A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings Notes | Grade 12 Short Stories Unit 7 Notes

On the third day of rain, they had killed so many crabs inside the house that Pelayo
had to cross his drenched courtyard and throw them into the sea, because the
newborn child had a temperature all night and they thought it was due to the
stench. The world had been sad since Tuesday. Sea and sky were a single ashgray thing and the sands of the beach, which on March nights glimmered like
powdered light, had become a stew of mud and rotten shellfish. The light was so
weak at noon that when Pelayo was coming back to the house after throwing away
the crabs, it was hard for him to see what it was that was moving and groaning in
the rear of the courtyard. He had to go very close to see that it was an old man, a
very old man, lying face down in the mud, who, in spite of his tremendous efforts,
couldn’t get up, and impeded by his enormous wings.
Frightened by that nightmare, Pelayo ran to get Elisenda, his wife, who was putting
compresses on the sick child, and he took her to the rear of the courtyard. They both
looked at the fallen body with a mute stupor. He was dressed like a ragpicker. There
were only a few faded hairs left on his bald skull and very few teeth in his mouth, and
his pitiful condition of a drenched great-grandfather took away and sense of grandeur
he might have had. His huge buzzard wings, dirty and half-plucked were forever
entangled in the mud. They looked at him so long and so closely that Pelayo and
Elisenda very soon overcame their surprise and in the end found him familiar. Then
they dared speak to him, and he answered in an incomprehensible dialect with a strong
sailor’s voice. That was how they skipped over the inconvenience of the wings and
quite intelligently concluded that he was a lonely castaway from some foreign ship
wrecked by the storm. And yet, they called in a neighbor woman who knew everything
about life and death to see him, and all she needed was one look to show them their
mistake.
“He’s an angel,” she told them. “He must have been coming for the child, but the poor
fellow is so old that the rain knocked him down.”
On the following day, everyone knew that a flesh-and-blood angel was held captive in
Pelayo’s house. Against the judgment of the wise neighbor woman, for whom angels
in those times were the fugitive survivors of a spiritual conspiracy, they did not have
the heart to club him to death. Pelayo watched over him all afternoon from the kitchen,
armed with his bailiff’s club, and before going to bed he dragged him out of the mud
and locked him up with the hens in the wire chicken coop. In the middle of the night,
when the rain stopped, Pelayo and Elisenda were still killing crabs. A short time
afterward the child woke up without a fever and with a desire to eat. Then they felt
magnanimous and decided to put the angel on a raft with fresh water and provisions
for three days and leave him to his fate on the high seas. But when they went out into
the courtyard with the first light of dawn, they found the whole neighborhood in front
of the chicken coop having fun with the angel, without the slightest reverence, tossing
him things to eat through the openings in the wire as if weren’t a supernatural creature
but a circus animal.
Father Gonzaga arrived before seven o’clock, alarmed at the strange news. By
that time onlookers less frivolous than those at dawn had already arrived and they
were making all kinds of conjectures concerning the captive’s future. The simplest
among them thought that he should be named mayor of the world. Others of sterner
mind felt that he should be promoted to the rank of five-star general in order to win
all wars. Some visionaries hoped that he could be put to stud in order to implant the
earth a race of winged wise men who could take charge of the universe. But Father
Gonzaga, before becoming a priest, had been a robust woodcutter. Standing by
the wire, he reviewed his catechism in an instant and asked them to open the door
so that he could take a close look at that pitiful man who looked more like a huge
decrepit hen among the fascinated chickens. He was lying in the corner drying his
open wings in the sunlight among the fruit peels and breakfast leftovers that the
early risers had thrown him. Alien to the impertinences of the world, he only lifted
his antiquarian eyes and murmured something in his dialect when Father Gonzaga
went into the chicken coop and said good morning to him in Latin. The parish
priest had his first suspicion of an imposter when he saw that he did not understand
the language of God or know how to greet His ministers. Then he noticed that seen
close up he was much too human: he had an unbearable smell of the outdoors, the
back side of his wings was strewn with parasites and his main feathers had been
mistreated by terrestrial winds, and nothing about him measured up to the proud
dignity of angels. Then he came out of the chicken coop and in a brief sermon
warned the curious against the risks of being ingenuous. He reminded them that
the devil had the bad habit of making use of carnival tricks in order to confuse the
unwary. He argued that if wings were not the essential element in determining the
different between a hawk and an airplane, they were even less so in the recognition
of angels. Nevertheless, he promised to write a letter to his bishop so that the latter
would write his primate so that the latter would write to the Supreme Pontiff in
order to get the final verdict from the highest courts.
