Ностромо
Chapter 9
Thetinypieceofwoodflamedupquiteblindinglyattheendofhisfingers,raisedabovehisblinkingeyes.AconcentratedglarefellupontheleoninewhiteheadofoldGiorgioagainsttheblackfire-place—showedhimleaningforwardinachairinstaringimmobility,surrounded,overhung,bygreatmassesofshadow,hislegscrossed,hischeekinhishand,anemptypipeinthecornerofhismouth.Itseemedhoursbeforeheattemptedtoturnhisface;attheverymomentthematchwentout,andhedisappeared,overwhelmedbytheshadows,asifthewallsandroofofthedesolatehousehadcollapseduponhiswhiteheadinghostlysilence.
Nostromoheardhimstirandutterdispassionatelythewords—
“Itmayhavebeenavision.”
“No,”hesaid,softly.“Itisnovision,oldman.”
Astrongchestvoiceaskedinthedark—
“IsthatyouIhear,Giovann’Battista?”
“Si,viejo.Steady.Notsoloud.”
AfterhisreleasebySotillo,GiorgioViola,attendedtotheverydoorbythegood-naturedengineer-in-chief,hadreenteredhishouse,whichhehadbeenmadetoleavealmostattheverymomentofhiswife’sdeath.Allwasstill.Thelampabovewasburning.Henearlycalledouttoherbyname;andthethoughtthatnocallfromhimwouldeveragainevoketheanswerofhervoice,madehimdropheavilyintothechairwithaloudgroan,wrungoutbythepainasofakeenbladepiercinghisbreast.
