A Minor Fall

by Price Ainsworth

It had been a bureaucratic and costly ordeal to bring the 28-gauge with the straight English stock and splinter forearm into Argentina, but Angela had insisted upon it when she agreed to the trip. He had pointed out to her that the number of rounds they would be firing might add considerable wear to the weapon, but he didn’t say anything about the costs of bringing the gun into the country or the increased costs of the 28-gauge shells. The purpose of the trip was diversion, and he did not want to upset Angela more than she already was. She pointed out that the practice with the gun would be worth whatever was involved in getting to use it. He had bought the gun, a Parker reproduction in a fitted leather case, as a baby gift, when they had first learned the sex of the baby and discussed “Parker,” (Harry’s mother’s maiden name,) as a Christian name for the child. Angela and Harry had both laughed at Harry’s baby gift, and Angela had commented that the boy would probably never grow up to like hunting because it was important to Harry. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Another flight of birds streamed towards the tank across the dry field. Gracefully, Angela shouldered the gun and fired at a bird to her right and then to her left as if she were standing at the six spot on a skeet range. Two doves fell, one spinning in the helicopter fashion that indicated a head shot. She opened the gun for the bird boy to reload. “Bird boy” was not an appropriate title. Harry had been on dove hunting trips to Mexico where local boys did pick up the dead birds for the hunters to take home. Here the young men only picked up a few of the birds, some as appetizers for the asado lunch that the outfitter prepared in the field, and some for the fellow to take home to his family. “Reload boy” would be a better title Harry thought to himself.

  Harry admired the coordinated ease with which his wife handled the little gun. His own arms were tired from raising and lowering the gun the outfitter had provided, though it had not seemed at all heavy three days earlier when they had started shooting. Now it felt like a heavy crossbeam. Despite the fact that the gas ejection of the spent shells absorbed much of the recoil, Harry’s right shoulder was hurting enough that he caught himself firing the gun without actually bringing it all the way to his shoulder.

  She was wearing a pair of slim, oatmeal-colored riding pants tucked into her green rubber boots; a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows; a green bandana around her neck; and a wide-brimmed, western-style straw hat. It was the same outfit she wore whenever they went dove hunting in Texas. He, of course, had on two or three different forms of camouflage, none of which seemed to make any difference in the flight patterns of the dove.

  She was still a beautiful woman, thin and athletic (she had lost most of the weight in the last ninety days), and he was proud of her and glad that she had taken up bird hunting when they had married so that they could do it together.

  “You’ve got to admit,” he responded, “you are pretty good at it.” He put his earplugs back in and went back to firing four rounds in succession as fast as his bird boy could reload the gun.

  She started to ask him if he was referring to the shooting or the killing, wondered if he had even heard what she said, and realized that he had already returned his attention to the birds. She watched as one of the half-dozen, large brown eagles that had perched in the towering trees behind her swooped down into the field, picked up a dove, and returned to the trees. There the eagle devoured the small bird sending feathers down like snowflakes.

  After shooting into a few more waves of birds, she broke the little gun open, took the two live shells out of the barrels, rolled them around in her left hand, and then stuffed them into her pants pocket. She rested the gun over her left shoulder. To nobody in particular she said aloud, “Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then I would fly away, and be at rest.”

  “Madam?” her bird boy asked.

  “Nothing Gustavo. Just a fragment of a psalm. That is all I remember. Just fragments. Are you religious?” It was probably the most she had said to him in three days and certainly the most personal thing she had asked.

  “No Senora. I am not religious, pero yo creo.”

  She thought for a moment about how much more poetic “pero yo creo” sounded than “but I believe.” The internal rhyme of the Spanish seemed to her more cultured than the jack-in-the-box alliteration of the English.

  Trying to be conversational, Gustavo asked, “Have you memorized many passages from the Bible, Senora?”

  “No, not many,” she said, “The only other one I can remember right now is part of another psalm. ‘As a snail which melteth, let every one of them pass away: like the untimely birth of a woman, that they may not see the sun.’ Not a very happy thought that one.”

  “It is significant that you have committed so much to memory, Senora,” Gustavo said and smiled.

  She smiled back at him and patted him on the back. “I think that is enough for this evening,” she said. Gustavo took the shotgun from her, put it into a soft sleeve, and handed it back to her. He began to clean up the area where they had been standing, boxing up the unused shells, sheathing his machete, and picking up the spent hulls with a device made from a sawed-off broom handle with a large round magnet on one end.

  “Will I see you tomorrow morning?” she asked.

  Yes, Senora” he said. “Tomorrow is your last day to shoot?”

  “I am afraid so. Just a half-day tomorrow,” She said. “I have certainly enjoyed the trip. You have been a great help Gustavo.”

  “Do you want me to take your gun back to the van?” Gustavo asked. “It is no problem.”

  Usually the hunters, her husband included, left the shotguns with the bird boys, but she took hers in with her each evening to the lodge. “No. I’ll get it. Thank you,” she said. “That was a wonderful day.”

  “Can I get you something cold to drink, a beer perhaps?” Gustavo asked, still picking up spent shells and putting them in a nylon feed sack.

