I came to Comala because I was told that my father, a man called Pedro Paramo, was living there. It was what my mother had told me, and I promised I would go and see him after she died. I assured her I would do that. She was near death, and I would have promised her anything. “Don’t fail to go and see him,” she told me. “That’s what his name is, although they sometimes called him something else. I am sure he would want to know you.” The only thing I could do was to tell her I would do it and, after saying it so often, it became such a habit that I continued repeating it, even after I managed to remove my hands from her lifeless hands.

 Before she died she also told me:

 “When you go, don’t ask him for anything. Demand that he give you what is ours. What he should have given me and never did… Make him pay dearly, my son, for the way he has neglected us.”

 “Yes, I’ll do that, mother.”

 I never really intended to fulfill my promise. But now I have started to dream about it and be filled with illusions. After that a new world began to take shape, based on the hope of a man called Pedro Paramo, the husband of my mother. And that’s why I came to Comala.

 It was during the dog days of summer, when the warm August air was filled with the rotten smell of the soapwort plants.

 The road was rising and falling. A man I saw told me, “It rises or falls, depending on whether you’re coming or going. For someone who is going, it rises; for someone who is coming, it falls.”

 “What did you say is the name of that town you can see down there?”

“Comala, senor.”

“Are you sure it still is Comala?”

“Yes, I am sure, senor.”

“And why does it look so sad?”

“It’s the times, senor.”

 I had imagined how it would look, based on my mother’s memories, and moments of nostalgia filled with longing. She always longed for Comala, to go back there. But she never returned. Now I am coming in her place. I am bringing the eyes which she used to look at these things, because she gave me the view seen through her eyes: “Just as you pass the gate of Las Calimotes there is a beautiful view of the green plain, tinged with the yellow of ripe corn. From there you can see Comala whitening the ground, and illuminating it during the night.” And her voice was secret, almost silent, as if she were talking to herself… My mother.

 “And why are you going to Comala…, if I might ask?” I heard the man say.

“I am going to see my father,” I told him.

 “Ah!” he said.

 And we were silent again.

 We were traveling down hill, listening to the bouncing trot of the burros, their eyes filled with the torpor of sleepiness, during the dog days of August.

 “They will be very happy to see you,” said the man by my side. “They will be happy because it has been so many years since anyone has come there.” Then he added: “Whoever you are, they will be glad to see you.”

 In the glow of sunlight the plain seemed like a transparent pool, broken into vapors through which you could see a gray horizon. And behind it there was a line of mountains, above which was an empty remoteness.

 “And what can you tell me about your father, if I may ask?”

“I don’t know him,” I said. “I only know that his name is Pedro Paramo.”

“Ah!, you don’t say.”

“Yes, that’s what they told me his name was.”

 Again I heard the mule-driver say “Ah!” I had met him in Los Encuentros, where there are several cross roads. I had been waiting there, until this man finally came.

 When he got there I had asked him, “Where are you headed for?”

“I am going down that way, senor.”

“Do you know of a place called Comala?”

“That is where I am going.”

 I followed him, trying to keep up with his rapid pace, until he must have realized what I was doing and he slowed down a bit. After that we were so close to each other that our shoulders almost touched.

 “I am also the son of Pedro Paramo,” he said to me. A flock of crows flew through the empty sky over us, screeching: “Caw, caw, caw.”

 After we rounded the hills, we descended even further. We had left the warm air up higher and we were sinking deeper and deeper into the heat, without any wind to cool it. Everything seemed to be waiting for something.

 “It’s hot here,” I said.

“Yes, and that isn’t the worst of it,” the mule-driver said. “Take care. You will feel it even more when we get to Comala. That place sits on the coals of the earth at the very mouth of hell. I can tell you that many of those who die there come back to get a blanket after going to hell.”

 “Do you know Pedro Paramo?” I asked him. I dared to ask him that, because I saw a look of confidence in his eyes.

“Who is he?” I asked again.

“A living malice,” he answered me.

 He pounded his stick against burros for no reason, since they were already far enough ahead of us, guided by the descending road.

