OVERTURE OF THE BOOK THE EDGE OF THE STORM 
(AL FILO DEL AGUA)


VILLAGE OF BLACK-ROBED WOMEN.


At night, at the first stir of dawn, throughout
the long course of the morning, in the heat 
of the noonday sun, in the evening light, they 
may be seen-strong, radiant, colorless, long-suffering-old
women, matrons, maidens in the bloom of youth, 
young girls; they may be seen on the church steps,
in the deserted streets, inside the shops, and
glimpsed through a few, the very few, furtively 
open doors.


People and streets absorbed in their own thoughts.
The smooth, straight walls present a blank surface, 
broken only by doors and windows.  Doors and 
windows, set in plain stonework, and fastened with 
the heavy beams of good seasoned timber; there is 
no varnish or glass and all have the appearance of 
having been fashioned by the same craftsman, primitive 
and exact.  Time, the sun, the rain, the daily touch of 
hands have given a patina to the panels of the doors, 
to the lintels and thresholds.  From these houses no 
sounds of voices, no laughter, no shouts, no cries escape;
but above them hovers the fragrance of fine wood, burned 
in ovens and kitchens, wrapped like a gift from heaven in 
clouds of blue smoke.


Inside and out, the same secrecy.  In the houses on the 
banks of the river, on the slopes of the hills, on the 
outskirts of the village, the noble stonework gives a
certain dignity to the adobe walls.


And the lowliest house has its cross on top, and there 
are wreaths of colored paper flowers at the corners 
and on the walls stretching endlessly into the distance; 
crosses made of stone, of stone and mortar, of wood, 
of straw... wide, tall, small, and fragile crosses, 
some crudely fashioned, others perfect in form.


There are no fiestas in the village; only the daily dance 
of myriads of sunbeams; the only music is the sound 
of the bells that toll the passing of the dead, or the 
tuneless, plaintive melodies of religious chants that 
express the latent sense of oppression.  Never any 
parties.  Dancing is held in horror ... Not even to be thought 
of... never, never.  Families visit each other only at times 
of bereavement or illness, or possibly to welcome home 
a long-absent member.


It is a barren village; there are no trees or orchards; 
no trees even at the entrance or in the Cemetery.  In 
the Square, only watered plants.  For most of the year 
the river is dry; river of large, smooth stones, shining 
in the sunlight.  A landscape of barren ridges stretching 
tier behind tier to the horizon ... Barren ridge on barren 
ridge.


There is no alameda in the village.  The streets lie 
parched under the blazing sun.  Worn pillars of stone 
and mortar stand in the squares and at the corners of 
the houses.  Village of black-robed women, hermetic 
and solemn.

Only the general cleanliness of everything reveals the 
hidden life.  The streets are well swept, the houses 
whitewashed.  Not a single one, not even among those 
by the river, is unkempt.  The men are clean-shaven; 
old men with lean faces, young men with ruddy cheeks, 
pale adolescents, all wearing clean shirts, clean trousers.  

Cleanliness pervades the village:  clean young men, 
clean horsemen, clean white trousers worn by the workers 
in the fields.  Clean are the pale-faced, black robed women, 
the pale women clad in black, who are the life of the church 
precincts, the sun swept streets, the furtively open doors. 
Well-swept streets bring a note of freshness at noonday, 
at eventide, and in the long hours of the night. Black-robed 
women, rising early, sprinkle cleanliness form secret wells.

Each house has its well, hidden from the curious gaze of the
outsider, like the pots of flowering plants in the hidden patios
and inner passageways, smelling of freshness and peace.


The center of family life is the kitchen; there meals are 
cooked and eaten; there are women, black-robed and
bare headed, their hair combed smoothly back from 
their faces.


Then, the bedrooms.  Pictures everywhere.  Lamps, 
a small locked chest, an occasional wardrobe.  
Clothes hang on hooks, like the ghosts of hanged men.  
Baskets of grain and few chairs are pushed up against 
the wall.  The beds are in the corners, with baskets of white 
clothes underneath  them.  And in the middle of the rooms, 
large, empty spaces.


