“Yes, Señora Gemma, I will take care of it! What the old caimito tree has scattered, my strong arms shall gather! See these arms? These arms are branches, too, see? For I am also an old tree, Señora! Nicanor is now my name! But a more handsome tree than that ca-i-mi-to! Maybe even as handsome and as strong as Señor Angelo! Ha! Maybe I will dance better than a tree? Or maybe better than Señor Angelo? Look!”
The old man, still surprisingly possessing a unique sort of agility, takes the rake from a pile of leaves, helps it stand in front of him like a young lady ballerina, and bows his head in feigned salutation. He pretends to dance with his long-handed tool; then, realizing himself for a moment there, the less than amateur performer quickly spreads his fat belly forward to roar with a g
