In Evil Hour by Gabriel García Márquez, Gregory Rabassa

his boots.
    “The town’s making progress,” he said.
    Moisés the Syrian stopped fanning himself. “Do you know how much I’ve sold today?” he asked. The mayor didn’t venture any guess, but waited for the answer.
    “Twenty-five centavos’ worth,” the Syrian said.
    At that instant the mayor saw the telegrapher opening the mailbag to give Dr. Giraldo his letters. He called him over. The official mail came in a distinct envelope. He broke the seals and realized that they were routine communications and printed sheets with propaganda for the regime. When he finished reading them, the dock had been transformed: boxes of merchandise, crates of chickens, and the enigmatic artifacts of the circus. Dusk was coming on. He stood up, sighing.
    “Twenty-five centavos.”
    “Twenty-five centavos,” repeated the Syrian in a firm voice with almost no accent.
    Dr. Giraldo watched the unloading of the launches until the end. He was the one who drew the mayor’s attention to a vigorous woman of solemn bearing with several sets of bracelets on both arms. She seemed to be waiting for the Messiah under a multicolored parasol. The mayor didn’t stop to think about the newcomer.
    “She must be the animal tamer,” he said.
    “In a manner of speaking, you’re right,” Dr. Giraldo said, biting off his words with his double row of sharpened stones. “It’s César Montero’s mother-in-law.”
    The mayor continued on slowly. He looked at his watch: twenty-five to four. At the door of the barracks the guard informed him that Father Ángel had waited for half an hour and would be back at four o’clock.
    On the street again, not knowing what to do, he saw the dentist in the window of his office and went over to ask him for a light. The dentist gave it to him, looking at the still swollen cheek.
    “I’m fine,” the mayor said.
    He opened his mouth. The dentist observed:
    “There are several cavities to be filled.”
    The mayor adjusted the revolver at his waist. “I’ll be by,” he decided. The dentist didn’t change his expression.
    “Come whenever you want to, to see if my wish to have you die in my house comes true.”
    The mayor patted him on the shoulder. “It won’t,” he commented, in a good mood. And he concluded, his arms open:
    “My teeth are above party politics.”
    “So you won’t get married?”
    Judge Arcadio’s wife opened her legs. “No hope at all, Father,” she answered. “And even less now that I’m going to have a child.” Father Ángel averted his gaze toward the river. A drowned cow, enormous, was coming down along the streams of the current, with several buzzards on top of it.
    “But it will be an illegitimate child,” he said.
    “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Arcadio treats me well now. If I make him marry me, then he’ll feel tied down and make me pay for it.”
    She had taken off her clogs and was talking with her knees apart, her toes riding the crossbar of the stool. Her fan was in her lap and her arms were folded over her voluminous belly. “No hope at all, Father,” she repeated, because Father Ángel had remained silent. “Don Sabas bought me for two hundred pesos, sucked my juice out in three months, and then threw me into the street without a
pin. If Arcadio hadn’t taken me in, I would have starved to death.” She looked at the priest for the first time:
    “Or I would have had to become a whore.”
    Father Ángel had been insisting for six months.
    “You should make him marry you and set up a home,” he said. “This way, the way you’re living now, not only leaves you in a precarious situation, but it’s a bad example for the town.”
    “It’s better to do things frankly,” she said. “Others do the same thing but with the lights out. Haven’t you read the lampoons?”
    “That’s gossip,” the priest said. “You have to legitimize your situation and put yourself out of the range of gossiping tongues.”
    “Me?” she said. “I don’t have to