  “No thank you. I will get a glass of wine when I get back to the van,” she said. She cradled the sleeved gun in her left arm as she walked around the fence corner to where Harry was positioned. She sat down on the stool behind where his bird boy Daniel was standing. Harry continued to shoot, and his bird boy continued to re-load Harry’s shotgun.

  After missing badly at a couple of birds that flew right at him, Harry turned to his left and shot a high-flying bird that was a considerable distance away. The bird folded and fell.

  “What a shot,” Angela said, and smiled.

  “I wonder why I can’t hit the ones coming directly to me,” Harry said, also smiling.

  “Too much time to think about them,” she said. She watched Harry shoot at several more groups of birds and then stood. “I suppose you are going to shoot until dark?” she asked.

  “Maybe another box or two,” he said.

  “I think I’ll find my way back to the van. I’m pretty tired, but don’t let me stop you. We came all the way to Argentina to do this.”

  When she had walked the few hundred yards to the van, the outfitter hopped out, came around to the passenger side, and opened the sliding door for her. “How was your afternoon?” he asked.

  “Very nice, thank you. Muchas palomas.”

  “Si Senora. Muchas palomas en Jesus Maria. You shoot very well with the little gun. Do you want me to take it for you?”

  “No. I’ll just keep it in the van here with me.”

  “Very good. Would you like something to drink?”

  “If it is not too much trouble, I would like a glass of the Malbec we had at lunch.”

  “Of course, Senora,” the outfitter said. He went to the small trailer behind the van, and after shuffling the contents around, returned with a wine glass and a corked bottle of Malbec. He handed her the glass, poured the Malbec, put the cork back in the bottle, and set the bottle on the floor of the van.

  “Thank you very much,” she said. “Salud.” She took a sip of the wine, put the shotgun on the middle seat of the van, and sat on the running board looking back to w
here she could see her husband continuing to shoot, reload, and shoot again. The outfitter went back to the driver’s seat and turned the radio to a music station.

  After a while, the outfitter climbed out of the van again and walked towards where Harry was standing. She had finished the glass and most of another before the shooting party returned to the van. The bird boys were carrying sacks of spent hulls, cases of unused shells, and stools. The outfitter carried the cased 20-gauge. Harry walked along behind them, drinking beer from a can. “Cheers,” Harry said as he climbed into the front passenger seat of the van. Angela raised her wine glass and then climbed into the middle seat of the van. The bird boys loaded their materials into the trailer, and then got into the backseat of the van.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “The birds just kept coming. I shot a case and a half. My right arm is about to fall off,” Harry said. The outfitter took his place in the driver’s seat, started the van, and drove out of the field and onto the two-lane country road. The outfitter sang along with the music from the radio on the thirty-kilometer trip back to the lodge.

  At La Aguada, the proprietor’s adult son, Oscar, greeted the van, opened the sliding passenger door, and offered to assist Angela out. He walked with Harry and Angela across the manicured courtyard divided by a small stream to the couple’s room in one of the white, stucco buildings with a red-tiled roof. At the door to the room, Harry asked the proprietor’s son what they would be having for dinner.

  “Steaks, senor. Beautiful filets.” Oscar said.

  “Great,” said Harry. “With chimichurri?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Malbec?” Angela asked.

  “Of course, Senora. Would you like for me to clean your shotgun? I will be very careful with it and put it back in your room when I am finished.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Oscar,” Angela said and handed him the sleeved shotgun. It was a ritual they had practiced each evening of the trip.

  “Will eight o’clock be okay for dinner?” the proprietor’s son asked.

  “See you then,” Harry said, and he and his wife went into their room.

  Harry sat on the corner of the large bed and began taking off his boots.

  “I’m going to take a hot shower,” Angela said as she began taking off her clothes and folding them over a chair in the corner of the room. She took the two live shells out of the front pocket of her pants and put them on the nightstand next to her side of the bed.

  “Sounds good,” Harry said and laid back across the foot of the bed. He stared at the pitched ceiling made of paver-like tiles set on wooden beams. He closed his eyes and was almost asleep when Angela came out of the bathroom wearing a towel.

  “That felt good,” she said.

  Harry groaned as he got up from the bed and started to strip off his clothes. He leaned over to kiss Angela as she walked by him toward the heavy armoire where her clean clothes were stored. She pulled away from him. “You need a shower,” she said. He finished underdressing, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, and went into the bathroom.

  At dinner they sat across from each other at the long, wooden dining table in the dining room in the main house. They were the only hunters at the lodge, but La Aguada had a full staff of white-jacketed, white-gloved waiters and a captain hurried about with wine and water to fill the couple’s glasses. The food came in courses: a simple salad with lettuce and tomatoes dressed with olive oil and vinegar, a grilled steak marinated in chimichurri, boiled potatoes, and a flan with thick caramel for dessert. With each course, the waiters removed the plates and disappeared into the kitchen through a swinging door at the end of the dining room.

  “Have you ever thought about a place having a particular flavor?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” he responded, recognizing that it was about the only thing she had said during dinner and that she was trying to make conversation. He assumed that this was some parlor game she had read about on how to get a conversation started.

