Zama

by Antonio Di Benedetto

  The path still stretched before the one that remained: past the final scattered ranchos and the ruins of the hospital, and through the cogas, small farms whose dwellings were marked by the faint glow of hearths that dotted the landscape here and there.

  The night was dense now, the sky heavy with that pregnancy that precedes the diaphanous moment when the moon is about to rise. I could no longer tell which of the women I was following. Nor did I care.

  The hard, compact night infused me with its energy. A woman’s shape walked ahead, and it was as if I’d already possessed her, with a certainty nothing could alter. My body foretold hers.

  Now! I told myself, and as I moved with long strides to take her, a dog’s ominous howl rose through the night.

  I cursed it for a son of Satan and without slowing my pace began murmuring the insults that ward off evil influences.

  At that point the moonlight finally came and my relief at being able to see where to set my feet down was extinguished in an instant. Scenting prey, a silent pack of dogs was emerging from the ruins to descend upon us.

  Twenty steps ahead, the woman froze.

  I shouted, “Courage! I’m coming!” and advanced, sword in hand.

  But the dogs passed her by without touching her—they knew her—and launched their furious attack against me, the stranger. The first one came at me so forcefully that I couldn’t run him through. He scrabbled up my chest, jaws wide to bite my face. With a hard blow of my free arm I knocked him aside and he fell on his back, whereupon I dealt him the quick, sure thrust that was his end.

  Meanwhile, two others were circling me, one snapping at my boots. I wounded them severely with two-handed strokes of my sword and left them dying amid howls of pain and rage. The others kept their distance, barking at me until I dispersed them by charging at them and bellowing.

  The woman had sought refuge among the nearby ruins. I went to her, cleaning my sword along the way, swaggering and dominant.

  She was the one, and she was young.

  Her ardor matched my own. For a time I was eighteen years old once more, in all the perfection of youth.

  •

  I sat down on what remained of some great blocks of adobe and put my flint and steel to use. The flame first showed me her bare, calloused feet. I lifted it to the face. She was smiling, waiting. I considered the features: the nose, the skin. She was undoubtedly born of a Negress—and I, with my long refusal of the mulattas who, for money. . . . But I’d had voluntary acceptance from this one.

  As we rested there, I comforted myself with that thought, amid my reflections.

  She said, “Su merced, if you wish to keep me. . . .”

  My gratitude and gratification inclined me to indulgence. I heard her out.

  She was dictating her requirements! I was to take her into my household as a servant, and her mother and small brothers, too.

  I drew upon another reserve of patience to inquire, “And if not?”

  “You won’t see me again.”

  She was entirely categorical. She had observed that my state was not merely that of a white man indulging in a caprice, and she stood there before me stipulating her conditions, as much at liberty to give and take as I myself. We were on the same level, or so she felt at that moment, and I, too. I was a white man, in the service of the King; she risked offending me. But no. Instead I was humiliated.

  I rose to my feet, shook out my clothing, and set off for the city in silence.

  The episode was an affront to my right to lose myself in love. In any love born of passion, some element of idyllic charm is required.

  I could perceive the matter thus because I was momentarily appeased, at least in one respect. Though the thought of it brought me sorrow. An arid sorrow.

  When I’d gone about a hundred varas, I wanted to observe us moving apart, each in our own direction.

  I turned, and the night, grown peaceful and condoning, gathered the whole of me in. Perhaps it held her captive in its depths.

  I thought I could emerge from the night by returning to the city.

  With some effort I freed myself from the grip of that vision of the vast world to try and distinguish the distant trace of her, her path toward the horizon. No one moved along that edge. She might still be back there, lying on the ground. Perhaps she was very sad.

  •

  By day, it was quite possible none of it had happened.

  In the morning I avoided meeting my own eyes: I combed my hair before the mirror, but turned my gaze upward, then directed my attention to my beard, still without looking.

  But once my grooming was complete, I threw the comb down, went to the mirror, and looked straight into my own eyes, defiantly at first, then with greater calm. I’d resisted my gaze because I knew that if Marta’s eyes had been on me I would have felt the need to cut myself a little.

  17

  A ship came in.

  I was not, at that moment, on the alert for cannon blasts from the harbor. I heard the first one with a start, unable to place quite what it was I’d been expecting from this boat. For a moment I seemed to recall that a young woman was coming from the Río de la Plata to meet me. Marta? No, no. A different woman, it had to be a different woman, but not that one either . . . who belonged to the region of dreams. Some missive, from my mother, my wife, my brother-in-law, that was what I was expecting: What I deserved to receive on this boat was a decree with the King’s seal upon it.

  The second cannon sounded, an imperative summons to my urgent need, and I was overwhelmed by a bewilderment of presentiments.

  I advised the secretary that I was going down to the ship for a letter. This was also meant for the Gobernador, should he inquire as to my whereabouts, since I’d been somewhat neglectful of my duties during the preceding weeks. But I was going in search of one thing only: the face of the lady traveler in my dreams.

