When, on its third attempt, the airplane could not land, it violently took course to Puerto Vallarta, cutting the sky in half with a ray of black smoke.
Before it could get lost right above the middle of the little village, it crashed into a distracted vulture named Zopilote. The vulture fell directly into my aunt Calixta Moreno’s kitchen, causing major damage to the roof tiles and bricks, and creating uncontrolled pandemonium with the hens.
Arriving at the scene of the accident, we found Auntie glued to her rosary with bulging watery eyes, singing Holy Fathers and calling for the saints in heaven. Suddenly, like an infernal vision, she turned to us and we saw her riled-up hairdo spiked with the feathers of the sacrificed animal.
The strong smell of burnt beans crawled out to meet the crowd when José Manuel, Auntie’s youngest son, opened the door widely and let us in to show us what was, in his mother’s words, “a performance of the gods of darkness.”
There we saw the obliterated and bloody bird, hooked to a net bag full of cheese with his only remaining leg.
There we were, tired because of the mad dash we had made when José Manuel had told us that something weird had fallen into his home.
Don Mariano Santana, indirectly responsible for the gossip and pandemonium, was there too, serenely receiving reproach from his wife Doña Eva Angelina.
In a few moments, as good neighbors we divided up what had to be done: some of us would attend to Auntie’s asthma attack, others would turn the fire off to release the bean pot from hell, and the gossip lovers would clear their ears of the public scorning that Doña Eva was giving to Don Santana. Others just got excited looking at the dismembered vulture.
A tiny little something that was obviously the vulture’s heart was still jumping in a mixture of feathers and blood.
This tangled meatball made us completely forget what had been on our minds for two weeks: the airplane which Don Mariano had arranged to be brought to Banderas Valley for us to see.
For fifteen nights the old man had been telling us about the flying machine, and for fifteen days all of us, working as one, had been preparing the field as a landing strip.
And now, here at Auntie Calixta’s house, nobody remembered the airplane that couldn’t land because we hadn’t given it enough room – we’d all gathered on the landing strip because we’d all wanted to be the first one to touch it.
At this moment, the only thing we were worried about was the dying animal in front of us – dying and inside-out.
Although we’d seen death in a thousand ways, this one was strange for us, as it surely must have been strange for the vulture as well. It was very different from the usual; when old and useless, these birds fly straight down to crash-land on the ground.
By the murmuring that escaped from the room next-door, I realized that Auntie had kicked the bucket. I also knew that Father Parra had arrived.
We attentively followed the movements, slower every time, of the animal which now lifted its head and opened its mouth. Did it see us around him? Did it know that we caused the brilliant noise that crossed its careless flight?
We listened to the conversation between Father Parra and Don Mariano. They always used to walk together, the priest and the businessman, until the latter had the idea of the airplane.
“If Doña Calixta dies, you are going to be responsible for it, Mariano. Science is a demon’s thing, I already told you.”
“The truth will set you free, Parra. Remember that.”
“Yes! Free from the fear of God.”
There was some movement among the women who were attending Auntie. Some were asking for more alcohol, and others were saying to give Auntie more room for air.
The opinions started to divide. Some sided with the priest, and others with Santana.
The animal stopped moving and I thought to myself, I think that after this vulture’s crash landing, the valley will never be the same again.
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Translated by pv pulse with permission from Professor Juan Gomez Encarnacion.
