Issue 27, Winter-Spring 1962
Right on the stroke of noon, and all of a sudden, when the revolution—at least according to the government radio station—was almost under full control, the eyes of Adias turned wild. They turned wild and at first I didn’t understand, because up until then Adias had been a calm and good man, with the pupils of his eyes quiet like those of a household pet.
I’ve had enough now, he said, now the right time has come.
He ran out of the house, and if I followed him, it was, more than anything else, for a kind of amused curiosity. Outside in fact it seemed one great party, despite several bodies lying there dead on the ground. The bombs burst happily all around us, and the wounded, on the sidewalks, used up their last breath to shout like children on a merry-go-round.