The Bucket

by

Horacio Quiroga

"Ma'am!" the maid shouted, still breathless from her rapid climb. "They’re from the storeroom downstairs. They are furious with the children... they wanted to burn everything down."

"What? Burn? What? ... Tell them to come up. Luisa? Oh! These children!" The clerk was already upstairs.

"Yes, ma'am, yes, it’s your children! Your kids—there’s no telling what they’ll do next! They were boring a hole in the floor to set fire to the storeroom... We saw them."

"How awful! These children will be the death of me! But are you sure? Couldn't it just be a childish prank?"

"A prank, ma'am? Your children aren't exactly fond of pranks! They had used an auger to make a hole so they could drop a match through. They were dying with delight at the thought of what was going to happen. That’s the kind of 'prank' your children play... Luckily, we heard them in time."

The lady promised to discipline them properly, assuring the employee that there would never be complaints about them again. He, casting a shifty, distrustful glance, grumbled as he returned to his alcohol storeroom.

The boys' idea was, in fact, astonishingly simple: through that hole—the one the wretched one-eyed man had reported—they were all going to drop a lit match together. Alcohol barrels ignite at the slightest contact with a flame; that is obvious. But the pyrotechnic scheme had failed because the one-eyed man, hearing the whispering overhead, had spotted the hole—the very spot where the boys were constantly bumping heads as they all tried to press their eyes against it at once. Although the idea had come from the second boy, the eldest had secured the auger, and thus held the key to the plan. The youngest—whose imagination still slumbered amidst lingering daydreams of phosphatine and arrowroot—had managed to get the three of them to grab the lit match together and toss it, all three at once, toward that forbidden sky.

At noon, the father returned from the office, his anger violent—as fierce as the ten smacks the eldest received on his backside, prompting him to flee screaming while furiously clutching the spot with both hands.

"The thing is," the father concluded, still fuming, "all this happens when I’m not around!"

"And what do you expect me to do? I can't hover over them every single moment! You're being unfair."

"Unfair or not, nothing happens while I'm here."

She couldn't help but smile.

"I should hope not! I don't have your hands."

"It’s not a matter of hitting! It’s a matter of respect!"

His wife shrugged, letting out a weary "Oh."

They had lunch. The father, though speaking with apparent absent-mindedness, kept a close eye on the boys, ready to enforce the proper respect. But the boys kept an eye on their father, too, eating with great prudence—though each carefully avoided looking at his brothers.

Then came siesta time, and the children were confined to their room with strict orders not to leave until their parents had risen.

Twenty minutes later, the hurried patter of the boys in their socks could be heard moving back and forth between the beds and the door.

"I know what we're going to do!" the eldest announced, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Yeah, I know," the youngest affirmed. But his brother didn't want to share the glory.

"Oh really? What?" he deigned to ask scornfully.

"I know!" the little one insisted—though already ashamed of his earlier thoughtlessness, and thus determined to maintain for the rest of his life that he *did* know. "Hey! You don't know about this."

And he filled his two lieutenants in on the brilliant idea that had just occurred to him.

They opened the door with infinite caution and, within a minute, were out on the battlefield. The plan was simple this time, too. At the back of the neighboring single-story house, a room was being built—nothing but the walls stood so far. Yet the construction was such that a support beam from the interior scaffolding jutted out a meter; directly beneath this beam—with an eleven-meter vertical drop—lay the courtyard of the alcohol warehouse, where the horrible one-eyed man stood guard against anyone setting his barrels ablaze. The bricklayers had left a bucket there with a long rope attached. And, finally, one could jump from the maid's room window onto the flat roof.

It was the hour of the siesta, oppressive with heat and a north wind. Not a sound could be heard from the warehouse; everyone there must have been asleep—even the one-eyed man himself. Once the older boy had hoisted himself up the scaffolding with the rope tied around his waist, and had looped it over the support beam, the rest was easy. It was something like an airplane: the younger boy would get into the bucket, and the older one—gripping the rope with all his might—would lower him slowly. They weren't attempting a heroic feat; they simply wanted to prove to the one-eyed man that they were capable of reaching his very lair.

