A better way to go

Don Evaristo saw her, quiet, fidgeting with a handkerchief. She appeared to be waiting for the right moment to approach him, so he straightened up and called, “Next.”

With her gaze still lowered the woman got up and approached the shiny wooden counter; and Evaristo watched the swaying of her black dress come like a tropical storm over the horizon.

“Señor, I want to send a telegram,” she said.

“Why didn’t you come forward before? I’ve been available for a while. A death in the family, Mrs …? “ Evaristo paused, hoping the woman felt more at ease after she said her name.

“Apasionada Rojas, widow of Señor Rojas.”

“Mucho gusto, señora. Me llamo Evaristo. I’m sorry about your husband. But you’re not from around here … right? I think I know everyone in town. You came on the 11:30 bus, from …?

“From Cañaverales; it’s a little town with just a few families, about 50 kilometers from here, at the edge of the jungle.”

“I’ve heard of the place! About three … or maybe five years ago a group of miners came through here saying they were going to move to Cañaverales. I found it odd, but … to each his own, right? Send a telegram; where to?” Evaristo squeezed his goatee like he did when he got wet in a downpour.

“The mines; help me compose it,” the woman said shyly and looked into his eyes for the first time. “Por favor.” He noticed her face was naturally beautiful and her mature body was one that men in the jungle could kill, or die for.

“Well, of course,” he said pulling a sheet of paper from a cigar box. “What should it say? And remember, we charge by the word. Three pesos for every word up to five words; one peso for words eleven to fifteen; and 50 centavos for every word after that.”

“We don’t have a lot of money and I was sent because I’m a good administrator, so it has to be short.”

“Was it a miner who died?”

“Ramona’s husband. He was the last … the last man. Now we have no men. Thirty five women without men.”

“None?” He couldn’t believe his ears.

“No; and we still … we are … we are human, you know?”

“The miners?”

“The black lung can really shorten one’s life.”

“Esta bien, Apasionada. Go and sit down for a moment and I’ll talk to my friend the barber who is very good with words. How many women did you say live in the village … alone?

“Treinta y cinco.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He opened the door, stepped out and peeked at the widow sitting at the far corner of the shop before closing. He had decided the cancer growing inside his body would not be his killer. Right there and then, Evaristo had chosen a better way to die.

Then he crossed the street toward the barber shop, where his friend was also dying, shouting, “Don Fernando!”

In J. G. Herrera’s beautifully written novella Drought, Rain, twelve-year-old boys Quay and Mabuto have never seen rain; like the others in their small African village, they long for the end of a devastating drought. After a village leader tells the people that waiting will not end the drought and that they need to take action and love again, Quay becomes determined to bring back the rain. While foreigners try to help them, and rebels fight for the soul of the nation, Quay persists with kindness, believing that rain comes from the heart. His friend Mabuto however, worried about becoming a man without a coming of age ceremony is tempted to join the rebels.

Quay’s kindness and strength are more than admirable, and you’ll find yourself cheering for him and his selfless behavior, qualities that we all have to some degree but wish we had more of. Drought, Rain explores what it means to become a man and how to affect positive change for the greater good. Quay’s story is timeless and Herrera’s novella is a welcome addition to a literary tradition, carrying the reader effortlessly to a satisfying and uplifting conclusion.

The author will donate 25% of the net profits from this book to non-profit organizations working to better the water resources and children’s nutrition in the world.