His prudence fell on sterile hearts. The news of the captive angel spread with such
rapidity that after a few hours the courtyard had the bustle of a marketplace and they
had to call in troops with fixed bayonets to disperse the mob that was about to knock
the house down. Elisenda, her spine all twisted from sweeping up so much marketplace
trash, then got the idea of fencing in the yard and charging five cents admission to see
the angel.
The curious came from far away. A traveling carnival arrived with a flying acrobat
who buzzed over the crowd several times, but no one paid any attention to him because
his wings were not those of an angel but, rather, those of a sidereal bat. The most
unfortunate invalids on earth came in search of health: a poor woman who since
childhood has been counting her heartbeats and had run out of numbers; a Portuguese
man who couldn’t sleep because the noise of the stars disturbed him; a sleepwalker
who got up at night to undo the things he had done while awake; and many others
with less serious ailments. In the midst of that shipwreck disorder that made the earth
tremble, Pelayo and Elisenda were happy with fatigue, for in less than a week they had
crammed their rooms with money and the line of pilgrims waiting their turn to enter
still reached beyond the horizon.
The angel was the only one who took no part in his own act. He spent his time
trying to get comfortable in his borrowed nest, befuddled by the hellish heat of
the oil lamps and sacramental candles that had been placed along the wire. At first
they tried to make him eat some mothballs, which, according to the wisdom of the
wise neighbor woman, were the food prescribed for angels. But he turned them
down, just as he turned down the papal lunches that the pentinents brought him,
and they never found out whether it was because he was an angel or because he was
an old man that in the end ate nothing but eggplant mush. His only supernatural
virtue seemed to be patience. Especially during the first days, when the hens
pecked at him, searching for the stellar parasites that proliferated in his wings, and
the cripples pulled out feathers to touch their defective parts with, and even the
most merciful threw stones at him, trying to get him to rise so they could see him
standing. The only time they succeeded in arousing him was when they burned
his side with an iron for branding steers, for he had been motionless for so many
hours that they thought he was dead. He awoke with a start, ranting in his hermetic
language and with tears in his eyes, and he flapped his wings a couple of times,
which brought on a whirlwind of chicken dung and lunar dust and a gale of panic
that did not seem to be of this world. Although many thought that his reaction had
not been one of rage but of pain, from then on they were careful not to annoy him,
because the majority understood that his passivity was not that of her taking his
ease but that of a cataclysm in repose.
Father Gonzaga held back the crowd’s frivolity with formulas of maidservant inspiration
while awaiting the arrival of a final judgment on the nature of the captive. But the
mail from Rome showed no sense of urgency. They spent their time finding out in the
prisoner had a navel, if his dialect had any connection with Aramaic, how many times
he could fit on the head of a pin, or whether he wasn’t just a Norwegian with wings.
Those meager letters might have come and gone until the end of time if a providential
event had not put an end to the priest’s tribulations.
It so happened that during those days, among so many other carnival attractions,
there arrived in the town the traveling show of the woman who had been changed
into a spider for having disobeyed her parents. The admission to see her was not
only less than the admission to see the angel, but people were permitted to ask
her all manner of questions about her absurd state and to examine her up and
down so that no one would ever doubt the truth of her horror. She was a frightful
tarantula the size of a ram and with the head of a sad maiden. What was most
heartrending, however, was not her outlandish shape but the sincere affliction with
which she recounted the details of her misfortune. While still practically a child
she had sneaked out of her parents’ house to go to a dance, and while she was
coming back through the woods after having danced all night without permission,
a fearful thunderclap rent the sky in tow and through the crack came the lightning
bolt of brimstone that changed her into a spider. Her only nourishment came from
the meatballs that charitable souls chose to toss into her mouth. A spectacle like
that, full of so much human truth and with such a fearful lesson, was bound to
defeat without even trying that of a haughty angel who scarcely deigned to look at
mortals. Besides, the few miracles attributed to the angel showed a certain mental
disorder, like the blind man who didn’t recover his sight but grew three new teeth,
or the paralytic who didn’t get to walk but almost won the lottery, and the leper
whose sores sprouted sunflowers. Those consolation miracles, which were more
like mocking fun, had already ruined the angel’s reputation when the woman who
had been changed into a spider finally crushed him completely. That was how
Father Gonzaga was cured forever of his insomnia and Pelayo’s courtyard went
back to being as empty as during the time it had rained for three days and crabs
walked through the bedrooms.
