“It will be next time, sure!” he would
say in order to console himself for having to part
with his nephew’s son; and after a few months
had passed by, he would reappear, each time larger,
uglier, more tanned, with a silent smile which broke
into words before Ulysses just as tempestuous clouds
break forth in thunder claps.
Upon his return from a trip to the Black Sea, Dona
Cristina announced to her son: “Your uncle
has died.”
The pious senora lamented as a Christian the departure
of her brother-in-law, dedicating a part of her prayers
to him; but she insisted with a certain cruelty in
giving an account of his sad end, for she had never
been able to pardon his fatal intervention in the
destiny of Ulysses. He had died as he had lived,—in
the sea, a victim, of his own rashness, without confession,
just like any pagan.
Another legacy thus fell to Ferragut.... His
uncle had gone out swimming one sunny, winter morning
and had never come back. The old folks on the
shore had their way of explaining how the accident
had happened,—a fainting spell probably,
a clash against the rocks. The Dotor was
still vigorous, but the years do not pass without leaving
their footprints. Some believed that he must have
had a struggle with a shark or some other of the carnivorous
fish that abound in the Mediterranean waters.
In vain the fishermen guided their skiffs through
all the twisting entrances and exits of the waters
around the promontory, exploring the gloomy caves
and the lower depths of crystalline transparency.
No one was ever able to find the Triton’s
body.
Ferragut recalled the cortege of Aphrodite which the
doctor had so often described to him on summer evenings,
by the light of the far-away gleam of the lighthouse.
Perhaps he had come upon that gay retinue of nereids,
joining it forever!
This absurd supposition that Ulysses mentally formulated
with a sad and incredulous smile, frequently recurred
in the simple thoughts of many of the people of the
Marina.
They refused to believe in his death. A wizard
is never drowned. He must have found down below
something very interesting and when he got tired of
living in the green depths, he would probably some
day come swimming back home.
No: the Dotor had not died.
And for many years afterwards the women who were going
along the coast at nightfall would quicken their steps,
crossing themselves upon distinguishing on the dark
waters a bit of wood or a bunch of sea weed.
They feared that suddenly would spring forth the Triton,
bearded, dripping, spouting, returning from his excursion
into the mysterious depths of the sea.
FREYA
