Papa."
"What?"
"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."
"Tell him I'm not here."
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes half
closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room.
"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished
work did he say:
"So much the better."
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box where
he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold.
"Papa."
"What?"
He still hadn't changed his expression.
"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill,
pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. There
was a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. The
Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side,
swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in
his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:
"Sit down."
"Good morning," said the Mayor.
"Morning," said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chair
and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a
glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth
curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth.
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected tooth, he
closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers.
"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you have an abscess."
The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to smile. The dentist did not
return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the worktable and took
them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the
spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all this
without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth with the hot
forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt
an icy void in his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist.
Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But he didn't
breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign
to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached for the
handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth.
"Dry your tears," he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands, he saw the crumbling
ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs and dead insects. The dentist returned,
drying his hands. "Go to bed," he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said
goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs,
without buttoning up his tunic.
"Send the bill," he said.
"To you or the town?"
The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
"It's the same damn thing."
___________________________________
Papa.""What?""The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth.""Tell him I'm not here."He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes halfclosed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room."He says you are, too, because he can hear you."The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finishedwork did he say:"So much the better."He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box wherehe kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold."Papa.""What?"He still hadn't changed his expression."He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill,pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. Therewas a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. TheMayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side,swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation inhis dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:"Sit down.""Good morning," said the Mayor."Morning," said the dentist.While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chairand felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a
glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth
curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth.
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected tooth, he
closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers.
"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you have an abscess."
The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to smile. The dentist did not
return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the worktable and took
them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the
spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all this
without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth with the hot
forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt
an icy void in his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist.
Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But he didn't
breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign
to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached for the
handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth.
"Dry your tears," he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands, he saw the crumbling
ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs and dead insects. The dentist returned,
drying his hands. "Go to bed," he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said
goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs,
without buttoning up his tunic.
"Send the bill," he said.
"To you or the town?"
The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
"It's the same damn thing."
___________________________________
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