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504 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1966
When they leave, the outsiders always take gifts with them. But nothing seems to satisfy them, they thirst for women and cannot stand the Piura nights, where the only thing awake is the sand that falls down out of the sky.
Those ingrates wanted women and nighttime fun so much that finally heaven (“the devil, you mean, that cursed trickster,” Father García says) ended up giving them exactly what they wanted. And that was how it came to be, noisy, frivolous, and nocturnal: the Green House.
And then Father García and the women flooded into the Green House, filled it in a few seconds, and from the interior there came the loud noise of destruction: glasses and bottles being smashed, tables being broken, sheets and curtains being torn. From the first floor, the second, and the tower room, a small domestic flood poured out. Through the baking air flew flower pots, chamber pots, chipped washbasins and trays, plates, torn mattresses, cosmetics, and a salvo of cheers would greet each projectile as it described an arc and came to rest in the sand. Many men and women bystanders were arguing over the objects and articles of clothing, and there were confrontations, disputes, violent conversations. In the midst of the disorder, beaten, voiceless, still trembling, the occupants stood up, some fell into the arms of others, wept and consoled each other. The Green House was on fire: purple, sharp, and leaping, the flames could be seen amidst the ash-colored smoke that was slowly circling up toward the Piuran sky.
“That’s why I believe that the troubles a person carries around inside of himself explain everything,” the Kid said. “That’s why some people end up as drunkards, others as priests, others as murderers.”
Tanto deseaban mujer y diversión nocturna estos ingratos, que al final el cielo ("el diablo, el maldito cachudo", dice el Padre García) acabó por darles gusto. Y así fue que apareció, bulliciosa y frívola, nocturna la Casa Verde.
En las tinieblas del contorno los cocuyos brillan como fuegos fatuos
Pura basura, los que hacen mapas no saben que la Amazonía es como mujer caliente, no se está quieta