  I did not see her among the heads peering down at me over the edge of the ship, and I rushed aboard before any of the voyagers could set foot on land. The need to reach her drove me on but once again—so soon—I found no relief. I was merely enamored, but enamored with what vehemence! My audit of the ship and all it contained was so bold that an officer, perhaps on orders from the captain, tried to stop me. I appealed to my authority, but he replied that he would not acknowledge it on board unless I explained why I was intruding into the passengers’ cabins in this manner.

  I did, telling him I was looking for a lady who was arriving from the Río de la Plata. He demanded her name. Naturally I could not supply it. A description of her, yes—but in the whole of its voyage the ship had carried no young woman.

  •

  I accepted the absence of any news from home, for if the news were not good I could do nothing to remedy their difficulties.

  The brigantine was carrying a great scroll of paper with the King’s seals upon it: It was not for the Asesor Letrado but for the Gobernador.

  •

  He summoned me to his office. The dispatch was unfurled upon a table, its outer seals broken. Inside was a very thick one, made of gold and lacquer and adorned with small ribbons. It seemed to glow with a light all its own, which it lent to the governor’s face.

  He did not speak of the royal dispatch but of my own case, telling me he was aware of my ambitions, the steps I’d taken, and my merits, and announcing news of which he’d given me no inkling before: that very soon a person of influence might occupy himself with my longed-for promotion and transfer.

  Without giving me time to inquire about this benefactor, and with an air ever more markedly benevolent, yet still as if keeping something from me, he divulged, furthermore, that for the moment this person who was disposed to help me would provide the solution to one of my more immediate problems.

  He—for naturally it was he—had already arranged for Ventura Prieto to avoid trial in exchange for proceeding directly from prison aboard ship and into exile. Thus would I avoid all the disagreeable alternatives of a court case.
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br />   The Gobernador was beaming. No doubt he expected me to bow and scrape in gratitude. But I couldn’t bring myself to do so. I was lost in thought, oblivious to the fact that I was in the midst of an audience. My moment of blind rage was costing Ventura Prieto personal dishonor, a slash across the cheek, jail, the loss of his post, and forced ejection from the country. The most I could claim he was guilty of was the aversion I felt for him and the fact that he’d asked me whether I’d seen the fair-haired boy who accompanied the curandera—which, viewed from the present distance, in no way indicated that he had sent that boy to break into my house. True, this was not his homeland, but he had interests here; there must be a reason why he was here. It seemed excessive to persecute a man in such fashion. Nevertheless, I was forced to acknowledge that out of anger or rashness he had become my enemy, for good reason or not, and to such a degree that the two of us together were one too many for a single city.

  The governor had proceeded on his own initiative, without consulting me, and since his action favored me I could not remain mute after learning of it. But I was unable to open my mouth except to ask, “Has he chosen a new place of residence?”

  Disconcerted by the dryness of my manner and what he must have considered my ingratitude, the governor gave a brusque reply: Yes, he had. Santiago de Chile.

  Hence Santiago de Chile, bordering the land where my wife and mother resided, was eliminated as a possible new post for me.

  Forgetting the royal seals that had dazzled me during the first part of our interview, I asked if the governor required anything more of me, and in view of his negative response, begged permission to withdraw.

  •

  It was right before my eyes and I was unable to see it: the royal proclamation that elevated my Gobernador in rank, appointing him to a position at court. He had planned to announce it to me after offering me that touching display of his favor, and I should have manifested great joy and showered him with salaams and baisemains.

  I had lost the most prestigious advocate I could have had in Madrid.

  •

  The anger I could bear. However, at night, in my bed, after finally ceasing to torment myself with reproaches, I fell victim to despair of another sort.

  I was an enraged and rabid animal. I don’t know what sort of animal: one with four legs and great strength. I needed to escape and all that kept me from doing so was a rock. I charged at it again and again and with every charge a gash in the center of my face gaped wider. I kept on charging, growing weaker with each attempt, and weaker, and. . . .

  After that I was a man, though still with a barrier to overcome. There was nothing before me but a flat expanse where every need was abolished. I had only to move forward, farther and farther. But I feared the end. For, presumably, there was no end.

  18

  What I needed was to get away from myself.

  I took my small hoard of coins to the horse races with a mind to enlarge it or be left destitute.

  I went very early, in midafternoon. The sun was brutal. Only the riders and the judges ventured out under its rays, and even they withdrew every two or three races to be replaced by others.

  Those of us with money at stake lay sprawled under the trees at the forest’s edge. None but men were in attendance so there was no limit to the consumption of aguardiente and many stripped down until only their lower parts were covered.

  I lost twice, won once, and then, in a subsequent race, lost everything I had won.

  Out of prudence, I called a temporary halt to the gambling. I had reason to fear that my wagers might be ill-advised; I was unable to get a good view of the horses from so far away. It behooved me to wait till the sun was lower in the sky. As the afternoon waned, I could go to the edge of the track, which would make it easier to assess the possibilities.

  With nothing at stake in the contests to come, I strolled about among the groups and whiled away the time in idle talk. Finally, at some remove from all the others, I stretched out under a palm tree.

  Only one man lay on the ground nearby, drunk and fast asleep, his breath whistling. He was an acquaintance of mine: a wealthy man.

