Louisa Reynolds /

Pz

P

62

It was a land that he loved as there stood the trees that he 
had planted as a boy and that he had eaten from when López 
Alonso’s wife begrudged him a plate of food after a long 
day’s work. That land was tainted with suffering and pain 
but despite everything, it was the only place he could call 
home.

XXVI

Seventy-year-old Tranquilino Castañeda has trouble walking 
as he suffers from arthritis in his right leg, but he does his best 
to maintain himself upright. By doing so he might be able 
to cheat Death so that it doesn’t come knocking on his door 
before he can embrace the son that he believed to have lost.

After spending more than half a lifetime drinking himself to 
death, Tranquilino had to reach the twilight of his existence 
to find a reason to live. That reason is a three year old boy who 
survived the Dos Erres massacre and now lives in the United 
States. For security reasons, his name and whereabouts 
cannot be revealed.

We walk down the paved path that leads to the village of Las 
Cabezas, in the eastern department of El Progreso, under 
the scorching midday sun, past a yard where two fat pigs 
with bulging bellies sleep a lazy siesta under the shadow of a 
tree. We pass several brick houses with aluminum roofs and 
a small patios with a clothes line, an open-air stone washing 
place and wandering chickens, until we reach the fence that 
surrounds the family property.

The old man lives in a tiny house that belongs to his nephew. 
He walks in, takes off his hat, unbuttons his pale blue shirt 
and lays down on the hammock, pointing to a white plastic 
chair where I can sit down. It’s the only piece of furniture in 
the house, apart from an old chest.