 I felt the photograph of my mother in the pocket of my shirt warming my heart, as if it were also sweating. It was an old photograph, with rough edges, but it was the only one of her I had. I had found it in the kitchen cupboard, hidden in a pot full of herbs: leaves of lemon balm, Castile flowers, and sprigs of rue. I had kept it ever since then. My mother never liked to have anyone take photographs of her; she said that photos were a tool of witchcraft, or black magic. And she seemed to be right, because hers was full of pinpricks, and the largest one was at the center of her heart, where one might be able to touch her soul. That was the photo that I had brought with me, thinking I could use it so that my father would know I was his son.

 Just then the mule-driver stopped and said to me: “Look there. Do you see that ridge that looks like a pig’s bladder? Well, right behind it is Media Luna. Now look over here. Do you see the brow of that hill? Look at it. And now look in this direction. Can you see that other ridge that you almost can’t see from this far away? Okay, all that is part of Media Luna, from

one side to the other. As one says, all of the territory you can see with your eyes. And all that land belonged to him. The truth is, our mothers gave birth to us in very poor circumstances, although we were sons of Pedro Paramo. And the craziest thing is that he even had us baptized. The same thing must have happened to you, no?

 “I don’t remember.”

“Well go fuck yourself!”

“What are you saying?”

“That we’re almost there, senor.”

“Yes, I see it. What happened here?”

“A roadrunner, senor. That’s what we call those birds.”

 “No, I was asking why that town looks so empty, like it has been abandoned. It looks like no one lives there.”

 “It’s not just that it seems that way. It is that way. Nobody lives here.”

“And Pedro Paramo?”

“Pedro Paramo died many years ago.”

 It was the time when children usually played in the streets of the the town, filling the afternoon with their shouts, while the black doors still reflected the yellow light of the sun.

 At least, that’s what I had seen in Sayula yesterday at this same time. And I had also seen the flight of doves rushing through the quiet air, flapping their wings, as if they were chasing away the day. They flew over and perched on the rooftops, while the shouts of the children spread around and seemed to keep the sky blue.

 Now I was here in this town without any noises. I heard my footsteps on the cobble stones with which the streets were paved. My hollow footsteps with their sound echoing from the walls brightened by the setting sun. Then I was walking down the main street. I looked at the empty houses; their battered doors covered with moss. What did that fellow tell me this moss was called? “La Capitana, senor. A blight that only waits for people to leave to invade the houses. And that’s what you will see.”

 Passing by a side street, I saw a woman wrapped in a shawl who disappeared, as if she did not exist. After that, I started walking again, and I kept looking at the empty doorways until once again the woman in the shawl crossed in front of me.

 “Good evening,” she said to me.

 I followed her with my eyes, and I shouted at her:

“Where does Dona Eduviges live?”

She pointed with her finger: “There, in the house that is next to the bridge.”

 I realized then that her voice was made by human strands, that her mouth had teeth, a mouth that opened and shut as she spoke, and that her eyes were like those of people who live in this world. By then it had gotten dark.

 She told me good evening once more. And although there were no children playing, no doves, no blue roofs, I felt like this place was alive. And if I kept listening to the silence it was because I was not used to it; perhaps because my mind was filled with voices.

 Voices, yes. And here where the air was thin, I could hear them better. They were located inside one. I remembered what my mother had told me: “There you will hear me better. I will be closer to you. You will find that the sound of my memories is closer to you than that of my death, if death has ever had a voice.” My mother… when she was still alive.

 I would have liked to tell her: “You were mistaken about the place where you lived. You sent me in the wrong direction. You sent me to “where this is,” and “where that is.” Now here I am, looking for someone who does not exist.”

 I found the house near the bridge by following the sound of the river. I went to knock on the door, but my hand only hit empty air, as if the air had already opened it. A woman was there. She said: “Come in.” And I entered.

 I had stayed there in Comala. Before the mule-driver had left me and gone on ahead, he said to me:

 “I am going a bit farther, over there where you see the the top of those hills. That’s where my house is. If you want to come, you will be welcome. But if you want to stay here, that’s fine.” And that is what I did, since that is why I came.

 As he was leaving I asked him, almost shouting, “Where can I find a place to stay?”

 “Look for Dona Eduviges, if she is still alive. Tell her I sent you.”

“And what is your name?”

I heard him say “Abundio,” but by then he was so far away I couldn’t hear his last name.

 “I am Eduviges Dyada. Come in.”

