He came in without a word. I was stropping my best razor. And when I recognised him, I started to shake. But he did not notice. To cover my nervousness, I went on honing the razor. I tried the edge with the tip of my thumb and took another look at it against the light. Meanwhile he was taking off his cartridge-studded belt with the pistol holster suspended from it. He put it on a hook in the wardrobe and hung his cap above it. Then he turned full around toward me and, loosening his tie, remarked, “It’s hot as the devil, I want a shave.” With that he took his seat.

I estimated he had a fourdays’ growth of beard, the four days he had been gone on the last foray after our men. His face looked burnt, tanned by the sun. I started to work carefully on the shaving soap. I scraped some slices from the bar, dropped them into the mug, then added a little lukewarm water, and stirred with the brush. The lather soon began to rise.

“The fellows in the troop must have just about as much beard as I.” I went on stirring up lather. “But we did very well, you know. We caught the leaders. Some of them we brought back dead; others are still alive. But they’ll all be dead soon.”

“How many did you take?” I asked. “Fourteen. We had to go pretty far in to find them. But now they’re paying for it. And not one will escape; not a single one.” He leaned back in the chair when he saw the brush in my hand, full of lather. I had not yet put the sheet on him. I was certainly flustered. Taking a sheet from the drawer, I tied it around my customer’s neck. He went on talking. He evidently took it for granted that I was on the side of the existing regime.

“The people must have gotten a scare with what happened the other day,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, as I finished tying the knot against his nape, which smelt of sweat. “Good show, wasn’t it?”

“Very good,” I answered, turning my attention now to the brush.

The man closed his eyes wearily and awaited the cool caress of the lather. I had never had him so close before. The day he ordered the people to file through the schoolyard to look upon the four rebels hanging there, my path had crossed his briefly. But the sight of those mutilated bodies kept me from paying attention to the face of the man who had been directing it all and whom I now had in my hands. It was not a disagreeable face, certainly. And the beard, which aged him a bit, was not unbecoming. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. I started to lay on the first coat of lather. He kept his eyes closed.

“I would love to catch a nap,” he said, “but there’s a lot to be done this evening.”

I lifted the brush and asked, with pretended indifference: “A firing party?”

“Something of the sort,” he replied, “but slower.”

“All of them?”

“No, just a few.” I went on lathering his face. My hands began to tremble again. The man could not be aware of this, which was lucky for me. But I wished he had not come in. Probably many of our men had seen him enter the shop. And with the enemy in my house I felt a certain responsibility. I would have to shave his beard just like any other, carefully, neatly, just as though he were a good customer, taking heed that not a single pore should emit a drop of blood. Seeing to it that the blade did not slip. Taking care that the skin was left clean, soft, shining, so that when I passed the back of my hand over it not a single hair should be felt. Yes. I was secretly a revolutionary, but at the same time I was a conscientious barber, proud of the way I did my job. And that four-day beard presented a challenge.

I took up the razor, opened the handle wide, releasing the blade, and started to work, downward from one sideburn. The blade responded to perfection. The hair was tough and hard; not very long, but thick. Little by little the skin began to show through. The razor gave its usual sound as it gathered up layers of soap mixed with bits of hair. I paused to wipe it clean, and taking up the strop once more went about improving its edge, for I am a painstaking barber.

The man, who had kept his eyes closed, now opened them, put a hand out from under the sheet, felt of the part of his face that was emerging from the lather, and said to me, “Come at six o’clock this evening to the school.”

“Will it be like the other day?” I asked, stiff with horror.

“It may be even better,” he replied.

“What are you planning to do?”

“I’m not sure yet. But we’ll have a good time.” Once more he leaned back and shut his eyes. I came closer, the razor on high.

“Are you going to punish all of them?” I timidly ventured.

“Yes, all of them.”

