it was in the first week of October that ludovico stopped comimg to our house and headed for the hills to gather more fire wood to make charcoal with.
his mother was very sick, and she needed all the money he could earn. his father suffered in his stead with the firewood-small branches of madre-de-cacao and twigs that were damp and did not kindle so easily.
he apologized when sepa fumed, because the firewood he brought did not give off charcoal for broiling.
he does not know much about firewood, i mused.
he came one thursday in the hush of twilight with the same two bundles. it was not sunday yet and from the dimly lighted kitchen, sepa inquired why he was rather early.
he said he was going to the hills the following day.
i ll be back as soon as i can. sunday, probably, he said complacently.
i am just going to take ludovico home.
he caught something bad over there. typhoid, i think.
that sunday, as he said he would, ludovico father did return.
he came to the house with a black piece of cloth tied around his head. he had freshly ironed, well- starched pants folded at the ankles.
his peasant feet-big and spread-were washed and clean.
father whom he sought emerged from the front door. father did not ask why he had the black piece of cloth tied around his head. instead, the first question father prodded him with was