 It seemed like she had been waiting for me. She told me she had everything ready, and I followed her through a long series of dark rooms that seemed to be empty. But then I saw that was wrong since, when I got used to the darkness and the narrow thread of light that followed us, I could see shadows on both sides of us, and I could tell we were passing through a narrow passageway, between different objects.

 “What is that stuff there?” I asked her.

“Just some odds and ends. The house is full of them; people used it to store their things before they left, and they never came back and got them. The room for you is in the back. I always keep it ready, in case someone comes. So you are her son?”

 “Whose?” I answered.

“Of Dolores.”

“Yes, but how did you know that?”

“She told me you would come. And in fact today, that you would come today.”

“Who, my mother?”

“Yes, her.”

I didn’t know what to think. Nor did she tell me anything else to help me understand.

“This is your room,” she said.

 It had no doors except the one we came through. She lit a candle and I saw it was empty.

“There’s no place to sleep here,” I said.

“Don’t worry about that. You must be quite tired by now, and sleepiness is a good mattress. Tomorrow I’ll prepare your bed. As you know, it is not easy to set things up in a hurry. In order to do that you need to have a warning, and your mother didn’t tell me until just now.” “But my mother is already dead,” I said.

“Then that is the reason her voice was so weak, as if it had to travel a long way in order to reach me. Yes, now I understand. And how long has it been since she died?”

 “It’s now been seven days.”

 “The poor thing. She must have felt abandoned. We made a promise that we would die together. That each of us would go to give the other courage for the journey, if it was needed, in case there was some difficulty. We were good friends. Didn’t she ever talk about me?” “No, never.”

“That is strange. Of course, we were just young women then, and she had just gotten married. But we were fond of each other. Your mother was so beautiful, so tender, and everyone wanted to love her. So she got a head start on me? But you can be sure that I will catch up with her. Only, I know how far away heaven is from us; but I know how to shorten the paths. All you have to do is die, God willing, when one wants to, and not when He has proposed. Or if you want, make it happen ahead of time. But forgive me for speaking to you in this familiar way; I do it because I feel like you are my son. Yes, many times I have thought: ‘The son of Dolores should have been mine.’ Later, I will tell you why. The only thing I want to tell you now is that I will catch up with your mother on one of the paths through eternity.”

 I believed that woman was crazy. And then I no longer believed anything. I felt like I was in some distant world, and I let myself be swept along by the current. My body felt weaker and weaker, like it had loosened its ties, and now anyone could have rung me out like a rag.

 “I am very tired,” I said.

 “Come and have a bite to eat. A bit of something. Anything you want.”

“I will. I will later.”

 The water was running off the tiles toward a hole in the sand on the patio. It made a drip, drip, and then another drip, on top of a laurel leaf that was bouncing and spinning in a crack between the bricks. The storm had ended. Now, once in a while the wind shook the branches of the pomegranate tree, making drops of water cover the ground with bright splashes that then blurred together. The chickens that had been hunched down as if they were sleeping, suddenly shook their wings and rushed out into the patio where they quickly pecked the worms unearthed by the rain. Once the clouds were gone the sun filled the stones with light, and the air with colors, swallowing the water on the ground. “What are you doing in the toilet all this time, Boy?” “Nothing, Mama.”

“If you keep staying in there so long, a snake is going to come and bite you.

“Yes, Mama.”

 (I was thinking of you, Susana, when we were up on the hill, flying kites in the wind. Below us we heard the sounds of the town while we were up above it on the top of the hill, and the wind was pulling on the kite string. ‘Help me, Susana.’ And some soft hands pressed against mine. ‘Let out more string.’ The wind was making us laugh, connecting the view of our eyes, while the string was running through our fingers until it broke, making a soft crack as if it had been broken by the wings of some bird. And, up above our own paper bird began falling in circles, dragging its tail of thread, until it disappeared among the green branches below it.

 Your lips were moist, as if they were kissed by the dew.)

 “I told you to get out of the toilet, Son.”

“Yes, Mama. I’m leaving.”

 (I was remembering you, when you were there, looking at me, with your aquamarine eyes.)

 He raised his eyes and looked at his mother standing in the door.

 “Why do you wait so long before you come out? What are you doing there?”

“Just thinking.