He was a harp wizard. On the plains of Colombia, there was no party without him. For the party to be a party, Mese Figueredo had to be there, with his dancing fingers brightening up the air and scaring the legs. One night, on a lost path, thieves attacked him. Mese Figueredo was returning from a wedding, riding a mule, him on one mule, the harp on another. Suddenly, thieves came and started to beat him. The next day, someone found him. He was lying on the path, a dirty rag of mud and blood, deader than alive.
With the voice he had left, he said:
-”They took away the mules.”
And he added:
-“They took away the harp.” And he caught his breath and laughed: -“But they did not take the music.”