The siesta hour was wearing on, and they needed to hurry. The little one climbed into the bucket, and a moment later, he was suspended over the void. It was a complete success, and the boys were floating on cloud nine. The older boy, his face flushed and lips bitten from the strain, slowly let out the rope. But when the bucket had descended one, two, three meters ...his stiff fingers were already struggling to let go of the rope.

Boys often display genuine strokes of genius in the engineering of their exploits. The anguished glance the eldest cast upward gave him an idea. With a supreme effort—dragging the entire airplane along with him—he stepped back five paces and looped the rope over the corner of the room. It was none too soon. Meanwhile, the youngest, whose composure had already begun to slip during that unexpected ascent, lost it completely when he found himself stranded and motionless. His eyes grew enormous. Far below—deep, deep down in the infinite abyss—lay the floor, that lovely, solid floor that never fell away. He would never reach it again! And here he was, swaying in mid-air, all alone, without his brothers...

"Mama!" he screamed, in a sudden burst of terror.

"Shut up, you dummy!" the eldest protested from his corner.

"Shut up, scaredy-cat! We're almost there!" chimed in the middle brother, who was tracking their triumphant descent while lying flat on his stomach along the cornice.

"No, I don't want to, I don't want to! Oh, Mama!" the little one shrieked in desperation. Then the eldest realized all was lost; fear—that terrible fear that follows the heedlessness of heroic deeds—gripped him. He could already hear his mother.

"Julito is screaming! Julio, Julio, quick! Something's happened to the child!"

Rising above the railing, the father saw what was happening, and his surge of anger proved stronger than prudence.

"Listen to me!" he shouted, pale-faced, thrusting a huge, open hand toward the boy. "The moment I get there, you're going to get the biggest thrashing of your life! Just you wait!" And, running to the window, he too leaped onto the neighboring roof.

"Julio, what are you doing?" the mother cried out. "Can't you see that child is going to kill himself!"

But the older boy, once again drained of strength before that terrible hand, had glimpsed salvation in his mother's very anguish.

"It wasn't me—it wasn't me!" he protested, still out of sheer habit.

"Just a moment! We'll see about that!" the father said, stepping forward.

"I... I'll let go," the boy stammered.

"You little devil!" the man roared, lunging toward him.

"Ow!... I'll let go."

"Julio, don't move, for God's sake!" the mother screamed in desperation. "He'll do exactly what he says!"

The situation became one worthy of the boys and their father. The latter, abruptly checked by that threat, had stopped dead in his tracks—three paces away from the mechanic-aviator, who, clinging to his rope with anguished eyes, trembled with a resolve born of fear.

"Julio, get away from there! The child is terrified of you! Leave him be!"

"No! I want to teach him a lesson he'll never forget!"

"But can't you see? You're going to kill your son!"

"No, I tell you! He'll get tired eventually."

And he sat down on the ledge, devouring the boy with his gaze.

But this new complication brought no joy to the mechanic, who thought it prudent to force the issue.

"Ow! My hands hurt!..."

"But Julio! That child! Promise him you won't hurt him! Carlitos, my darling, your father won't hurt you!"

"Ow!... I can't hold on!"

It was impossible to go on. Sanity finally prevailed over the father's disciplinary rage.

"Fine! You've beaten me... I won't hurt you."

"Is it true, Mama? He won't hurt me?"

"No, my darling; he won't hurt you." Trembling and hollow-eyed, the boy handed over the rope and vanished through the window.

When the parents returned with the little one—rescued from his aerial escapade—a profound silence reigned throughout the house. Yet, despite this and the promise that had been given, the older boy received a tremendous thrashing—on his own account and as an example to the others.

"You did wrong," the mother protested later. "They’ll lose trust in you."

"That’s rich! And do you think I’m going to pay attention to promises made to those brats?"

Ten days later, the youngest—who was playing a key role in a new feat—fell six meters and lay unconscious for four hours. Had help arrived in time, the internal concussion might well have had no serious consequences. But the older boys took good care not to be the ones to break the news to their father.

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