Josualdo whistled that simple tune as he walked through the Plaza de Armas. A melody from his childhood that his mother sang to him before going to sleep. He repeated it every time he felt satisfied with himself. Today he would stop by Don Julián’s store, then he would go to Inés’ restaurant. By the time the midday bells toll, everything would be resolved and his life would be a sea of happiness. It had always been like this.

Everyone considered Josualdo a kind and loving man. He always greeted everyone cordially, accompanied by a huge smile that always held a second longer than necessary. If anyone showed signs of doubt of his good faith, he took the time to listen to him and understand his reasons, with that imperturbable patience that was confused with genuine interest and in such a way that any doubt vanished before such attention.

In the village, the bells of San Juan not only mark the hours. They announce the important moments for Josualdo, as if the bronze had its own memory. The day he closed his first business with Don Julián, buying his land by the river for a lower value, the bells were so loud that the birds left the trees. That summer afternoon with Jacinta next to that same river, where he stole a kiss and something else, while twelve o’clock resounded in the distance. In the morning when he stumbled at the entrance of the Municipality, distracted thinking about his last feat, he fell into a ditch, broke his wrist and all his medical expenses were paid by the town. And when Carmela agreed to marry the widower of the neighbouring town, just a week after the twelve bells interrupted her private conversation with Josualdo in the church atrium.

The midday bells were for Josualdo the difference between an ordinary day and a happy turn in his existence. He never talked about these coincidences. Neither do the people of the town.

“How are you, Don Julian? We’ve had a beautiful day, haven’t we?” —then he winked at him and dedicated one of his winning smiles.

The good man looked up, while arranging some cans on a shelf. “Well, well, Josualdo. How are you feeling for today?” he replied with an insecure smile.

“Spectacular! I’m heading there,“ Josualdo said, vaguely pointing in the direction of the restaurant. “Okay. We’ll talk later, then” he replied somewhat nervously, and returned to arrange his cans with renewed concentration. Don Julian had learned not to ask too much.

Josualdo left in a hurry, in the direction of Inés’ restaurant, resuming the whistling of that little song. The midday sun began to warm the stones in the square. It was barely fifteen minutes to twelve. Everything was going perfectly.

He entered the restaurant and began to look for Inés. He saw her busy attending to some customers at a table in the back. She was a graceful young woman, with hands accustomed to work and eyes that looked straight. Since her mother had passed away, although she was somewhat shy, she enjoyed taking the reins of the family restaurant.

Josualdo seemed to see her somewhat dishevelled —her hair gathered in a hurry, her blouse wrinkled— but with indifference he discarded the idea and returned to his usual mood. He sat at a table near the window and waited, drumming his fingers to the rhythm of his little music. He signalled her when she passed by to get closer to his table.

Inés had no idea about Josualdo’s intentions. She had always considered him a nice and attentive man with his parents, although there was something in the way he looked at her that made her uncomfortable without really knowing why. Something he hadn’t even told his best friend, Clara.

That day, however, something in her was broken. He moved like someone who fulfils a routine because the body knows how to do it, even if the mind is elsewhere. Despite all his efforts, he couldn’t get out of his head the shadow of the damned man he had stumbled upon the night before. He was returning by the path that led to his house, at the exit of San Juan. The new moon had devoured all the light—the grandmothers said that on those nights the world belonged to the shadows. Just a push without warning. A hand on his mouth. The weight of a man. The pain. Fast and brutal. His body did not respond, the necessary scream did not come out of his mouth. When he finished, the shadow walked away whistling a melody that vanished among the trees. She stood up as best she could, with her body bruised and on her way home. One foot in front of the other. Nothing else.

That night, she and Clara were going to escape the town. They had saved for months, they left on the five o’clock bus in the morning. Clara would arrive at eleven and together they would walk to the station. Lifelong friends, accomplices of night getaways and dreams shared in low voice. They had planned every detail for months. That was no longer an option.

Now, in front of Josualdo, she felt that the walls of the restaurant were closing on her.

“Can we talk for a moment?” he asked, with that kindness of his that now she felt obscene. Josualdo asked him to go to a quieter place and, looking at the clock, he saw that they were almost around noon.

She nodded and led him to the back room. Sacks of rice that smelled of ancient rain, boxes accumulated like years. The wall clock was twelve o’clock. He had well calculated the time. He always did it. Josualdo cleared his throat and made the proposal in a hurry. “Dear Inés, your father and I have talked on previous occasions. You are a young woman, the restaurant needs a man who manages it well, and I… well, we have known each other for a long time. I think you would make an excellent wife.” He paused, looking for his eyes. “Do you want to marry me?”

She looked at him incredulously and, in a fraction of a second, she remembered the night before. She thought about embarrassment for her family. She needed time. She had heard rumours from two other girls in town. That’s when she was decided: “Of course, Josualdo,” —she said, in an uncertain tone and accompanied by a half smile— “It would be… it would be an honour.” The words came out. They weren’t her, but they came out.

By then, the bells of the church of San Juan had already stopped tolling and the sound faded in the hot air. But this time they had sounded different: the first blow came late. The second one trembled in the air like something about to break. The third one never arrived. The bells stopped at the ninth pique and the town, for a moment, was suspended in an unnatural silence.

Of course, Josualdo didn’t realise it. Too busy jumping in joy, oblivious to the fact that his request had been accepted in the silence that followed the last repique.

“I knew today would be a great day! Bells never fail!” —he exclaimed, and began to hisse that little song of his childhood, louder, more cheerful.

Then, Inés froze and gave him a terrible look, while a chill ran down her spine and she felt how the ground moved under her feet. That melody. It was him. It had been him that night, whistling that damn song while the trees got lost, after her drowned screams, before the heavy night silence. The world stopped. The walls of the back room tilted slightly, as if reality itself lost its balance.

Outside, the bells resumed their tolling, but now they sounded different. Slow. Serious. Like folding for someone.

In the village they believed that when the bells stopped before the twelve o’clock were completed, something terrible had happened. The fate attributed by Josualdo to the bells of the Church had ended at that very moment.

Outside, the bells of San Juan kept tolling. The whole town had heard them and although no one would say anything out loud, everyone knows. Bells don’t lie. They never do it. They just sometimes talk too late.