The lather was drying on his face. I must hurry. Through the mirror, I took a look at the street. It appeared about as usual; there was the grocery shop with two or three customers. Then I glanced at the clock, two-thirty. The razor kept descending. Now from the other sideburn downward. It was a dark, blueish beard, a thick one. He should let it grow like some poets, or some priests. It would suit him well. Many people would not recognise him. And that would be a good thing for him, I thought, as I went gently over all the throat line. At this point you really had to handle your blade skillfully, because the hair, while scantier, tended to fall into small whorls. It was a curly beard. The pores might open, minutely, in this area and let out a tiny drop of blood. A good barber like myself stakes his reputation on not permitting that to happen to any of his customers. And this was indeed a special customer.

How many of ours had he sent to their death? How many had he mutilated? It was best not to think about it. Torres did not know I was his enemy. Neither he nor the others knew it. It was a secret shared by very few, just because that made it possible for me to inform the revolutionaries about Torres’s activities in the town and what he planned to do every time he went on one of his raids to hunt down rebels. So it was going to be very difficult to explain how it was that I had him in my hands and then let him go in peace, alive, clean-shaven. His beard had now almost entirely disappeared. He looked younger, several years younger than when he had come in. I suppose that always happens to men who enter and leave barbershops.

Under the strokes of my razor Torres was rejuvenated; yes, because I am a good barber, the best in this town, and I say this in all modesty. A little more lather here under the chin, on the Adam’s apple, right near the great vein. How hot it is! Torres must be sweating just as I am. But he is not afraid. He is a tranquil man, who is not even giving thought to what he will do to his prisoners this evening. I, on the other hand, polishing his skin with this razor but avoiding the drawing of blood, careful with every stroke—I cannot keep my thoughts in order. Confound the hour he entered my shop! I am a revolutionary but not a murderer. And it would be so easy to kill him. He deserves it. Or does he? No! No one deserves the sacrifice others make in becoming assassins. What is to be gained by it? Nothing. Others and still others keep coming, and the first kill the second, and then these kill the next, and so on until everything becomes a sea of blood. I could cut his throat, so, swish, swish! He would not even have time to moan, and with his eyes shut he would not even see the shine of the razor or the gleam in my eye.

But I’m shaking like a regular murderer.

From his throat a stream of blood would flow on the sheet, over the chair, down on my hands, onto the floor. I would have to close the door. But the blood would go flowing along the floor, warm, indelible, not to be staunched, until it reached the street like a small scarlet river. I’m sure that with a good strong blow, a deep cut, he would feel no pain. He would not suffer at all. And what would I do then with the body? Where would I hide it? I would have to flee, leave all this behind, take shelter far away, very far away. But they would follow until they caught up with me. “The murderer of Captain Torres. He slit his throat while he was shaving him. What a cowardly thing to do!” And others would say, “The avenger of our people. A name to remember”—my name here. “He was the town barber. No one knew he was fighting for our cause.”

And so, which will it be? Murderer or hero? My fate hangs on the edge of this razor blade. I can turn my wrist slightly, put a bit more pressure on the blade, let it sink in. The skin will yield like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender than a man’s skin, and the blood is always there, ready to burst forth. A razor like this cannot fail. It is the best one I have. But I don’t want to be a murderer. No, sir. You came in to be shaved. And I do my work honourably. I don’t want to stain my hands with blood. Just with lather, and nothing else. You are an executioner; I am only a barber. Each one to his job. That’s it. Each one to his job.

The chin was now clean, polished, soft. The man got up and looked at himself in the glass. He ran his hand over the skin and felt its freshness, its newness.

“Thanks,” he said. He walked to the wardrobe for his belt, his pistol, and his cap. I must have been very pale, and I felt my shirt soaked with sweat. Torres finished adjusting his belt buckle, straightened his gun in its holster, and smoothing his hair mechanically, put on his cap. From his trousers pocket he took some coins to pay for the shave. And he started toward the door. On the threshold he stopped for a moment, and turning toward me, he said, “They told me you would kill me. I came to find out if it was true. But it’s not easy to kill. I know what I’m talking about.”