The parlors are distinguished by their many chairs and 
the presence of a sofa.  There is even a bed, the masterÕs 
bed.  On the shelves of the corner cupboards are 
photographs of special events in the life of the family and 
the village, artificial flowers, colored glass balls and china 
jars, a Hand of Providence, a statue of Christ, a Miraculous 
Cross, which had appeared at some remote time to some 
legendary ancestor.


From the houses emanates a certain mysterious air of 
reserve which darkens the streets and the village.  The 
bells ring from the towers at definite times, tolling, pealing, 
issuing the orders which rule the life of the village.


It is a monastic village.  The disgraceful taverns lie out 
of sight in their shameful district of rocks and brambles, 
where the ground slopes down to the dry river bed.  
There are no billiard rooms, no gramophones, no pianos, 
only black-robed women.


Desire, the very breath of desire, is hidden deep in the 
Herat of the village.  To hear even the flutter of its wings, 
one must pause for a moment and listen outside the 
barred doors, follow in the wake of the black-robed women, 
of the solemn men, of the rosy-cheeked boys or the pale 
children.  One eras it in the prayers and hymns in which it 
takes refuge:  a deep, pulsing vibration, feverish breathing, 
controlled only with great effort.  Sometimes the streets 
echo with the shouts of children.  They are not old enough 
to hide their natural feelings.  But do the women sing?  
Never, except in church, the old hymns handed down 
from generation to generation.


When the village priest and his curates pass along the 
streets in their cassocks, the men remove their hats, 
the men, the black-robed women, and the children kiss 
the consecrated hands. When, clad in vestments, they 
carry the Holy Sacrament, in acolyte, wearing a surplice, 
rings the bell and the people kneel in the streets, in the 
village Square.  When the church bell announces the 
Elevation of the Host and the Blessing, the people kneel, 
in the street and Square.  At the ringing of the bells at 
midday, at three oÕclock, and in the evening, the men 
take off their hats.  In the early dawn when the slow, 
heavy tones of the church bell summon the faithful to 
first mass, there is the sound of coughing in dark 
rooms-the coughs of old men and those who smoke
too much; feeble coughs, virile coughs, long prayers, 
fervent prayers, sonorous chords whose vibrations are 
muted.  Wrinkled old men and women, early-rising 
farmers, kneel beside dark beds, dress by the light 
of hastily struck matches, yawning sometimes in the 
midst of their prayers, while the clanging bell rings 
in the dawn, with slow, solemn tones.


Weddings take place at first mass, while it is still dark, 
or when the first uncertain light streaks across the sky, 
as though there were something shameful about them, 
something mysterious.  Weddings never have the 
solemnity of funerals, when all the bells pour their long 
lament out into the air, like smoke rising from a chimney; 
when the three priests and four acolytes, clad in rich black 
robes, pass through the Atrium, through the streets to the 
Cemetery, lighted by a hundred candles, accompanied by 
chants and the sound of the tolling.


When a villager draws near to death, the peal for the dying 
is rung, to ask the prayers of all the people.  The villagers 
say the prayer of the Holy Shroud and join in the petition:  
Depart, O Christian Soul, from this world.


When life is extinct, the bells change their rhythm and 
neighbors know that a soul is standing before the 
Judgment Seat.  All share the feeling of awe which runs 
through streets, shops, and houses.  Those who have gone 
to help the dying neighbor, return home; others, closer friends 
of the family, remain to help dress the body waiting respectfully 
while Judgment is being given, but beginning their task before 
the body grows cold.