  I observed the start and first leg of another race. Then I grew drowsy and my eyelids closed.

  By my calculation I slept no more than a moment. When I opened my eyes, the same horses were just trotting back from the finish line. But there followed an instant of bewilderment. Disoriented, I needed to take stock of everything that had surrounded me before I fell asleep.

  I sought to focus on what was there: in front of me, the test races; I myself, seated here with my back against a tree trunk; the rest of them over to the side; nearby, the drunk. . . . Something indefinable was alive in the grass next to him, moving toward him. A spider, I intuited, and one of considerable dimensions. My thought was not for the sleeping man but for myself, though I judged the distance between us too great for any such vermin, however quick, to cross— particularly since I was forewarned.

  Then I saw it more clearly. I made out its legs, long and very slender, which barely bent the thin blades of grass. Whether spiders with long thin legs were poisonous I did not know. I told myself that they were not.

  The spider approached the drunk. From a quarter vara away, these spiders can leap and bite so that if taken by surprise, even a man who’s awake has no time to defend himself. I had no wish to move. I could crush it with my boot but would postpone that until the last.

  The spider moved toward the sleeping head and I watched to see whether anything out of the ordinary would transpire. Would the man—obedient to some mysterious warning instinct—suddenly awaken and kill it? He did not. Now the insect was crawling in his hair. I didn’t see it climb up; I saw it there on him and then I was quite certain I should do nothing.

  It stepped down the forehead, edged along the nose and mouth, extending its legs along the right cheek, then proceeded onto the neck. This is when it bites, I said to myself. It did not bite. It stretched up a leg and perched on the beard. The man’s snoring rustled the hair of his beard, which moved up and down, and I was certain that now the spider, feeling under attack, would bite. There it was, rising and falling on the tips of the beard.

  The situation could not go on. It ended in the way I’d least imagined: The drunk gave a swift swipe of his great paw and sent the spider flying at least a vara through the air.

  He might be awake now, I thought, and feared some rebuke for not having defended him. But his arm fell back in its former position, his whole body slack with pleasure in its repose. The snoring went on as loudly as before.

  I got up to find the spider’s corpse. It had fallen on a patch of smooth red sand, not dead but crippled; the adventure had cost it four or five legs. I contemplated it for a moment then destroyed it with my heel.

  I reviewed the episode. At no point had I felt any emotion, except when I imagined that the man had wakened and was about to deliver himself of an entirely justified diatribe against me.

  •

  All my money made its way into other men’s pockets.

  I couldn’t leave the racecourse in a state of absolute penury. I had no indication of when my pay would finally arrive.

  I sold my horse to one of the men who was racing. Horses abound in this country. I never held mine in much esteem and sold it for a modest price. I was given more for the saddle and other gear than for the animal.

  As I had nothing to ride back on and disliked the idea of going on foot, I decided to wait for a ride in some departing carriage.

  Meanwhile, my horse was entered in a race. I hadn’t understood that the plan was to have it run, and so soon. It won.

  I saw two more races, the good ones now, the evening races. I was tempted to bet and the only thing that kept me from doing so was the thought that I’d have nothing left to pay the inn with.

  Once again my horse was at the starting line. It had proven itself swift and sure. I’d lacked sufficient confidence in it.

  It won again.
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  I went and sat on a cart, my back to the racecourse.

  •

  The ship set sail.

  Ventura Prieto was not allowed to come in person and collect his furniture and other belongings, which were placed on board by others. He went from the jail to the ship and remained there under guard until the lines were cast off.

  The following day, a prison guard asked me to grant him an audience.

  I was intrigued; I could not imagine a plausible motive for the request. I briefly entertained a suspicion that Ventura Prieto had suborned a guard to embark in his place, in disguise, and that Ventura Prieto himself would come in, dressed as a guard, to wreak vengeance upon me.

  To prove my courage, I allowed the visitor in.

  It was an ordinary jail guard, thin and unkempt. Tersely he begged pardon for his audacity and held out a note.

  It was from Ventura Prieto and read as follows: “I am reconciled to this departure, for it does not lie within my power to be sufficiently indignant.”

  I certainly did not lack for indignation. This banishment that I was enduring without advantage or means of escape had equipped me with a more than adequate supply of the stuff, however masked in glory I was by the status of my position.

  But Ventura Prieto, I sensed, alluded to another sort of indignation, one unmotivated by selfish concerns.

  When I pondered Ventura Prieto, he seemed a propagandist of something, though I knew not what. I was dissatisfied with my own conduct, and laid the blame for my excesses on irresistible inner forces, as well as a combination of inscrutable external factors, invisibly staged to provoke and upset me. It was these besieging incitements, I thought, that precipitated me into those undesired acts, sometimes of a seductive nature, that in hindsight could appear so abominable and repellent. But having reasoned that far, I would begin to wonder whether the question was merely a moral one, and to suspect that had I adopted a firm position in advance, making a choice not in the moment of temptation but at an earlier stage, I might have saved myself. Upon reaching this point, however, I would reject the reflection I’d just formulated, convinced that even in the final moment, one can choose.