Ностромо
Chapter 8
”
Helititandletthematchdropfromhispassivefingers.GiorgioViolalookedup,andsaidabruptly—
“Mysonwouldhavebeenjustsuchafineyoungmanasyou,Gian’Battista,ifhehadlived.”
“What?Yourson?Butyouareright,padrone.Ifhehadbeenlikemehewouldhavebeenaman.”
Heturnedhishorseslowly,andpacedonbetweenthebooths,checkingthemarealmosttoastandstillnowandthenforchildren,forthegroupsofpeoplefromthedistantCampo,whostaredafterhimwithadmiration.TheCompany’slightermensalutedhimfromafar;andthegreatlyenviedCapatazdeCargadoresadvanced,amongstmurmursofrecognitionandobsequiousgreetings,towardsthehugecircus-likeerection.Thethrongthickened;theguitarstinkledlouder;otherhorsemensatmotionless,smokingcalmlyabovetheheadsofthecrowd;iteddiedandpushedbeforethedoorsofthehigh-roofedbuilding,whenceissuedashuffleandthumpingoffeetintimetothedancemusicvibratingandshriekingwitharackingrhythm,overhungbythetremendous,sustained,hollowroarofthegombo.Thebarbarousandimposingnoiseofthebigdrum,thatcanmaddenacrowd,andthatevenEuropeanscannothearwithoutastrangeemotion,seemedtodrawNostromoontoitssource,whileaman,wrappedupinafaded,tornponcho,walkedbyhisstirrup,and,buffetedrightandleft,begged“hisworship”insistentlyforemploymentonthewharf.
