical moments, when she was almost sure that he was going to die. "Now you must keep still," continued Valls. "I will stay here until we can go back to Palma together. You know me. I understand everything; I'll arrange it all. Eh? Do I make myself clear?"
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