Pewter Bowl

Volcanic dust clings to the folds of the sheepskin with every step. At the foot of the spiral staircase, a wooden spoon split down the back lies cornered against the baseboard, half covered by a crust of pale sawdust that the draft scatters toward the vents.

Darío climbs with the vial of henbane wedged in the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. The glass keeps a stubborn cold, sealed with a wax plug that smells of old resin and vinegar. Behind him lies the cistern of the lower levels; now every basalt step carries into his heels the dull vibration of the boilers underground, that murmur of compressed steam humming between the mortar joints that never stops all day. A biting air slips in through the skylights and numbs his fingers.

On the landing of the middle floor he stops a moment to catch his breath. Nothing happens. A gray rat crosses slowly between two broken wicker baskets, gnaws at a strip of brine-stained linen, and slips unhurried into a crack. Darío leans his back against the damp stone and feels the crust of saltpeter scrape the wool of his smock. He runs his tongue over his lower lip and finds the raw split that has been bothering him for three days whenever he chews. Life in the bastion isn't measured in hours, but in how slowly small wounds close.

The corridor leading to the chamber is dim, lit by a low tallow lamp smoking with mutton fat. Beside the doorway, Eusebio Alvareda rests his back against the jamb, his left boot propped on its heel to spare his bunion. He's chewing a dry sprig of myrtle with a rhythmic click of the jaw. The oak door is still ajar by three fingers, letting out a warm, thick vapor.

"The cauldron downstairs is almost cold," Eusebio says without looking at him.

"I've brought what was on the shelf," Darío replies, holding the bowl in his right hand while his left closes around the vial beneath his smock.

"There's little bacon left. A lot of water and four turnips hard as river stones."

"It's more than enough for supper."

"If you say so."

Eusebio spits the myrtle sprig toward the corner of the entryway.

"The master was calling a quarter of an hour ago. I don't know what he was looking for. He rummaged through the chests and then threw himself on the pallet like a bundle of wet firewood."

"He must be tired."

"We're all tired, boy. Some more than others."

Eusebio moves half a palm away from the jamb, reluctantly, dragging his sole to make room for him.

The stone beneath their feet is still warm.

Darío pushes the plank with his elbow. The hinges, clogged with soot and rancid grease, don't squeak. The room floats in a thick gloom, barely tempered by the grayish embers of a cast-iron brazier. Tarsio Marento is sitting on the edge of a pine stool, legs apart and elbows on his knees. His shirt hangs untied over his bony chest, where sweat mats a sparse, graying hair. His riding boots, stained with dry mud that flakes off in small clumps, lie tumbled beside the pallet. His shoulders sag and his neck is slack, the skin reddened by the sulfurous air rising from the flues.

Darío goes to the low table and sets down the bowl. The plate is coarse pewter, dulled from scrubbing with sand, with a deep notch in the rim. The broth falls with a languid splash, without steam: a murky liquid where pale slices of turnip and two yellow eyes of grease float. Beneath the fold of his sleeve, Darío's thumb feels for the wax seal. All it takes is to press a fingernail into the rim, break the seal, and pour two thick drops while the grease hasn't yet set. There will be no struggle or commotion; only a heavy drowsiness, a deep sleep, and a heart that will stop pushing the blood before dawn.

Darío keeps his hand still inside his smock. The glass bites his fingertip with a stubborn cold, untouched by the stifling heat of the brazier. In the silence of the room the only sound is the tired bellows of Tarsio's lungs, a harsh whistle broken by a dry clearing of the throat. It smells of sweaty socks, cold grease, and wet ash. Darío's thumb slides along the neck of the glass without lifting the seal. He leaves his hand in his pocket, clenched in a fist that begins to ache from the strain in the tendons.

Tarsio rubs his face with both palms, rasping the sparse beard of several days. He lets out a yawn and then fixes his eyes on the bowl.

"It smells of frozen turnip," he mutters.

"It's what they cooked," Darío says.

"Everything tastes like stone in this hole. Even the well water tastes like sulfur."

"The well is deep."

"Too deep."

Tarsio reaches for a dirty linen bundle resting beside the lamp. His fingers, stiff with rheumatism, clumsily unwrap a piece of smoke-cured goat cheese, dried out and veined with ash.

A white skin begins to form at the edges of the broth.

"Eat first," Tarsio says, pushing the piece of cheese toward the edge of the table with his knuckles. "Your cheeks are sunken."

The piece of cheese comes to rest beside the pewter bowl. The grease in the broth has cooled completely, a matte film stuck to the metal. Darío watches Tarsio's hand return to his lap, leaving a greasy mark on the wood that is slow to dry. Outside, beneath the floorboards, the steam keeps huffing through the cracks with its dull moan, indifferent to the two men sitting in the gloom.