Simonopio understood. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would let go of the memory of Lupita’s dead body. Of the feel of her dead eyes in his hand. Of the time he’d spent lying beside her: her body cold—lifeless and cold—and his body alive and warm—warm but limp—given over to crying, with no strength or will to share the terrible news. He knew he had to do it, and he would, as soon as he found the strength, because he knew that his work would not end there: he understood that, after raising the alarm and handing over the body, he would have to go in search of Lupita’s lost eyes.
