“Sandoval!” I exclaimed. “What about the little grey bear?”
He smiled slowly, a philosophic smile in the yellow light of our lantern, an said, “Señora, the little bear turned out to be a large and very unattractive black monkey which is now dead.” He paused. “We might as well start back in the morning.”
The mules were packed, and Juan was ready to take us back over the long trail of mountains, through rain and swollen streams. The Virgin, infant at breast, stood watching us, protesting plaintively. Why did we not stay and live with her for a time? Her husband and the mamacita came to ask us to stay longer. The husband produced a bottle of strong aguardiente from his pocket—at least we should have a stirrup cup. The bottle went around and we all had a swig of the raw liquor … even the Virgin. One by one the rest of the population appeared, every male with an inevitable bottle, and in order not to offend we must have a parting drink with each one. I became expert at tipping the bottle without drinking, but even at that a delicious lassitude crept over me, and I thought, why not stay? Sandoval became lyric. “Dear Virgin,” he began, and went off into an eloquent panegyric about the unsurpassed hospitality we had enjoyed.
By about noon, after a dozen abortive attempts had been made at departure, Sandoval the grave, the courtly, the dignified, somehow wavered on to his mule. The Virgin protested; Sandoval swept off his sombrero in an extravagant gesture, “Dear Virgin,” he said, “you do not know how beautiful it is to ride a mule when you are drunk.” And off he galloped with all of the men in swift pursuit to bring him back.
We were again feasted that night; there was more Incan music. The next morning there was another despedida. It took a slightly different form.
The old mamacita came crying, as we made to depart, that we couldn't go yet. She was roasting coffee for us—it would soon be ready. Another said that one of her children was gathering oranges for us. Wait. Just a few momentitos. Guavas were also being gathered, and the wife of the governor was preparing corn cakes in ashes. The school mistress came to say that school had been closed because we were in Omia. How then could we go?
We stayed for three days. In thinking back over it now … the hospitality of the Virgin and the little lost village that had never heard of a world war … I think the black monkey was worth the long journey to Omia.
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