.”

Venancio’s shouts of protest were drowned out by the clamorous laughter of the other men.

A pale, grimacing Demetrio made them quiet down. He made some moaning sounds, then said:

“Well, okay then. Go on and bring me the student.”

Luis Cervantes came. He uncovered Demetrio’s leg, slowly and carefully examined the wound, and shook his head. The ligature, torn from a blanket, had dug into the flesh in the form of a furrow, and the bloated leg seemed about to burst. With each movement, Demetrio bit back a cry. Luis Cervantes cut the ligature, thoroughly washed out the wound, covered the thigh with long, moist linens, and cleanly bandaged everything up.

Demetrio was able to sleep through that entire afternoon and night. The next day he woke up in much better spirits.

“He has quite a light touch, that curro,” he remarked.

Soon afterward, Venancio said,

“He’s okay. But we have to remember that curros are like humidity, they seep through everywhere. The fruits of many a revolution have been lost because curros were around.”

And since Demetrio blindly believed in the science of the barber, when Cervantes came to apply his treatment the next day, he said to him:

“Listen, do a good job here so that when I’m good and cured you can go on back home or wherever you want to go.”

The discreet Luis Cervantes did not say anything at all.

A week passed, then another. The Federales showed no sign of life. Meanwhile, there was an abundant amount of frijoles and corn in the ranchos in the area, and the people’s hatred of the Federales was such that they were more than willing to provide the rebels with shelter. So Demetrio’s men waited, quite patiently, for their leader to make a complete recovery.

Luis Cervantes remained dejected and silent for many days.

But Demetrio started to grow fond of him. Then, after the treatment one day, he said to him, in jest: “From the way you’re goin’ about, I’m starting to think that you’re in love, curro!”

And eventually Demetrio Macías began taking an interest in the welfare of Luis Cervantes. He asked him if the soldiers were giving him his proper rations of meat and milk. So Cervantes had to tell him that he was eating only what the gentle old women of the rancho were giving him, and that everyone was still looking at him as an unknown or an intruder.

“They’re good muchachos, curro,” Demetrio replied. “The key is to know their way. Startin’ tomorrow you’ll have everything you need. You’ll see.”

Sure enough, things started to change that very day. Later that evening some of Macías’s men were lying on the stony ground, looking up at the clouds of twilight as if they were gigantic blood clots, listening to the stories Venancio recounted from some of the most charming episodes in The Wandering Jew. Many, lulled by the barber’s sweet voice, dozed off and began to snore. But Luis Cervantes, after listening attentively to the story, which ended with some strange anticlerical comments, said emphatically:

“Tha’s admirable. You have quite a beautiful talent.”

“It’s not that bad,” Venancio replied, himself quite convinced of it. “But my parents died, so I was unable to go on and continue my studies.”

“That does not matter in the least. Once our cause is victorious, you will be able to obtain your degree very easily. Two or three weeks of serving as an attendant at a hospital, a good recommendation from our leader Macías . . . and you shall be a doctor. You have such skill that it will all come as easy as a game to you!”

From that night on, Venancio differentiated himself from the others by no longer calling him curro.