translated from the Spanish by Gabriela Poma

Jorge turned nine on the day of the earthquake. For the rest of the community, it was just another Saturday in October. It was hot, and the wind had started to die down.

Jorge was outside killing worms when the hut shook for the first time. From up in the tree, he saw fine dust rising between its wooden columns.

People began to emerge from their homes—children, older people, and even cats. Everyone looked as if they had been scolded. They exchanged silent glances and were on the verge of speaking when the rumbling sound of a train resonated from the river, and, in an instant, everything visible shook violently.

Girded to the tree from which the worms he had killed were falling, Jorge thought about his cake.

Birds flew in all directions. People scrambled. Dogs barked, and hens molted their feathers in a desperate attempt to escape. The air filled with a cacophony of prayers and weeping. Some men embraced their children, while others struggled to prevent wreckage from the metal sheets coming off the huts. Indoors, framed photographs and glass knick-knacks smashed to the ground. No one was sure how long it lasted; the older people estimated five minutes, calculated by the deep silence of human beings and things that hung in the air.

It’s over, thought Jorge, as he watched people returning to their huts. He jumped out of the tree and headed toward the baker.

—What time is it?

—Five past eleven, the baker answered without taking his eyes off the sky.

—My mom finishes work at twelve, the boy said. The man remained transfixed.

Jorge did not return to his hut; instead, he headed to the corner where the other children had gathered to discuss what had happened. My mom says it was an earthquake. No, God is angry with my dad for abandoning us. My grandmother was born during an earthquake, but I don’t know when. Jorge looked at the children. He didn’t speak because he didn’t know what to say. No one had explained anything to him.

—See that tree? he finally said, pointing to it. I climbed it so I could see the earthquake from above.

—Were you scared?

—No, I wasn’t. And if you don’t believe me, ask the baker.

The children believed him because none of them ran to ask the man who continued to stare at the sky. For the first time, they listened to Jorge explain how to observe an earthquake from a tree.

—And that’s all, he concluded. Besides, I’m nine today and my mom leaves work at twelve because it’s Saturday. I’ll give you some cake.

The children were summoned by name to have lunch or be sent to the store or the mill. Everything was returning to normal. Jorge was alone again.

He returned to the tree to see his mother come down the hill, clutching a large box and dressed in her white and ochre Saturday uniform. From above, he observed the preparations for an improvised congregation forming in the space between the string of huts and the river. Some people arranged plastic chairs in rows with a meter between each column, creating an aisle. They brought a pulpit, a decorated tablecloth, a console, and a microphone.

It was hot and arid. The men wore long-sleeved shirts and ties, while the women looked more comfortable in long skirts. They moved from hut to hut, inviting people to worship with them.

When his hut was called, Jorge shouted from the tree.

—My mom gets out at twelve, that’s why she isn’t there.

—It’s already a quarter past two, said the baker without looking at his watch.

—Come down and join us, replied one of the men in ties.

—I can’t. I’m waiting for my cake.

—You mean your mother, replied the baker.

—It’s the same thing, said the boy. They’re coming together.

Jorge did not know much about God. However, that afternoon, from the tree, he saw several of his neighbors on their knees, asking for forgiveness with closed eyes and open hands. He soon realized that earthquakes were not mere occurrences or whims of the earth. They were signs, although he needed to understand what a sign was.

He heard the pastor say that God would soon destroy everything in the world, along with all the men and women who did not believe in Him. Jorge felt afraid.

He thought, my mother is a believer, and placed his hand over his heart to calm it down.

—I am turning nine. When I’m a grown man, I will believe too.

And he came down from the tree to drink coffee and eat empanadas that the church women were doling out.

The sky was glorious. Between the clouds were immense purple and yellow openings, like cracks. It seemed as if the sky was also suffering the wrath of God. But only Jorge and the baker thought so.

—What time is it? asked the boy.

—Five o’clock, answered the pastor.

—My mother leaves work at twelve on Saturdays but isn’t back yet. She is bringing a cake.

—What does your mother do for a living?

—She cleans rooms at the Grand Hotel.

The man stood still without saying a word.

In the town center, rescuers searched for survivors. ■

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