by
Juan Rulfo
I came to Comala because I had been told
that my father, a man named Pedro Paramo
lived there. It was my mother who told me.
And I had promised her that after she died I
would go see him. I squeezed her hands as a
sign I would do it. She was near death, and I
would have promised her anything. "Don't
fail to go see him," she had insisted. "Some
call him one thing, some another. I'm sure he
will want to know you." At the time all I
could do was tell her I would do what she
asked, and from promising so often I kept re-
peating the promise even after I had pulled
my hands free of her death grip.
"Comala, senor."
"Umh!" he said.
"Doloritas's boy."
"No, never."
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"Nothing, mama."
"Yes, mama."
"I'm thinking."
"Yes, Grandmother."
"So I went.
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"'Good-bye, Doloritas!'
"But. . .?"
"No?"
"No."
"You're lucky."
"No, Uncle."
"Yes, Uncle."
"Yes, Uncle."
"To you."
"Yes, Father."
I slept fitfully.
"Eduviges Dyada?"
"Why not?"
"No."
"And so?"
"I can't."
"Who knows?"
he?"
"That."
"I'm on my way."
"Anywhere."
"Look at my face!"
'"Marry us!'
"'Live apart!'
"Yes, I hear."
"It's him."
"Understand what?"
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"All right."
I mean, forever.
"Milking who?"
Unidentifiable sounds.
He felt no sorrow.
"Tell me."
"Who is she?"
"Yes."
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"Who?"
"How come?"
Then silence.
"Yes, Bartolome."
"Yes, Bartolome."
"Maybe so."
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"And?"
"You bet."
"Five hundred?"
"Yes, Susana."
"Really true?"
"Many, Susana."
"Whose grace?"
He repeated, "Susana!"
"Yes, Father."
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"Yes, daughter."
"Died? Who?"
"The senora."
"Your senora?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
"What hills?"
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He followed them.
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