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Pedro Paramo,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,Still earlier she had told me. Don t ask him for anything Just what s,ours What he should have given me but nev. Make him pay son for all those years he,put us out of his mind.
I will Mother,I never meant to keep my promise But be. fore I knew it my head began to swim with,dreams and my imagination took flight. Little by little I began to build a world,around a hope centered on the man called. Pedro Paramo the man who had been my,mother s husband That was why I had come. It was during the dog days the season when,the August wind blows hot venomous with.
the rotten stench of saponaria blossoms,The road rose and fell It rises or falls de. pending on whether you re coming or going,If you are leaving it s uphill but as you ar. rive it s downhill,What did you say that town down there is. Comala senor,You re sure that s Comala,I m sure senor. It s a sorry looking place what happened to,It s the times senor.
I had expected to see the town of my,mother s memories of her nostalgia nostal. gia laced with sighs She had lived her life,time sighing about Comala about going. back But she never had Now I had come in,her place I was seeing things through her. eyes as she had seen them She had given,me her eyes to see Just as you pass the gate. of Los Colimotes there s a beautiful view of a,green plain tinged with the yellow of ripe.
corn From there you can see Comala turn,ing the earth white and lighting it at night. Her voice was secret muffled as if she were,talking to herself Mother. And why are you going to Comala if you,don t mind my asking I heard the man say. I ve come to see my father I replied,Umh he said,And again silence. We were making our way down the hill to the,clip clop of the burros hooves Their sleepy.
eyes were bulging from the August heat,You re going to get some welcome Again I. heard the voice of the man walking at my,side They ll be happy to see someone after. all the years no one s come this way,After a while he added Whoever you are. they ll be glad to see you,In the shimmering sunlight the plain was a. transparent lake dissolving in mists that,veiled a gray horizon Farther in the dis.
tance a range of mountains And farther,still faint remoteness. And what does your father look like if you,don t mind my asking. I never knew him I told the man I only,know his name is Pedro Paramo. Umh that so,Yes At least that was the name I was told. Yet again I heard the burro driver s Umh,I had run into him at the crossroads called.
Los Encuentros I had been waiting there,and finally this man had appeared. Where are you going I asked,Down that way senor,Do you know a place called Comala. That s the very way I m going,So I followed him I walked along behind. trying to keep up with him until he seemed,to remember I was following and slowed. down a little After that we walked side by,side so close our shoulders were nearly.
Pedro Paramo s my father too he said,A flock of crows swept across the empty sky. shrilling caw caw caw,Up and downhill we went but always des. cending We had left the hot wind behind,and were sinking into pure airless heat The. stillness seemed to be waiting for something,It s hot here I said. You might say But this is nothing my,companion replied Try to take it easy.
You ll feel it even more when we get to,Comala That town sits on the coals of the. earth at the very mouth of hell They say,that when people from there die and go to. hell they come back for a blanket,Do you know Pedro Paramo I asked. I felt I could ask because I had seen a glim,mer of goodwill in his eyes. Who is he I pressed him,Living bile was his reply,And he lowered his stick against the burros.
for no reason at all because they had been,far ahead of us guided by the descending. The picture of my mother I was carrying in,my pocket felt hot against my heart as if she. herself were sweating It was an old photo,graph worn around the edges but it was the. only one I had ever seen of her I had found,it in the kitchen safe inside a clay pot filled. with herbs dried lemon balm castilla blos,soms sprigs of rue I had kept it with me.
ever since,It was all I had My mother always hated. having her picture taken She said photo,graphs were a tool of witchcraft And that. may have been so because hers was riddled,with pinpricks and at the location of the. heart there was a hole you could stick your,middle finger through. I had brought the photograph with me,thinking it might help my father recognize.
Take a look the burro driver said stop,ping You see that rounded hill that looks. like a hog bladder Well the Media Luna lies,right behind there Now turn that way You. see the brow of that hill Look hard And,now back this way You see that ridge The. one so far you can t hardly see it Well all,that s the Media Luna. From end to end Like they say as far as the,eye can see He owns ever bit of that land.
We re Pedro Paramo s sons all right but for,all that our mothers brought us into the. world on straw mats And the real joke of it,is that he s the one carried us to be baptized. That s how it was with you wasn t it,I don t remember. The hell you say,What did you say,I said we re getting there senor. Yes I see it now What could it have,That was a correcaminos senor A roadrun.
ner That s what they call those birds around,No I meant I wonder what could have. happened to the town It looks so deserted,abandoned really In fact it looks like no one. lives here at all,It doesn t just look like no one lives here No. one does live here,And Pedro Paramo,Pedro Paramo died years ago. It was the hour of the day when in every little,village children come out to play in the.
streets filling the afternoon with their cries,The time when dark walls still reflect pale. yellow sunlight,At least that was what I had seen in Sayula. just yesterday at this hour I d seen the still,air shattered by the flight of doves flapping. their wings as if pulling themselves free of,They swooped and plummeted above the tile. rooftops while the children s screams,whirled and seemed to turn blue in the dusk.
Now here I was in this hushed town Tcould,hear my footsteps on the cobbled paving. stones Hollow footsteps echoing against,walls stained red by the setting sun. This was the hour I found myself walking,down the main street. Nothing but abandoned houses their empty,doorways overgrown with weeds What had. the stranger told me they were called La,gobernadora senor Creosote bush A.
plague that takes over a person s house the,minute he leaves You ll see. As I passed a street corner I saw a woman,wrapped in her rebozo she disappeared as if. she had never existed I started forward,again peering into the doorless houses. Again the woman in the rebozo crossed in,front of me. Evening she said,I looked after her I shouted Where will I.
find dona Eduviges,She pointed There The house beside the. I took note that her voice had human over,tones that her mouth was filled with teeth. and a tongue that worked as she spoke and,that her eyes were the eyes of people who in. habit the earth,By now it was dark,She turned to call good night And though. there were no children playing no doves no,blue shadowed roof tiles I felt that the town.
was alive And that if I heard only silence it,was because I was not yet accustomed to si. lence maybe because my head was still,filled with sounds and voices. Yes voices And here where the air was so,rare I heard them even stronger They lay. heavy inside me I remembered what my,mother had said You will hear me better. there I will be closer to you You will hear,the voice of my memories stronger than the.
Pedro Paramo the man who had been my mother s husband That was why I had come to Comala It was during the dog days the season when the August wind blows hot venomous with the rotten stench of saponaria blossoms The road rose and fell It rises or falls de pending on whether you re coming or going If you are leaving it s uphill but as

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