The Wind That Lays Waste

by Selva Almada

  22

  Alarmed by the barking, Tapioca and Leni had come out almost as soon as the fight had begun. Yellow was standing on the porch. Although the fur on his back was bristling slightly, he hadn’t gone to his master’s defense. He had stayed in his place, like a nervous spectator who knows that, much as he would like to, he can’t climb through the ropes and change the course of the fight. All he could do was heckle one of the contestants with his growling, and run back and forth across the porch, under the little awning of leaves, not stepping out into the mud.

  Leni and Tapioca stayed on the sidelines too.

  Leni crossed her arms, said nothing, and watched the fight unfold. She was like a bored onlooker at a boxing trial, wasting no energy on the undercard, saving her passion for the moment when the real champions would step into the ring. And yet, at some point, she began to cry. Just tears, without any sound. Water falling from her eyes as it was falling from the sky. Rain disappearing into rain.

  Tapioca put his hands in his pockets. He had gone pale and kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was scared that the Gringo and the Reverend would get injured. But he knew he couldn’t step in. It was out of his hands, although he’d been the pretext for the fight. It was between the two of them, and really had nothing to do with him. In the end, they didn’t care what he wanted.

  And whether the Gringo liked it or not, what he wanted had something to do with what the Reverend was promising him. Not because of the Reverend and his promise, but because there was something inside him that was crying out for it. It was the voice calling him to Christ’s side. The same voice he had heard in the bowels of the forest, and at night, in his bed, when the Gringo was sleeping, and he lay there with his eyes open. The voice that he had just discovered how to understand.

  The boy, the girl, and the dog watched the trading of blows, the rolling in the mud, and the flailing about, due to drink-dulled reflexes and inexperience. They saw the men fall to the ground and lie there looking up at the sky, which was gradually brightening as day began to show through the veils of rain.

  Now the rain was coming down lazily; it had thinned to a persistent drizzle.

  Leni wiped her cheeks with her hands and went out into the yard. Yellow followed her gingerly, muscles tensed. He wagged his tail a little and licked his master’s face. Brauer lifted his muddy hand and ran it over the dog’s clean fur. Tapioca came out too, and between them they helped the men to their feet.

  Back inside, Leni put the kettle on. Fuming, she stood there, arms crossed, with her back to the others, staring at the gas ring’s blue flame. She was biting her lips, and her nostrils were trembling. When the water boiled, the whistle brought her back. She wiped her brow and started opening containers, looking for the coffee.

  “Here,” said Tapioca, handing her a jar. She put some in a pan and poured the water over it. A smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen immediately.

  The rain was falling softly; it had almost faded away.

  Brauer and the Reverend were slumped on their chairs, in their wet, mud-covered clothes. The bruises hadn’t yet appeared, but how their bodies ached. They were too old for that sort of thing.

  Pearson touched his ribs, where the Gringo had landed his last kick. Nothing was broken, but he felt a sharp pain when he breathed deeply. His lip was swollen and he had no idea where his glasses had ended up. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt.

  Tapioca handed them each a towel. The Reverend covered himself; he thought it improper to remain half-naked in the presence of his daughter. And he wasn’t proud of the spectacle he had made of himself outside. God would be able to forgive him. But not Leni; she wasn’t even looking at him. Just as well. He could imagine the scorn in her eyes, but he didn’t think he could bear it, not yet.

  The click of the lighter was clearly audible, it was now so quiet inside and out. The smell of tobacco smoke mingled with the scent of the coffee that Leni was pouring into mugs on the table.

  Tapioca took a corner of the towel that the Gringo had slung over his shoulder and began to dry his boss’s hair, rubbing quickly and firmly. Brauer felt like an old man, or a child again, which is not so different, except that in old age all the hopes and possibilities are gone. He had never given much thought to tomorrow or wondered how his days would end; he had always been a man of action, living in the here and now. Maybe Tapioca turning up had kept him from worrying. He didn’t know. But now, as the kid rubbed his head with the towel, he felt diminished by this attention and understood that the kid was a man and had the right to choose for himself, just like he had done at that age. It was the way of things; no point resisting, he knew that.