The bells ring out on Sundays, Thursday, and feast days.  
They are cheerful only when they ring while the sun is shining.  
The sun is the joy of the village, an almost unconscious joy, 
a secret joy, like love, desires, instincts.  Like love, desires, 
and instincts, fears appear and wave their invisible ghostly 
hands at windows, behind tightly closed doors; they can be 
seen in the eyes of the black-robed women, sensed in their 
hurried steps through the streets and in their tightly compressed 
lips, in the serious mien of the men and the silence of the children.  


Desire, pale, consuming desires, and fear, constricting fears, 
lurk in the keyholes, in the squeaking hinges of the windows; 
and there is a peculiar, unmistakable odor, sweaty and salty, 
in the corners of the confessionals, the dark Chapels, the Baptismal 
Font, and in the stoups of Holy Water.  In the evenings, in the deep 
stillness of midday, in the streets, throughout the whole village, this 
damp, salty tan, earthy and penetrating, pervades the atmosphere, 
and like an unseen presence, without ever coming into the open, or 
committing an overt act of destruction, oppresses the stranger while 
it may perhaps bring pleasure to the natives, a kind of penitential 
pleasure.


On moonlight nights, the spirits of desire and fear escape in a 
mad race; one can hear their turbulent flight, along the street, 
over the walls, above the rooftops.  Strait jackets fling about 
in the air, fists are clenched fingers twist skirts; they beat against 
the silence of the houses, blindly, like big black birds in flight:  
birds with the wings of vampires, owls, or hawks; of doves, too, 
stupid doves, who, having just escaped, will son come back 
submissively to the cage.  On moonlight nights, it is the spirits 
of desire which always lead; the fears run behind, threatening, 
urging them to wait, screaming harsh imprecations, borne along, 
with shrill, incomprehensible cries, on the wings of the wind.  
The spirits of desire dart to and fro, from light to shadow, from 
shadow to light.  In vain, the fears try to follow their course.  
The age-old dance goes on till past midnight.  And, in the early hours 
of the morning, when the bells ring in the dawn but the moon is still 
in the sky, the stormy struggle of fears and desires begins again.  
Morning bring victory to the fears, and, all day long, they will be the 
first to roam round the church precincts, the streets, the Square, 
while the desires lie concealed in lines etched on faces and brows, 
hidden under lowered lashed, in compressed lips and tensed hands, 
as the struggle continues in dark bedrooms and sweat permeates 
the air of the village.


On moonlight  nights, in houses on the outskirts of the village 
sometimes in its very center, hands pluck the meted strings of 
a guitar, a guitar surcharged with haunting sadness, voicing 
secret longings.  On moonlight  nights, lusty songs are heard 
in the disgraceful taverns, songs of the spirits of fear galloping 
along astride the horses of desire.


Moonlight  nights  bring a haunting  sadness to the  lifeless 
pillars  of the Square; the very stones reverberate with  the 
melancholy  of never having  known the all-embracing  love 
of the Nazarene,  or the compassion of the Samaritan.  
Not even on moonlight  nights have these columns ever 
overheard the whispered  exchanges  of  lovers,  only loneliness  
and unfulfilled  desires  are confided  to them, never has a loving  
couple sought  their  shadow  to clasp hands feverishly.  
Gleaming  columns, worn smooth by time and weather.


When the evening sky is heavy with rain, when torrential  
down- pours sweep the streets, when the rain brings out 
the smell of newly washed walls, of wooden doors, of 
pavements; when an approaching storm charges the air 
with electricity; on cloudy mornings, on days when the rain 
falls steadily in  monotonous  drizzle,  when the oppressive 
heat of dog days overwhelms   the  village,  when the intense  
cold of winter  brings a crystal  clearness  to the air, then, 
too, the spirits of desire emerge, and one can hear them 
moving in a dancing  rhythm , in the plaintive   chords of a 
popular song, invisible  demons that give a drunken, fantastic  
twist to the crosses on the houses, on the walls, on the corners 
of the sentry boxes, even to the huge cross over the gate of the
Cemetery.  The spirits of fear, officers of the Law, warders of 
the madhouse, must subdue them in strait  jackets, and secure 
them with  chains of iron, at the bidding of the bells, in the 
shadow of priestly  robes.