  “Well,” she said, “when you think of Texas what flavor do you think of?”

  He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin and placed it on the table. “You mean like jalapenos?”

  “Sure,” she said, glad that he had at least tried to join her attempt at conversation. “But a lot of places serve jalapenos. I think Texas tastes like that smoky bark on the edge of a brisket.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes it’s almost like creosote, but sometimes it’s just right. So that is what you think Texas tastes like? I’m not sure you can minimize each region or state to just one food. How would you say France or Italy or Louisiana tastes? You know, some place that is famous for food?”

  “Different places may be famous for multiple dishes, but there is usually one signature flavor that you find in most of the authentic dishes.”

  He laughed, curious at how her mind worked and almost proud of how much more observant she was than he. True, he did like the ends of a brisket that many people just threw away, but he had never thought about that being the ideal flavor of his native state.

  “France tastes like French butter,” she said. “It’s the kind you find on every table in every restaurant, whether it has Michelin stars or is just the local brasserie. Italy tastes like tomatoes. Not like the ones we get back home at the grocery store. I mean real tomatoes.”

  “Louisiana is something spicy, I guess?”

  “No, Louisiana is soft and rich like rainwater.” When he paused and did not respond, she took her spoon and dipped it into the top of her flan. “This is what Argentina tastes like.”

  “Not the grass-fed beef or the Malbec?” he asked.

  “It’s the caramel.” She reached over to the small, white pot that contained caramel. It sat as a condiment next to the salt and pepper shakers. She took the top off the porcelain container and held it to her nose. “Argentina may be famous for its beef and Malbec, but it’s the taste of caramel found in both that makes them distinctive. Smooth. Not too sweet. Almost creamy.”

  The captain smiled and made sure that the couples’ wine glasses were full.

  After the dessert, the captain took a crumber from the chest pocket of his jacket, swept the tablecloth of any crumbs, and asked the couple if they would like an after-dinner drink. Harry ordered a brandy and Angela had another glass of Malbec. When the drinks were served, the staff left the room, and the captain stood off to one side.

  “Let’s take these into the other room,” Harry said, and picked up his drink. Angela followed him with her glass of wine into the den off the dining room. A small fire was burning the in the fireplace. They sat down beside each other on the brown leather couch.

  Other than commenting on regional foods and complimenting the captain, they had hardly spoken before sitting on the couch.

  “Can you believe we leave tomorrow afternoon? Harry asked.

  “No,” Angela responded. “The week has flown by. This was a good idea. I’m dreading the long flight back. I guess we could stay a few more days. They don’t seem to be booked up.”

  “We could, if you like,” he said.

  She sipped her wine and thought about it for a moment. “I guess we have to go back eventually.” She said. “I’d just be putting off going back. Let’s just shoot in the morning like we’d planned and then start back tomorrow afternoon. We still need to get from Córdoba to Buenos Aires. We can sleep on the plane out of Buenos Aires.”

  “Whatever you want.” He said.

  “I think I’m ready,” she said. “As ready as I’m going to be. This was a good idea. Thank you for putting it together on such short notice.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I didn’t have to do much. My secretary did all the planning and reservations once I told her where we were going. It was all laid out on the website. I’d certainly come back. The hunting is incredible. There are a lot more birds in Argentina than I have ever seen in Mexico. And imagine shooting twent
y or thirty boxes of shells in an afternoon back in Texas?”

  “There would not be anything to shoot twenty boxes at,” she said. “We will have to come back.”

  “Yes,” he said. “For different reasons though. But we will have to come back.”

  “There will not be that reason again. I don’t think I can go through that again.”

  He recognized that now was the first time that Angela seemed willing to talk about what she had been through. He recognized that now would be a good time to talk about it.

  “Some time I want to take that train trip out of Pretoria where you get off and shoot different kinds of birds. It’s supposed to be a first-class deal. The train cars look really nice in the pictures.”

  She sighed and set her empty wine glass down on the coffee table. She put her hands behind her head and leaned back against the couch.

  Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. “We don’t have to go to Africa any time soon. It’s just an idea. We’ll do whatever you want. We could go shoot driven grouse in Scotland or red-legged partridge in Spain. You may need to take a little more gun.”

  She stood up from the couch. “Africa would be nice.” She said flatly. “I would love to see Africa someday.”

  “We’ll go someday,” he said. “I think the shooting would be fun.”

  “We don’t have to go right away, Harry. Let’s see. I’m tired. I think I’m going to go to bed now. Finish your brandy. I’ll see you in the room.” She combed her fingers through his hair as she walked behind the couch. After she left the room, he rested his head on the arm of the couch and his glass on his chest. He sipped his drink, then lightly set the glass back on his chest.

  In the room, Angela got her nightgown out of the bureau, placed it on the bed, and began taking off her clothes which she then hung neatly in the armoire. She checked to see that the sleeved shotgun was propped in the corner of the room. She slipped the nightgown over her head, turned the overhead light off at the wall, and walked over to get into bed. But before doing so, she stopped, turned on the bedside light, pulled the nightgown off over her head, folded it, and put it back in the bureau.