  “I’m going to Castelli,” said Tapioca firmly.

  The Gringo nodded.

  Pearson smiled inwardly and took a sip of the hot, bitter coffee. Careful, he thought, pride is a beguiling sin.

  “And I’m staying here,” said Leni, in a loud, trembling voice. All three of them looked at her; she blushed. She didn’t know why she had said such a thing. She was furious and wanted to punish her father and had said the first thing that came into her head. Now there was no way back, so she drew herself up and repeated:

  “I’m staying here … for a while.”

  Suddenly she remembered her mother running after the car like an abandoned puppy. Her father, Reverend Pearson, had stepped on the accelerator and not even looked in the rearview mirror for a last glimpse of the woman who had been his wife and the mother of his child. She knew he could do it again, with her, and she was afraid.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” he said, cutting her off sharply.

  “He’s right, kid, you can’t stay here. I never had …” the Gringo began, and then fell silent. I never had children so I wouldn’t have problems, he had been about to say. But he didn’t know what Tapioca’s mother had told the boy; maybe he knew and was just playing dumb, being tactful. Better shut it, Gringo; the waters are muddy enough as it is. “There’s only room here for me and the dogs,” he said loud and clear, and looked at Tapioca apologetically.

  The boy lowered his eyes and felt a lump swelling in his throat. He went to the wardrobe and started putting clothes in a bag. The same little bag with which he had arrived.

  23

  Soon the car shrank down to a metallic glint on the still-wet asphalt.

  The Reverend didn’t see it: he was driving, hunched over the steering wheel, peering shortsightedly without his glasses, his body aching from the blows. Moist air blew in through the open windows; the sounds of wind and speed filled the silence. He was happy, although his smile was hidden by the fold of his swollen lip. Blessed Jesus, his heart was almost jumping out of his chest. He took his eyes off the road only to steal a few glances at the boy beside him, all keyed up like a dog in a dinghy.

  Tapioca didn’t see it. He put his head out of the window and watched the house and the old gas pump getting smaller until they disappeared completely. He waited for the Gringo to appear in the picture, surrounded by the dogs, and raise his arm and wave his hand from side to side to say good-bye. But there was no sign of his boss or the dogs, as if the house where he had finished growing up was already a ruin.

  Leni didn’t see it. As soon as she got into the car, she stretched out to her full length on the back seat and covered her eyes with her arm. She wasn’t going to look through the rear windshield like that time when they left her mother behind; she wasn’t going to watch it all shrinking in the distance. She closed her eyes and begged Jesus, if he existed, to strike her dead with a lightning bolt. While she was waiting, she fell asleep.

  Yellow didn’t see it. He jumped straight up onto Tapioca’s bed and turned around as many times as a dog needs to turn before lying down, and slept with his muzzle between his paws, making a regular sucking noise with his tongue, as if he were drinking his mother’s milk.

  And the Gringo didn’t see it either. After letting his boy give him a hug, he slapped him twice on the back, firmly broke the
embrace, and sent him on his way with a little push. And he didn’t come out to watch them go. He was left on his own to work and get drunk and feed the dogs and die. Enough to keep him busy for a while. So he needed a bit of sleep before he set to it again.

  SELVA ALMADA was born in Entre Ríos, Argentina, in 1973. She has been a finalist for the Rodolfo Walsh and Tigre Juan prizes, and is considered one of the most potent and promising literary voices in Argentina and Latin America.

  CHRIS ANDREWS was born in Newcastle, Australia, in 1962. He has translated books by Roberto Bolaño and César Aira, among others. He teaches at the University of Western Sydney, where he is a member of the Writing and Society Research Center.

  The text of The Wind That Lays Waste is set in Adobe Caslon Pro. Book design by Rachel Holscher. Composition by Bookmobile Design and Digital Publisher Services, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Manufactured by Versa Press on acid-free, 30 percent postconsumer wastepaper.