The whole existence of the village  is a never-ending Lent.  
Penitential ashes temper of beauties of spring and summer.
Constant reminders of the Day of Judgment  are poured like 
Holy Oil into tall  ears, the Holy Water of repentance  is sprinkled  
on all foreheads; the Miserere becomes a constant  scourge 
upon all backs; the precept Remember, O man is kept constantly 
before  all eye; in all minds lies the thought of the Requiem  
Aeternam.  The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, like municipal 
police, ceaselessly  patrol street, house, and conscience.  
De Profundis is  on every  tongue, signs of strict fasting on 
every brow and cheek.


The chief concern is with the next world.  Streets are merely 
bridges, to lead the people to church, viaducts of the bare 
necessities of life.  Black-robed women, carrying rosary and 
missal in their hands,  traverse them with  swift, rhythmical pace.  
Sometimes their burden is a shopping basket.  Their faces are 
withdrawn, the greetings demanded by courtesy are brief and terse.  
They may pause for a moment in front of the church, to whisper 
timidly, as though afraid.  (But, if you watch closely and long, you 
will see how sometimes they reach their doors reluctantly, as 
though unwilling to open them, and they enter like prisoners, 
leaving all hope on the pavement outside.  If you listen very 
carefully, you may hear a sigh as the door shuts behind them).


Yes, of course, there are men standing on the street corners, 
in front of the shops, sitting on benches in the Square; they are 
few and they say very little; they seem to be meditating, and in 
their eyes there is no gleam of the curiosity that reveals an 
enjoyment of the street for its own sake.  At night one can hear 
purposeful steps and glimpse muffled shadows under the 
flickering light of the street lamps; and a midnight, or in the 
early hours of the morning, one may hear the murmur of voices 
outside the doors or through the cracks of shutters.  The great 
mystery of life triumphs over the Four Horsemen, and breaks 
down all barriers, but in the shadowy darkness, with ancient 
discretion, as the customs of the village require  and permitÉ.
while the bells sleep.


The written proposal is better, however; more advisable, 
more honorable.  Shops keep carefully hidden-as though
these were shameful merchandise-written messages which 
can be made to suit all circumstances, and there are also men 
and women who can compose special letter s for difficult or 
complicated cases.  But these one must seek out privately.


Unseen, but none the less felt, are the blows the Four Horsemen 
rain down upon the legions of instincts as darkness falls, and 
in the late hours of the night.  Bones creak; tongues are dry 
and thirsty.


Sometimes, too, late at night, mysterious horsemen of flesh 
and blood ride along the paths on the outskirts of the village 
and make love to a village girl.  In the morning, there is 
consternation in the village, as though  a coyote or wolf had 
left bloody tracks on the sidewalks, the walls, the doors and
windows; as well as new lives, connived  a rape.
Vengeance and death, as well as new lives, are the offspring 
of such a union.  There is no suffering in the village to be 
compared with that caused by a stain on family honor;  any 
anguish is preferable, any degree of poverty or misery.  The 
situation is accepted with great reluctance.  A fatherÕs heart 
has been wounded, and although the marriage is seen as the 
lesser evil, yet the future grandchildren will always be bitter 
fruit, the offspring of force.  And even this degree of resignation 
is by no means frequent; more usual is vengeance without mercy, 
unyielding rejection of the erring daughter and the accursed 
son-in-law; no one wishing to keep the friendship of the 
offended family dares mention the foreign grandchildren.


