Read Chronicler Of The Winds for Free Online

out into the street from his café if he thought they were making too much ruckus and throw beer cans at them, even though he knew that the next day the cans would be neatly lined up outside his café door and cause him all sorts of trouble as he was about to open.
    The stories about Nelio were legion. About his slyness and cunning, about his ability to administer justice, and especially about how he managed to avoid being beaten up. I also heard rumours that he possessed magic powers, that he carried the spirit of a deceased curandeiro who in the beginning of time, when the city barely existed, had exercised his power over the people who lived near the wide estuary.
    So I knew that he existed. I understood that he was remarkable.
    But I had never talked to him. Not until that night when I was alone in the bakery and heard the loud shots from inside the theatre. I raced up the winding stairs and sneaked into the uppermost gallery. To my surprise, I saw that the spotlights were on, and there was a set onstage that I had never seen before.
    And in the middle of the light lay Nelio. Blood was streaming from his body; it was almost black against his white, Indian cotton shirt. I stood there in the dark with my heart pounding and tried to think. Who had shot him? Why was he lying on the stage in the middle of the night, bathed in the spotlight and blood? I listened for any sound, but everything was quiet.
    Then I heard him wheezing, lying there on the stage. I fumbled my way down the dark steps, in constant fear that someone would pop up out of the dark and aim a gun at me too. When I reached the stage at last and fell to my knees at his side, I thought he was already dead. But as if he had heard me, he opened his eyes. They were still clear, even though he had lost a great deal of blood.
    'I'll go and get help,' I said.
    He shook his head weakly. 'Carry me up to the roof,' he said. 'All I need is fresh air.'
    I took off my white apron, shook off the flour dust and ripped it into strips. Then I wrapped them in a bandage around his chest where he had been shot; I lifted him and carried him up the narrow stairway to the roof. I kept a mattress there that I had found one morning next to the rubbish bins outside the bakery. That's where I set him down. I bent my face close to his mouth to see if he was still breathing. When I was sure that he was alive, I raced down to the ovens, got some water and a lamp, and went back up to the roof.
    'I have to get help,' I repeated. 'You can't stay here.'
    Again he shook his head. 'I want to stay here,' he said. 'I'm not going to die. Not yet.'
    He sounded so determined that I couldn't make myself object, even though deep inside I knew what he needed most was a doctor.
    He turned his head and looked at me. 'It feels so cool up here,' he said. 'This is where I want to stay.'
    I sat down beside him. Now and then I gave him some water to moisten his lips. Since he had been shot in the chest, I didn't dare let him have anything to drink.
    That was the first night.
    I sat on the mattress at his side. When he seemed to be asleep, I would go down to the ovens to make sure the bread was not burning.
    When it was still long before dawn, he opened his eyes again. By then he had stopped bleeding, and the bandage had grown stiff on his thin chest.
    'The silence,' he said. 'Here I can dare to release my spirits.'
    I didn't know what to say. The words sounded strange coming from a boy who was only ten years old.
    What did he mean?
    Much later I would understand.
    That was all he said.
    For the rest of the night, that first night, he was silent.

The Second Night
    I have sometimes wondered why the sunrise arouses such melancholy in my soul. Often I would stand on the roof after a long night in the bakery where the heat was at times so intense that I felt it was about to drive me mad. In the early dawn, when the city was just starting to wake up, I would feel the coolness of the morning breeze from the Indian