The owners of the house had no reason to lament. With the money they saved
they built a two-story mansion with balconies and gardens and high netting so
that crabs wouldn’t get in during the winter, and with iron bars on the windows so
that angels wouldn’t get in. Pelayo also set up a rabbit warren close to town and
have up his job as a bailiff for good, and Elisenda bought some satin pumps with
high heels and many dresses of iridescent silk, the kind worn on Sunday by the
most desirable women in those times. The chicken coop was the only thing that
didn’t receive any attention. If they washed it down with creolin and burned tears
of myrrh inside it every so often, it was not in homage to the angel but to drive
away the dungheap stench that still hung everywhere like a ghost and was turning
the new house into an old one. At first, when the child learned to walk, they were
careful that he not get too close to the chicken coop. But then they began to lose
their fears and got used to the smell, and before the child got his second teeth he’d
gone inside the chicken coop to play, where the wires were falling apart. The angel
was no less standoffish with him than with the other mortals, but he tolerated the
most ingenious infamies with the patience of a dog who had no illusions. They
both came down with the chicken pox at the same time. The doctor who took care
of the child couldn’t resist the temptation to listen to the angel’s heart, and he found
so much whistling in the heart and so many sounds in his kidneys that it seemed
impossible for him to be alive. What surprised him most, however, was the logic
of his wings. They seemed so natural on that completely human organism that he
couldn’t understand why other men didn’t have them too.
When the child began school it had been some time since the sun and rain had caused
the collapse of the chicken coop. The angel went dragging himself about here and there
like a stray dying man. They would drive him out of the bedroom with a broom and a
moment later find him in the kitchen. He seemed to be in so many places at the same
time that they grew to think that he’d be duplicated, that he was reproducing himself
all through the house, and the exasperated and unhinged Elisenda shouted that it was
awful living in that hell full of angels. He could scarcely eat and his antiquarian eyes
had also become so foggy that he went about bumping into posts. All he had left were
the bare cannulae of his last feathers. Pelayo threw a blanket over him and extended
him the charity of letting him sleep in the shed, and only then did they notice that
he had a temperature at night, and was delirious with the tongue twisters of an old
Norwegian. That was one of the few times they became alarmed, for they thought he
was going to die and not even the wise neighbor woman had been able to tell them
what to do with dead angels.
And yet he not only survived his worst winter, but seemed improved with the first
sunny days. He remained motionless for several days in the farthest corner of the
courtyard, where no one would see him, and at the beginning of December some large,
stiff feathers began to grow on his wings, the feathers of a scarecrow, which looked
more like another misfortune of decrepitude. But he must have known the reason for
those changes, for he was quite careful that no one should notice them that no one
should hear the sea chanteys that he sometimes sang under the stars. One morning
Elisenda was cutting some bunches of onions for lunch when a wind that seemed
to come from the high seas blew into the kitchen. Then she went to the window and
caught the angel in his first attempts at flight. They were so clumsy that his fingernails
opened a furrow in the vegetable patch and he was on the point of knocking the shed
down with the ungainly flapping that slipped on the light and couldn’t get a grip on the
air. But he did manage to gain altitude. Elisenda let out a sigh of relief, for herself and
for him, when she watched him pass over the last houses, holding himself up in some
way with the risky flapping of a senile vulture. She kept watching him even when
she was through cutting the onions and she kept on watching until it was no longer
possible for her to see him, because then he was no longer an annoyance in her life but
an imaginary dot on the horizon of the sea.

Short Stories Notes – All Units

UnitStoriesAuthor
1Neighbours NotesTim Winton
2A Respectable Woman NotesKate Chopin
3A Devoted SonAnita Desai
4The Treasure in the ForestH. G. Wells
5My Old HomeLu Xun
6The Half-closed Eyes of the Buddha and the Slowly Sinking SunShankar Lamichhane
7A Very Old Man with Enormous WingsGabriel Garcia Marquez

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