Even a formal proposal, when the girl´s hand is sought with 
all due respect for convention, when the suitor conforms to 
all the traditional customs, when he makes his proposal 
through the parish priest and has influential neighbors to 
speak for him, even then it falls like a live coal on a fatherÕs 
heart, plunges his household into mourning, and sows 
discord between brothers and sisters.  The young man 
is cold-shouldered by all, however good a husband he 
may make, however good a husband he may make, 
however much the match has been hoped for; the girl 
is a shaking reed, ill-treated by everyone.  How happy 
her family would be if only she would repent and refuse 
to go through with it!  When she persists, how pale she 
is as she arrives at the church door at the early hour 
decreed for weddings, not daring even to look at the man 
who is giving her the marriage coins and putting the ring 
on the finger.  How ashamed she is in the first days after 
the church.  How great is her embarrassment when she 
realizes that she is pregnant and finds all eyes staring at 
her and all tongues gossiping about her!  What a 
martyrdom marriage is in the face of this traditional 
hostility and collective disapproval!  The men, too, in the
first months of their marriage, feel a certain isolation; they 
are conscious of invisible fingers pointing at them, feel 
eyes watching them furtively; a wall of reserve surrounds 
them and, with a sense of guilt, they avoid all mention of 
their happiness, their difficulties, their wives.  Young girls 
blush when they see them coming because they have 
heard snatches of frightening conversations, vague 
remarks which arouse dread and fear, although underneath 
the fear and terror well up eager, formless longings, like 
those of the young men who would like to talk to the 
bridegrooms but are held back by a sense of embarrassment.


Village of muted voices.  No discordant note affronts ear 
or eye except on Sunday mornings, and then a spreading 
tide of life, of sounds and colors, floods the roads and streets, 
and its bubbling warmth invades the precincts of the Parish 
Church and the Square.  It floods the inn, taverns, and 
shopsÉ.a rosy tide whose waters neither mingle with the 
gray pond nor tint its waters.  High Mass over the supplies 
for the week bought, stalwart, loud-voiced men and women 
in bright-colored skirts, orange, pink, puce and purple stiff 
with starch, make their way back to their farms; the noise 
of squeaking boots, fretting infants, stamping beasts, 
recedes into the distance and the village regains its evening 
calm, is again a village of black-robed women, ruled by the 
monotonous ringing of church bells.  Diligently, quickly, the 
inhabitants sweep away the trail of rubbish left by the visitors.  
And all week long the inn and taverns yawn in idleness.


The inn and taverns are usually empty.  The village is off 
the beaten track.  Occasionally, a commercial traveler, a 
tax collector, will arrive, or someone bringing a message 
or doing an errand for an important villager will spend the 
night.  There are no comfortable lodgings or hotels.  The 
idea of comfort is foreign to the village.  Life is not for 
enjoyment.


Food is simple.  Generally, beef soup, rice or macaroni, 
stew, and beans at midday; in the morning and evening, 
chocolate, bread and milk.  The bread is very good; the 
smell of freshly baked loaves scents the evening air.


The people make their living farming.  Much Indian corn is 
grown, only one crop a year, for the region is without 
reservoirs and irrigation.  Constant worry about bad 
seasons leaves its mark on the spirit.  Bakers, carpenters, 
a few blacksmiths and tanners, several stonecutters, four 
shoemakers, an overseer, three saddlers, two tailors, 
many herb doctors, a few scribes, and five barbers 
complete the picture of the village economy.  But the 
moneylenders must not be forgotten.  They are legion 
and veritable whited sepulchers.

     
The poorest villagers manage fairly well, although they 
have their bed times.  No one in the region has ever 
died of hunger.  The rich, stoical and tight-fisted, and 
the stoical poor, lead the same humdrum lives.  
Resignation is the greatest strength of these people, 
who, usually, have no higher ambition than to go on 
living until the time comes for a Holy Death.  For them, 
existence is merely a bridge to be crossed and they 
are glad when they reach the end.  This attitude and 
the dryness of the soil give the village, the houses, 
and the people an appearance of age.  An air of 
disillusionment, a subtle corroding atmosphere, floats 
like a part of the landscape over the plain stonework, 
over the guarded speech.  Landscape and people 
are alike.  A luminous haze, as of perpetual twilight, 
as of smoldering embers, is seen in eyes, mouths, 
stonework, the wood of doors and windows, and is 
spread over hard brown earth.  It seems to smolder 
in glances and gestures.  The people are slow in 
their decisions, movements, business dealings, 
speech... slow, but sure.

 I´ve been thinking about it all night...

We´ll talk about it tomorrow, at leisure...

Next year...

After the rainy season...

In the rainy season, God willing...

If we aren´t dead by then...


Barren village, without trees or gardens, not even 
vegetable patches; so parched that weeping 
produces no tears.  There are no mendicants or 
whining beggars.  The poor man speaks to the rich 
man with such dignity and self-respect that his attitude 
falls little short of hauteur.  The Four Horsemen are no 
respecters of persons.  Each man orders his life as 
he thinks best, each man feels, not dependent on anyone 
or under any obligation.


So-and-so doesn´t want to be my partner; I´ll get someone else.

Juan turned down my offer.  That´s all right with me.

Let him keep his money, and I´ll keep my independence!

Peace of mind is better than money.


It is a barren village, but on the great festivals-Maundy
 Thursday.  Corpus Christy Day, the whole month of May, 
 the Feast of the Assumption, Good Shepherd Sunday, 
 December 8, and December 12-flowers emerge from 
 their hiding places in the patios and come out into the 
 streets on their way to church; flowers of high and low 
 degree:  magnolias, tuberoses, Madonna lilies, 
 geraniums, calla lilies, daisies, mallows, carnations, 
 violets, secretly tended, and sprinkled with water from 
 the deep wells.  On no other days will they appear in 
 public, these hidden household treasures, jewels on 
 which such care and tenderness are secretly lavished.   
 Reserve, and austerity too, melt, in moments of great 
 human suffering.  In times of illness, death, sorrow, 
 trouble, hands and arms are moved by compassion, 
 eyes are damp and tongues loosened, houses are 
 thrown open and people visit one another.  But once 
 the occasion has passed, hands and feelings are 
 once more withdrawn, in impassive reserve.

The pious activities of old and young, of men and 
women, find expression in many societies.  But the 
two most important are the Association of the Good 
Death and the Daughters of Mary.  The Daughters of 
Mary, to a great extent, in fact almost exclusively, 
shape the character of the village, exercising a rigid 
discipline over the dress, movements, speech, 
thoughts, and feelings of the young girls, bringing 
them up in a conventual existence that turns the 
village itself into a kind of convent.  Any girl 
reaching the age of fifteen without belonging to the
Association of the black dress and blue ribbon with 
its silver medal, the black dress with high neck and 
long sleeves, its skirt reaching to the ankles, is 
regarded with grave disapproval.  In this Association, 
all vie with one another in jealous vigilance, and 
expulsion from it constitutes a scandalous blot on 
the reputation that follows one through life.

There is strict segregation of the sexes.  In church, 
the Gospel side is reserved for men, and the devout 
female sex occupies the Epistle side.  It is not 
considered proper for men and women, even when related, 
to stand chatting in the street or doorway, not even for a 
moment.  When a meeting occurs, brief greetings are 
exchanged, all the briefer if the man or woman is alone; 
but this rarely happens, especially if the woman is 
unmarried, since then she is always accompanied by 
another woman.

It is a village of ascetic faces and abstemious hands.  
The women use no paint or powder; their lips are 
tightly compressed, their skin pale.  But the men are 
brown, burned by the sun.  The womenÕs hands, 
hands that draw water from the wells, are rough; 
rough, too, are the hands of the men who till the soil, 
tend the cattle, sheave the fodder, thresh the corn, 
quarry stone for the walls, ride the horses, tame the 
young steers, milk the cows, make bricks, and carry 
water, fodder, and corn.

Among black-robed women they spend their lives.  
Death comesÉ or love... love, which is the strangest, 
the most extreme form of death; the most dangerous 
and dreaded form of living death.